Image Loss

When we walk Gershon Agron
toward the Old City
I take a quick shot of the consulate from
across the two way traffic
thinking how compromised the American pledge
the lack of intestine to make real
their repeated Jerusalem embassy promise when
quick as a shutter
security says show me the picture
then delete it he says and
I snap where's the freedom and
have to click twice, fumbling
prevaricating as he watches.
Later I wonder how close our
precious images horde came to complete confiscation
or worse what my flash anger assertions
may have provoked. They have to be
careful my gentle one ventures and
I guess, so do we.

Choosing Colours

All my paints laid out
like religions in a row
and I slow to learn that
not every one is able
to lead me to truth

of human flesh
or that real prize
the human spirit
begging breath from my canvas

burnt sienna, raw umber, naples yellow
and the blood of alizarin crimson,
life bestowing blood.

I never met my father's brother that I can remember

Uncle Tim left home forever one night
by way of the kitchen window sill
stealthy foot treads across the storm cellar door
“Poor dear boy,” my father would say in fond recollection.
Years later out west somewhere he stayed with us
mum said he made a move on her once when dad was away
said he'd taken up with Mormons for their women
had a couple of kids with successive wives
who I never knew either but I called him from Chicago on a hunch
one time when I was a grown man with a small son of my own
His wife said he was dying
they cut him open for his heart ... sewed him up again
when they saw all the cancer
Days later out in California I drove back and forth
in front of a shabby strip mall, the number on a piece of paper
finally found an alley between two stores
and back behind was a small apartment
all blank and empty beyond the screen door, his wife gone too
I never heard where.

Lost of the Moment

Past and future couple like ravenous lovers
rapt in the moment
the very now of the impulse seamlessly
absorbed in rapidly ripening recollection.

Best loved are the fat fish
caught in the document net:
infidelities, betrayals, coercions
smelling sweet as melons wrapped in the news of the day.

Choicest Fruit

I went down to the nut orchard

to look at the blossoms of the valley,
to see whether the vines had budded,

whether the pomegranates were in bloom.

Before I was aware, my desire set me

among the chariots of my kinsman, a prince.

Let my beloved come to his garden and eat its choicest fruits.

Song of Solomon

He lingers in her vineyard suite

to taste her pomegranate cheeks.

refresh him, refresh him with apples

She gives her cherry to the king;

The feast day of their passion sings.

sustain her, sustain her with raisins

Be gone the desert dust, the lust

the tethered apes, the gold, the musk

the elephants by slow parade

the gilded queens in masquerade.

By none of these the king is stayed.

refresh them, refresh them with apples

Her freshly budded fruit of womb

her someday seed shall scorn his tomb.

sustain him, sustain him with raisins

By parables the God who sings

the fabled fig tree bounty brings.

refresh them, refresh them with apples

Line of Site

Our foresighted builder dropped the window
line level to the bench top.
Helps when dishes are stacked there
to get some perspective on daily chores
cups and bowls beside the filtered sun, old trees
the declining hills
and soft lines of reflection,
my love’s form in the glass.

Love your Neighbour as you Love your Elves

Chocolate boys pick Ivory Coast

plantations clean of red ripe pod those

skinny Christmas elves reach over reach

each a talent scout pick that Mr Miacca delivers

buggers and shuns, fresh recruits

taken for finger and thumb

far from their home sweet Santa circle.

Roused numb from his fever dream

mercy sleep where he hugs his mama’s

porridge bowl spoon that scrapes over scrapes

empty and in the sweaty equatorial waking

would fill his belly with those bitter beans.

Beans for the chocolatier

who presses sweet molded Christmas elves

neatly foiled in red net Santa stockings

each handed free at the local hardware

with every customer’s purchase.

Run run run as fast as you can

You can’t blame me

I’m the chocolatier, man!

Saturday House

Huldah Isham, wife of Joshua, Bolton Connecticut, 1803

Late in the May of eighteen three

by furrowed field and budding tree

the family rafters fill with flame...

while Huldah heedless under the hill

rinses the clothes at the spring until

back toward home the load on her hip

out of her hand abruptly slips...

a smouldering slump is all she sees

ash in a field of budding trees…

but neighbours turn out in a neighbourly way…

and build her another by Saturday.

Four Saints Ive

....

Ia of Cornwall (c. 500AD)

St Ives holding dry her skirts

floats on a leaf light boat

across the Irish Sea

to tell Cornwall of her dear Christ

and cruelly martyred be.

As I was going to St Ives

I met a man with seven wives.

Seven wives with seven sacks.

Fourteen hooded eyes look back.

ii

Ivo of Huntingdonshire (pre 1000AD)

St Ives by the Silk Road comes

travel stained from far Persia.

Leaves the lux of court and king

and under monk stone chants and sings.

As I was going to St Ives

I met a man with seven wives.

Each wife had seven cats.

Each cat had seven kits

All pedigreed, fair price to fetch.

iii

Ivo of Chartres (c. 1040-1115)

King Philip locks his wife away

“Too fat.” sighs he.

Now he can bed the fair Bertrade.

St Ives rebukes the lawless king

so to the dungeon now they bring

poor Ives but there he stoutly rants

against the other lord’s penchants

for simony and further

favors in finance.

As I was going to St Ives

I met a man with seven wives

and seven swords hung at his side

each for a general who rides

to take this edict everyplace:

prostrate, the sacred city face.

iv

Ivo of Kermartin (1253-1303)

St Ives has hand upon a book

to show he’s patron of the men

who advocate the law.

But see his purse in other hand

extended to the street strewn boys

and girls who’ve lost their

mums and dads.

As I was going to St Ives

I met a man with seven wives.

The seventh wife was rather small

and in her hand she holds a doll.

..

Tableau

Small black birds
by some faint sign flit from high wires
quick sweep the sun and oh
for less than the flick of an eye
feather-filter light on rampant wings.

Four and twenty black birds
by lines of light suspended:
long photon chorus lines dancing
back and back to first unfiltered moments
luminous with expectation.