PoetryMagazine.com

Gerald Solomon

Page 2


Memo                     
              
Now that we're coasting away from the sun
Autumn's motors twirl brown leaves down,
bits and pieces, daylight's nibbled away.
 
But still the persistence
of how (I assume) I'd arranged.
 
Time will not tell, its integrity
present only in passing by.
 
What you want
doesn't wait like a small child at your side,
raising its arms to be lifted.

 

 

 

Stranger                  
 

I reach this Welsh town late in last night's rain,

my Ford's metal stopped, apart in the silence.
 
Black streets flare in orange sodium.
Rows of shut houses, life gone indoors.
A place turns to face you like a stranger.
 
Night as ink-blot with its glamour of sharp stars.
Steep clouds, underlit amber skud away
in some lost high wind where wonder
and utterance have gone before.
 
You look up, admire still, with a question.
Lost for proper words, prefer a certain caution.
But who today can write a hymn?   

 

 

Going There                            
                                                             
I set out in time but stopped to look
where the road bends
and you see small mountains far off.
So far off they hint another path.
 
Looking, something new filled my mind,
the way sunlight goes into water,
touching nothing, changing everything.
 
Tell me then I’m wrong in this:
a kind of happening,
besides chemical truth,
has no good formula for need, or trust?

 

 

 

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