Nocturne
The pantaloons are dancing,
dancing, through the night,
pure white pantaloons,
underneath the moon,
on a jolly wash line,
skipping from my room,
over to Miranda,
who washed them this noon.
This poem is in the public domain.
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Old Manuscript
The sky
is that beautiful old parchment
in which the sun
and the moon
keep their diary.
To read it all,
one must be a linguist
more learned than Father Wisdom;
and a visionary
more clairvoyant than Mother Dream.
But to feel it,
one must be an apostle:
one who is more than intimate
in having been, always,
the only confidant –
like the earth
or the sea.
2017
Those Everlasting Blues
Untitled Document
There ain’t
gonna be
any more
mad parties
between
you and me
and it ain’t
gonna be
because I
love you less
but love you more.
1929
Dance
Moon dance,
you were not to blame.
Nor you,
lovely white moth.
But I saw you together.
1916