Saturday Morning Easy Driving and Other Poems

Michelle McGrane




Saturday Morning Easy Driving

Saturday morning is easy driving.
I'm on my way

enjoying the bends and turns
in the road.

The steering slides easy
through my hands,

the wheels roll smoothly
around the curves, and
this Saturday

so do my thoughts.




To a Latin American Dancer,
With Regret

Last night
I fell
in lust
with a Latin American dancer.

Broad shoulders,
bare chest bronzed,
tight black bell-bottoms
in matador stance,

he smiled constantly, charmingly,
flashing sharp white teeth
like the Devil,

(of course
I felt like
the only woman
in the dancehall.)

Heady music passion
pounding,
he samba-rumba'd his way
rhythmically
into my loins;

I couldn't get enough.




friday going home

friday going home
through marzipanned twilight
purple rain
falls down on boom street
jacaranda flowers
mauve harvest of trumpets
dance the shimmy
sprinkling colour
on hot beats of air
they know it's friday too




tonight you glide in

tonight you glide in through the open window
on a cushion of jasmine-fragrant summer air --
and every song playing on the radio

is a love song.

an old ache I'd thought long forgotten
settles around my shoulders:
a silk cape meant only to be worn
on opera outings with the finest jewelry,

or nights of insatiable romance;

the kind where you hang on to every word,
and drown in each others eyes --
you know how it is.

"full moon," I say, "it must be full moon,"
before consulting the lunar calendar.  but no,
the moon is waning.  there is
no apparent reason for this disquieting visitation.

and so I deal with you
the only way I know how;
the way I have dealt with
a hundred nights of your absence.

I submerge myself in what I do best.

tonight, dear one,
tonight I write for you
a love poem -- because,

because --




Walking Forward, Looking Back

Have you ever walked forward, looking back,
to see from where you have come?
Have you noticed how the uphills slide down,
the downhills rise up?
How the familiar curving path recedes
snaking in the opposite direction,
a mirror image.
How, sometimes, the wind is at your back,
and fallen leaves dance circles round your feet.
Have you forgotten pitfalls bridged, hurdles crossed?
How the point of departure can rarely be seen,
only fondly remembered
with compassion born
of distance traversed.
Have you ever walked forward, looking back,
to see from where you have come?
And noticed with amazement
that you had not realised
how far you had traveled,
how much ground had been covered,
until you turned to look behind.
And, now, do you see where you are going --
and why?






E-mail Michelle


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