I am a husband, father, rabid backyard gardener, and blogger on nature, books, films and other subjects based on the premise that there's a garden metaphor for everything. Still utopian and idealistic after all these years, I cover the arts for the Boston Globe's 'South' regional section. "My poems have been published recently by The Poetry Superhighway, Semaphore Journal, Scarlet Leaf Review, These Fragile Lilacs, Every Day Poet, Off The Coast, Houseboat, Yellow Chair Review, and other journals. "Suosso's Lane," my recently published novel about the Sacco-Vanzetti case, is available at www.Web-e-Books.com.
the scent of a first few drops of summer rain
on a world of hot pavement
the nexus of medieval voices
in universes of hollow stone
a stranglehold on a wire fence
by a herd of hungry runner beans
hibiscus, yellow-gold plateware,
insects sucking on butterfly bush blooms
purple as kings
the harvest-time betrayal
of the bee who stung me
and made me sing with pain
The World Below
(at Tyringham Cobble)
Down below, in the cemetery, the churchyard,
All things small
and silent and permanent
We ascend for the view
The rocks that lift us survive from worlds
too old for questioning
Unprecedented: they are the precedents
We have climbed here before
Our standing unchanged, the season perfected
Each year leaning further to the edge
the steeple higher, the cemetery closer
What Color is the Sky in Your World?
Funny you should ask.
But did you mean today,
this monochrome afternoon
when neither the shape of cloud nor light can distinguish itself
from the dull metal of rusting hills?
Or some other day when the blue of
an ancient warrior's helmet, glimpsed
in the museum of hereafter
sits on an ocean
from rim to rim the hue of imagination?
Or red with anger?
Or perhaps merely some broken vessel
in the eye of the world bleeding
from the sleep of bellicose afternoons
spent hurling curses at the menials
who do not deserve reproach,
but merely carry on the bread and circuses
for the smart money players who insure
that skies appear only in regulation hues.
Or black? when I wake, having not slept
truly, but run, panting, from a desperate desire
to preserve the painful color of experience
in a world that can be shared,
exploited, yes, for some shared gain
even with the likes of those who insist
that all must go on exactly as before,
lest they accrue some unanticipated loss.
Or green, when I stand on my head,
waiting for the gods of delicate, undying things
to splay their toes
and walk from earth to heaven, heaven to earth,
where they do not recall the authors
who chew their bit of itty-bitty byte
in worlds of dreary convenience and well-born men.
©2016 Robert C. Knox
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