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Friday, April 25, 2014

Confession Time

Writing a Poem with Monet

It’s April and I’m growing green,
but bills cover my desk.
The money in my check book dazzles
like the mineral caves
carved by the surf
at Pourville, where Monet stood
at his easel to paint thundering waves.

I sign my check in the lower right
as artists will, re-total
the balance and turn up
a new one. Diamonds
a mile down in Monet’s sea
crack, chip, and erode. A crash.
The hissing wave
spreads geodes on the sand.
I cross-hatch a sketch
on the “payee” line.

Monet painted in a hurry.
Maybe I should write
myself broke quicker.
I scrawl a verse on “amount.”
On “date” I riddle time.
Another smash. More gems
float away, twinkling,

and my ledger’s full
of emptiness, dark water
tipped by snowy zeros.
A few more lines
and I’m emptied out,
thinking of Monet

as I lick stamps, close
envelopes, and face the slack tide.
Here’s a new swell and surge.
There’s the pen, glowing
in shifting, pastel light.

~ from Gods of Water and Air (Aldrich Press, 2013)
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