This July my new book, Life in the Body, will be published The Los Angeles Press. As a preview, I’m sharing two poems from the book. A new poem, “You See at 80,” inspired by a line borrowed from writer Carlos Castaneda that reflects on aging, and a favorite revisited, “Brief Passage,” that was inspired by the beauty of the East End. Stay tuned for more news about the book and a July reading at Canio’s Books in Sag Harbor, NY.
Plus, a new painting currently on view at the Springs Improvement Society’s 39th annual Members Art Show here in East Hampton at Ashawagh Hall from May 26-29, 2023.
YOU SEE AT 80
1.
Seat the truth of your death
on your shoulder,*
a beautiful, keen-eyed bird.
Choose your own colors, but
don’t attempt to kick her off.
Death won’t budge without you.
2.
It was fun to be a sexy girl.
Your acrobat body
could win a Limbo contest,
laugh and fuck, bite into an apple.
You danced the Twist until
your water broke a month too soon.
Then came that middle time
where time does not exist,
a blur, and when you finally searched for it,
you didn’t know where it went.
The babies grew to men.
3.
Subtle, imperceptible at first,
soft skin grows rough bumps.
Hairs where you don’t want them,
none where they once were.
You’ll never need bikini wax again.
You are two inches shorter.
But your ears have grown.
4.
Apply foundation,
cover brown spots.
Jane Fonda comes to mind.
And Dolly. Under the knife.
Still flaunting beauty.
Truth is, you don’t think
they look that great.
But then again…
Besides, they’re in the business
You wish you were in the business.
But you know better
than to heed that thought.
Change course.
Give up your PhD in mirror gazing.
You can’t turn back,
but you can turn around.
5.
Drift here, like time,
release the unwieldy oars
you’ve muscled against the tide.
Rowing upstream is getting old.
The current bends your image.
When you take a deeper look
you’re disappearing.
This ride may end in rapids,
or a soft mud bank. Hold on.
Let go.
6.
There is no rainbow’s end,
no point on the horizon to land.
Just life, a chance to witness
in amazement,
and very little left.
Get it right.
*Carlos Castaneda
BRIEF PASSAGE
A single cormorant, feathers spread,
lazes on dark ripples.
A blaze of red and aqua sunlight
bolts through clouds on the horizon.
Halyards ring out evening in the marina
as sailboats sway in wave-break at the jetty.
Geese fly currents above,
their shapely V dappling the light of moonrise.
I hear myself ask, no-one listening,
how many others have passed
time seated on this bench,
admiring the white windmill across the water,
blades blinking in dusk.
When my wings have flown me
through the portal that unlocks
death’s hidden prize,
will I become the breath of wind
or sister to a seagull perched on a pier?
Will I mingle with rainbow rays
to stir a lonely woman’s imagination
as sun sets on this bench, this bay, this beach,
thinking how fast light goes dark as daylight dims?
This cove, so quiet on peaceful days,
turbulent when weather whips the shore,
ebb and flow in rhythm with the moon,
will not remember
I spent this solitary moment
holding close its aching beauty.
My new painting, Letterbox is on view May 26-29, 2023 at the Springs Improvement Society’s 39th annual Members Art Show at Ashawagh Hall in East Hampton, NY.
Letterbox, Mixed Media on Canvas, 24 x 24”