Overture
Dancing with the Moon
For three score years and more
I’ve been dancing with the moon,
answering her tide-pull on my heart
with my homing hopes and pen.
With these words upon the page
I have tracked its arcs of wonderment.
I have thrilled to the lift of that
first wave of attraction.
I have felt its promise slip away
or buoy me with new connection.
And then, oh then, the satisfaction,
the years of recording the bounty swells
beneath her blessèd call—
only to know again the lash
of storm and break-up, after all.
Thrown once more into the thrashing roil,
I seize some flotsam in desperation
and drift, clinging to memories and regret.
I pray for rescue. And yet, I write.
Once the sea has calmed after wreckage
and the boiling clouds have cleared,
and I have spied some solid land,
a new captivation beckons from the strand.
My pen reckons once again with hope
and the cycle begins anew. New promises
are filled or unfulfilled, new relationships
enjoyed and then dissolved, until
the one.
Here the journey finds its homeland.
Here a haven holds my thankful habitation.
With new stanzas I exult in the sacrament
ultimate. Storms still batter, yes. But even
in the howling night I still can see the beacon.
I still know the reason why I married,
and in the light of the goddess moon, I dance.
We dance.
They Play, I Try
Mirrors of Duet : They Play
she holds off
head tilt eyeshade and curiosity
dis stance sing
he bolds on
voice lilt smile and hopeful mimery
into it ing
they play they may
take it to the hilt if she feels
does wonders he
Mirrors of Duet : He’s Tall
He’s tall,
dark,
well,
he’s just barely handsome,
hair thick and trying to be—
full frame but not quite— .
He moves over
right next
then . . .
With a smile he mimes lighting
the Fantasy Lucky she raises to her lips.
She takes a long deep and lifts her chin.
The jazz moves her elbow, and
she nudges into his must
be made of light and honey,
so bright his eyes . . .
So,
hi’s,
and, yes, she thinks she
could just float and sink and—
How far?
Just—
How long?
Could—
Would he be
as gentle as sighs and so strong,
as sure as time and so good,
as suave and slow and—
She takes another drag.
Mirrors of Duet : The Dream Tears Free
She’s seated alone for two drinks now;
he’s seated alone for who knows how many.
He decides it all rides on being bold.
A mindform is born of one light touch
of elbows and eyes caught
in the mirror behind the bar.
He shifts and smiles,
the ice breaks,
the smile takes,
the heart flies
and aches . . .
So strong are the forlorn years,
the dream tears free.
How far?
How long?
Whose car . . .
He orders another marguerita.
Mirrors of Duet : Hipsmoove
The Prince of Denmark’s dead.
The actors have got their notes,
and I’m sat here with Margarita.
The bass poons cool in the jazz
with piano.
“Martini bianco,”
she smooths in her foreign voice;
the bartender’s never heard.
“But they have them in the Netherlands.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror
behind the bar, a wary depth
in how she raises her regard chin,
a counterpoint to how she turns
her body towards me,
hipsmoove as bass lines . . .
I might be falling in.
Mirrors of Duet—Coda : Only These If-Onlys
Were you just two weeks here from Amsterdam?
Around the rim of a maelstrom I spin.
I dream of falling in, of following you—
but such dares make for dizzy disaster.
Looking back that long halfmoon’s passage,
its tide’surge waves of hands and lips
slip down shores of daze desire and riptide out.
The swell heaves open the heart we shared,
bares it to the storm. Now the moon’s ink
tears these pages with its savage pen,
leaving only these if-onlys.
When You Return
To what enflighted species are we tied, then,
to circle thus at such close distances,
and yet to wait?
When you return from all the ’motions that you’ve tried,
will we meet again in the middle air
and finally alight?
Who?
Who am I?
Just a friend who walks the Benny dog,
a free ticket to the plays,
and someone to pay for dinner?
Who are you?
Now you’ve kissed me me more than twice,
do you too fly some dream
beyond a short and sweet “Good night”?
Who are we?
Could we ride our limbs to pleasure sation,
tie our lives to hope, and find
the full fill and meant for—?
She’s A Sword Dancer
She’s a Sword Dancer.
Join her. But beware!
She wields bright cold flame
with her arms in arcs
in acts of self-attentive love.
Her feet sweep, too,
until you totter like a top
and spill into the
quick cut.
You can’t watch your step with her.
You must come into the tango
with your feet skin-shod,
your eyes unhypnotized
by the blade. Then dance
so hard your soles rise up
from the ground-bound floor—
but no more!
Or . . .
But—
