CYCLIST ON BARR ROAD
The cyclist’s t-shirt proclaims
Scintillating Language which might be
the name of a rock band or the anthem
of a Methodist Youth Group or the theme
of the literary magazine at his junior college,
but I prefer to think he chose it
independently the way he rides hunched over
along the country road’s verge pedaling
determinedly into the headwinds.
The language he propels on this second
day of April with the trees leafing
and the lilacs in early bloom and the
squashed red debris of the maples under
his turning wheels is one we can’t predict.
But he seems to know where he is going,
helmetless, his burly calves muscling
for the coming rise as he rises to
get up speed, crest and disappear.
TEA ROSE
Each week, hand in hand, we journeyed
To the florist to purchase a tea rose
That would float in its glass bowl,
A focus of admiration
On our blue glass coffee table.
Peach edging to gold, deepest pink,
Arterial scarlet, each unfolding its petals
To the fullness of possibility. It was then I learned
How perfection must be transient,
At the edge of anything
Erosion sets its teeth.
I think now of our ritual.
The choosing, how we contemplated
Quality. Celebrating loveliness
That could not last.
You were mindful
Of metaphor. I was a child
Wanting the literal. A rose
Simply a rose.
ALL THE OLD POEMS
We pin poems on the paneled wall,
Yours, mine, it’s been years
Since we met. The last time
I failed to recognize you—no longer
Blonde and giddy. Here in the university
Hall of an August night we celebrate
What we did best during an age of
Jest, audacity and dancing.
You learned to climb
Down the steep canyon trails or pick
Vegetables with the Cuban artist
Who left you a token etched in leather
The meaning of which you spent years
Decoding. And I went to the races,
Rode over and over a meadow
Flowering with words I hoped to ignore.
How the sweating body can prevail
As the mind savors something
Irreplaceable. So here we are
Stuck in my dream reciting our old
Poems, the ones we thought would
Make us famous or at least delectable.
Joan Colby's 14th book of poetry, The Wingback Chair, has just been published by FutureCycle
Press. Her chapbook, Bittersweet, was published by Main Street Rag Press. One of her
poems is a winner of the 2014 Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. She is associate
editor of both the Kentucky Review and FutureCycle Press.
The cyclist’s t-shirt proclaims
Scintillating Language which might be
the name of a rock band or the anthem
of a Methodist Youth Group or the theme
of the literary magazine at his junior college,
but I prefer to think he chose it
independently the way he rides hunched over
along the country road’s verge pedaling
determinedly into the headwinds.
The language he propels on this second
day of April with the trees leafing
and the lilacs in early bloom and the
squashed red debris of the maples under
his turning wheels is one we can’t predict.
But he seems to know where he is going,
helmetless, his burly calves muscling
for the coming rise as he rises to
get up speed, crest and disappear.
TEA ROSE
Each week, hand in hand, we journeyed
To the florist to purchase a tea rose
That would float in its glass bowl,
A focus of admiration
On our blue glass coffee table.
Peach edging to gold, deepest pink,
Arterial scarlet, each unfolding its petals
To the fullness of possibility. It was then I learned
How perfection must be transient,
At the edge of anything
Erosion sets its teeth.
I think now of our ritual.
The choosing, how we contemplated
Quality. Celebrating loveliness
That could not last.
You were mindful
Of metaphor. I was a child
Wanting the literal. A rose
Simply a rose.
ALL THE OLD POEMS
We pin poems on the paneled wall,
Yours, mine, it’s been years
Since we met. The last time
I failed to recognize you—no longer
Blonde and giddy. Here in the university
Hall of an August night we celebrate
What we did best during an age of
Jest, audacity and dancing.
You learned to climb
Down the steep canyon trails or pick
Vegetables with the Cuban artist
Who left you a token etched in leather
The meaning of which you spent years
Decoding. And I went to the races,
Rode over and over a meadow
Flowering with words I hoped to ignore.
How the sweating body can prevail
As the mind savors something
Irreplaceable. So here we are
Stuck in my dream reciting our old
Poems, the ones we thought would
Make us famous or at least delectable.
Joan Colby's 14th book of poetry, The Wingback Chair, has just been published by FutureCycle
Press. Her chapbook, Bittersweet, was published by Main Street Rag Press. One of her
poems is a winner of the 2014 Atlanta Review International Poetry Contest. She is associate
editor of both the Kentucky Review and FutureCycle Press.