Inhalt
Contents
Queen of the World
Never Give Up
Western Scene
Stone’s Throw
Lonely Day in June
Stirrings
Man Aged One-hundred Dies in Blizzard
At the Border of Peace
H.O.P.E.
In Her Wake
First Gig
On This Day
Dry Spell
364
Season’s Ingredients
So You Want To Quit Smoking
Artistic Gamble
Once Upon A Tuesday
1957
Earth Family
Horse Angel
Red Eye
The Exile
Surrender
In The Tower of West Texas Sun
Overboard
Yellow Umbrella
Only Love
Leafy Aster
In My Summer Youth
Raven Lunch
View From Third Floor Central State Hospital
Housecleanin
Minor Blues
Ancient Eyes
Classifieds
September Alfalfa Part I
September Alfalfa Part II
Physiks
Change
Casino
That Saddle
Basho’s Dream
The Cloud and the Hill
Birthday Window
Absentee Candidate
The Cat Is
My Time
Linda In Charge
Queen of the World
Hello oatmeal smile.
Finish up with Teddy bear.
There's no time to stay here.
We've got a day to make our way.
Loading in the car.
Buckle up and wave goodbye.
Doggie licks at long eyelashes.
Soon the neighborhood's
a blur.
Down the grocery aisle,
past the fruit of yesterday.
To the cashiers slumping,
and their scanners warm upping.
Pushing out with cart and bags.
Reloading Missy Muggs,
to the mobile toy box home.
Looking out at billboard clones.
Back at home again,
running laps round empty sacks,
with their lunch half eaten.
Dozing off among the blocks.
Now it's her delicious time.
Reading racy novels
Looking through her zines.
Calling friends or him.
To talk alone for just a while,
while supper closes in.
Open rested eyes.
Blinking out the fuzzy cloud.
Each one's thoughts awaken,
hanging on her every word.
Even after naps.
The little fingers grab at her.
She's the queen of the world
of that I am sure.
Never Give Up
That was your banner
Your creed
Your motto
A courageous battle cry
From such a modest
Humble person
I knew you only
A little more than a year
I talked a great deal
About you to others
Who were as frustrated as me
With the double assault
On your body
I listened to you tell
Of the gut wrenching
Treatment to your liver
Held your hand while
The biopsy trocar
Went to the bone
You thanked me
For being professional
Was it your trust?
Our closeness of age?
Mrs. C you had the powers
To share your humor, your family
Your big heart
Some people use indifference
Some turn to their busy work
When death's truth towers
Over us all
It forces us to cope in our ways
But you have passed your banner
To others now
And I wish you safe passage
Into a paradise
Greater than our dreams
Western Scene
Maynard Dixon, I have to say
out there on that Western sky,
before painting desert walls,
folks said: yeah that kid can draw.
From Frisco down to Mt. Carmel,
the art school dropout
perfected a tone.
Horses’ hooves in Zion canyon,
rabbit brush and sugar knoll,
He saw that which was beautiful and
he painted more that was true.
As Virgin River carried artiste raft,
under denim overcast.
Halos divine glow round his art,
the natural world and all it imparts.
With eye and ear,
hand and touch,
he caught it all.
A gift to us.
Stone's Throw
We descend into Bentwood from
the local universe.
Two alien entities
chasing the sun and
finding a troubadour here to
back our earth experience.
They are like us but
more concerned with future
and with past but whatzat?
Over Pinot Noir conversation with song
we are quickly learning the place
and each other since,
romance is a meaningless construct
in the eternal moment
of now because
it implies a history
and that is way behind
us now even beyond
our heat shields
And a future that we are
unable to triangulate.
No there is just the now
and there is also truth
truth you say?
Startled I face you
you know something, what?
What truth?
Your reply on this stone
is simply a song.
Lonely Day In June
Clouds move in time, passive to winds.
Will it won't it rain?
Birds soar unsure of
coming change.
I sit in my grey morning workspace,
remembering her pain.
Stirrings
Fall hurries toward winter.
Brown leaves and tarnished clouds
milling, beginning.
In a coffee bar window
near a green awning,
the elder man sits,
waits, watches
for he knows as the wall clock taunts,
4pm approaches.
Then the ritual begins.
The woman enters first,
brushing back red curls
like holiday ribbons.
The man ever the gentleman,
holds the door.
They hurry
in from accelerating sleet.
The woman orders, then
the man.
The old one moves his lips with
eyes closed softly.
"Double expresso, cinnamon latte."
Near his table they light.
Their exuberance bubbles
over their shoulders and
into his corner.
Tonight we do it, he hears
their twenty odd years say.
"conceive tonight."
he clearly hears.
They grab their mouths
for over them the senior appears.
They watch words form
on a life stained face .
"Concieve" you say?
All I can tell you is this,
Go slow
And while
going slow
think of conception
As a life.
In general
it has a beginning,
it has a middle, but
the end brings feelings
like joy,
curiosity, yes
even sadness.
If you're lucky,
all of these
will be yours.
Then he put on his fez
lit up a pipe and
walked out into
the storm’s frenzy
Man Aged One Hundred Dies in Blizzard
While coffee brews there
in Corning ware beakers.
The paper boy’s news
lies delivered.
‘In a North wind bluster…’
so it reads like
the chilled delivery
of an anchor’s lead.
The night nurse found
the open window,
where watery eyes
had sought an entry.
Into the maelstrom
the lead feet fell,
after trudging and trudging
then trudging no more.
And now two lenses
stare straight ahead,
if not into air
then at what?
Perhaps it’s the nursery
there in the East,
where one hundred newborns
clinch their fists.
At The Border of Peace
Can I help you sir?
You come to enter Peace.
You come here,
as a refugee.
Searching for this place,
you have personally
sought war's alternative.
You have voted for
the assembly of
nuclear deterrents
in your desire for citizenship.
You come here,
after long discussions
into the night.
You cried as children watched
and crimes were tried
while the innocent
lie in eternal rest.
But, before
I bid you enter.
Before you offer to
serve here.
You have traveled far,
you have accomplished what?
H.O.P.E.
Hope is beginning to rise
in the eastern sun entering his window.
Optimism flowers in the garden
rows he goes out to tend.
Promise powers the walk
accompanying his Terrier.
Enterprise delivers him here
on shore, after the corporate shipwreck.
In Her Wake
She comes again to share
What will it be this time?
She is leading the fight
On a microscopic foe
We follow as caregivers
But she is there at the point
We jerk about as flotsam
In her wake
But she stares
Into the face of death
She comes again to share
This time it will be
Needle craft, or photos
Or simply her family's story
But even so
These things sit there
In her glow
The sharing, the laughter,
And the love
In her wake
First Gig
After rebuilding the old piano
good enough for adjustment and tuning
I practiced first an arpeggio
then the twelve keys with full yearning.
Chords major and minor.
Songs from Gershwin and Kern
Ellington and Porter.
Practiced for a year
then I made the call.
My heart full of fear
"Come on friday?"
I felt my jaw fall
Can't believe the reply
"We'll see you here."
There were two Steinways,
I had my pick.
"Beautiful Love" was my first tune
Barely heard by anyone.
"Over The Rainbow" came with a mistake
But the lunch crowd seemed too busy
Then after forty minutes,
I finished with "I'm in the Mood..."
Everyone got up out of chairs
around me the listeners stood.
Some sang, some paced
one brought me food.
I rose and thanked them,
and as I walked to my car alone
still felt the warmth and acceptance
from the women and men
of Graceview nursing home.
On This Day
In this place.
Before the dark
Before the sleep.
When my mind
constructs a place
I've never been.
Give me a sign
of something higher
on the path
to greater good.
During slow times,
speeding up times,
let me act
to benefit the many.
Give me strength to
master all adversity.
And in new ways
bring compassion to
those who are here
on this day
in this place
Dry Spell
Scant snow for months.
No rain before that.
Weatherman shrugs.
Arid gusts tug at
memories of
moist encounters with
wet lettuce eaten from
damp ground.
Nostrils and eyes filled
with Autumn fog back then.
Heavenly showers from
round clouds.
But now cattle nibble
wheat down to
brown rows.
Weeds crackle under
dusty shoes.
In the distance from
every direction
smoke rises over
blackened grasses.
At my desk in
sunset glow these
finger tips split
my lip bleeds as
my ink pen fades.
The weather report:
Dry spell.
364
Is this the New Year?
The one we waited for?
With heavy cloud cover
and empty bottles on the floor.
We glare at gifts' boxes
and the usual crowd
of weight to be lost
and resolutions to be vowed.
HDTV explains
the year in review
while super players prepare
for the ultimate bowl.
We feel seasonal stress
push some to work
and some to wish
that for 364 more days dear
your face and the clock's
will exchange looks
until inevitable awe
returns in a question.
Is this the New Year?
Season's Ingredients
Winter solstice arrives
And inside, the guitarist
Plays to the pinon hearth’s
Crackling applause
Over in the corner
Chile mingles with tomato
In finest holiday color
A wool shawl of summer fleece
Glistens across the dining parlor
Local vineyard white and red
Laugh upon entering crystal portals
Golden corn with pinto beans
Curl up in a toasty winter bed
Under glass, pistachios connive
With dulce brittle.
And as the medley winds down
A pale thoughtful moon
Gazes across snowy mesas
A distant witness to
Warm and festive candle lights
In holiday windows
So You Want To Quit Smoking
I couldn’t help noticing
You, standing by the pumps
While I put gas in my go mobile
You take another puff
I have a special tip
It won’t cost you a dollar
But to begin you must promise
My instructions you will follow
First, tomorrow morning
Before the cig, you know the one
You crave more than liquor
Take off all your clothes
And stand before the mirror
Second, put on some rock music
Loud from out of speakers
It can be the King or the Boss
You can even wear sneakers
Third, you light that Marlboro,
Virginia Slim, or low tar
Gaze at yourself in full view
swinging at your air guitar.
While strutting along to Mick
Call it a day for cigarettes
Unless you can in public
Repeat this shtick
Artistic Gamble
"An author." she said
"That's what I shall be!"
So she went to her muse
Her loveliness to see
To ruminate, to cogitate
For an answer she could use
But, the inner one pouts
"In prose tell the story,
and then get out."
"Then a poet, a poet yes that is good.
That is where I can express my mood."
So back to the muse again she asks.
"Tell me please dear and do not be terse,
what will others revere?"
The muse smiling responds
"In poetry lead with strong verse."
"No no, that's not it!"
She yelped then did cry.
"It's universal, and yet too personal!"
"What of musical song to say what I might?"
Instantly an answer came from her soul's door.
"In music the song, and nothing more."
Once Upon A Tuesday
Once upon A Tuesday
Well before winter
He was sacking groceries
She, deciding on dinner
There was sunlight in his eyes
And there was warmth in her heart
Two from their generation
Meeting in the Food Mart
Their worlds were soon entangled
Friday nights brought movie dates
Sunday afternoons in the park, late
They married that September
Lunch hours spent kicking Autumn leaves
Once upon a Tuesday
He signed with Special Forces
She didn't think he would
declare communications his endeavor
"Can't be a sack boy forever."
Once upon a Tuesday
Came the notice to their home
Present himself in thirty days
To Operation Desert Storm
A soldier goes where he is ordered
His is not to question where? why?
Like those before him
He can only live in the moment
And remember her goodbye
Then
Once upon A Tuesday
Came the letter registered to only her
A direct hit to her heart
Her soldier, her love, her everything
Was felled in mortal combat
Yet, if it was only that
the story would have been told
But now she has to decide
what to say
To her unborn child
1957
In a warm Summer night
With the crickets stirring
And a sometimes breeze
Over the fence high grasses
One lamp post shines unfaltering
Where town meets country
Gray tubes flicker through lace windows
A single car passes on the highway
And Sputnik moves overhead
Earth Family
I felt you in the trees today
Oh great spirit
At the place just below the ridge
Brother coyote noticed too.
Before instinct gave him a nudge
To move into the shadows
Sister cotton tail moves out
Then back
Eyes that are small oceans
A nose in constant motion
Got to keep on moving
The great provider knows
As surely as sun chases moon
You realize that
You're not the only one
Who stops and says;
I felt you in the trees today
O great spirit
I felt you in the trees
Horse Angel
My link with the horse world
Is a painted, saddle-bred mare
Her name is Tewa Desert Rose
And with her there's lots to share
Apples in the morning
Carrots every eve
Lots of friendly horse games
Plenty of candy treats
Whether riding in the saddle
Or taking a little trot
Although we have our differences
There's a unity in our thoughts
Each morning as I'm leaving
She's busy eating hay
But when I return
At days end
She always looks my way
I soap and scrub and brush her
For this she can barely stand
So when she sees my back is turned
She rolls in mud and sand
Until today when light snow came
And at the barn I find
A perfect silhouette in brown
Surrounded by icy lines
The horse angel left by Rose
Inviting me to lay down
So down I did go
Beside her distinct impression
And now horse and rider
Face up in heavenly expression
Red Eye
The red eye
gazing at me,
just a red eye,
it's all I see.
The red eye
surrounded with blue,
it's still a red eye,
with a view.
The red eye
and feathers fine,
through a red lens,
I am a find.
The red eye,
is distant now,
I watch the pigeon fly,
from my plow.
The Exile
He walks slowly, deliberately
down a path in the woods.
Overhead an eagle
divides the sky
Beside his feet
on a misty rise,
beetles wrestle
over stamp size territory
and above his head,
newborn sparrows
free themselves
from eggshells.
He is beginning to
forget,
the traffic lights,
the murderous nights,
and sirens loud
that had once
defined
his hours.
Surrender
There's something about Selena
A friend and I agree
You can see it
Feel it
Hear it
Like coins in a slot machine
The hired hand Javier’s eyes
Had fallen to his beer
Being a listening bartender
I then lent him my ear
Continuing his confessional
and looking a little tense
He started talking to me
as if in self-defense
It's not her tousled hair
It's not her baby Tommy
It's not her soulful eyes
Not her daddy nor her mommy.
Yes he and I are sure
That when she wraps her lithness
'round you
She will never let you be
And yet when at the market
her desires start off as small
As one
And then they grow
By three
One of us knew this final point,
The other will never see
My friend proposed to Selena
But I remain free
In The Tower of West Texas Sun
He drawled on
about the old times
in the oil field.
The eyes
periodically grew
blue pie plates.
His mouth
barely moving
behind A ferrous beard.
Muscles
on top of muscles
that was me.
Smoked
since I was twelve
I’m on the patch.
Worked
everyday in the tower
of west Texas sun.
The wind,
it was cool there
late in the afternoon.
Come evening
the bars would fill
with slender gals.
And out under
the stars you knew
you were part of it all.
Overboard
Her words came in waves
from an ocean of guilt.
Like; “sorry”
And “stupid”
“I can’t”
and “Hurt”
Ronnie her brother
Had found the bottle,
empty of hydrocodone
and missing the top.
She gave up her son
to the adoption person.
Another decision
in a limited space
In a hospital room
under watchful eyes,
her words crash again;
“regret”
“surprise”
In medicalese we call it
overdose,
but again and again
I want to say
overboard.
Yellow Umbrella
Clouds hang,
head down
rain falls.
Lone person
crosses the walk,
framed in gray
his yellow umbrella
held high.
Only Love
No sister love,
No mother love,
No brother love.
Only love.
No father love,
No school love,
No flag love.
Only love.
No romantic love,
No new love,
No old love.
Only love.
No human love,
No animal love,
No plant love.
Only love.
No material love,
No self-love,
No selfless love.
Only love.
Leafy Aster
A Greek star,
on my drive
past mountain meadows.
When bad news,
hurt,
or disappointment
intrude.
Lavender-purple rays
of joy
laugh back.
Unlike cousin sunflower's
boastful,
bright,
volume.
Your assertive,
green,
twenty inches
greet the morning light.
Fine hair,
on seed-like fruit
says "goodbye"
soon after
Labor Day.
Until,
next July
when,
your offspring play.
In My Summer Youth
Lottie the black spaniel and
Gertie the spotted hound,
Joined up with me a barefoot boy
When we would run round
The shade-dappled orchard of
Summer youth.
The Beats were somewhere on the road.
But I was more interested in horned toads,
And how they scampered in the sand,
while Dick Clark introduced the band.
The gray tube sang, "Have Gun Will Travel."
At the baseball plate was Mickey Mantle.
High school days were no sooner over,
than I was getting older.
Teen town was loud with electric sound.
A dozen boys smoked, and stood their ground.
Inside on the dance floor perfume plumes,
Where awkward youth dance the room.
Manually sweating under a hot sun.
Thinking about when the work is done.
Planning trips beyond county lines,
To Ferris wheel parks and city lights.
From springs caress into straits dire.
I saw Vietnam and campus fire.
And a president who chose to lie,
That's when I said goodbye,
to Summer youth.
Raven Lunch
She steps carefully over brown grass,
french-fries in hand.
Grey sweater over drooped shoulders.
A defiant octogenarian.
“Put a shine on your shoes,
and a melody in your heart!”
filters from a car window.
Three, then four good sized ravens
Descend from high trees.
Lunch begins.
Some for me, more for you.
She generously shares as
She recalls.
The Eire village,
and the crowd of people
her Mother included.
Following one good potato
Carried by one black bird,
over dark fields.
To the promise
Of more.
View from Third Floor Central State Hospital
I still see the small frame houses
one city street away
all white and smiling up at me
rows and rows some
like cigarette boxes
in the morning sun
some like children playing
I could use a smoke
But the room is locked
if I could see
if I could just look inside one
it's unfair
there isn't anybody
nobody there
but you say
there is
one on a bicycle
one delivering mail
another walking a dog
maybe I did
put my knife in one
but they aren't real
only houses
Housecleanin
Yesterday we argued
No
Yes we disagreed
The usual trivialities
Lifeless words
Lying dead
Scattered to the black corner of the house
There stands a housecleaner
With broom and pan,
Sweeping up hateful Lies resentful mockeries in pained piles
There stands a house
Now clean
From floor to eaves front door to back
And then
The housecleaner Leaves
Minor Blues
I’ve got a wash tub bass
A nylon string guitar
eighty-eight keys of rinky tink
By now you know how far
A man will go
To feed his soul
Young girl gave a nod
Music is beautiful thing
Carries you across the land
Picks you up when you’re sad and blue
Then it lets you down again
Some days wound too tight
Other days are out of control
But in between the drama
By now you know how far
A man will go
To find his home
Old man said it’s true
Life is a curious thing
Free falls like a stone
Brings you down to the minor blues
In the face of a gale force wind.
Ancient Eyes
From the point
of my ear,
I detect breathing
coming up the stair.
I sigh . . .
knowing I can’t hide,
from ancient eyes
once a muses’ pride.
“Been a while.”
I sneer at it.
But it only slinks
to the corner to sit.
slothful thing
leans back and stares,
Then the compound lenses
display its’ images.
I see twisted faces,
bloody tools,
and worst of all
hear the laughter of fools.
I reach for Scotch,
not soon enough.
A cutting chill crosses
my page.
Better write,
It’s the only way
to channel the force
from Hades gate.
So in the still
of absent light.
You might awaken
bolt upright.
For ancient eyes
from a hideous beast,
at the stair awaits you,
take a seat.
Classifieds
Behind a locked apartment door
Eight Noble and Sentimental waltzes,
project from a 1970 Macintosh amplifier.
There between Bible studies by mail,
and a Frymaster fifty-pound deep fryer,
A naked bulb reveals in print small;
Britney Spears Circus tickets,
two stage front terrace seats,
one-hundred twenty five dollars.
His grin spread as his dark nails
fingered the bills in his palm.
Then he walked the twelve blocks
to a pay phone.
September Alfalfa Part I
The hay is coming.
It’s here in family size,
the horse can’t thrive
on weeds and sticks.
My go-to-man arrives
in good cheer,
from irrigated fields.
He throws, I stack.
The rain is coming,
it’s falling the minute
you realize that,
each bale grows heavier.
You agonize
will it last?
Work faster.
Will it do it’s work faster?
Several minutes, then
in rain time it’s gone.
Hay is in the barn
Then comes
the storm’s warning,
from clouds black.
I’ll be back.
After parting shots
of thunder and
lightning laughter,
sunlight stains the meadow.
September Alfalfa Part 2
The storm hinted at its return
drifting to the West that afternoon.
But in this mountain terrain
weather systems can circle, pause,
reappear to threaten and rain.
So it was after the September alfalfa
was laid to rest in the barn,
I sat resting in the family dining room
enjoying early evening tea and scone.
Then thunder cracked above the house,
and a second clap like bullets across the sky.
The violent cloudburst moved quickly on,
until through my window I could see
smoke spilling from a soggy tree.
The murderous thing had left its mark,
before picking up and setting off.
Physiks
I remember you
Like yesterday
I watch from
An incandescent hall
Old men in dark coats
Large rooms supported
By brick buildings
Sunlight idling across
Tall many-paned windows
And in the corner
A rainbow on the chalkboard
A mobile of planets
Hanging over a desk
Upon which
Two magnets are frozen
In dance
Ball bearings roll across
A sloping notebook
And the distant clock tower
Chimes the hour
Change
Change is good, that’s what they say.
Look at what we did.
Don’t look at what used to be.
Get ready, they proclaim.
“Yes we can!”
Change A comin,
with shiny promises,
and a clean smell come-on.
Now we already know,
change neither right nor wrong.
Everything is in range,
Change
Only begets
More change.
Casino
Repeatedly I am tempted by tempters,
and temptresses.
Can I bring you a drink?
Light your smoke?
Tell you a joke?
Repeatedly the money is around,
its slides through my hands
like rice brown
Into a pan
Three children I have sired:
Happy. Lucky, And Reason.
All have repeatedly died.
Afternoon comes and I rest
On the laurels of the day
until tomorrow’s play.
That Saddle
The old one hanging mute,
with ghostly voices.
A silent witness
once straddled to
partner steed.
On the horn, embedded
coffee stains.
Under yoke,
equine sweat streams
with trail motes.
In the seat rising,
deals were made.
There blood dropped,
A signed ink spot,
proof of the closing.
Latigo silver stirrup,
and on the lashing,
is that salt deposit
from a young girl crying?
What stories were told
From this campfire pillow,
to faces simmering
by mesquite glow?
As the wind rushes up
to hear the trees rattle.
Then after first light,
slowly rides another morning.
Yet, how many
high noon’s burning
descended on
that saddle?
Bashos’s Dream
A morning full of
small decisions -
white rice or brown
The Cloud and the Hill
The hill tends forest offspring.
Her soil nourishing their home.
She continues communion
with her children.
The cloud reaches down to them
yet he is only here for now.
He delivers rains
then migrates.
Birthday Window
I arise to warm black coffee on my lips
And view a frozen Liatris.
A cardinal couple arrives
on the backyard table.
He in finest red,
she dressed neutral.
Studying the deck,
They flutter behind glass,
and finding no food
they leave me,
in their path.
Absentee Candidate
Senator Tom called today.
He left an urgent message on our answering machine.
We had returned from the mailbox
we heard him remind us to vote.
Yet we finished mailing our ballots
after observing a television blackout.
Senator Tom called
How did he know?
The Cat Is
The dogs are in
No doubt about it.
They just ran in
the door.
The cat went out
Or is she back?
In or out or in?
The habitat
of a cat
resembles
quantum motion.
One moment
Your’re sure
They are here.
The next is quite uncertain.
My Time
The cars leave their spaces
The sun sets
The pavement races
Beneath my pads
Over there
Two women are walking
One dressed in blue
One smelling
Like women sometimes do
Stop
Bicycle crossing
Where did he come from?
Fields up ahead
Barrow ditch grasses
Evening cricket percussion
Wait!
Rib cage itches
Ahh hind quarter thrashes
I’m hungry
What’s that sound, kibbles?
Run
Run faster
The woman pack leader is calling
Again I hear her
Calling me out of my time
into dinner time
Linda In Charge
When you find yourself on the nursing unit
with your question,
you are informed by the secretary
with her answer
as to who and what.
But where is this person?
A walk down the hall
And there she is.
Diminutive, moving quickly
among those in need.
Actively engaged in her work,
that thing which biophysics attempts to explain.
She represents the cervical vertebra
of a fragile healthcare system spine,
constantly assessing the hail
of an ever changing
environment of people and medicine,
in a substantial role dating back to Nightingale.
Standing there, she is prioritizing needs,
then suddenly delegating pieces
to assemble an ever changing
jigsaw persona called care,
that hurls ahead to the mechanized sound
of a distant time clock.
What looms is something resembling a finish line
there on the event horizon of the final hours.
It's A lighted room
where with pen in hand,
her evening counterpart
awaits a report.
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Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.09.2009
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