Some kids rise early but not this one.
Even when her father’s icy lakes
crackle like bacon frying
her head of brambled anarchy
stays nestled in his cool pillow.
A boy-dream blankets her
settling in the low spots like fog.
This springald lingers, knowing that breakfast brings
a new reproach for a too skimpy halter
against the budding of April.
© R. Jeffrey Roberts
About Me
- Jeff Roberts
- No one likes everything. We explore. We discover. We winnow. When young we are silly in our devotion to music. We pretend. We imitate our favorite artists. When Midnight Train to Georgia comes on the radio, I still turn into a Pip. Jimmy Buffet’s A Pirate Looks at Forty still touches me. I am similarly affected when I encounter good and great art and poetry. Joseph Cornell, Seamus Heaney, Louise Nevelson, Louise Gluck, Giorgio de Chirico, William Carpenter, Dali. When I see a Duchamp that nails it for me, I have the urge to windmill my arm like Pete Townshend. What if we let art and poetry sneak up on us like music? What if art came in 3 minute bursts and had a volume knob? What if?
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