Footwear

on glare ice flourish

           —if on skates

flounder

           —if in shoes

die there

           —on bare feet

ice or snow

sand or rock

moss or grass

pavement, man-made

oh, groundplain, hold us

           —if well shod—

and blame footwear for each fall

Footear

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: Footwear :: 2008

Benches of Hercegkút

           Yes, these are pretty flowers.

Does not every village have such flowers?
We have two hundred simple houses,
two hundred root cellars,
three hundred wine cellars,
and two simple churches;
but no castle,
no museum.
Everyone will wonder why you wandered by.

           
           

           Yes, this is my bench.
Does not every village have such benches?
We sit in front of our houses,
in front of our fences,
facing out,
along the walk,
looking over our flowers to the street,
looking after each other,
watching for you.
Can there be village without benches?
Why have flowers but no bench to sit on?
Why have neighbors but no benches for them to
      wander by?

           Yes, I sit here when my work is done.
Should not everyone have such a bench?
I sit here to rest,
speak to my neighbors,
enjoy my flowers and today's best story.
I speak here from my wisdom,
from my prejudice.
I sat here with each of my babies on display for
      all to see.
I teach each grandchild to sit here,
say hello,
and kiss an elder's hand.
I watch,
and I remember to tell my neighbors who has
      come by while they were hard at work.
I return your smile,
answer your greeting,
and wonder why you would have no bench yet
      have interest in mine.
Here, fifty neighbors pass on bicycle and foot
while the others stand hard by their work or sit
      upon benches to look.
They will wonder.
They will wonder until I tell them why you wandered by.

Benches of Hercegkút

Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Benches :: ,9716    

Damp, Morning Walk

On this damp morning's walk,

as storefronts open beside me,

sudden sunbeams confront me
to illuminate a path before me,
and my day approaches nine o'clock.

Upward
from rain-drenched, puddled pavement,
glimmer and sparkle welcome me
while at play with new-made shadow.

Damp, Morning Walk

Bob Komives

To my deaf ears
dumb sidewalk whispers loudly
in colorful language
of tiny, wondrous rainbows
broadcast by spreading ripples
in concert 
with the drum-hiss-drum
(moistened step)

of morning walk.

Drum-hiss-drum.
Drum-hiss-drum.

Storefronts open beside me.

Warming sun is upon me.
A path reflects before me.

My day passes nine o'clock.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Damp, Morning Walk :: 1611                               

Floor 3 and Floor 4

Outside:
beautiful, sunny day
to navigate capricious tracks
in ice-remnant streets.

Inside:
to Floor 3 and Floor 4 
where 
long-close friends lie infirm.

Floor 3 and Floor 4
where 
friends attend friends.
One spouse ignores pains in her back.
The other, his birthday.

Floor 3 and Floor 4

Bob Komives

Smiles, 
words, 
sincerity of brevity.

Floor 3, Floor 4, Floor 1.
Outside to bicycle and more sun.
Capricious track.
Ice-remnant street.
Good fortune's way
to
comfort,
comfort,
home. 

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Floor 3 and Floor 4 :: 1601

Looks Forward and Backward

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

He walked,
            crossed a bridge (rebuilt since falling to the flood)
            turned down-creek
                 to that house of that friend who left today,
            carried loaded boxes from basement to truck,
            and worked till all were gone.
Again, he walked,
            crossed a bridge (replaced since floating away)
            and turned down-creek
                 to this house of this friend who will stay.
Now, he talks,
            sips bowl of soup and cup of coffee,
            looks forward to his way back,
            looks backward to his way here,
            speaks of each way as a good way,
            and calls this day, a good day.

Looks Forward and Backward

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 ::  ,9901

Luggage

Luggage takes what I want to lug
to where I want to lug it.
Baggage is much the same,
except it bags a heavier burden
that may not be all mine.
I like my luggage to be one, small piece,
to feel light after a three-mile walk.
I like my luggage when it holds what I need,
nothing more
except this thread
and that pill
I may need
next stop.
If my luggage is each time better packed,
I travel more in ease
and out of habit.
If it is each time lighter,
I seek more among strangers
and find less to be strange.
If it still returns a bit heavier than when I went,
it still holds a bit
of what I found
of what I seek
not to leave behind.
The rest, of course, is dirty laundry.

Luggage

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1998 ::  ,9803

The Bicycle :: :: an ode to fun

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

          The bicycle is a kind machine.    
          It will take you up any road up any hill,
          if, indeed, your muscle will.

          Then coming down, with your muscle toned,
          your bicycle will do it all alone.

                Yes, it will--
                     while you sit still.

                                    Yes, it will.

The Bicycle
                                                                                    an ode to fun

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1994 :: The Bicycle  :: 9416

Turn To Sun

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

This early morning
he passes from Mississippi headwater
out of woodland and wetland
across the Red River onto North Dakota
—rolling plain of North Dakota—
a perfect expanse (said Buckminster Fuller)
a perfect expanse on which to feel oneself
spin toward the sun at early light
and spin away at late light.
He likes that it bothered Fuller
when people speak "sunrise"
—for the sun does not rise—
and "sunset"
—for the sun does not set.
It is we on our planet who spin from the sun:

turn from the sun each evening
turn to the sun each morning.
Today,
he has convinced himself; he does sense it
just as Fuller said he would.
He drives on, smug with satisfaction,
hypnotized, rolling northeast to southwest.

Turn To Sun 

Bob Komives

until
he startles from his meditation.
They are looking at him—
bronze little faces
fringed in yellow bonnet-and-bib.
Sunflowers by the thousands, millions,
sunflowers looking at him.
He ignores the obvious truth:
they look to the sun behind him.
To be twice smug he puts his Spanish vocabulary to work:
"girasol" "turn to sun"
Indeed, better words
for both “sunrise” and  “sunflower.”
Installed in his driver’s seat, he is philosopher royal to the northern great plain.
Throngs of sunflowers
crowd in for his morning audience.
Narcissistic pleasure.

until
he startles from his meditation.
They will not look at him beyond morning.
(He cannot drive faster than earth spins)

So as not to be dethroned,
he abdicates to take more pleasure
in the seeing than the being seen.
Find a sunflower at each road bend—
one among the many,
one to appreciate for her skill and beauty.
“Good Day,” nods he,
“Good Day,” nods she,
For, indeed, it is!

now west, then south; west and south again,
toward where young waters flow
onto a place among many
where old plain both begins and ends.
Now, on minor highway,
through well-kept town,
past well-kept cemetery,
(too large for its few occupants)
past silo and farm,
through deep carpet of sunflowers
and his chosen beauties.

Each earns—as true beauty earns—
his lingering gaze
as a breeze inspires her sensual sway.

until,
for one,
he slows, pulls over, stops,
lingers in flirtation.
Now more golden than yellow,
she offers her profile.
.
He hears words,
but which of them whispered?
 “Good day,
smug friend,
Good day.” For, indeed, it is!

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2013 :: Turn to Sun :: 1305

Pub

Yes, tonight too, he will walk a mile to downtown—
round a table with the others about nine.
“ 'must be Tuesday, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    It seems that their habit
    has gone somewhat noticed within the pub.
An important unimportant special topic
gets a chewing midst the drinking of the ale.
An agreement is as likely as the obverse—
    only seldom guilty
    of being too certain in what they know.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Pub

Bob Komives

Yes, tonight too, he has walked a mile to downtown—
one or two rounds, two or three friends make a night.
“ 'see you next week, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    He accepts a drop off
    either in the Packard or in the Dodge.
On important unimportant special topics,
one last chewing in the dim light of the street.
Final insight: (since the ale was somnifacient)
    If they are to finish,
    they will have to gather again next week.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Fort Collins © 1994 :: Pub  :: 9402

Copenhagen

Have I been somewhere if my only there is where airplanes come and go? 

Copenhagen

Bob Komives

I arrive to depart,
spend two hours,
look through a few large windows
(out to somewhere-nowhere).
I buy coffee,
admire the wooden floor.
Tempted by a book and elegantly packaged toffee
I deny my urge
and speak a quiet "no" to myself,
but I speak to no strangers.
(I guess them to be not-native in my English language.)
 
Yes,
I am here now
but will never have been here.
(unless I return to linger)
(unless great-good fortune or disaster strikes now as I depart)
 
To inquisitors I will deny this moment and place,
because,
in all honesty,
this lie lies closest to the truth.

poem by Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: Copenhagen :: 1108

The Letherhome Bridge

Deborah went away today.
We wished her well,
as we did before,
and the befores before that.
Deborah laughed,
said she will not be back.
We try to believe her now,
as we tried before,
and had tried before that.

 

The Letherhome Bridge

Bob Komives

Hernan Cortes tries to tell her
to burn her bridges,
burn them behind her,
as he had burned his ships
so he could not go back to Cuba or Spain
until he conquered Mexico.
But speaking as one of her bridges,
or perhaps the hull of her ship,
I have no desire to burn.
Why should I suffer
just so Deborah can conquer Mexico?
In truth,
she would rather conquer the Extremadura,
back in Spain,
a counter conquest of Cortes,
an adventure that I support,
as I supported her adventure before,
and each adventure before that.
How would my burning further her venture?
Even if she conquers Extremadura,
or Lisbon,
or Brattleboro,
she will want to come back to brag about it.
She will  need a bridge
--even for a short visit.
So, I propose a compromise.
Hernan,
will you get out of her psyche
if I let some weeds grow up,
some bushes to hide me from a distance,
some erosion to my approach?
Let's agree that these are worth a try
-- alternatives to my burning.
They will discourage her return
until she is rich and famous
or in desperate need of a warm bowl of soup.
When the time comes,
I can paint up and fix up,
clear the landscape
so she can see her way back.
For my effort,
I might earn a new plaque.
Or, I might polish up the old one
as I polished it before,
having earned it before that.
With luck,
the old words will still read well:
.......Here sank the ship that let me away.
.......Here rose the bridge that let me back.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2000 :: Letherhome Bridge :: 0003

The Buzz

I stepped out this morning

into my garden,
its morning-fresh beauty,
crisp air and stillness,
expectation of stillness,
until I heard the buzz,
incessant buzz
from halves of miles away,
all around,
round tires on ground pavement,
nervous movement I had heard in the city,
heard with more scorn than pity,
for it was there,
not here in my town garden,
now a green piece of roundabout
with my stillness put out
by tired arterial groan,
exhausted highway gasp,
and,
from the dreaming homesteader who was,
the worn out homesteader buzz. 

The Buzz

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 :: The Buzz :: ,9910

When He Leaves by the Door He Entered

Because he never drives his car to the coffee house
he often goes in the back door and out the front.
Everyone will notice this sure sign:

he is pedestrian.

When He Leaves

by the Door He Entered

Bob Komives

He never drives his car to the coffee house

--except today,

first stop on his way to somewhere distant.
Quite justifiable,
not a second thought

--until now.

Having parked behind the coffee house
he opens his car door
and gets hit by an odd wind
that chills him with shiver of fear.
He looks to the coffee-house door.
It too opens
and is likely to produce someone he knows;
someone who thinks him pedestrian;
someone who will express surprise,
vindication,
disappointment.
Too late to hide,
he stands up to the morning sun,
prepares for the worst.
Someone emerges from the farther door's shadow.
Could he be so lucky?
He thinks she is a stranger.
She gives no sign of recognition
as she walks to her car with portable coffee.
She gives only generic smile
and nod of good morning.
After dramatic moment of fortunate anonymity
danger has past;
shiver is gone.
He enters,
safely separated
from the vehicle that would betray him.
He smiles at a thought:

perhaps the stranger too craved anonymity.

As his eyes adjust to interior space
he is ready for faces he wants to see
and for smiles of recognition.
It is time to relax and sip coffee.
With good fortune on his side today
most customers will leave before him,
and, if he is careful,
those who outlast him will fail to notice
when he leaves by the door he entered.  

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1999 :: When He Leaves by the Door He Entered :: ,9908

Hole or Castle

To hide
or to defend yourself from the marauding horde,
will you build a high-fortress-castle,
or will you dig a low-hole?

Hole or Castle

Bob Komives

Castle seems more pleasant
--more generous with status.
(Compare castled duke with lowly caveman)
Castle gives an image of protection.
(impregnable to all but the pregnator)

Hole, perhaps, is less the target.
The proud marauder,
looking up,
may miss your hiding place,
or see no glory in it,
or show you mercy if you point to a castle.

As for me:
in peace, I still love to play in castles;
in crisis, I may have to seek a hole;
but don't ask me to build or dig.
Let me, instead, wander the land
learning paths that cross frontiers.
For, with the luck of rumor or warning,
I will prefer to walk away.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Hole of Castle :: ,9721


Click to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptychs.

Long-Legged Women (of Székesfehérvár)

As long-legged women upon
........ long-heeled shoe
come walk their way through
........ reconstruction
their up-shallowed skirt-hems over
........ down-deepened tan
invite my blood to
........ feel seduction,
till purposeful paces under
........ pertinent voice
announce their course has
........ their direction,
and long-legged women upon
........ long-heeled shoe
have walked their way past
........ my corruption.

Long-legged Women

(of Székesfehérvár)

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1997 :: Long Legged Women :: ,9714

Visit To The Savior, 1997

—go
onto gulf cruiser,
onto bad roadways,
onto good roadway,
over road winding.
—pass
along long canals,
on-by river's dam,
across war-built bridge,
after long-built war.
—look
outward through smoked-glass window,
inside and outside neighbors,
northward through narrow roadway,
upward through the savior.
—go at last
to holy savior's half-healed space
—stopping first
at holy michael's burger place.

Visit To The Savior, 1997

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1997 :: Visit To The Savior, 1997 :: ,9706

Two Men Chanced Together In Their Flight

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

Chanced together were this one man and the birdman,
touching shoulders, going southward on a flight.
There this one man told the birdman his long story,
seeking confirmation that in truth what happened
. . . . . . . . . . is what he saw.

 

Two Men Chanced Together In Their Flight

Bob Komives

 

So the birdman, as a birdman, had to hear him:
about sitting, about back porch, and a cat;
about noises from some watchbirds on the phone line,
perching up there watching, perching there together,
. . . . . . . . . . though not alike;
one, two species, three birds set to watching;
sleepy cat yawns followed by alarms;
silence, a stretch, and then a warning.
Was this one man truly hearing what he saw?

Catlike sleeping, birdlike silence, watchlike vigil.
Six eyes watching, then two species worth of noise.
Every cat move duly sounded —for no reason
until distant action, the distant reaction,
. . . . . . . . . . caught this man's eye.
In far corner of the yard he saw them feeding;
four, five species, forty birds there picking food.
Then the cat stretch got reported from the phone line.
(Still this man was doubting that in truth what happened
. . . . . . . . . . is what he saw.)
Four, five species, each bird was reacting,
head up, eyes up, springing to alert.
Some would fly back into the bushes;
all stopped eating; some retreated to the fence.

When the cat showed no more movement but his sleeping,
the three lookouts were but looking down again,
and the back flock had returned again to feeding.
(Still this man was doubting that in truth what happened
. . . . . . . . . . is what he saw.)
Other stretching, other warning, then reaction.
Four, five species somehow acting like one flock.
Forty-bird incorporation lacking likeness.
In some common language, to some common purpose,
. . . . . . . . . . by common mind,
different feathers, odd birds, flocked together.
Not a family, yet having that sound.
Not a platoon, yet having sergeants.
Nothing studied had prepared him for these facts.

Then a cat yawn stretched to rising up and forward,
up and slowly (with eyes open) down a step.
With the rising came the warning called out louder
—the distant reaction readily upgraded
. . . . . . . . . . to high alert.
As the cat stepped (with eyes searching) to the walkway,
as the watchbirds crackling louder took to flight,
back yard feeders flew from ground and flew from bushes
over the back fences to the safer tree limbs
. . . . . . . . . . beyond the yard.
By the time the old cat got to walking,
nowhere back there would there be a bird,
nowhere platoon, nor crackling sergeant.
Nor could this man show another what he saw.

Then the birdman (who had listened) did the speaking.
In his life-long search he had seen but only three.
You did witness then a mix-of-species flocking.
Several individuals, several different species
. . . . . . . . . . that work as one
come together as late Summer turns to Autumn
—for their feeding, for protection, perhaps fun.
Having bonded, no new members can then enter.
Every individual is exclusive member
. . . . . . . . . . within this flock
—until leaving by types for their winters.
It's a privilege for anyone to see.
Silence, two yawns of satisfaction.
One, two birdmen chanced together in their flight.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: Two Men Chanced Together in Their Flight :: ,9703