The Buzzards Bay Writing Project

a National Writing Project site

Poems by Bill Alberti  

Attempted Rescue

            (Nantucket, February '08)  

On this grey midievil morn,

I watch the drama

from atop the ocean bluff.

Strong, virile wind swoops

down over the edge

and sweeps across the surface

of the incoming tide.

Sweeps in long broken arcs

rippling the water

out toward sea.

As if the wind thought

it could defeat

suitor moon's attraction

by forcing waves

to flatten back,

so as to win

the sandy heart

of this damsel beach

by rescuing her

from another drowning.

                -Bill Alberti

Remembering Pepper 

You were the puppy daughter

of my mother's bitch.

We trained you on paper

and later to fetch.

You were black and short-haired

With a cute just right snout.

You would cry at the door

When we dressed to go out.

You always welcomed us

When we arrived home,

And buried your resentment

For leaving you alone.

You learned not to beg

Though you were so able,

And lay in the doorway

Never under our table.

You loved your chain's jingle

For you knew it meant walk,

And spoke to us clearly

Though not able to talk. 

You were curious and clever

And loved us to pet you.

You'd sleep in our bed

Every night if we let you.

You protected our children

When they came along,

And you hung your head low

If you did something wrong.

You never asked much

And gave your devotion.

You longed for our touch

Like your trip to the ocean.

But arthritis took you

In small little doses

Now we count you among

Our life's painful losses.

      -Bill Alberti ‘08 

Edward Hopper's Morning Sun

From the eastern horizon,

morning sun slants in low

through the large open window

of the multi-storied brick hotel.

Slants in on the double bed,

throws itself upon the wall,

confronts the sleepless woman

who returns an unblanketed stare.

She has nothing more to give.

Another sleepless night alone

in a city of millions

has stolen her graces.

But this warm light is a comfort

after a night of cold sheets,

though she longs to embrace

more than just another day.

Her green room is as barren

as her unvirgined womb,

and the clarity of this blue sky

exposes her attributes and obscurities.

Dreams are all that's left,

as flimsy as her negligee,

and somehow just as cheap.

The sun beholds her nakedness,

but it cannot hold her in its arms.

It cannot kiss her tightened

lips and force its golden tongue

to free her inner primal scream.

      -Bill Alberti ‘08

Buzzards Bay Writing Project
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1 Summer 2008  (pdf)

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