JUST THREE POEMS BELOW, but much more of my poetry is featured in Our Own Voice ezine: http://www.oovrag.com (Type Bonnivier” in the search box.)
Fog should crash and go boomlike the waves it rough-rides into shore.Or if it slowly–painfully slowly–rolls in,it should moan or creakor sit up suddenly and shriek.It could sigh–for example, when it is nicelynestledbetween two mountain peaks–it could sigh.(At any rate, it should not sit there!)And when it comes saunteringinto the streets of our townWell, you would think for sure it would humor hissor maybe give a whistle.It has never (praise be to God),at least so far as I know,it has never everdaredentera woman’s kitchenOh, you can talk all you want toabout how it is the nature of fog to be silent.Snow is silent, too, even while falling.But you can make it squeak under your boot,and if it becomes bothersome,you can shovel it out of your way.Try doing that with fog.You would be all day.
First pillars were mahoganylining the roadsometimes shadingas the men struggled not to falleven as they ran forwardunder shouts under clubsunder bayonets and rifle buttsunder the sun, nothing at all forgiving.It is good to forgive.Passionate promises were madein the heat of war,in daily gratitudes,even in victory.In peace, though, there were retractionsand denials and vague references tomaybe something in the future.It is good to forgive.If there is no apology,do it in your heart.It would be wrong to forget.These pillars standsome comfort under the sun.Our passions, our memories,durable as the trees.We know what was broken.
HOMAGE TO WHITNEY
I am a Super Star.My trophy is a plastic chip that says I’m still qualifying,a day, a month, six months or nine, a year, a moment.No matter the time, I can’t leave my prize on the mantel.My goal is never reached, my earnest performance, never done.It is every moment forever.You like it that I trekked in Nepal, butYou don’t know about the mountains I’m still climbing,So much higher, so much harder than thoseat the top of the world.I, wrongly, admired the you I created:independent,needing no oneexcept for those who adore youor at least never find fault.And even them, you don’t need very often.You are a strong man in the world we call real.My strength, the one I call upon every day, is stronger.If I have been loved I have rarely known it, so, in a way I have lived without it.If I have been strong, and I have, no one else has known it, sowho I am is anonymous.I have guides and base camps.Steps have been carved into the cliffs.I’ve pushed through to the other sideof easy toughness, soNow and then, often, I do know myself, andI love what I know.In those moments, I cling to no one and no thingexcept for that prize that I’m earning.In those moments, I see how great I’ve become.So much greater than I thought I could be.Every violation was not mine.Neither was every innocence.I am free.