You whispered softly,
beguilingly
into my ear.
Such silent music,
...
Red roses ripen, fruits for eyes in love
I pick just one, so velvety, dishevelled
and hold you close to stubbles of the past
there is a kinship here, of growth and lust
...
A people who
adores its mothers
will travel on a cloud
of high esteem.
...
I met out by the bridge across the Rhine
a man who introduced himself as Rilke.
He carried with him a substantial flagon of red wine
and offered, with a melancholy smile as well
...
Good-bye my love,
you may not ever know,
that there was not
since Attila the Hun
...
He took another look
while she sat there,
by the half-open curtains,
catching the afternoon sun
...
A poem is when it is born
a trifle like a unicorn.
It hovers in its growing stage
displays, perhaps a bit of rage
...
She was old. Going on 97.
Said she couldn't, for reasons unknown
sleep the night through. Been like that
for yonks, but worse now since the democrats
...
We'd gone there to share,
at La Ville des Lumière
many proper French kisses.
But the first ones were misses,
...