Posts Tagged ‘anticipation’

after The Great Wave off Kanagawa by Katsushika Hokusai


In this sea, the great rogue wave is always

about to crash, and the fishermen

in their long thin boats

slip themselves forever in its path—

and though it hangs above them

with hundreds of frothing claws,

and though they cower atop their boats,

they’ve yet to be cast off into the sea—

and the moment is forever charged

with an anticipation larger than

the highest mountain, caught in curiosity—

how will it be to be devoured?

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driving past the great nests,

my mind fills in the empty air—

dozens of blue heron wings

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the only pleasure as great

as nibbling the chocolates—

the delicious anticipation

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before I push

the dark seeds into the dirt,

preparing the dirt





for a beginning—

roomfuls of gold





I say to the empty vase

my heart




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While I sit fully stopped
at the white line
my thoughts rev and race
around the next four corners

and before my foot
even pressures the accelerator,
those thoughts are already walking
with a little lilt and a whistle
right through your front door.

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between the drips
of melting snow the waiting
for the next drip

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that just happens to be National Wine Day

Again I sip the syrah,
all smoky and black cherryish
and try not to wish
it were sauvignon blanc
all pucker and grass.
But no. Each sip suggests
dark violet. Black hue.
And each sip I think,
well, it’s nice, but
oh for a hint of grapefruit,
nettle, passion fruit.
But the syrah is like
a lover who stands
in the center of the room
and slowly unzips his pants,
then waits. He knows
that thirst is a fact.
He’s ready now, but
the rising heat doesn’t
bother him at all.
He is not in any hurry.

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It is a little bit
like when you see
from across the room
that someone with
a widening smile
and fingers flexing
is on their way
to tickle you and
and every part
of your body
leaps up and laughs
long before the teasing hands
have found you,
it’s a little bit like that,
this loving you.

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The snow begins
then stops to fall.
In the alley, brown
tracks run against the white.

The gray folds through the air
and unfolds. Nothing
about this day seems
capable of settling in.

It is a like a woman
thinking about what
she wants. The blossoms
of her thoughts open

like roses in fast forward.
They wilt and dry in similar
fashion. They are out of season.
This does not stop them.

Sometimes we like to think
we are waiting. Waiting
for something marvelous to happen,
or waiting for an ache to disappear,

or waiting for gray to be
something other than gray.
And sometimes we see what
a gift it is, this indecisive day,

this watching imaginary blooms
that seem so real you can almost
smell the red perfume, almost.
Outside the window,

it is snowing again. No,
not snowing. But the gray
it has settled in and now
the dirty tracks look

like empty staves and anyone
listening might hear through the glass
how the birds don’t wait
to fill in the space with song.

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