Tell me what balloons know, you asked me
yesterday – are they filled with stuff like brains?
Do they think like I do, or do they just sleep
all the time? I admit I did not know what to say,
so said nothing for a bit. Finally, you told
me it was okay, that no-one seemed to know;
I guess you’ve been asking around, and balloon
experts are hard to come by … hmm.
Known for cowboys and rodeos, calf-roping
and horse-back riding…it is always surprising
when the skyscrapers spring out of the bald
Prairie, and they do. A big city with a
small-town feel – you can see the mountains
most days if the weather’s good. And downtown
is large enough and cosmopolitan enough to be
closed down to traffic. It’s an amazing place
to shop, dine, and party … and Stampede’s
a whole nother fine time.
It has been months now that I’ve seen you
hopping about that roof over there.
You perch on the chimney and then go to
the peak…then bounce along the shingles
Then off to the tree, back to the roof
I wonder where you sleep – do you have
a nest over there? Is it under an eave?
You don’t seem to make a sound but
maybe it gets lost with all the cawing
from the murderous crows around here
Maybe you are a crow – a baby – it’s hard
to tell – even with binoculars…I like you
Don’t fly away, okay?
“I don’t know,” the male says to the female; she
hunkers down, great with child, but still
they have no nest and she is very put out.
He, however, is concerned – snow has
been unpredictable and they’ve only just
turned brown. They still have bits of white
showing. She turns her back on him. Oh well,
better get moving or they’ll be splats on the
road, he knows it … he doesn’t want that for
certain. He’ll find them a place to burrow.
He hates when she’s mad.
In a library that’s more cathedral
than home for books, extra-high ceilings
are painted with scenes right from the Louvre,
or the Sistine Chapel. The architecture
is Beaux-Art; everything feels old world
and authentic (probably because it is).
It’s a place to write as well as read,
a true reference library, guarded as one enters
by intrepid stone lions: Patience and Fortitude.
Sailing down the Seine on Christmas night,
the boat scatters the Eiffel tower’s golden
reflections that blanket the water like sequins
An unexpected treat surfaces near the boat …
There were a pair but one dove more quickly
than its mate and is almost below the water
just as the photo is snapped…can you see
the other? It is mid-way down the left side
of the photo and is as graceful as might
be expected. Had it not been caught on film,
it might be deemed imagined – but no, twas
Christmas gift, miraculous …
a truly sweet surprise.
Bitter she was that day, the wind, and chill
We had to buy hats and gloves at that tiny place
across from the cemetery and my feet froze anyhow
and blistered to death as we searched in vain
for those famous souls reputedly buried here
How huge it was…so many graves and crypts
and family plots – it was hard to grasp
Harder still to imagine drinking coffee
and eating a brioche in a place named
for the graveyard…I remember how we laughed.
It is the city that never sleeps and
this square that she’s heard so much
about is every bit as crazy
as she’s been led to believe; it fair
vibrates with energy and people
The colors are richer, the sounds more
intense, the signs bigger and somehow
more meaningful and she knows
If she never sees anything else like it
again, it won’t matter – she’s seen
the real thing…Times Square is the
bomb, the best…NYC never lets her down.
The lake near me, my lake, I think,
calls to my soul when the Samhain
nights are near and I know if I go
there,it will possible to slide
between the now and then, in my
lake that is not the least pelagic
but has a demarcation so ill-defined
that I am upside-down in another
town – one that matches mine so
closely,I know not if I am there
or here … Atlantis-like but not,
it defies the telling of it.