Bob Bowers

Bob Bowers Poems

She asks me, in The Swan,
Whether I have figured out what beauty is for
Whether I have changed my life,
This Mary Oliver,
...

As I look through the frosted panes
Of my study,
Out at the leaves,
Now more brown than gold,
...

In a fair, still spot
Beneath our apple orchard tree,
For it was but one,
The rest long gone to yards
...

It is spring.
Daffodils erupt from snow-clouded earth,
Their yellow brightness brighter
Than the warming orb of sun
...

It was his eyes
That told me of death.
Though I did not know it
At the time
...

How sweet it is
Listening to my wife
Talking on the phone with
Our daughter
...

I look out the windows of this
Victorian victory of a house,
A battle won over builder,
Plumber, seabed soil, saltwater well.
...

Submarines sank
before his eyes
Disappeared into
murky depths
...

John reached out with hands
No longer hot with youth,
Touched the ones who had no heat at all,
Touched those youths now buried there
...

They must seek you out
Here among these cobblestones and stairs
Along these ancient streets
Wandering down to grey piers
...

Gold water slides
Beneath the even strokes
Of life pulling me along.
...

Under cover of night
Like Special Forces Rangers
Long before their berets were king,
We crept across Schermer’s cornfield,
...

On January 26,1832, James Morton
Married his second wife
Mary Parkinson
In Marion County, Illinois
...

Her hand reaches in,
Slowly,
And touches love,
Lying there
...

The soft breath of her voice
Caressed his cheek,
Like dew from a rose
In morning's first light.
...

I hear your lilting laughter
In summer’s fading light,
Like morning glories after
Sun’s sparkle lifts in flight
...

I pull myself up,
Slide along the pew,
My trousers smooth
Shining with wear and youth’s age.
...

He sat there on his stool,
Next to me,
A giant of a man
Shrunk 'round his beer.
...

It was not always like this
The soft creak of my caned back rocker
As I shift my weight,
Unburden myself
...

I look across our garden,
Weed-thick,
Scraggly,
Dried out.
...

The Best Poem Of Bob Bowers

Mary Oliver, Poet

She asks me, in The Swan,
Whether I have figured out what beauty is for
Whether I have changed my life,
This Mary Oliver,
This woman I do not even know.

Where does she get off
Probing me like this
Seeking of me something more
Seeking of me depth of soul
Seeking of me careful thought.

One swan
Lifting off from the cool bed
In which she floated the night away
Becomes beauty incarnate
Drips diamonds from her flight
Melts into the day’s calling sun
Like Icarus clothed in his father’s wings
So long ago,
But this time, this one time,
This one swan
Does not fall to earth
This one swan continues on
Until her beauty is but a memory.

Did you, Mary?
Did you figure out what beauty is for?
Did you see that beauty is memory
Before it’s forgotten
Before it fades
Before it melts and falls into the sea?

And did you change your memories
Today
The ones that make life new?
And did your swan come home?


3/17/2004

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