Bio (auto)
Romus simpson lives and works in Delano, California. he formerly lived in Long Beach and is the veteran of 320 performances of his poetry.
The following work is Copyright © 2002, and owned by Romus Simpson and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
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i thought of you
it was a blue dusk
an empty park marbled in shadows
the broad luminous back of the sun striding
leaving without bells to another early country
& the moon not yet awake
stirring love above the night hand canopy
god began to finger the nightly fresco of stars
that shone like eyes in the lake's late swan reflections
a bird shook a streetlight awake
then by the shrill iron gates of the echoing cathedral
two women prayed another lit
wandering there
in the vague halo of the central california dusk
i thought of you
in the meridian of late dusk where the moon comes
behind the sentinel crows that are the first deep night
an orange silver river of memory burned
with the remnants of the brown october day
pushing north to the stars & into greater breath
i moved along the city's weary eye
caught gold in the avenue river rushes
was alone where each bare blind tree etched arabic at the moon
listened to leaves flute & whirl in my wake
& thought of you
if i look north
(for audrella polite)
if i look north
across an auburn field of laughter
chorusing & rising like a hallelujah into dusk
each windy small town a quick billowing mile of starlit faces
ribbons of night hands & negro noses
each fine eye a fire at dusk a filament of
the tall white & blue day gone
every hand handling me with care
if i look north with all that tenderness behind me
out into the alluvial blue dusk world
in the incipient current of late roses & gold
then wander on into the held star laden breath of a northern night
it would be losing you my friend
that simple effort away from here
toward the roof of the world
into other arms
& if those negro hands
that ferried me here blind
through a thicket of walnut trees & universe
up the primeval coast by error or by omen
took from me their kinship like
removing a silver tooth from their smiles
& singing no more savannah sundays forever
or wading in water from my quiet barren shore
it would be waking one morning
& not being able to place your face
in any mirror of poetry in my life
be it said
remember me
where poor men gather & share
where hunger is the most strict education
licking hoarse in the belly & throat
when you lift your weary bodies
& each nap falls defiant upon your head
then to the factories that consumed your fathers
when the ritual journey runs the road low & smooth
each day to wherever you cast your heart away
& though tomorrow
when morning crows begin their searches
& shadows recede across the ruins of the used night
& sun drowns the trees brown & silver
like moving soft shoulder into my grandmother's hair
i may be gone in a rich breath of starling
taken up when they first come gathered chanting
honed through every ripe orchard in your luminous county
then cast against the wide god face sky
city in all directions
i shout across the avenue
he is my friend pat
he laughs back
1400 metallic blue cadilacs sprint between us
we chance it
the cadilac's sparkle & scream & stop
some man flips me off
but i am going to greet my friend
we work the corner & watch the city rise again
then another friend comes out of a store
it is lil' stone doing his sly walk
there are three of us now
three of us like a sudden oasis littered with mangoes
lil stone is apples
pat is easy like a brook
& i am a nomad finally at home
from here amid the shops and apartment houses
i can hear the shore
i stretch my hand against the skyline
a few buildings disappear
lil stone laughs
& the ocean flows in through the space i have created
everything iz magic today
i tell them
"look, i have brought the ocean home to you"
for miles it is concrete & color
& white light hovering & healing me
each face a day moon of silver
flowers make small longings in the landscaping
the windows invite me to look into my own eyes
i am coming home today to a beautiful place
i leave no doors closed
i have given everything away to children
someone is watching us three
i am sure of it
people waving & singing
a child passes & pat starts to rhyme about him
lil stone provides the beat & i am dancing
i am sure of it
the city is too bright
the streets far too free & open
it must be saturday &
we must be in the eye of god
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J. Kevin Wolfe
jkevinwolfe@att.net
Bio (auto)
J. Kevin Wolfe's (from Cincinnati, Ohio) poems have appeared in over 60 ezines and in a dozen print publications. 'The Year of Purple Lawn Furniture' is a collection of new poems.
The following work is Copyright © 2001, and owned by J. Kevin Wolfe and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsover without written permission from the author.
Rental Car
Got the keys? I asked Chuck
I locked my door in France
Got the keys? I repeated
I pressed the knob in Andorra
Got the keys? I chanted
I checked the handle in Spain
It's Sunday
The Pyrenees live 60 kilometers
from anyplace
I forget to ask
The keys sway in the ignition
from the noose of a chain
half a meter
behind tempered glass
My Swiss Army knife learns
how sturdy Peugeots are made
Two Frenchmen
leave their picnic, wine and women
They cram two screwdrivers
above the window
Pulling down
my fingers are in
Pulling down
my hand is in
Pulling down
my elbow is in
Pulling down
the window leaps the track
thunks into the door
'Voila' they smile
It's summer
Snow flavors the wind
We have no window
'I got the keys'
Chuck says
bad hair day for hitler
a jew beat you hitler
in the war
you started
einstein
(you missed this one)
finished it
your mustache was precise
his hair misbehaved
but all the aryan brains
wouldn't divulge
his secret to you
so adolph
who turned out
to be the putz?
Eve in Fall
Maples blush
apples blush
your cheeks blush
Bite the fruit Eve
Then share it
The drip is cold on my chin
The serpent lives
in the track of juice
and in the hiss of the fireplace
that will get too warm
for these sweaters
The Teaman Appears
On any Himalaya
Mr. Chetri claps twice
and a teaman appears
In his paws a rack of glasses
(wiped not washed)
and a Chinese Thermos
green with red flowers
For a rupee he pours cha
Darjeeling steams
with crude sugar
half milk
spiced with smoke
from the mystic wood
it's steeped over
The test of tenure
is to scald fingers
and not
set the glass down
You learn to honor the taste
of cremated trees
In these mountains
all wood is rare wood
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