three long poems will take time for this poor old head to master cheers P
-----Original Message-----
From: Max Richards
Sent: Wednesday, April 6, 2016 5:56 AM
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: 'Singing Her Charms'
Singing Her Charms
1. Whatever
At her throat a black necklace -
ribbon? - necktie? - whatever -
held her steady in its clasp
while she glanced my way
calculating, it seemed,
when to place at my throat
that restless hand of hers.
Mine was ready to cover hers,
hold it in place, test our
strength. Would we stay
upright? Would she recoil?
Staring at her necklace
kept my gaze from her eyes.
There was a pulse - her throat
marked time with her heart.
Now I saw in that place,
no ribbon necktie or necklace,
but a black tattoo shaped as snake.
At this coil, its small head
eyes and forked tongue,
I recoiled, forfeiting
whatever chance it was.
We stayed upright. She smiled:
‘You don’t like my choker?’
2. The Impression She Left
Where she had, that
slow afternoon, sat
in my quiet house,
a soft impression
remained on the cushion -
fond reminder,
though mere remainder
not sadly of what
she’d said with that
music in her voice
nor of her beguiling
lingering smiling,
but her alert posture
poise and elegance,
my covert glance,
and the slow moment
when she rose to her feet,
as so often, bare,
and crossed to the door
vacating her place
well before her welcome
could be outworn.
What had she said? -
words if written down,
unremarkable enough.
If taped, that voice
might hint: never erase
what is so rare:
durable impression
of ephemeral grace.
3. Prima Vera Senior
Alive! and so alive!
not me, you well see -
she - that one there -
her - all those years
then all these years
alive, and so alive,
confounding us
who are as old
and feel - older,
decrepit,
near the exit
about to bow out.
Not her, unfailingly
making her entrance
afresh like the spring.
A smile like hers
you won’t get from me,
maybe not one at all.
It helps that she’s tall,
you see her coming
like the spring.
The first bluebell,
the daffodil,
rising morale.
Rising sap, one used
to say, with a tap
on a tree or side
of one’s nose.
But I digress.
She still blooms!
lights up rooms
(excuse cliches),
spreads bonhomie.
Her mother must have
given her the love
she’s given others
the rest of her life,
a life of generous
manoeuvre,
which written or
composed would make
a long oeuvre
of benevolent
munificence.
Womanliness,
inclusive embrace,
blessed with daughters
providing sequels
chapter and verse
their mother’s equals
proving their heritage
in her old age
in my old age
in our old age.
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