Three poems by Brad Vogel

Orange orange ferry

gulls rise

quieter than buoys

I feel deep hum

we play the song of all

immigrants all

lovers crossing

dance with this

blue mother mantis

⁃ we love her

but she just might

kill us all

but such is our tremulous

luck to even

care

to be so privileged

here on anchorage side

where only scraps of

statue-firing light

hit barge sides

to enjoy

the thrill of

anxiety

to savor imagined

disaster, the Joker’s card

not played

yet

here in gloamy

security-cammed

espanoled

is she crying or does

she just look like

that photo in

process

I cross my legs

for warmth

 

towering logs

with no kindling

no tindrous bits

does not a city make

 

I am no match

for New York

and yet

this box, this

fire-colored book

keeps us

dry somehow

across February

across wide harbor

 

 

Bed of My Past

I sit in the bed of my past

Warm comforter of memories wrapped

Around my defenseless thighs

And I struggle silently

Big book in hand

Last light on

For a future

As the new boys

Bring back baggy bottoms

And I wonder have

I missed my intended cycle

Of life

And am I now a dead

Satellite orbiting

Smiling, wise-talking

The earringed boy

Looking all around

Like a tarsier trapped

Beautiful wide-eyed

Rare

And excusing himself

For no reason

And I know

Eating the barnyard grit

With my feed

Chicken that I am

The man I once

Excused myself from

De-trapped from

Just a decade,

Nay

Four years ago

And as much as I knew

I’d be me

This way

Soon

I

Barred the empathy from

Flowing full and free

Through

Permeatata

And walked from

Mine own self

To come

 

Shine on

You crazy

Balding

Diamond

 

Jet night

Walnut brick

He gazes

Intrigued

But wary

 

And I begin to steel

Not glances

But my whole self

For a near certain

Non-followup

To the penned note

This moment now

Being entirely

Stolen

Between us

A brief dance

Rubato

 

But then

I have never known

How to say I’m

Head over heels

In love

How the structures

Even loosening

In my own time

Have never lent themselves

To full declamation

Full I-want-to-disrobe-and-explore-you

Come what may

Masculinity being

Fickle in its

Glass wall pickle

Always threatening

Even through louche eyes

To cut you

 

I adjust the pillow

Pull the blanket in closer

Yawn and swallow

Note the knots in my back

Feel the field of aches and wounds

Inflammate records

Of other hesitations, fails

And confoundments

And there are tears around

The edges of my eyes

 

I do not even know if

I will live

But I sure, goodness do I know

I have loved

I have given love

Like a greeter handing out

Coupons

To a cold deaf

Occasionally teasing

Pitying

Friend-ful crowd

 

I

No

We

Have to die now I guess

And I know I shouldn’t talk loose

 

Cast lines then

And I will try my best

To doggie paddle

To shore

 

 

Opening the Trunk

Green-Wood Cemetery, 5.2.20

 

Rays nuzzle glacial ranks

Grass on grass

Green through the mask

Ricochet beams bounce

Back up blades

Quivering air

For the first few feet

For woodchucks and violets

For mockingbird wings

For seedpods and dirt clods

And optimistic things

 

I am glad my sight

Goes dizzy

At the base of elms

From whence it springs

The warmth of new season

I leaf out

Through my granite seat

Root out in full

Set sap running

Thank LaFarge’s

Architect

For a perch

To drink in

⁃ What color are my chlorophyll

That take in peace

That process rays of calm

Into content imagination?

 

I am a tangled tree

With aquamarine leaves

Clinging to a tumbledown tomb

 

Thriving waiting watching

Thriving wishing wearying

Thriving whispering wondering

 

Respirating ideas and

The very varied veery

That lands now

Explosion close at hand

 

I branch blue green

And watch blossoms

Cup ruby ears

For song

 

My bark eats time

Greets its wrinkles

Lets lichens work the stone

Eras past pandemic

 

This last moraine

Laughs long in erosion

And I hold, I curlicue

Find stones to grip for