jopomojo

The purple martins returned

To their spot on the melted river.

The phenology calendar

We keep by the door said they would.

The redwinged blackbirds, too,

Were there, and a lone cormorant.

I was also there for sun

And for the hope wafting in the air.

A stoic seagull sailed over

And circled the scene on patrol

Before veering away

Upstream towards the marina.

Everything leaned toward spring

And its offer of new beginning.

Every bird and beast in that scene,

Myself included (with my cares),

Seemed well aware of what

Opportunity lay at hand

And that the seasonal gift

Must be seized like the reins of a horse

To be ridden out of the dawn

Or lost in the heat of the sun

And the difficulty

Of the long summer days to come.

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How easy life can be.

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Let me tell you, dear Fred,

About how fatefulness led

From exhaustion to love

Like a bee gliding into a glove

Or a foot with ruby sock

Kicking open a sugared lock.

But I wonder, old pal,

How it’s going, and your gal,

How she’s doing as well,

And how the old magic from the spell

Is winding down to its end

Back to where all things must descend.

There’s no such thing as luck,

I’ll tell you that, and some pluck

Will go a long way towards

Breaking through the closed windows

and the boards

That were nailed there out of fear

And the lack of required good cheer.

But I know that you know

That, dear Fred, and that the show

We’re all starring in is

Not unlike the one about the wiz

And ultimately funny

Like a bee conjuring honey.

Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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The caverns of my heart

Flow with the water music

Of a waltz frozen in the past.

I was the band leader

When all the dance steps came to grief,

Even the rising sun.

But the dawn comes again

And the ice of the river

Begins to relax and give way

To a new song and day.

Second chances and new dances

Appear in the melting.

The main thing is to feel

The changing waves chip away

At the ice as it melts and breaks,

And then to step into

The flow with your thoughts fully formed

And your resolve secure.

Will they follow you there?

The only way to find out

Is to take the plunge and begin

To swim downstream, to dance

Along the waves and rivulets,

One-two-three, one-two-three.

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the sun refuses

to let the gray sky

have the final say

instead emitting a low

whisper of hope

and distant birdsong

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The painter Tintoretto had an eye

For how the light of Venice danced across

Not only the canals but every surface,

The plenitude of interlacing moods

Of bodies occupying space. His brush

Contained the Cristo risorgente’s glow

Like sunrise on the Adriatic Sea.

And now I rise and walk down to a scree

Of broken pavement where I stub my toe

While waiting for the sunrise and the rush

And swoop of birds. A Little Egret broods

Nearby and I surrender to the harness

Of the day, my load of gathered dross,

And all the things to see before before I die.

Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

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Sunrise from the Fondamente Nove

The Fondamente Nove gazes east

Across the great lagoon and past the graves

Of Brodsky, Pound, Stravinsky, and the beast

Of Venice, namely Potter with his waves

Of ink that flash and glint like squid

Whose brains like those of poets are nocturnal

But still embrace the lifting of the lid

Of day, the new foundation of eternal

Imagination carried from the night

Like catches hauled in nets of straining lines

Laid out in sepia tones transformed to light

Illuminating manuscripts and signs

Revealed in Fondamente Nove’s view:

Venetian sunrise offered here for you.

Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

Potter Poems is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit jopomojo.substack.com/subscribe

false spring gives way

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curtal sonnet after Hopkins

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