Torn by Love

Meager is the cry
of the baby, but
I have tried
not to tear
your torn tissues,
must ask your permission.

Grandmother,
I search for an amulet
to bring you
to soothe you. My
being is torn.

A girl of charm
not of tradition
is in my life, but
I am torn
by love
by being

Grandmother,
I do not wish
to be a tear of the eye
to streak a bloody torn cloth.

I am torn
by love
by being

Though meager was my cry
when you lost your daughter,
I have tried to be a prayer
for you and
for your daughter

Born of your
cries and screams
I pray

Grandmother,
you are
my precious Mother.
What charm may I bring you?

May I pray
for your daughter?
I wish I
had known her,
not caused
her death
though meager was my cry

I am torn
by love
by being.

Meet me
as I am
with gifts
with meager charms.

Grandmother,
there is a girl
who wishes to be
a woman with me.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

I pray in
many ways
we will all
grow together,
born into love
with your blessings.

Grandmother,
cry me into life
beyond tradition.

I am torn
by love
by meetings.

Meet me
and her, your
new born-in-law, for

Loud and thunderous
is the cry of happiness

Join us in the rain,
Grandmother

Reading In The Circle Square


Oh please let me read
before the acrobats arrive
to drive me batty
claim my turf
near the museum
or in Central Park

Crowds gather to
see the somersaults
and the gray makeup statue people —
a statue that moves; what
is the thrill?

So I say in my false bass
to carry my voice for three blocks
echoing off buildings:

“Carp not the day, but
kiss the past good-bye,
consume the meats of glory
while salad days are over,
green envy of youth begins,
and I say unto you:

friends, toilmen, bumpkins
lend me your eyes to spy;
I have come to bury Caesar salad
not to praise tyrants as Caesar
fishy and salty like an anchovy

See me praise the dance
on the graves of the grave,
and praise the praise
brought to ceremonials

Cheer me
and I shall be cheered,
for no one can tell me
what the sound is
of one tear clapping
in a thunder kiss
applauding the future”

The Vandals and the Visigoths
the hoodlums of heckler youth shout,
“Shut up Shakespeare creep”
(I translate from the key of F)

But I see her of sultry look
turning to pull me into her
like a force field
to tear me from this
mob of barbarians
into her poetic world of fantasy, and
yes, I’d be her Romeo

I turn to her and read:
“I woke up to my
longing for you; coffee
bit my dream
I stirred your cream

If I dress to seek you
will I know where
passion gallivants

You haunt me with
your many haunts. I
feel a phantom kiss
and miss the bliss from
flesh and ardor, belief bones
troubles massaged in a love whisper,
soothing music
melodic compassion

I am out to find you
driven like the mating birds;
walking, I hear the coos
but let them fly unknowing
for I have a gift for us:
wait ’til you
see me smile
everywhere I know you”

I fold down my sign
pack up
walk to her
wanting to ravish

She says,
what do you really do

—- Douglas Gilbert

Presuming the Transformation

   Start from a Prompt: Presume

The Sun presumes to speak for us
in sunny moods to warm the day, but
our fall from grace in lugubrious mud
inclines us not to kiss or forgive.
==========================
     Version 2

Il sole presume di parlare per noi
di buon umore per riscaldare la giornata, ma
la nostra caduta dalla grazia nel fango lugubre
ci spinge a non baciare o perdonare.
————–
     Version 3

The sun presumes to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lugubrious mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive.
===================================
     Version 4

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
presumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
————–
     Version 5

De zon veronderstelt voor ons te spreken
in een goed humeur om de dag op te warmen, maar
onze val uit de gratie in de lugubere modder
dringt er bij ons op aan de regen niet te kussen of te vergeven.
——–
     Version 6

The sun is supposed to speak for us
in a good mood to warm up the day, but
our fall from grace in the lurid mud
urges us not to kiss or forgive the rain.
=====================================
     Version 7

Ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε μια καλή διάθεση για να ζεσταθεί η μέρα, αλλά
η πτώση μας από τη χάρη στη γεμάτη λάσπη
υποθέτει ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσει τη βροχή.
————
The sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day but
our fall from grace to full mud
assumes a kiss to forgive the rain.
======================================
     Version 8

If the sun must speak for us
in a good mood to warm the day
let our fall from grace in storms and
assume a kiss to forgive the rain.
=================
     Version 9

Αν ο ήλιος πρέπει να μιλήσει για μας
σε καλή διάθεση να ζεσταθεί η μέρα
αφήστε την πτώση μας από τη χάρη στις καταιγίδες και
πάρτε ένα φιλί για να συγχωρήσετε τη βροχή.
——–
If the sun should speak to us
in a good mood to warm the day
let us fall by the grace of the storms and
take a kiss to forgive the rain.

Selfie

Because she knows
my arms are shorter than
the river is wide or is
longing in turmoil

she shipped me a selfie stick
across the Amazon divide

but I’d like to decide
we’d race with dueling sticks
at three paces, and run
a hush to photo finish

The Dress of Battle

The battle is lost and
I have not saved anyone.
She left with
nothing to wear
and nothing to say
when I sent her away.

Empty wars she said, and
she is not rescued nor am I.

How do you know if
the sun will shine
when the night is dark
and she has left forever

It is so cold alone
to be naked in the night
interrupted by bombs

Why dress for death
when lost blood is warm

How am I to bleed well
when she doesn’t love me anymore
and there is no rescue. Honor?

I don’t think the sun will rise
and I have no clothes
but her memory

Cat Wine

She’s wondering
if there’s been
nearly enough verse in a year
to fill a potion glass with cat wine

If then, perhaps, half a tale more
will be enough this year
to lick happiness
catch the tickle feather
teach puppies to meow and fly,
pussies to howl at the moon,
or play with a ball invitation
where the poetess has
the Cinderella glass
half full enough
to dance with the
Prince without portfolio
who owns a pumpkin farm
where a couple of stars can
twinkle in rhythms like
a rhyme wine glistens