Missing
……….by Joan Pond
I wanted to write a poem
with such music and guitars, strumming.
I tried at the teeth of the sound
to draw up legions of noise.
I tried at the breakwater
to catch the star off each ship,
and at the closing of my hands
I looked for their homes;
I looked for their silences.
I found just one.
I look for uncomplicated hymns, now,
but love has none.
Pam and I sat in front, clutching cups of coffee.
Steam fogged the glass
as I followed Bryant’s Pass
and we crossed the double kerthump of track,
headed toward Bridgeport.
We stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts
and saw the dude in the cowboy hat and string tie.
The restaurant, with its lights and white walls
was sterile as a Hopper.
And the man in the hat sat facing the street,
balancing his face in his hands,
staring into the night.
I turned at the light and followed the signs.
Two blocks to Stillman Medical.
One Block to Stillman.
Take a right at Stillman.
Strange, for a clinic to advertise
as an amusement park.
It was though we were driving
to South of the Border.
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Artvilla Poet since 2004, Joan Pond has always offered mystery.Some,but not all, is answered by County Times:
Life has been a joyous journey for Joan Pond of New Milford, a freewheeling, adventure-embracing Odyssey that has taken her from her childhood home in Milford to London, where she wined and dined with actor neighbors Ava Gardner and Charles Grey, to a job as a chauffeur for Reginald H. Jones, the button-down, pencil-sharp CEO of General Electric in the 1970s—a job that served as an entree to more demanding jobs and more education.…….Read the review in Countytimes
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Cerulean Light
by Joan Pond
On Greenwich Avenue,
Fred festooned a fir with lights.
“Jesus,” he said. “It just ain”t right.
I bought this string at CVS
and it”s already broke.
This Christmas stuff”s for the birds.
Man, it”s a joke.
I got no wife and my whole life”s changed.”
But when I shook his hand,
the blue lights lit.
“Holy shit!” he said. “It”s a miracle.”
And we stood,
bathed in cerulean light.
***
Originally published at Artvilla.com December 7 2004
A Fish Out of Water
So far from ocean,
here.
No pounding waves or crashing surf.
As Nantucket weighs,
heavy and deep.
In my sleep
I hear bell-buoys.
It”s only a dehumidifier
droning,
as the engine of a ship.
Yet,
I turn and list
avoiding shoals and reefs.
Tossing in my sleep,
I”m a fish on dry land
with a sered eye
of rainbow.
Ship-wrecked.
I dream
of
home.
***