Look, this has been my 90th birthday week and I am reeling from the outpouring of love and affection from dear dear friends from Washington, Florida, Brooklyn, Metropolitan Opera and others. So here is a poem I recently wrote on a napkin in a restaurant at the Shinnecock Canal. This is a Long Island South Shore commercial fisherman's wharf. The boats are all rocking on the slightest wave action. As I gaze out at the scene this is what I wrote.
THE GULLS
Kenny Mock
The dock builder
Pounded old phone poles
Into the sandy bay bottom.
He thinks he built docks
For the fishing fleet to nest.
Little does he know
He has created places
For seagulls to sit and wait.
Something the gulls know
To wait patiently
For the Mary Anne or Primedancer
Their dinner bring.
I worry are they
Stranded on their poles
As the Easter Island lookouts?
They wait and wait and wait
When the last of us has departed
What happens then?
About 50 years ago in another time of change there was another period of poetry writing.
SUMMERTIME HEAT
I walked on winters path
Now in summertime heat
Has it been so long?
For the tall grass
I could not see
The sun go home.
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