Strangers we are
and always have been
on other shores, lifetimes away
archived thankfully for someday
like this opening in my schedule.
I've done some looking in
to you, and wonder where you are
really from, I mean I get where you are
coming from, of the Hara, the place?
Or is it the Shiva or Scarlett's Hara?
I was taken in by many and none
the lineage leads to nowhere
but a sweet little eden, a valley lush
trees wearing afro dos, creeks trilling
through the dell-it clearly chose me
as you can tell.
I thought of a poem I wrote before
we had lunch yesterday, about a poet
who paints with words on white,
like still life, making space
more appealing. I forgot
to mention how much I enjoyed
Guadalajara, the pictures of Ashes Buried,
your instruction manual too, Mr. O'Hara.
Of course this was all before
page 163
of Secondary Colors
just past Orange
that banana split second-mutilated
dislocated from living just like that
taken away at 3-
on a beach! And what's more?!
It was not mine...
O the Horror!
These letters are just too much for me...
Pacifically.Stationed.
(this was long too early, I needed something like you there)
This poem was inspired by the poet Frank O'Hara and his poem specifically, Why I am not a painter.
Image by Sanford Robinson Gifford (1823-1880) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, painting described as Fire Island Beach, NY.
