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    A Key to the Grove and Other Poems
    A Key to the Grove and Other Poems
    A Key to the Grove and Other Poems
    Ebook311 pages1 hour

    A Key to the Grove and Other Poems

    By Peter Verbica

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    About this ebook

    Praise for Verbica’s Poetry

    “...rendered with beautiful and arresting figurative language."

    Ron Hansen, Author

    “The language snaps like branches in winter, crackles like firelight, and finally washes down like summer rain.”

    Greg Pliska, Composer

    “His poems will lift your spirits, encourage you to question and may inspire you to find the divine in the most ordinary.”

    The Rev. Steve Privett, S.J., President, University of San Francisco

    “What fountains forth here in one of our local poets can only be admired and envied.”

    Vito Victor, author of “Desert Song”

    “Peter’s poems are “like a small cathedral” as he invites us to meander with him into “that thin and silvery” compassion deep within us.”

    Parthenia M. Hicks, Los Gatos Poet Laureate

    “Original and inventive.”

    Maggie Paul, Author

    Book cover art of the "Owl" (c) 2010 Melissa West.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPeter Verbica
    Release dateDec 11, 2013
    ISBN9780991153503
    A Key to the Grove and Other Poems
    Author

    Peter Verbica

    Peter Coe Verbica lives in Santa Cruz, California. He received his BA in English from Santa Clara University, a JD from Santa Clara University School of Law, and an MS from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He is married and has four daughters.

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      Book preview

      A Key to the Grove and Other Poems - Peter Verbica

      A Key to the Grove

      and Other Poems

      Owl © 2010 Melissa West.

      ...rendered with beautiful and arresting figurative language.

      Ron Hanson, author of Desperadoes and Mariette in Ecstasy

      Peter Coe Verbica

      Copyright 1998-2013 Peter Verbica

      Smashwords Edition

      ISBN: 978-0-99-11535-0-3

      All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopies, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the author.

      Castrojeriz,Wind and Rain,Relic, Vierge d'Orisson,Burden, Stray Dog, Storks Azofra, and Pilgrim Feet, © 2007 Melissa West. All rights reserved. Used with permission of the artist.

      Owl © 2010 Melissa West. All rights reserved. This book's cover graphics and title page utilizing the Owl was modified by author with permission of Ms. West.

      Reception photo after title page © 2012 Lindsey Gonzales. Used with permission. Modified by the author with permission of Ms. Gonzales.

      Wedding Bed photo © 2012 Justin Doward. Used with permission.

      Owl coin logo on last page and ladder and shield heraldry on this page © Getty Images.

      Published by

      Peter Coe Verbica

      Santa Cruz, California

      Dedicated to

      my daughters

      (four only children

      who happened

      to grow up in the

      same household)

      and to my wife, Tiffany,

      who taught me

      that the best poem

      is the one which we live.

      Way to go, Pushkin! Way to go, you son-of-a-bitch!

      Alexander Pushkin

      Table of Contents

      Artwork and Photographs

      Greece at Peace

      A Pair of Good Boots

      The Barn House

      Sleep

      Laughter Jumps

      Contours

      Sufi in the Sandstorm

      Bullets of Rain

      Doves at Dawn

      120 Degrees of Separation

      Bicycles

      Running Buddha

      Artist

      Natural Bridges

      A Séance in Silver

      A New Blue Suit

      Wedding Bed

      Diamond Ring

      48

      Jean-Paul

      A Rain of Rice

      Style

      Christmas

      A Day before Christmas

      Hakone

      Paris and Milan

      The Ascension

      To My Friends

      Mysterious Initials

      The Wet Wheel

      Beyond Your Blue Eyes

      Piano Climbing

      Tennis

      The Perfect Place

      The Table

      Conversations of Touch

      Horses in Motion

      Parachute

      Breaking Windows

      Colors of Koi

      In the Morning

      A Spider in the Sun

      Sandals on My Feet

      Ghosts in the Cold

      Gone

      Pretty Songs

      The Bridge

      Easter Riddles

      Gateway to a Dream

      One Word

      An Honest Afternoon

      The Hat Miracle

      Magnificent Sadness

      A Brief Ode to Crossfit

      Peace of Immortality

      Simple Sunlight

      This Town

      Coyotes in the Canyon

      Dear Vanessa

      Joseph

      Bare Hands

      I grew up

      Tombstone of a Town

      The Flakes

      Pants of the Dead

      Happy Birthday

      A Day of Ordinary Thinking

      The Sidewalk Sale

      The Last Magazine

      Pilgrimage

      Iron Woman

      Happy Anniversary

      A Key to the Grove

      Beat by Beatniks

      We Could Talk

      A Beautiful Ballerina

      About the Artist

      About the Author

      Artwork and Photographs

      Castrojeriz 7

      Wind and Rain

      Relic

      Vierge d'Orisson

      Burden

      Wedding Bed

      Stray Dog

      Storks Azofra

      Pilgrim Feet

      Owl

      Greece at Peace

      1999

      Simple buildings,

      warm and white,

      hang like fresh towels above the harbor.

      Foreign voices

      I begin to recognize:

      as if awaking from

      a twenty-five year slumber:

      They are my emotions.

      (I meander and recount

      the steps that you took to get

      to the water.

      Do you remember the

      whole village watching

      you?)

      I still have the photograph

      of us on the dock.

      You touched my ear

      with your tongue

      just before the click

      of the shutter.

      You would chuckle:

      I keep thinking of

      your sleepy straw hat:

      And, of course,

      your smile underneath,

      which you would hide

      like a puppy in

      a basket.

      I see your dark glasses

      hanging fearlessly on your nose:

      like a carefree diver.

      I sat in our cafe,

      though the owner passed

      away last year.

      I gave his wife two hugs:

      one from me and one

      from you.

      She scolded me for being

      with you and said,

      "You knew that she was too pretty

      for it to last."

      I answered with a grin, I know. I know.

      I pour my light heart

      into a porcelain cup

      and think of your sugar.

      I am writing down everything

      that I should forget:

      I am a historian to my own

      dementia.

      Remember gliding past me

      on a bicycle? You had a

      loaf of bread balanced on the handle bars

      and a hint of a swimsuit.

      (You forgave me for insisting that

      you join a local circus.

      I forgave you for chasing me around

      in a ring as if I was a bear.)

      I spend the rest of the afternoon

      running after your mirage:

      which in a tribute to apostolic

      succession,

      reappears around each

      whitewashed stairwell.

      (Your presence was betrayed

      with a kiss before

      I got up this morning.)

      I am sad to report that the cottage

      which we leased is now

      full of chocolatines and caramel

      and round tables.

      I am in the house on the hill:

      the one that you loved looking at

      after the sun's sequester.

      I sit on the terrace

      and the moon laughs

      at me like an old Greek

      proudly showing off

      his gold teeth.

      A neighbor plays a

      gypsy's violin on his

      porch as if out of a postcard.

      I swear that it is strung

      with his family's tears.

      The music taunts

      your memory out

      from under the olive trees.

      I translate his song

      using a ship captain's

      quill

      and thin airmail paper:

      "When your boat

      went out to sea,

      and left me with

      the child of your

      memory...

      You left your name

      burnt into me.

      I waited and wondered,

      as if for an eternity.

      How could I know

      that in another

      lifetime,

      you would come back?

      Please don't torture

      me with what could be.

      Leave. I've spent

      too many years

      reading you reading me."

      For some reason, it reminds

      me of a painting in

      a children's book:

      the one of an Owl, a Pussycat,

      and a Tropical Fish in a bowl.

      I wish the blue ocean,

      with its comfortable waves,

      was your denim jeans

      at the base of our bed.

      I wish the afternoon

      would open,

      like your favorite

      cotton shirt.

      I wish that we could

      happily bounce forward:

      you feeling the keel

      as it holds you fast in deep water.

      Let me set sail for a favorite cove.

      Let the coast become a

      visible innuendo:

      effortlessly arching backwards

      into a beautiful crescent.

      Come dive with me into the future:

      ahead of the power boats and nets:

      We will give away Neptune's fortune:

      a treasure of silver spheres

      which rise towards the surface.

      Your eyes will be the compass

      by which we navigate ecstasy.

      Your hands above your head

      tell me the time on

      your clock:

      I remember the wringing

      of each chime

      and it takes its toll.

      © 2007 by Melissa West.

      A Pair of Good Boots

      2009

      Fear is nothing more

      than a rickety fence,

      a lean-to of brittle yesterdays.

      Courage easily vaults over it -

      if we let up on the reins,

      and raise ourselves

      slightly above the saddle.

      Lean forward in life!

      It will help you keep your balance.

      Smile discretely

      as you pass over

      the obstacles

      which hemmed you in,

      and whether your goal

      is time or form,

      keep looking ahead.

      Count the paces

      to yourself,

      and be ready for

      the next jump or

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