like rain from some alien sky,
fall from my pen onto sheets of snow-white paper.
Letters . . . words . . . sentences bloom there as if it were spring.
Ideas, drawn in lines and loops,
commas and quotation marks.
A minuet of mind and hand
which has been danced for ten thousand years.
We write for the same reason we sing –
to affirm that we reached for heaven
and though we could not catch hold of the wings of angels,
we managed to pluck a feather as they passed.
The Morning Crept Up
I didn’t hear it coming.
It announced itself not with a shriek of sunlight,
but with the voice of the vegetable man,
pushing his cart along the alleyway.
“I got carrots, I got potatoes. I got radishes too.”
It was Saturday,
and it was summer
and I was eleven.
There was a patch of sunlight curled up on the bed next to me
as if it were a cat
and I could see a patch of blue just below the roofline,
like a lake stitched into a cloudy sky.
I heard the coffee pot percolating in the kitchen
and the popping of bacon frying
and my mother,
humming along with the radio.
No promise that the New Year holds
can warm me while I’m still so far from you
and feeling winter blue.
The moonlight silhouettes the trees,
the moon sails through a cloudy sea;
it looks like maybe it will snow tonight,
and change these winter blues to winter white.
Winter days are trickling by;
I stop at Al’s and have a drink . . . or two
I sit and watch the falling snow.
The music on the radio
can’t make me feel the way I used to do,
sounding out of tune and winter blue.
The snowfall covers up the town.
It steals the color and the sound
and if I got the wish I wish tonight,
I’d pack my bags and catch the midnight flight.
Paul Bluestein is a physician by profession, a self-taught musician and a sometimes poet. He rarely sets out to write a poem but there are times when the poetry Muse unexpectedly calls him and rings insistently until he answers, even if he doesn’t want to talk with her just then.