Untitled

Rain. I stay inside
where the rain can't touch me, but
neither can the sky.

by Dean Blehert

Close Encounters of the Fourth Course

The dessert tray, a shimmering alien civilization
Of mirrored chocolate domes and creamy turrets
And tessellated plazas, cherry-studded, with gardens
of emerald kiwi, descends, hovers, whisks away,
Hovers near again — I feel tractor beams
Reaching out to me, probing, searching
For intelligent life to pervade, and now,
All purpose, all sense of proportion
Vanished, I am being pulled in, closer...
Closer — suddenly before my glazed eyes
The pecan pie is about to speak to me,
I know it...
And that's all I remember.

by Dean Blehert

Faking it

Sometimes it's hard to know what to do.
It's like losing your place in the music.

The music doesn't stop:
If you miss your entrance,
you take your lumps in silence
and join in where you can.

"Could we please take it from the top?"
you plead, but the music goes on,
its only concession being
to incorporate into itself

(perhaps a tremulous violin
counterpointed against sneering clarinet)
the sub-theme of your pleading.

by Dean Blehert

Making Fun

He made fun of her for feeling sorry
For baby seals and other dumb helpless
Creatures. His mockery soon cured her
Of that feeling, which, it turned out,
Included her love for him.

I miss having a woman in my bed.
What a strange thing to miss. How is it
that my bed, so simple, functional and complete,
can shape for me the infinitely baroque
complexities and irrelevancies
of a woman's absence?

by Dean Blehert
Posted by Pam Blehert
Comment: This is an example of how time (the great charlatan) can make liers of us. There were times when Dean and I were separated by travel necessity, but not now. Plenty of woman in his bed (in fact 50 extra lbs of woman!) But i like this poem. It's an example of the quirky way he looks at things. (Note: I'm posting to Dean's blog because he' so busy!)