By Thomas Page

The Purple Blossoms of Late Summer

In the plot by my porch purple flowers have bloomed 
During the Roman’s esteemed month 
To speckle the onions and the leeks 
Looking as clean as the weeds  
In the summer’s rains and shines. 

How pleasant are these surprises of nature 
Which see the green thumb supplant the scythe 
In the garden plots as savage as the hyena 
Filled with casket-clay and rot-rock 
And the gnarls of the roots. 

A finger guided by eye points at the swatch of purple 
In the fields of green invoking memories of Monet 
That we often see in museums and hospitals-- 
A sense of comfort in the unease
Of what it all tries to be. 

I am no steward, 
I am no gardener 
Who can summon the fruits from the seed
Or the blossoms from the buds. 

However, I can enjoy the bounties 
That grow when there is a will in the air 
To poke out of Bryant’s Lethe 
And look at the sun. 


There is no shock quite as vivid as the first blossoms of spring; 
A time for the patient man to wait out the cold breath of winter--
The headlights plodding in the tunnel under the Baltimore Harbor; 
Trapt like the obscene condensation on my windshield--
I shiver to the same shade of fuschia as the jacaranda dropping petals 
Softly as the midnight snowfall.


I might as well be a bust based on what they can see of me 
With my monitor titled back so that I can see the screen 
So that the glare of the lights doesn’t dim the picture-- 
Fifty percent seated. 

Some look just left of center at the chat logs
Or the captions filling in the spirit to the soul of it 
Trying to not look each other in the eye—
Twenty five percent present. 

There is a thousand answers to a million questions 
Coming in through the cracks of the dam
Never knowing when the water droplets begin to leak—
Thirty percent responded.   

Session after session is done as the battery dies 
My eyes and my carpals droop like the willow.
The leaves brown at their temples 

Midnight on the Moon

If I asked you tonight would you dance with me    
         midnight on the moon? 
The air would be so lovely mixing with space 
         midnight on the moon. 
We would watch the continents fade into the ocean 
          midnight on the moon. 
And wonder who would watching us in the sea of tranquility 
           midnight on the moon. 
Seeing faces and jills among the craters smiling down at them 
           midnight on the moon. 
Will our feet float above the rocks like the seahorses
           midnight on the moon?

Windmill Hill

Even in the miasma we can take gentle pleasures
Such as a walk in Windhill Hill
When the sun is shining
And the butterflies float about the flowers
Intermingled with the weeds
Near the shorn grass
And the parceled shore
Where the people walk about in the madding crowd
Enjoying the few hours between showers
Of deluge and misinformation and fear.

Fever Dreams

I dreamt I saw you in Perseus’ mirror
Beneath the window-paned garden
Telling me who murdered you
Before the hour of morning seven
Just before the iris and the pupil
Drew in the light that came from the mind’s heaven.

I dreamt that we were walking along the promenade
When you showed me your hand of aces
That showed that you knew all of my shadows
Obscuring the sight-lines of the faces
That I playacted in the traditions of priests and prostitutes
On the stages of gods and commoners with maces.

I dreamt that we were bowing before a match
And you pointed out that I was hideously underdressed
I hid in Adam’s Shame from all of the eyes of the fighters
Darting across the stretch-marks of skin abreast
Making as much sense as the pen
Of French cartographers in borders guessed.

I dreamt you were kitty-corner from my head
Holding a trombone while I was asleep
And you began rehearsing Giant Steps
Right in my ear as if the horn of a Jeep
Were blasting my eardrums into oblivion
But I couldn’t move to stop you, Creep.

I read that Julian of Norwich once had a terrible fever
And saw Heaven in the groove of a seed
As she sweated in her dream
But I only saw you.

One thought on “The Purple Blossoms of Late Summer and Other Poems

  1. Thomas Page’s poems are quite vivid:  “The headlights plodding in the tunnel under the Baltimore Harbor . . . “”I might as well be a bust based on what they can see of me . . . ” “We would watch the continents fade into the ocean . . . ” These are some of the lines that I found to be as realistic as photographs, lines that could be discussed at length by readers studying poetry.  Frank Kowal


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