I leave these words
to walk through the city,
to visit its parks,
while the traffic flows
above, beside, and beneath.

There is no end
to the walking.
Senses open. --
What’s inner looks out.
Forms blend in the wind.

Understand, it’s going to get me someplace;
walking away from oppression and fear,
saving fuel, and walking on down the road.

Touching ground, the world walked home.
Carrying the heavy words
of times passed, the world kept going.

to walk out into the world--
to work against gravity--
to wake and walk
into the wilderness.

While I walked upon
the lush soil of West Africa,
an astronaut first
stepped on
the rocks of the moon.

The child, who walked along Denton Avenue,
put one foot in front of another;
kept the body moving--
walking through a rainy season in West Africa.

The body in balance
walked across the loft,
each step scratched
the surface: walking,
walking, walking.

Sick with malaria I walked
in the warm West African rain:
a downpour that echoed
Voltaire’s laughter
at Milton’s angels.

The step marks the distance
as our feet feel the movement
in the curve of terrain, the floor
of footing; walking the immediate city
be it London, Edinburgh,
Rome, Marrakesh, Charlotte Amalie,
Albany, Syracuse, Buffalo,
Chicago, or New York.

I was taught to walk
one foot in front of another --
one two one two one two.
I still count steps.
Each step is part of a larger unity.
Walking breaks the world
into a duality --
one two one two one two.

I began counting my steps in Syracuse.
Counting made the walks more pleasant.
It distracted me. My thoughts flowed freely.

We passed Herald Square, the Hotel McAlpin,
and Empire State Building. We walked Sixth Avenue,
stopping at Rockefeller Center to speak with security.
We walked through the night, passing the tall glass
and concrete structures of the city -- to breakfast
at an Upper West Side restaurant.

We stopped at Washington’s
statue in Union Square
and looked south to the World
Trade Towers. We were walking.
The world was turning.

After a chess game and dinner,
Russ and I began our walk
uptown from the East Village.

Barbara walked
Mrs. Peel
around the Village.

I walked uptown
with Lantis
to Central Park,
where we walked
around
some more.

Conscious of feet beneath --
arched or flat, common
or not -- the walker finds
footing -- timid or firm.

I took long walks through Manhattan.
My shoes were fine
for walking in one direction.

Walking

When I learned
to walk my
weak ankles needed
braces. Walking away,
my legs crossed
like scissors
beneath me.

John Smith, over
six foot four,
strode past
the long embrace
of childhood polio.

They sat on their haunches --
Thurman Munson, Roy Campanella,
and Yogi Berra behind home plate
(ready to receive the pitch)
watched the ball speed toward them.

Did the catcher,
crouched behind home-plate,
direct the motion
of the pitch
that was caught
in his mitt?

Watching the Yanks on TV,
Lantis sat across the armchair.
His back was braced
by one of the chair’s arms.
His legs were diagonally draped
over the other arm.

I sit and
let the world
come to me.

I fight on
as the words
sit and watch.

“No love toward others in that bosom sits”
Sonnet 9 (Shakespeare)

Had love in that bosom sat
down to compose a sonnet,
but frustrated by passionate
angst, arose amid shreds
of shame to upload a blog instead?

all there is
to say

Chess pieces are left standing,
while a world sits ---
praying, traveling, and working.
A word worker rises to speak.

Up and at ‘em;
at the machine
in my blue bathrobe
this morning
typing.

I sit working
at writing
in the small
morning hours.

6

The pressure now on the middle back,
soon the spine will become a bow,
then taut to throw an arrow
backwards.

Now resting on the back of the chair;
packing the writing in words in front of me;
the back arches and the spine curves.

The writing continued:
word after word bent
to become the poem.

Soon morning will rise,
and Barbara will waken,
to stand up to a new day
and greet the surprise.

My fingers continued to dance on the keyboard.

Soon we’ll need to get a sound permit
(from the police department)
to go down by the waters and read
our poems to each other.