Larry's Blog

we are between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
as high noon approaches

we are between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
as high noon approaches

Corelli is playing on station 102.5
I taste cashews, almonds, walnuts
and some nuts I cannot name

a sip of Shiraz – ah!
a nibble of Vermont cheddar
and (if you don’t like this
you don’t like my poem)
a chomp of sweet gherkin pickle

we are in between storms
in Massachusetts
late February sun
streams through lace curtains
I am seventy-four
I am happy!
It is high noon!

Somewhat after the holidays
when a white layer of snow
covers the ground, winter
begins for me. I am alone now.

(more…)

Fair scarlet flower and yellow of sun
memorial of mercy and the primal sweetness
never in man’s soul totally undone,
still waking brightly in the fleetness
of the years; sing gently, gentleness
almost never lost in the wild rocks of fear
cling like hope on hope’s lost precipice
and teach us love is still here.

when Maxwell barked
his mistress scolded him
Dachshund type – miniature

when Maxwell barked
his mistress scolded him
Dachshund type – miniature
he growled on June’s last day
Maxwell so unkind to bark at
the stranger passing by

Maxwell’s mistress in such way
favoring the stranger
no bark, no bite. the friendly
flowers of June will hum a tune
neither bark, neither bite
Maxwell sit. Maxwell be kind.

I’m in the dental chair
the assistant with some tenderness
slides the bib about my neck
adjusting it with her fingers

If this was another world -
if things were different -
she’s just about my age

I walk back to the monastery
light snow is falling
there is a clothesline
with panties and a bra

the cups are filling up with snow
it bothers me, but the lady
who owns them does not
seem to care

it is not my calling
to stroke the convex of a breast
but to feel the concave
of the cups – to empty
them of snow -

a lady’s panties – no
they would never fit a man -

these thoughts are out of line
perhaps I will see the Master
of Novices, confess – just in case -

ask the Blessed Virgin for help
and say a rosary.

you played softball Sunday morning
de-ox-y-rib-o-nu-cle-ic acid
(after all that, I’m not an acid but a salt)
like an old lady’s beads thrown in a purse
I live in a dark nucleus
you walk in the sun around Horn Pond

you played softball Sunday morning
de-ox-y-rib-o-nu-cle-ic acid
(after all that, I’m not an acid but a salt)
like an old lady’s beads thrown in a purse
I live in a dark nucleus
you walk in the sun around Horn Pond

I am polymerase and replicate the ribbon of life
I am an enzyme that reads a section of the code
you smile and talk with a fisherman

I am a protein rolled up from the blueprint
in a segment of the string
I know who you are
you look up and see the morning clouds

the cytoplasm is my home.
I am a membrane
I manufacture ribosomes
that read the orders
and give commands
you read your book
a new thought enters your mind

sugars and carbohydrates, that’s
all we are, like a chain of crystal
six feet long, wrapped in a coil
we hold the numbers
now you are driving your car

I am a million years old
only carbon oxygen and hydrogen
and elements of nitrogen in the plan
we were there when it all began
you scratch your head
you think you’ll write a poem

in Auburn fields
we found new adventures
beyond the gates of life
in Auburn fields
we found new adventures
beyond the gates of life

3 poets – Longfellow, James Russell Lowell
and Oliver Wendell Holmes
but not a line of verse

maybe I will return
with some bronze plaques
inscribed with my favorite lines

I am filled with a new thirst
for sung rhymes and metered song
in this valley of the requiem

lamentable though it be
we must transgress
into the very fields of death
to find a solitary peace

here in Mt Auburn
the dead are numbered.
Is this ungracious?
liberated from ID’s and
social security
there last bank checks inscribed
they thought they were free

but unkindly architects
chiselled 2493 and 3224
where they lie

they thought they were free
but still they are numbers
of the numbered dead

the Latin is softer – mortuus
but the Anglo-Saxon is final

dead sounds like
done
or
dumb
or
dull

in Auburn fields
we found 3 poets
Longfellow, Lowell and Holmes.

an – ni – ver – sar – y
has 5 syllables
like 5 ticks
on the mantle clock

(more…)