Thursday, July 16, 2015

The Wellspring Wind

Nantaska, MA
—Photos by Denise Flanagan, MA
—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA


Hearing a mourning dove call
by the gecko who lands
over this sandy coast
on a day of pure air
the bird with its tone's echo
going and then coming away
to take a wash along the beach
by bright tourist ships
in the home harbor
as my dusky eyes rose up early
with the flying dove over my head
now a warm memory
to all who recall her
by the dunes and redwood
reaching for the waters
in the bluest sea
of illumined words
when first light enfolds
my hand of sunflower seeds
from a breathing wind
in the neighborhood
as daughters and sons
of the wellspring wind
wake up those who are lost
from motioning shadows
whom fate double-crossed
on ocean journeys
those troubled yet survive
double-minded in the eventide
searching for the shore
where we long for
more of your love.



Verse can happen
in unexpected times
from an arrival of summer
by trekking on back roads
watching birds on frenzied wings
or hearing a cardinal sing
over ladders of seasonal silences
when herons climb upon Evergreens
near a poet's buried footsteps
amid secret silences
on a nostalgic hammock
folding over two paper roses
creativity may occur
watching egrets
by the home harbor shore
for an early swim,
words can wash over you
from wayward third parties
who send waves to you
on the sea's dark coolness
covering a white desert sand
with a butterfly net
or at the freshly painted gazebo
by the lighthouse's luminosity
or listening to the tremor
of an oboe or cornet
from the brass or woodwinds
playing a set from a jazz sax
over nuanced quarter notes
in a Newport quintet
by a quilt of sunshine
from your peace arm band.

 Glory Cloud


You had returned
from the flesh worlds
screen lines and voices
of Buñuel's Tristana
and the Dali paintings
at the museum
no evil eye
could penetrate or guide
your mind's memory
of sound and paint
or addressed
the sleep's angels
who waited for you
covered with casting light
of printed shadows.



On the same page
at the same time
in the sheltered mirror
with invisible doors
open for an actor's stage
in the limelight
your words
entered in
the night your were
an understudy.



We glance for a part
to review
as we met you
by your red sports car,
eager for a chance
for a role in a new short play
acting in Venus in L.A.
you had a loneliness of sorts
yet wishing to become a star
or win a handsome Oscar
no matter who stands in the pit
or on a poster of worship
with wit as an actor dressed up
in your fitting room
with no lines of censorship
as you came to Hollywood
from Vegas as a family guest
dining on Sunset and Vine
eating a waffle
with the ice,
blood or coal of a poet
on your frozen lips
ready to sign a contract
with a thousand chips
in your targeted shadows
racked by so much glitter
no matter at thirty
you became a bitter soul
yet goodness prevailed
from your smothered desire
no one understood
you found a higher dare
than screen or T.V. fare
in a deeper scaled fire
than in any goal at rehearsal
with more angels than you care
to admit to your premiere
than any of the best movies
you made in the past year.

 B.Z. at Good Harbor Beach, MA


The evening's slow curtain
still sees you faithful in joy
in a surprised amazement
at the opening revival
in the theater corridors,
what an actor on the highest stage
you were in our buds of regret
not holding onto your wounds
from the vision of pillar fire
the moving clouds pass
you by as a silent star
as the late doors close
you held onto our secret.



Everywhere in our horizon
the new wave of '68
plays jazz a on a grand piano
shares a weight of half notes
playing my experimental solo
with anointed laughter
which lines my set expectations
and began with smiles and similes
in the movie theater
to grapple with cinema's reality
at command in our portfolios
from Prague to Paris
to San Francisco and Big Apple
art enters an enigma's voice
by reeling in our parts
of once cabin-fevered words
which were an embarrassment
covering our shore lines
or suspends us from our actor's
past expectations
venting in our old suits or boots
we poets dive from airy parachutes
exchanging space and time
for imagination's rhyme
on our planet's weightless voyages
we survive as exiles
by wings and myriads
chanting for understanding
as cool paintings on a canvas,
soon after two decades
environmental art like Christo's
will be gladly released
life once took us as being lost
and only temperamental
in our new school of Cage
editors now engage us in rants
of an intelligent renaissance
from a Beat's estrangement,
whatever our last wages or rent
is due to a past government
yet to feel urgently alive
from any past irritant or duel
with humor and irony
leaving a universal legacy
on every believer's tongue
our venue is being upstaged
for reading in a new century
any elegant parts arrangement
of a new language transparency
free of jury or injury.



The smooth jazz plays
above the windowsill
grackles sing furiously
by wellsprings like this
near shadows of geraniums
it seems a curious day
in the season's weather
for the winds, rain, shower
or to hum a childhood hymn
when warm words emerge
like a light feather's secret
on a blackbird's wing
yet the urge for creativity
has reason in its metamorphosis
for a temperamental poet
discovering nature's outback
to be hovering
over red flowers, bees, Evergreen
in our neighborhood
or by the river bed
here on Spectacle island
at the perfect morning hour
for her to deliver a daydream
for any emerging refugee
hiding in the woodland
or in exile from parental storms
reaching out for a miracle
on the sandy beach.

 Nantaska, MA


Today's bird-shadow
has the sun in two hands
by a twin wood kayak
under a speechless branch
in the middle of Walden Pond
what thoughtful laughter
in duality on seamless water
where Thoreau wrote
by beams curved in Concord
that one wishes this memory too
will live after us
from the outback foliage
of our shining language
in the fragrance of wellsprings
next to sounding warblers.



On the island's floating tree log
the cape wind wraps me
in her last shade of nature
at dusk playing a flute,
the sea ditchwater smudges
on my bathing suit
striving to escape wild geese
near the wisteria-covered road
with an empty monastery's silence
far from yesterday's
crowded energy
on the fast-motioning trains
of shouting
in the city's hysteria
today choosing annunciation
to rest with fruit and fauna
enfolded in surrendered peace.


Today's LittleNip:

(in memory of Dorothy Day)

In his nightmare
words become alive
and he is in morning light
they give him ammunition
and basic training
but he resists
in the crossroad position
not needing a cross of honor
so he does crosswords
on the field
puzzled by his young life
does he need a cross of honor,
he decides to cross the line
crosses himself,
and enlists for peace.


—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch and Denise Flanagan for today's fine fare from the East Coast!