Heaven
I sit on Georgia O’Keefe’s porch in Abiquiu
and watch her mix adobe reds and pueblo browns.
Near us Frida Kalo paints,
surreal visions of her reality in dusky bruise.
We listen to Billy Collins recite his poem,
Taking off Emily Dickenson’s Clothes,
reminding us that life is a loaded gun.
…………………………………………
Ted Hughes wears a precarious smile,
a bossy wind ruffles Sylvia’s hair.
Behind the black door, Billy Joel riffs
and Diana Ross scats with Lady Day,
tossing random syllables at bleached bones
that lay in the shadows of manzanita.
…………………………………………………
In the courtyard Coltrane lays sheets of sound,
BB King caresses Lucille,
Satchmo grins a rainbow of teeth,
Jerry Lee Lewis rakes his hands over the keys,
Ringo kicks in the backbeat.
…………………………………………………………….
Later, in the night silence,
Pavarotti and Sting braid musical strands of Panis Angelicus.
Then more poems from Billy, Donald Hall, Mary Oliver.
Arthur Miller rewrites the script for All My Sons,
sips his nightcap cigarette,
and a shower of meteors arrives like fan mail.
………………………………………………………………….
Faces tilted toward the moon,
we count stars over Chama Valley.
Julia Child brings out platters
Of Champignons Farci, Salad Nicoise,
a tureen of Soupe a L’Oignon.
The Creator joins us at the table.
We lift our glasses to Her
and honor the notes, words,
and images etched into our inheritance,
priceless leavings of the past.
…………………………………………………………..
I tell Her I know what Heaven is all about.
Toni 3/25/13
It’s still phoneography month!
Like this:
Like Loading...
