by Ron Friedman
The Solos
I want to talk
About what I meant to say
When the kite broke loose
Floating like a leaf
Into the horse corral
North of our school
On the hill.
Do you remember its descent?
I mean, the sky was
More than blue, beyond blue
Not the idea of blue
The few clouds,
Beyond the idea of white.
Even though we would
Sing together on the stage
It was the solos
That still shake the air
Sways that kite back and forth
Feathering onto the earth.
Awakes me at night
Thinking now is the time for song.
Let’s say, our high pitch
Can still reach those clouds.
Like an invisible beanstalk
With silken black corn hair
Like Gilberto’s voice
High above the rest.
Or simply say,
There are times in our lives
When no words can describe
The colors we see
Beyond blue, beyond white
There are no sounds to describe
The pitches we hear.
Waves of sound and color
Go far on a warm day.
This is a good life.
Now, only now.
Gypsy Moth
In a free country
You can wake before sunrise
Naked with your lover
Hear a low flying plane
And peer out the jalousie windows
Above your headboard in the early spring.
In a free country
You can walk to a park
Where the geese graze in the first morning sun
Bending their necks downward
Toward spring sprouting grasses
Maintaining a border of honking
As you walk by.
In a free country
With a low flying plane
The elite will conspire
An absolute value for their votes
While ignoring all the life
Walking around ponds.
While ignoring yesterday’s
Spin of the planets, youth, and promise.
In a free country
When you wake before sunrise
To the low flying plane
You and your lover naked,
Stand up in the bed
Peer out your twin framed windows
Saying to each other, gypsy moth.
In a free country
Your bedroom wall mirror,
Reveals your naked backs
On the opposite wall
Before sunlight.
Arboretum
(For Ann, a late blooming Magnolia)
Let’s say you rewrite your story.
Drive to the arboretum
Bring your dog so he can lead the way.
Cloudy sky, blue sky, sun, no sun.
Stop at the pergola
Where the blue pendulus evergreens
Shine before giving way to shade.
Dance up the steps like
Long legged peacock spiders .
Twirl under the roof like the
Cowboy in Missoula.
Pirouette, plie like your old lover
LIke the twisted white pine needles.
Leave with the girl you danced with all night.
Near the tree peonies
Where the mallard swims,
Step up to the plate.
Foul two off into the wetland.
Let that guy think you can’t hit
His curveball after seeing two
Fast ones.
Be ready, wait on its break,
Send it deep to left
Over the fence.
Do it again your next time up.
Find the cinnamon barks
How their skin peels away
Like paper thin dry barnwood
Splintered by years and weather
Run like the splintered skin
Through the wide shouldered
Japanese forest grass
Through the Mexican feather grass
Through the tall grains of Nebraska.
The kousas are weeks behind
The buds not even formed.
Their language not understood.
No jailer will be able to translate
Or explain their confinement.
At the trial you simply say,
A different language, a different culture.
Knowing all the time
It takes years to think in another tongue.
The jury declares innocence.
The kousas, free to bloom as late as they desire.
Now, at the redbuds
Run like the mile record holder
Place first by the red railed covered bridge.
Where the winners gather, bow down.
Accept the burden as if you
Knew weight comes
With stepping over a finish line.
Find the group of magnolias.
Stellata blooms all burned by the late
Spring wind and cold
Tattered wasted white petals
Now having to wait for next season.
Their roots still pumping
As the days warm and leaves form.
Before you head home
Another magnolia, buds not even open
The metal tag saying, Ann.
Old Songs and Comfort
I taught myself guitar chords
Words of early folk songs.
Rye whiskey, rye whiskey, rye
Whiskey I cry, if you don’t give me
Rye whisky, I surely will die.
Different songs came back to me
Leading the canoe trip up north.
The tornado came from nowhere.
The blue sky darkened
Winds blowing our boats
Sideways with the young boys
Paddling quick paced towards the shoreline.
We huddled in the woods
Under my green nylon tarps
Deflecting the hail and water.
Little girl little girl don’t lie to me
Tell me where did you stay last night.
Rescuers came out looking for us.
They had guided us earlier that day
Towards an island we
Rejected as an overnight place.
And paddled out for another destination
When the sky darkened.
Good night Irene, Good night Irene
I’ll see you in my dreams.
The next day we paddled
Back to that site.
All the trees were splintered two
Feet above the ground
All pointing westward.
Not one standing in a fifty foot swath.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you
Away, you rolling river.
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you
Away, I’m bound away, cross the wide Missouri.
Ron Friedman grew up on a family farm in Clarksburg, NJ. He became interested in writing early in elementary school. After completing college with a degree from the University of Montana in Literature and Anthropology, he returned to the family home where he started Paint Island Nursery, a plant nursery with focus on natives and and flowering plant material. The local arts scene was rich with writers and he created The Paint Island Poetry Festival which gathered poets and other writers from the region for day long events. He now lives in Webster, NY with his wife and son.
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