Published on: 6/21/2011
Process

Asked to write a poem, I go straight to the garden,
tug at weeds and lever out roots, haul out the spade,
turn soil and break and sift and sweat until I find
the pebble.
I put it in my shoe.
Then I can go to my desk.

Published on: 6/21/2011
Pre-Madonna

The future was a rose of Sharon.
Young and lovely, born to influence,
descended from kings, destined to marry
some prince, to honor his family and be
a prominent wife and mother. Young notables
lined up to court
the priest's niece. No hick carpenter
for Mary.
Then the angel came.

Published on: 6/21/2011
Why I Am Not a Bear

Smashing through the woods,
parting trees and bestriding logs,
scooping up wineberries, blackberries,
whatever is ripe and irresistible,
swiveling to listen and sniff the air,
the hairy beast is seized by a sudden
swivet--a hawk's hurtle, a chipmunk's
flustered flight - and thinks,
"That could be a poem."

Published on: 6/21/2011
Untaken Photographs

1: A small dog pauses on a woodland path, looking intently to one side.

2: My father stands in a gallery, leaning forward slightly, examining a painting.

3: The uniform is gleaming white.

4: Two people stand on a beach in California, according to the vegetation and the cliffs.

1: The dog is peering into a laurel hell, his mouth slightly open.

2: Behind my father we can see another painting, from the bottom of which hangs an elaborate blue rosette.

3: The young man wearing the uniform is small for a professional ballplayer, but he stands confidently in the classic shortstop crouch.

4: The couple carry their shoes; they have wiggled their feet comfortably into the sand.

1: Within the laurels, we can just make out the shape of a badger.

2: If we look closely, we can make out writing on the ribbon, BEST IN SHOW, and on that painting, my father's signature.

3: On my head, a cap; on the cap, the logo of the Newark Bears.

4: My parents hold hands contentedly as they watch the sun creep above the horizon.