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Archive for the ‘Poetry on Blogfinger’ Category

Spring Lake

“Here’s That Rainy Day.” Spring Lake, NJ. By Paul Goldfinger ©. Undated.

Spring Pool

By Charles Pierre

In the hollow of my hand, a pool is born
of an April downpour, the sudden flood
filling every crevice of pinkish skin,
the lines of life and heart and mind engulfed,

a breeze etching the surface with ripples
that push against shores of padded flesh
around the palm, some overflowing the bank,
others sliding back toward the deep center,

the wrinkles on the bottom of the pool
brightening, as the rain that fell so fast
passes, and sunlight pierces the water
settling at the end of my outstretched arm.

BOB DYLAN:

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sg-2

Stephen Goldfinger. Central Park, 2014. Blogfinger.net ©

 

 

Green Vistas

By Charles Pierre

I walk the hard and darkened streets
of Manhattan as winter thaws,
where steel and concrete choke the earth,
where nature can’t unfold or flow.

Gaudy neon and bits of glass
sparkling in asphalt swell the night
with portents of spring that lead me
to a park on the river’s edge.

My left hand flies from its pocket
to test the air. The air says, Write,
until trees are flaming with leaves,
until waves are emerald fire.

 

 

ART GARFUNKEL

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“I’ll take Manhattan.”   Central Park in early spring (April 22, 2014) by Paul Goldfinger ©  Blogfinger.net

By Paul Goldfinger, Poetry editor @ Blogfinger.net.

This song is dedicated to those New York poets who enhance our e-pages with their art.  Charles Pierre and George Held often reference New York City in their poetry.

Recently both of them have sent us offerings set in early spring as crocuses emerge from the snow and as a poet finds nocturnal inspiration in a City park.

Charles’ latest poem “Green Vistas”  is on the launching pad, but I am waiting till all the nor’easters fly with the birds to other locales. I try to make the reality of life provide a backdrop for their work when it is presented on Blogfinger.

The song below, sung by 5 time Grammy nominee jazz singer Karrin Allison from her album Collage,  was written by jazz bassist and songwriter Jay Leonhart.  I believe Jay is the bassist on this recording.

I have heard Jay perform live  on a number of occasions, and he is known for singing his original and funny songs while playing his upright bass. Sometime he works alone—singing while accompanying himself.

Jay Leonhart has played bass with all the greats, including Sinatra, Gerry Mulligan, Marian McPartland, Tony Bennett and so many others.

I suspect our BF poets will enjoy this song called  “Robert Frost.”  It’s wonderful!

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Image taken “before the last storm.”  Photographer Gladys Henderson.  2018.

 

 

The tip of a yellow

crocus pushing through the snow—

spring fever

 

 

DICK HAYMES  sings “It Might As Well Be Spring.”

 

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Central Park. Paul Goldfinger © Undated. Click to enlarge.

 

Winter Haiku

By George Held

The winter sky
resumes at 6 a.m.–
black boughs on gray slate

January cold wave–
even the paving stones
are shivering

Winter’s yield
is icy cold and snow–
no birdsong till spring

 

FRANK SINATRA:

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. To observe the leaves changing on the trees from April to December, is to see, in a vivid way, the pattern of life that governs us all. Here is the poem “Late Autumn at Centerport,” from my 2009 collection, Green Vistas.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Rhinebeck, New York. Mid-October, 2017. Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Late Autumn at Centerport

By Charles Pierre

Spring unfurled from ripening buds,
and a balmy summer preserved
the deep greens of oak and maple
on hillsides across the harbor

A month ago, the reds and golds
were bright distractions, but today,
descending a hill to this beach
through the bitter December air,

I feel the withering absence
of colors that once filled the trees.
Fallen leaves are now visible,
black and rotting in the shallows.

Here, the full cycle of seasons
has yet to pass, but today,
having seen this much of the year,
I know my end ahead of time.

 

CHET BAKER:

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Hi Paul:
     Greetings from Manhattan. When March ends, and the last few patches of snow melt from the yards, and ice disappears from the ponds, those of us who live along the coast shed our heavy coats and head for the shore. Here is the poem “Orient Point,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.
Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Early spring morning. Deal Lake. Ocean Township.  March 29, 2015,   By Paul Goldfinger ©  Click to enlarge.

Orient Point
By Charles Pierre
To find words again, after winter’s pause
and the stifled months of life ashore —
to hear voices, if none but the shrill sounds
of sailors boundless in April winds.
I slip from silence, English my ship and sea.
Speech as fresh as the first mild gusts of salt air
billows my cheeks, flying from my lips
to take me as far as sound can sail —
Speak, as if spring is all there is!
——————————————————————-
BEN PATERSON TRIO,:  “Here, There, and Everywhere” by Paul McCartney;

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. Over fifty years ago, my grandmother said a few things to me shortly before she died that I knew would eventually find their way into a poem. Here is “Grandmother’s Note” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Paris. By Paul Goldfinger ©

Paris. By Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Grandmother’s Note

By Charles Pierre

 

Looking for less with each added year,

I’ve begun to live in the small space

that surrounds me now, in the shadows

 

that gather at my feet and follow

as I walk along, and in the breezes

that take my shape for an instant,

 

leaving nothing but gentle creases

in my hair and a cool ripple

over my skin. Expecting little,

 

I go where my handwriting leads me –

become just a sound, a word, a phrase,

part of the impression on the page

 

for a moment, not an old woman

with the obvious lines of age, but

a clear thought in this surrounding space

 

CAL TJADER: “The Night We Called it a Day”

 

Charles Pierre. Photograph by Marcella Kerr. ©

Charles Pierre. Photograph by Marcella Kerr. ©

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A favorite room----at the Gasparilla Inn, Boca Grande, Fla. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

A favorite room—-at the Gasparilla Inn, Boca Grande, Fla. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. It is surprising how far you can travel, just by sitting quietly at home in a favorite room, surrounded by familiar objects. Here is the poem, “A Room in New York,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

A Room in New York

As I sit at my desk, the morning sun begins
to fill this room with slow-moving planes
and angles of light. They glitter my windows
with Atlantic waters and whiten the shades
with New England snow, brightening
my blue sofa to a field of wild asters
in Nova Scotia, and my varnished table
to a forest of yellow pines in the Carolinas.
Rays skim the spines of a thousand books,
where peaks of an Alpine mountain range
shimmer on my shelves. When beams reach
my oriental rugs, the colors of Central Asia
shine up at me. As I write, city and wilderness
move in unison with the sun’s slow passage
through this room: each flame-suffused image,
each act of attention to the way light works,
leading outward to a world beyond walls.

 

Max Raabe and Das Palast Orchestra

Live at Carnegie Hall 2007

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Ocean Grove beach. Winter. Paul Goldfinger photo © Blogfinger.net

Ocean Grove beach. Winter. Paul Goldfinger photo © Blogfinger.net.  click to enlarge the” ocean’s moods.”

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. In winter, one can walk the empty beach at Ocean Grove and, at any time of day or night, listen to the various natural sounds of sea and shore. Here is the poem, “Listener,” from my book-in-progress, Circle of Time.

Happy New Year,
Charles Pierre

 

Listener

By Charles  Pierre

At the easternmost end of town, where nothing
but empty coastline greets the incoming waves,

I follow a path through the dunes to this beach
and listen long as the ocean discloses its moods:

just past sunrise, when whispers of Atlantic wind
crease my hair and lift sea straw against my legs;

at sun-sharp noon, when rushing tides roll and build
to high-arcing breakers that pound the rough sand;

late in the day, when slant light and muffled breezes
cover the surface of water with glittering shingles;

through the evening, when currents run black
on whistling gusts, and a violet haze mutes the sky;

at midnight, when the air is still and low surf
rustles onshore; and afterward, in the hour

before dawn, when the ocean shares a deep silence
with the land that slopes down to its rippling edge,

as the waning moon leads me back from the beach
to the shadowed dunes and narrow path inland.

 

SLOVENIA SYMPHONIC ORCHESTRA.  Xerxes Act 1, George Frederic Handel

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