I am a 71 year old, retired, police and fire dispatcher for the city of San Francisco. I have known from adolescence that I am a poet, but I largely put off writing poetry until I felt compelled by circumstances This moment of recognition was a terrible way to fall awake. I started writing seriously, if sporadically, in 2007. The purpose of building a web site for the poetry is not to promote it, but to acknowledge it by preserving it.
In Memory of Erich Wolfgang Korngold This is the view then, Of a city thought most beautiful. To the north and south, the east, the west, Hillsides are terraced As if they were ziggurats. They point to a violet, cloud-stippled sky. Beneath the cypress tree where I pause, I notice a memorial … More Die tote Stadt I
Parrot Haiku (Jefferson Square) Bright and sentient Wind. It breathes in the pine–parrots, A feathered halo. Alms Haiku Cowled alms-seeker: For so little you reveal Your sapphire eyes. Cellist Haiku I Magisterially, The cellist raises her scepter, Then readies it to reign. Cellist Haiku II The music stampedes. She grips the mane … More Four Haiku
In Memoriam: Francine Wiley I have reached To this sad height, Remembering you, My sister. At last, I understand you, When I wish, instead, That I could rave Against the dying Of the light. The twin peaks, The foremost peak. For years, I sat here mesmerized By the power Of the panorama. Today, … More Pax Aeterna
This was the first version of the poem, but I prefer the second, more imagist version. I cross a wooden bridge to the grove. Beneath the cowl of branches and leaves, A dimming. Quiet becomes more so. My breathing slows. Along the way, birds flit in the canopies, As if signaling a path to … More The Redwood Grove
Imagist Version I cross a wooden bridge to the grove. Beneath the spreading branches and leaves, A dimming. Quiet becomes more so. Along the path, There is only the flitting of birds Through flowered panglias– Too quick to be seen, and otherwise silent. Soon, shafts of sunlight show the center, An aggregate of black-green … More The Redwood Grove
Dedicated In Pectore I sit on the bench behind them. They are a family of four. The husband throws a ball to his wife As gently as he can. Their girl and boy run circles Between them Trying to intercept it. They rarely do. I watch the wife. They are Muslim: … More Jefferson Square
In a courtyard lit by the sun, Greco-Roman body parts Are pedestaled around a tiled pool. Here, the coiffed head of a woman, There, a lithe leg or muscled arm, And everywhere, torsos of either sex. Beneath a severed wing, We stand at the entrance facing them, As if before dismemberment Our bodies too were … More The Docents
In Memory, Toni Hardley The pianist has taken all her bows. In search of their refreshment, The cognoscenti have left the hall. Few of us remain at intermission. Two stage hands wearing tuxedos: One folds the giant ebony wing Into its carapace, While the other lovingly lids the ivory. An honor guard, … More Pianissimo
A Meditation Listen, for a gong has been struck. Gather an offering of lilies and jasmine, For this is a summons: Obey. Enter a circular, white-walled room. Dew makes a star on the occulus above, The cloudless sky beyond, an even hue. Sit on the ebony floor and be still. Behold, on … More Gamelan II
A Meditation Listen, for a gong has been struck. Gather an offering of lilies and jasmine, For this is a summons: Obey. Enter a circular, white-walled room. Dew makes a star on the oculus above, The cloudless sky beyond, an even hue. Sit on the ebony floor and be still. Behold, on … More Gamelan I
stevengoldenpoetry 