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sunset florida

Bunche Beach. Fort Myers, Florida. Paul Goldfinger ©.

 

Sunset

By Charles Pierre

 

The offshore sky

is undone

as light slips away:

 

When the blues die

in flame,

and the last display

 

of red ends its slide

seaward,

drowning the day.

 

CACHAO.  “Si Me Pudieras Querer”

 

 

 

 

 

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2

Once alive. Paul Goldfinger ©. Ocean Grove.

 

 

Career

 

By Charles Pierre

 

The smashed bodies of clams,

crabs and whelks onshore

show what the world’s about.

Yet from the shadow

of a broken shell,

a small beetle walks freely

into the sun,

its path etched

on the sand’s crust.

 

 

BUCKY PIZZARELLI :

 

 

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IMG_5349

Ocean Grove, New Jersey September, 2018 by Paul Goldfinger ©

 

Scoop of the Flux

By Charles Pierre

A breaker tumbles
into the shallows,

with onshore thrust
and muscling splash

that toss skyward
a long yellow kelp,

glazed with water
and stretched to

a string of lights,
sparkling in midair,

at the sea’s peak
an instant, until

falling with a flicker
into blurred spillage

of surf, vanishing
as soon as seen

in dark backwash
of the undertow.

 

 

THE RIGHTEOUS BROTHERS  “Ebb Tide”

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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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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. In the northeast, late November weather can be hard on holiday travelers — but offers opportunities to a poet. Here is “Revision,” a poem from my manuscript-in-progress, Circle of Time.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Autumn: a country lane in Walden, New York. The Hudson Valley. c. 2013. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Autumn: a country lane in Walden, New York. The Hudson Valley. c. 2013. Paul Goldfinger photo. ©

Revision  

By Charles Pierre

On this mild morning in late November,
I sit writing near a small country spring,
where busy sparrows and squirrels sip
from the trickle amid grasses and ferns,
while falling leaves catch in the branches
of a few bushes or stick to wet rocks
and clumps of dirt in the surrounding pool.
But by ten, clouds drift in from the north
to erase the mellow sunlight, as nature

reworks the composition around the spring
with strong winds and a deepening chill:
the grasses and ferns, leaves and bushes
raked by gusts; the sparrows and squirrels
fled to shelter in nearby woods; the trickle
of water blown as spray from the rocks
and dirt of the drying pool; and even I,
notepad and pen slipped into my pocket,
gone home to write about autumn’s nip.

STAN GETZ  “‘Tis Autumn”

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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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Serenity. Sunrise in Ocean Grove. By Bob Bowné

“Serenity.” Sunrise in Ocean Grove. By Bob Bowné

Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. I was struck by your quietly beautiful photo, “Beachfront Sunrise,” (posted recently on Blogfinger*), and your statement that you preferred sunrises to sunsets because “beginnings are happier than endings.” Here is the poem, “Dawn,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

 

 

Dawn

By Charles Pierre

 

The first hint of morning on the ocean

is a trembling of shadows,

 

a dark hovering of muted tones

that moves with imperceptible pace,

 

a vanishing medium through which

the day brightens and widens,

 

the new light going on for miles and miles

in the shine of emerging surf.

 

LONDON PHILHARMONIC ORCHESTRA.    Peer Gynt Suite #1, Op 46  “Morning”   by Edvard Grieg

*See the post  “Fishing Pier at Sunrise “by scrolling down to Nov. 21 where it has been brought closer to Charles Pierre’s wonderful sunrise poem, “Dawn” where he makes reference to the image in his introduction.  *

 

 

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Hi Paul:

Greetings from Manhattan. About ten years ago, on a warm summer night, I was walking along the beach, south of the Ocean Grove fishing pier, enjoying the peaceful atmosphere, when the mood of the shore suddenly changed to something quite different. Here is the poem, “Bradley Beach at Midnight,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,
Charles Pierre

Ocean Grove looking towards Bradley Beach. June 28, 2015. By Paul Goldfinger ©

Ocean Grove looking towards Bradley Beach. June 28, 2015. By Paul Goldfinger ©. Click to enlarge.

“Bradley Beach at Midnight”

By Charles Pierre.

The whispering sounds of water beneath the moon
are those of an ocean at rest, turning in its bed.
There’s an evenness in the white sheets of foam
that cover then expose the shore at this quiet hour.
The day’s winds have slackened to muted breezes,
and the choppy whitecaps have flattened to a long
undulant roll to the horizon, the black span glazed
with a wide silver swath. At a nearby jetty,
where blocks of granite extend into the mild runs
of surf, there’s a small gap between two great stones.
As the sea slides in, an unseen force drives it up
into a unruly fountain that disturbs the shore’s lull
with loud pulsing jets, taunting the moonlit sky,
collapsing to a spurt, but replenishing itself again
and again from the steady inflow of calm waves,
calling with throaty gouts of spray that peace
is brief, that the ocean seldom rests from surging,
its song a protest against the night’s silence.

 

VIENNA PHILHARMONIC. “soave sia il vento”  From Mozart’s Cosi Fan Tutte.  (“May the breeze that carries you on your journey be a gentle one.”)

 

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Greetings from Manhattan. In almost every town and city of the country, one can see a Civil War monument, usually with a lone soldier in uniform at the top, his rifle by his side. Now, one hundred and fifty years after the end of that war, many of these statues show signs of deterioration from long exposure to the elements. Here, for Memorial Day, is the poem “Statue in the Park,” from my 2008 collection, Father of Water.

Best wishes,

Charles Pierre

Gen. G. K. Warren, Union Army. STanding on  Little Round Top at Gettysburg National Park,

Gen. G. K. Warren, Union Army. Standing on Little Round Top at Gettysburg National Park.  Official Park photo.

Statue in the Park

The stone hero is becoming mortal again.

Ordinary weather has undone the work

of Civil War. Sun and cold, rain and snow

strike his head, as brothers once struck

each other, in a climate beyond season.

Below the folds of his coat, two lovers

walk in a trance, far from history’s maw,

their cadence owing nothing to the slog

of soldiers or the slash of glinting swords

on a ravaged farmstead in Virginia.

 

Earth is recalling her boy from service.

Granules flake from the featureless face,

blending with dirt around the pedestal,

a wind from the river scattering him

throughout the park, sending him back

to his people on a Sunday afternoon,

his final sacrifice now part of the leisure

they have worked all week to secure,

his dust dispersed, in silent ceremony,

around the gentle steps of the lovers.

 

THE BUDAPEST STRINGS  “Lullaby”

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