When I Read David Budbill Died

David Budbill was I poet who lived in VT, died last September. He often referred to himself as "Mt. Judevine," borrowing the meme of the ancient Chinese Tao poets, who used the name of the mountain they lived on as their own.
Leonard Cohen was more commonly well known. Google him if you need his deets.


When I Read David Budbill Died

  When I read David Budbill died
I heard no Judevine mountain cry,
  No one enlightened glorified,
No breath detained to sake his name,
  It’s oaks still waive and toss the same

  When black dressed Leonard Cohen passed,
What changed his songs, made us bereft,
  Since then has his voice cracked, or cleft,
As if old Hamlets’ ghost had breath,
  As if a hallowed voice bore heft

  We poets spin wide webs of words,
In gravitas, we beg be heard,
  Then we depart, on wings like birds,
When we take rest in the constant Earth,
  Will the World increase, or shed, in girth?
As light as air,
  Are our words worth

At the Bitter Evening Dusk

Most of what I write, even if religious-y, isn't as squarely formal and pious as this. In my defense, this afternoon I was reading Rainer Maria Rilke, it's his fault, he set me in this mood.
Still, timely for the season. Kinda Advent-y.


At the Bitter Evening Dusk

Lord, at the bitter evening dusk,
  Let Autumn judgements somber Fall,
Fruits of the land decay to husk,
  Long shadows knit into a pall
 
We honest blessed of your harvest,
  Have set our stores of all things good,
The penitent, those whom you test,
  Are welcome share our hearth, our wood

Though longer we must spare your light,
  While grim bone winter grips the night,
We shall with warmth of Faith inside,
  Await the ebb of eventide

Your lifting darks’ catastrophe,
  Beyond our means, grant in your ways,
Your gifted child, our majesty,
  Restore us life, come fruitful days
    

Dark Blue Dress Suits

This time of year, this dark patch we have between Thanksgiving and Mid-December/Holiday stuff, always reminds me of 1989. I had just barely met Christine, yet was still seeing someone I'd seen on and off since the summer.


Dark Blue Dress Suits

She wore me like she washed her laundry,
  cold/cold, optional second rinse if wanted

I heard her friend privately whisper to her
  "Who’s this?"
"I’m just trying him on,"
   "If he doesn’t fit just let me know,"
The friend lives on the first floor in her same building

Two days later, ringing at her apartment building door,
  the friend opens her window, says
"I guess she’s out, you can hang out with me ‘till she returns,"
  Beacon Hill and our Boston Common love,
When she turned up, she sent me out for Dark Leggs
  while (I knew) she called the guy she called her boyfriend

She wanted to leave at the intermission of the Nutcracker,
I’d never seen the Second Act before,
  a balloonic tour of cultural world dancers,
After cheap eats we watched "To Kill a Mockingbird"
  on a B&W TV at her place,
She didn’t know Boo Radley was Robert Duvall

4 am, in bed, I'm lying with her and to myself,
So I rolled over and caressed her there, she woke up and said,
  "Ken, what’s wrong?"
Dark blue dress suits and purple eye shadow,
  why am I doing this?
I’d recently met a nice girl at work

　

Midnight Mouse

I began writing this last February, then our Fluffy died (early March) and I needed time off.
Now it's getting cold again, the post seems timely.


Midnight Mouse

They look with intent from their window perches,
He in the higher, crouching chin over the edge,
She in the lower, upright with her head a tilt,
There is something out the window ledge,
… moving, … doing, … what?
Their heads turn right… left… right…

For amusement, I hung
  a Winter feeder out the window, on a level where they rest,
Clear suction cups hold up a tray, where
  daily my fingers kick out the snows, and
Scoops of seed bring on the tits, the chick’dees,
  gay green and red Cardinals,
Call it ‘Cat TV,’ and 
  pouncing ensues!

Yet tonite no bird takes interest,
  none will leave it’s common roost,
They remain heaped in tree hollows, under eaves,
  warm in their numbers with the common flock

The ghostlight Moon blues on phosphorescing snows,
  cat heads right… left… again,
She pounces at the window edge, where
  glass clear of ice partitions prey from paws

‘Ha ha Cats! I’m eatin’ yer seed…"
 
  as I rise to investigate, I see
A whippy tail cliff dive from the ledge without a ‘chute,
  likely back in the hedge from whence it climbed,

And have I told you?
  I’ve seen droppings in the basement!

(I know, it's a bulfinch not a mouse. Still best pic I could steal offa the Goog!)

Black Band for a Placard

I concede, I'm 55 years old, and I've become a ranting curmudgeon.
I hold the truths of this rant to be self-evident.


Black Band for a Placard

They don’t hand out political signs anymore,
  I had to buy this one, online, $12.00 + shipping $18+ !
I put the sign up day it came,
  ‘bout a week before election day,
After we voted we stuck pur ‘I Voted’ stickers on it,
  that night, you know what happened

Now that’s near two weeks gone
  and the sign’s been up longer after the election than it was before,
Somethings, we just don’t wanna let go

She wanted to keep it in the garage, but
  I don’t wanna be reminded everytime I need a tool or the lawnmower,
I thought we should tie on black armbands,
  make a toast with the best Irish whisky, Schlanta!
Then dig a plot and lay it rest with a bouquet of roses,
  maybe ask the neighbors kid with the trumpet to pump taps 

And I go out
  and it’s gone!
Some cracker stole my yard sign,
  week ‘n a half after the election!

I’ll call the police!
  "No, we don’t investigate political shenanigans,"
I'll write a letter to the editor, all punctuation marks!
  "%$*#@(*)!",
   no, they’ll think it’s from some funny pages character,
Call my insurance, I’ll fail a damn claim!
   "No, we only insure for the current value of an object, not the cost,"
Which, two weeks after an election fer someone ain’t gonna run again, is
  butt kiss!

Is it not enough our votes go uncounted?
Is it not enough the electoral college disenfranchises all votes
  for a candidate once over 51% in a district?
Is it not enough electoral college votes cost only one third
  the number of voters in rural states over urban ones?
And today, is it not also too much,
  to be told even the tokens of remembrance,
  for the values, the progress, for the candidate, we believed in,
Have become so worthless in this nation?

Next door I hear the kid, and
   the shrill trumpet that bellows ever louder

The Pale Male Experience

2006, February, after a week in Connecticut, spent my last day in a bird watching expedition. Kinda one of those life list things that I'd always wanted to.
Somewhere in my clutter and my irretrievable jpegs there really is a picture of me, in my birdwatching camos, having a character meet & greet with The Donald (and no, not that one!).
Id'a posted it if I could'a found it.


The Pale Male Experience

Walked up 5^th Avenue from GCT,
Met Donald Duck in the Disney Store,
  had two dry martini’s with a lemon twist in an empty Oak Bar,

They served me even though I wasn’t ‘dressed,’
Maybe they thought my camo pants were military,
  maybe they thought who gives a fuck

Half an hour later. behind the boat pond,
Two men at a park bench share a telescope,
  white, yard long, on a tripod

"Heard they found the female near the Delacorte,
  believed she caught a poison rat,"

Searching not up in the night sky,
Nor in the Easts’ vast cloudless blue, but
In the Winter’s afternoon sunlight, warming
  on a ledge of sticks

"A new bitch already flown in,
  hawks bond with the nest, he won’t mind"

February’s come and mating season’s on, as
St. Valentines, lewd Cupids ubiquitous sex race-start gunshot
  commences the rapture of all raptors

He’s a handsome hawk, whiter than most,
Stout, sturdy, look at you like he has only two thoughts, 
  kill you, or ignore you / don’t care,
She's his junior, deeper colors but still paler than most,
Clean, hawkishly demure, likely born & raised in Westport, maybe Darien,
  a Connecticut girl!
He’s standing on her back

Chillin’ in the cold shadows, I wonder too,
Is Woody Allen at home? His apartment’s next door,
Writing a new movie? Has he found
  the top of his old portable typewriter?
And the Arabs, are they behind the curtains with blinds drawn,
  covering the window, under the nest?

"Lived in a condo under a fat chick upstairs,
  banged her fat man every night,
  thought they’d cave in on me!"

"Imagine fucking neighbors like these,"
   he said, looking again at the love birds through his glass

It Could’a …

I know I mentioned Ted on the Facebook link, but it's not really about Ted, or the church mouse or the organ.  More like one of those private moments you have on a Sunday morning.


It Could’a …

From over there I heard a… note?
  … a sumpin’,

It could’a been the microphone amp,
  pickin’ up AM talk radio again,
  even though no radio’s around

It could’a been the church mouse,
  who leaves sunflower shells behind the hall radiator,
  no one knows where he gets them

It could’a been the cross wind draft,
  howlin’ encore notes through the organ pipes,
It could’a been Angels in the up above,
  wingin’ in clouds, askin’, "Who? Who?"
It could’a been the horned owl, on the pinnacle cross
  atop the west wall keystone, at the roof peak,
Like the Angels the owl ain’t visible in sunshine

It could’a been the ghost of gone Ted Albin, parish albino,
  had diabetes so bad he was blind,
I once offered him a hymnal,
  "You know, I’m blind!"
  "I know, I just wanted to help…"

It could’a been that note, you know,
  the one that comes when everyone’s singin’ that hymn,
  the note that no one sings, but everyone together makes

It could’a been that thing the Unitarians say I imagined,
  I mean, it could’a …  

Flying Horses

Existential validation often arrives hand in hand with every day life. And, there are also the simple loving memories of Martha's Vineyard vacations with my Christine. 


Flying Horses

I like it,
  I’ll keep it,
Well not IT, there’s only one, and they’ll need itback for the next round,
  but the free ticket they gave me!
I wanted to, and framed it,
  to show my grandchildren

"Hon, what are they doing?"
"They’re reaching for rings. If you get the brass ring, you get a free ride,"

We mounted our steeds,
  ‘hundred plus year old wooden horses, glass eyed,
  horse hair manes, and tails, fancy old paint,

"Once some guy got upset, and getting off he kicked one of the horses,
  can you imagine, kicking one of these precious old horses?"

The gate bell rang,
  and we ran to the carnival organ,
Kids ahead reached out,
Some tried hooking a ring on each finger, to grab at more than one,
So did I, pinky, ring, middle, index,
  all were tin and I cast them in the box

Come around again, I lean out, hold on, balance
  pinky, ring, middle, index,
Four more in the box

She said "They’re getting near the end of the song,"
  and, "Sometimes they have to refill the rings,"

Pinky, ring, middle, index,
 again

She said, "We’re stopping, I didn’t see, did anybody pull the ring?"
  "Hon, hon, look!"
  "Where?"
I pointed up with my index finger,
  as Michealangelo’s Adam, reaching for God, I said,
  "Hon, hon, look!"

It was near closing, the lines were long, they offered me popcorn,
  "Popcorn, that's so impermanent,"
So that’s what that is,
  and that’s why I’ve kept it, framed on the wall

2000 O’Twenty

A similar theme to AutoVerks (see a few weeks ago), When technology puts us all out of work , who is gonna buy the crap they make?


2000 O’Twenty
(imagine; a city street pots‘n pans robot, doin’ the macarena)

I’m 2000 O’Twenty,
I was installed to save some money,
Employing people cost too much and had to go

I think in digits making widgets,
Twice as productive as all humans,
And I will never need a break to use the can

If there a problem with your gadget,
And our widgets fit your budget,
There’s a pile of them outside there by the sign

At first rich people bought our product,
Then once all humans had been well plucked,
Our auto-boss could not see we were fucked

Now we robots don’t buy widgets,
We’re just repetitative midgets,
Who it costs less to keep on running than turn off

Once monied people bought our product,
But now the boss has yet to deduct,
That with all people out of work they cannot pay

They gave us robots all the jobs,
People got poor and dressed like slobs,
And for awhile they ran around in rioting mobs

Since no one’s paid for one in years,
There’s no one left who can I fear,
But we’ll keep on making them until the end of time

It’s 2000 and twenty nine,
There’s no more people on the Earth,
The World is run by ants, and we’re all doing fine

The roof has sprung a leak,
My arms they groan and squeek and creak,
Someday I’ll rust in place but ‘till then I don’t mind

Dark Shadows

Fair disclosure, nothing here to do with Banabus Collins. Mostly a sort of Halloween hangover with a dash of self loathing and karma.


Dark Shadows

The Dark Shadow stalks, intending to usurp,
  always it steps in my shoes,
  and sits in the seat I am bowing to first,
I have tried jumping up, but then when I come down,
  it is back in my tracks once again

Nine lives past I was a cat, hated my tail,
  vexed I’d growl and scratch it at,
Bolt up runaway, only to
  hiss and slash all the more
  when it pursued me to the other room,
Cat can’t run from it’s tail,
  that’s just chasing a bad reputation

Terrible things, now
I know what I’ve done, and those tales
  still follow me too,
The sunlight of day will not burn it away,
  the cast of the sun lays it out,
Even surround me in a circle of klieg lights,
  my shadow still howls underfoot 

Scat cats, curse another,
  yet the others keep pointing me out,
It’s the ball and the chain that both waxes and wanes,
  it’s the shadow one cannot turn out

And, it’s the secret that creeps,
  back on into my seat,
And the kitten that naps,
  on my world weary lap,
When I sit with the Buddha
  and still

When I

Some years ago, while being treated for depression, a clinician told me that were I a child, they'd likely diagnose me with ADHD and prescribe Ritalin. But since I'm an adult now, they don't do that.
With the Facebook link to the poem is a link to the cartoon mentioned, if you're interested.
Please, if you go, come back and read more of my poetry.


When I

When I could not make way for tears,
The rain did that for me,
When I could not have fun for years,
The moonlight let me see

Within a world outside of me,
To others only did things happen,
I heard letters ADHD,
Never believed I was misshapen

I saw a cartoon schoolboy with,
Schoolwork papers writ in Danish,
I thought the boy shoud eat them all,
He looked so pale and famished

　

Reading Sutras

Actually it was Han-Shan I was reading, same ancient Chinese Tao poet who inspired David Budbill.
So Sutras? Meh! Artistic license requires no road test.


Reading Sutras

   A paper wall divides me from my friend,
which Max the Cat, unrepentant, paws, claws down,
and walks over as the Panther through the grass

  I laugh to see him cross my lap,
strolling upon the roadmap to Heaven, without
  understanding he isn’t uninformed,
and I ask what value has my souls’ immortality,
  to push away this warmest of all friends?

 

 

Ten minutes later, writing this,

  and I hear a hum,

my cellphone? the radio? a fog horn?

  no, just snoring donut Max,

docking at the ports of slumber

Olde New England Leaves

That time of year again, the SAD kicks in. Been lazy in the writing department.
Anywho, a seasonal piece, posted in it's appropriate season for a change;


Olde New England Leaves

 Doing thirty miles-an-hour and
  diggin nice the breeze,
On an autumn Saturday,
  all the New England trees
Are God colored,
  when next I see,
What in hell is this?
  it was an rustic handwrit sign, read,
 
 ‘Olde New England Leaves!
You rake ‘em, You take ‘em,
          - and Free!
 Come on on in, puh-lease?’

Then and there that sign lit as touch paper
  the warm memories of I as a child,
Those youthful leaf raking weekends
  and then the thing that we did next!

So I turned off with a signal and a skid and I asked,
  "Ok, what is it I buy?"
The rustic Yankee Farmer just pointed to his shed, and said,
  "Son, you just give that rake a try!"
Its’ handle was worn, smooth, pure
  strong broomstick stock,
Though raking up his yard was hard work, sure,
  it rekindled youthful feelings, strong and good,
You could ask, "Ought need I a pair a gloves,
  or else I’ll get a blister?"
No thank you, Mom! Today I’m workin’, I’m a man!
   and I won’t be cryin’ like my sister! 

When time came that I’d got those leaves
  all raked up in a pile,
The Farmer handed me a big trash bag,
  but I, with my smirkiest smile, said "No!"
And with a tint of adventurous drama, asked
  "May I climb up on your roof?"
That’s when he started starin’ at me, like I was
  one profoundly ludicrous goof,
Yet then he went in the shed and brought out for me
  his clanking aluminum ladder,
That, frankly, was the answer to,
  all right now that really mattered

And there, from that high corner place, I jumped!
   out over the biggest autumn leaf pile in the world…
Extending my arms, like a swan or dove,
  I felt I flew for kind of a while,
And next when I hit that Big Leaf stack,
  it exploded!
Orange…yellow… leaves… blowing up in the air,
  all which soon down settled in a second round of autumn
Everywhere! all over again,
 
So, then I drove home,
  smugly content to be leaving those leaves
No different from how they’d been
  when first today, I’d reminisced again, on 

Damn, those Olde New England Leaves!

AutoVerks

Had an online discussion with a friend about the Luddites. Today, we face a future where, with every worker replaced by robots, all the Fruits of the Loom and all the self driving cars will be unaffordable to the unemployed, and all that cheap robot made stuff will pile up unsold, 'cause robots don't buy stuff. 


AutoVerks

My name is Yon Yonson,
I live in Wisconsin,
I verk at the AutoVerks plant


I verk 9 to 5,
Cheap wage keeps me alive,
I’m a cog in a car making giant

I valk to my verk,
Though I feel like a jerk,
I am saving to buy me a car

But wid’ kids and a wife,
And all normal life’s strife,
What I make ‘dere does not go so far

AutoVerks had an idea,
Dat dey test in the media,
To make people mistakes obsolete

Dey’ll make self driving cars,
Dat go near and go far,
And vill keep people safe on der street!

I show up to verk von day,
They give the severance pay,
And make new auto-cars by machine

They lay us off in lots
Put in Asian robots
And the plant’s running lean and sooo clean

Now I can’t buy dat car,
So I has to walk far
To see if ‘dere’s vork in ‘de town

And vid out any jobs,
Ve’re awl dirty poor slobs,
Who cannot afford AutoVerks cars!


Wid no jobs and no money,
It don’t seem all dat funny,
Dat robot cars is all going unsold!

As I valk down the street,
It’s a constant ‘beep beep,’
From ‘dese no people cars running ‘round!

And ‘dere’s so many of ‘em,
Run in packs by the dozens,
I risk life ven I valk out in street!

Pouring Tea

Several weeks ago, Christine found the obit for Vermont poet David Budbill in the Sunday Globe. It says he wrote of Vermonters, but must of what I’ve read of his reveals his love for ancient China and Taoist verse.
This is my kow-tow to Bubill.
The pun is not mine originally. It was a Broadway show.


Pouring Tea

 You have gone to market,
  there to sell your wares,
I, under blue sky sun,
  sit, while last nights snow
  drips from pine boughs, 
Pure clear droplets,
  count to ten, again

Alone, pouring yellow tea,
  I lift my pot higher over the cup,
  makes loud the dribbling sound, and
Reminds me,
  ’ur’in(e) town

Rock and the Labyrinth

Lately, once a month I've been attending a "Labyrinth," call it a sort of new age prayer service on a cloth labyrinth (much as like pictured). The friends of the church who run it, the C.O.T.W. (Christians on the Way) also look after homeless people.
You wouldn't believe it if you hadn't been there.
Need a pair of socks?


Rock and the Labyrinth

They are a homeless couple, who
  became a couple in transience,
They are rock,
  what flavors would you add?

At the maw of the muslin labyrinth I stand,
  meditation, prayer, thoughtful steps to come,
A woven basket of polished stones
  offers me it’s pick,
Each engraved with Faith, Hope, Charity,
  synonyms of our New Age in Christ, 
Each a virtue to carry to the center,
  then to leave or carry out,
Yet I search for one says "Rock!"
  for rock is rock, it needs no affectation,
Yet no rock says "Rock!"
  ‘cause, they are rocks, 

Like a zen novice I count the steps for breath,
  all two-hundred twenty to the center of the circle,
Where others rocks are left, but none say "Rock!"
  they read Blessed, Courage, Perseverance,
Maybe, could I add these to my prayers?

After the walking period the homeless man asks
   "What is a labyrinth?"
She answers "You should have walked it!"
   "I liked watching you do it,"

Hope, Charity, Transience,
  Blessed, they are rock.

Cloudy Weather

For years there's been a hawk whose territory covers our yard, most of the near neighborhood and most of Bentley college across the street. He was a ratty old bird, and I think he's still around, but he never perched on the roof next door.
This new bird, could be a fight. Wasn't today.


Cloudy Weather

There’s a new hawk in town,
  could be the reason I’ve seen no rabbits this season,
Old one used to be stripy brown in front,
  ratty ugly head to tail,
New one look like he got a butlers starch dickey on
  above a brown belt, under manor tweed wings,
He’s the country gentleman who hunts as the gillie,
  ‘n then dines formal,
     "Pass the port,"

Who’s now roost upon the neighbors roof peak, 
  where silhouette gray skies point his noble beak,
Stern clear eyes surveys his demesne,
  his next meal set to seek,
While today, cloudy weather lifts no thermals,

The ol’ bird could still be around.
Someday could be a fight,
Or 'course, can’t tell which's a girl or boy with raptors, 
   ever try to stick yer pinky up a hawks cloaca?

"Hey Hawk!," I say by way of introduction,
"There’s chipmunks in my yard a’ times,"
   and
"I kinda like ‘em, cute, but you could take one, or two,
  sometimes, alright?"
He don’t speak. ‘s –o-kay, he's a bird,
And I’ve run outta things to say,
I’m sure we’ll speak again some day

The Rental Urn

Incidentally today would be my Father's 87th B'day. In 2007, when he died, remembering how he had always wanted a sailing yacht, we got one etched on his urn. He used to make lamps out things when we were kids. Port wine bottles, copper condensation pots from a Prohibition Era still, some funereal looking gift vases.
Thank God he'd grown out of that before my Mother died in 1979.
Now forget all that, 'cause this poem is not about my Dad.


The Rental Urn

With the mortician I sat finally to make plans,
Just wanting something simple, to be loved in younger hands,

"We have this urn, top of the line, jeweled, bedazzling, makes any mantel’s center piece,"
"Seems sharp edges could hurt little hands, too high a price for such caprice,"

"There’s this one, forged in brass, plaited with gold, a pleasing gift for those in grief,"
"This urn of gold is more than I’m worth, in death I’d not want tempt the thief,"

"There is one, the rental urn, you lease it, effective when you’re dead,
Then your family simply returns it, once your ashes have been spread,"

"No, that won’t do,"
"We’re running out of options. Now, how’m I gonna get you in a your classy urn today?"

"Can you sell me loving hands,
Those who’ll hold me long in need,
Without of which, what good’s your pitch,
   For what’s an urn in deed?"

Franken Bench

This Tuesday, Oct 11th, would be my Fathers' Birthday. He'd be... well 9 years older than when he died in 2007. For those who haven't read other poems I've written of my Dad, he had the Alzheimer's in later years and was fun to spend a week with. But I was once an unintelligible kid, and he raised me, so...

Franken Bench

How should I write of my Father?
To muse on him, spend time again,
Be with he who raised me as I am,
The dear one whom, being lost, is no ghost,
   But as I recall, loved me the most


Bobbie said,
"There’s a box in the basement store room,
  Andrew put it there,
Why don’t you take your Father,
  it’s a bench for the garden,
Get your Father’s wrench set,
  and this afternoon
You can help him put it together
  and then bring it up outside,
That should take up some time
  while you’re with him this afternoon"

My preference was to take him to lunch and a      movie,
But as he threatened to throw a plate at the waitress last time,
  I said, "Ok, we’ll stay here and do that"

While opening the box, its’ copper staples confused him and cut his finger,
  "Ok, Dad stand back," and I unbent the rest with pliers,
When he found the directions he seemed content,
  while I unfolded a beach chair and sat,
Listening as he read aloud the same page three times,
  with reading firmer and louder, the directions successively vexed him,
So I interceded;
  "Dad, it’s only a park bench, it’s not arguing with you,"

Then, "Please, sit, I want to show you something,"
I lined up the carriage bolts and nuts in order of their length,
"See, these long bolts, they hold two of the wood seat slats together,
And these, the middle length,
  they hold the seat wood slats to the metal frame,
And these, the shortest ones, use these to bolt the metal frame parts,
Now there are exactly enough, one for each bolt hole, You got it?"
He gave me back the chair and I sat, watching,
   as he started with the directions at part 3,
But seemed to be tightening the bolts all right with the pliers,
I didn’t ask why not use his socket wrench,
  as, I confess, I fell asleep

When I woke up, "Dad, have you finished it?" 
His voice sounded as if he had, while overcoming certain problems,
   though his actual words were rambling non-sequitors,
Then I noticed the bench was assembled, with all the bolts
  wrong everywhere!
Long ones stuck out where there should be short ones,
Short ones with nuts barely threaded in the wood,
Someplaces the bolt ends stuck out,
   and why are some left over?
Further investigation told me, as he couldn’t, he’d gotten others
  from his storage jam jars in the garage,
Ok, sure, the bench held together, a little wobble,
  but you wouldn’t want to sit in it,
‘Cause this cute dainty garden bench seemed was made
  of a hodge-podge crazy quilt of Boris Karloff necks,
I thought we could fix it, but,
  we decided it was cocktail hour and went upstairs,
  he had a red wine, me a beer, cheese & crackers

Later I told Bobbie about it and she said,
"Don’t worry, I’ll ask Andrew to fix it,"
  and I never saw that bench again

The Ripton Sunset

Woke up this damp morning, read Frost on the morning porch, including Mowing Lawn. And remembered I've been re-writing this sonnet for over two years. As the seasons roll, I thought it with the drying autumn leaves were best put out.
And yes Mike Goodwin, it has something to do with Rob't Frost. 



The Ripton Sunset

There never was a sound from this cottage but one,
Can you hear it? The wind is a scratching pencil,
Etching, revising, a Yankee’s Natural verse,
Share with me the sunset cowl processing behind
Moosalamoo, enshrouding Bread Loaf with the dusk,
Here, this oak tree he leaned against and sat before
While poking fire embers with the sapling stick
Cut for him by Tatoskok, used so every night,
Until well burnt and blackened to a pencil lance,
With which he wrote Vermont’s bold landscapes, sparing scrap,
Sit here on this scone of stones, where he scratched his crown,
(perhaps) while college undergrads attended ‘round,
And count his scores, in this mown field we well know,
Of grass he scythed, made hey, in neat parsed six foot rows

5 Poems - Sometimes, Rainbow, Clam Strip, Moshup in the Clay, Conceit

I have 5 short poems, while I've been posting them one a day, I just want these posted so I can move on. The 2nd, 'Rainbow', I'm dedicating to Mike Goodwin, 'cause he gave me some nice feedback.  You want a poem dedicated to you? Go back to FaceBook, or sign up on here, and tell me what you think. Like your Mama used to say, write a letter to get a letter, er something.


Sometimes

Sometimes, I'm a Christian,
Sometimes, I’m a Buddhist,
Sometimes, I am well dapper dressed,
Sometimes, I’m a nudist,
  Sometimes, I like to Bee

Some people say it’s good to be
One thing, and all the time,
Tho’ if were I compelled to love
The one true only garden flower,
I surely would dance the greatest dance of our kind,
In the exhortation of beatified polygamous flower love,
   to the strictest of all Holy Powers


Rainbow

His perch is high in Nature’s woods,
His color he can’t decide, depends,
  on how he’s set on mood,
He’s blue when skies are clear and new,
And green when naught but leaves are seen,
But heeding caution will turn yellow,
  the closer working Man has been,
He shifts from sallow to orange deranged,
  when Man’s machine’s invade his world,
Glares red, as new outrages fill his head,
  though increasingly by then he’s dead


Clam Strip

A curious thing is the Salt Water Clam,
  usually in bed, under sea,
How the legless ones come on to land
  is a never ending mystery,

Yet, there on the asphalt strip of sidewalk, from
New York Ave through Sunset Park, 
  they lie, (at least their shells do anyway)
Mendacious as having been shed
That these clams are off on a clammy skinny dip,
  out in pea green Sunset Pond,
Thus, when I tell you Fern ‘n Feather campers,
That these clams, like their larger brethren, fly!
In unison you kids all cry;
  "Ahh-Baloney!"

Never minding as overhead there flies
  a kite, in flight, at height,
Is he the Regal Osprey? No, 
  moves more like a Herring Gull, and 
Curious he is about, as
  ‘Crack!’
Another in-flight mollusk makes
  an impact from on high


Moshup in the Clay

Do not touch the cliffs,
  no mud baths, don’t climb their heights,
The cliffs are sacred to the Aquinnah,
Which is why what I saw was odd,
 
It seemed a fan, a clam shell?
A turkey tail? A War Bonnet!
Before which the square jaw,
The jagged nose and chiseled features
Of an ethnic American Native,
  stereotype if drawn by you or me,
But the hand that drafted him was proud,

Etched he was in the cliff clay at Moshup Beach,
  from where he watched the topless bathers,
The naked men who looked,
The nude women who didn’t look back,

Great Moshup, with the whales,
Standing knee high in the ocean,
  holding one up by it’s tail, ‘fore the sunset,
As we trekked back up the trail to the sandy lot
  where the Indian Girl no longer took
    twenty dollar bills for parking,

Great Moshup,
  we are all naked before you,
    you know what we have done,

That night it rained,
  and when we came back
    he had washed away


Conceit

With conceit I track the Butterfly,
His gold-gilt wings downwind,
With magic praise he disappears,
  in meadow grass again

I look upon his landing spot,
Fantastic! He’s not here!
I ask the Grasshopper close by,
  "I’ve not seen him," his curt reply

What fairies are these butterflies,
Who born, so quick, take flight, then die,
So short their brief span over Earth,
  I know,
    Don’t tell,
Let’s leave the ‘hopper have his mirth

 

Kendall Square Box

On my way to MIT yesterday I passed through Kendall Square.
Facebook friends know why.


Kendall Square Box

A man with a box and sign "$ change ?"
Sat on the sidewalk before a chain store

Knowing modern shelters with showers
  his clean cut didn’t faze me,
Only the real drunks look like bums these days

Carrying naught but a debit card I asked
"I have no cash, I could I buy you a sandwich in there?

"No, I wouldn’t want you to waste your money,"
"I have a debit card, I could get you something, a tuna sandwich?"

"I can’t eat out here, anyway someone gave me a ten dollar gift card, I’m all set,"
"You could put the sandwich in your bag, have it later, save your card,"

"No, I wouldn’t want you to waste your money on me,"

Thrice I asked the homeless man,
Thrice I did what ever I can.

"Your mind is set?"

With gasho hands I bid him done,
Told him of charity, I still had some, by saying
"I’ll be coming back through here at five, if you change your mind,"
   at five, he wasn’t there

The Lookback

Once I climbed Mt Moosalamoo. Past Rattlesnake Point, past the ridge top there is a rocky overlook East, looking out over Bread Loaf. Half way up from Lana Falls I did meet a toad. He was cute but it was not a religious experience.   


The Lookback

I met him on the Mountain,
  halfway up the Lookback road,
My colossal boot nearly waffle-stomped him,
  he was camouflaged, he was a toad 

"My Lord, I nearly stepped on you!"
"Good of you to recognize me, for I am he"

Alarming enough a talking toad,
  let alone one who says, he said…
I thought back to breakfast,
  when, yes, I’d taken my meds

"You could give me a hand,
After all these millennia, I being hallowed,
  in my shallow toad pond,
Have decided to climb the Lookback,
  to see how my Creation’s come to be…"
Then I bid him hop in my palm,
  and up the hill we carried on

He asked, "Take me to the end of the World,
  I could only lead him up Mans’ current path,
Up to washout bridges mended,
  up to open spots where angel feather clouds whirled like kettle Hawks,
Through the thick ridgeline wood, where
  blackened oak and moss smelled of lightening fire,
To that final place where our journey ended,
   the Lookback,

Where he said "Heavenly,"

Then;
"I see plastic bottles in the Seas,
  I see grocery bags caught up in trees,
The scent of smoke is in the air,
  must be my forest’s on fire, somewhere,"

The view from there was everywhere,
  Green Mountains gray-scaled in the haze,
The ways of Men were as maps seen edgewise,
  seemed we stood up there for days without a sunset,
On the Overlook, when at last he said;

"Listen to me,
Know that you are of the Earth,
  and never more than it are you worth,
Know that it’s the World gives life,
  and to own her breeds more War and Strife,
Power is given not that you deserve,
  but invested for those you care, that you may serve,
Health is not granted that you may hoard your wealth,
  but to give, that you may ease illness, health is the only wealth,
Do not sow ire, loves’ paths have weeds enough,
Cultivate compassionate fruits, feed as you would be fed,
  for there is too much of wreck and dredge and slough,
You are not permanent, work well
  to leave good memories,
    when you are gone,"

Instead of Amen he said, "I’m done"

We camped the night in silence,
  next morning he still sat on the ledge,
Watching over Mans’ sand castles and anthills,
  which is where I left him, 
Our Lord, Our Toad,
  with his poem wrote, and
    His creation, Man, to goad

A Grin and Gray Bouquet

Yesterday was the anniversary of a church friends' memorial service.
My only regret, this poem seems too much about me and not enough of sharing with her husband and family. Someday I need to get out of myself. Next time I write of a friends death, I'll try to focus on the absence felt by the beloveds' mourners.

 

A Grin and Gray Bouquet

She loved weeds,

  weeds and briar and sage,

Posted blog pages of macro lens

  bracken, cornflower, milkweed with spider webs,

Never a sunflower ‘fore a blue sky gay

  never bright dahlias, lilies by the walk,

All and always a tone meant of late fall gray,
In whatever season she roamed,

  with her camera out that day,
Miss Misunderstood,

  hers was a tale of two glooms,

One to fisheye fingers of death,  

  and one to crack the smile of doom

And when she died (can’t speak of that,

  it’s not for me to lay terms on her Family’s pain)

Her ‘in memoriam’ being proposed,

I thought for her only one kind thing,

  I shall make for her a bouquet!

A sunflower past tall summers grace,
  all seeds by crows pulled from it’s face,
Snips of dried thorned thistle pods

  that drab goldfinches pecked and mobbed,

Brown zinnias, cobwebbed, that matched
   how spry her witch gray hair was thatched,
Stood them in dirt, in an old Ball jar,
   then braced them up in the back of my car

Arriving with them at the church,
   the Family thought they were a mess,

The florist, even more distressed,
As I placed them between a spray of Wild Oscar lilies

  and a Rose-a-sharn display

 

      "Dead flowers, where did you find these?"
      "I brought them,"
      "Give them to me, I’ll throw them out,"
      "I made this bouquet, for Her,"
      "You can’t put that in the floral row,
         we’ll just ‘put it’ over here," as she 

Hid all behind the buffet iced tea cooler

After the service I took them home,

  knowing well they’d not be kept left there alone,

Where I placed them on the porch table,

  there, for a year, that’s where they’ve been,

‘Til last night blew them over with

  a dying Hurricane Hermine,
 

After a moment (with a dust pan

  and broom),

I took them to a flower garden,

  where the derelict Earth reclaims her own,
There I lay them, lend me pardon,

  and smiling let, my friend go home

Garden in the Sky

For the past several years, every time Christine and I see fireworks she laments about the summer garden she used to keep.


Garden in the Sky

Arriving to meet my date,
I found her in her garden, where
The summers’ drought brought on severe blight,
   And she moaned, for her garden was dying
"It hasn’t rained,"
"Oh, Hon,"
"All my work,"
Her Dahlias drooped from their dust bowl danger,
The Sun had deranged her heirloom Hydrangeas,
Even the Yucca, while used to dry sand,
  Was begging for Nature to lend a kind hand,
I stood there as she made a sigh,
   Said of her flowers, "Think I’ll just die!"

           "It’ll be alright,"
           "I’m losing my garden,"
          "That could be good news, you know for my bee allergy"

As planned we drove to the fireworks,
Scheduled Friday night out in Ocean Park,
I parked the car in someone’s yard,
  We didn’t have to walk too far,

          "You didn’t wear your bow tie?"
          "Too hot for bow ties,"
          "Bow ties always look good on guys,"

While we spread our blanket in the dark
she I wouldn’t be consoled by any kind remark,
But when the Booming! Boom! began,
Her face lit up, her pout ran out, 
   She was amazed to see, her garden in the sky!

Chrysanthemums, Nasturtiums,
Daisy Chain Pops with Sparkle Lemon Drops,
The Weeping Willows made her cry,
Yet to wipe her tear she wouldn’t try,
  So full of joy to see, her garden in the sky!

Soft Peonies pink as you please,
Bold Sunflowers crackled with bees,
Geraniums burst very high,
Then bright Bow Ties to dress up guys,
   She fell in love to see, her garden in the sky!

She kissed my hand, called me her man,
She said she loved me, I’m the guy,
Who made her flowers Bloom-Boom-Boom!
   High in her garden, in the sky!

Heart Zinnias Zip-Zapped about,
Forget Me Nots burst with out doubt,
Finally, an Hibiscus Bush with Hummingbirds
  Flew South, migrating, from her garden in the sky,
   
    And she said,
      "Let’s go home now"

To Whom the Praying Mantis

Today's testament deserves a shout out to Roger and all the Jermyn / Hache family, whose pet Mantis is worthy of commemoration. And where it says "I", you needn't think me, think of yourself.
You, you are the gardener.


To Whom the Praying Mantis

To whom the Praying mantis prays?
  I look about, I cannot say,
There’s no one here but he and I,
  Beneath both blue and two-tone skies

I set this garden here about,
  Seed Zinnias and Corm Lilies,
Raked the herbal patch of Winter thatch,
  He showed up later in the Spring

I first thought him a katydid, 
  Growing nymph, glowing green, in season
He was the second stalk on my sunflower,
  Would they could climb by their own power

When I water or I fertilize,
  He’d come out with adoring eyes, 
Much as a dog or cat might beg,
  Between his hunts for bugs and flies

To whom the Praying Mantis prays?
  I’ve kept his Eden to this day,
Now Autumn and he’s turning gray,
  Fading with the light away,

I know they live not but one year,
 His span of seasons have been scored, 
With fear his time is coming soon,
  I pray he does not think I’m Lord




Junryo

Gray, cool, still watching Hermine blow though I thought today was good for a poetry two-fer.
It's semi-true, at Zen Mountain Center we had such a library, and keeping the wood stoves going Fall/Winter/Spring (especially 'Up the Hill') was a Sisyphean chore.
Also, this poem requires a shout out to Josh Bartok, who came to ZMC after I'd left, who sat with us at Hank (a sitting group on Newton), who basically 'IS' BOWZ in Somerville, and who kindly reminded me what the name of that ceremony (Junryo) was.

 
Junryo

Samu, and I’ve been asked neaten these books,
  So I, mindful of neither subject nor author,
Just with full attention to how they look
  Line them up by height,
The better they may fit upon donated shelves, forgotten, 
To sit still the periods of their storied monastic lives

It’s the seasonal residents bring them,
  They’re the baggage of one’s bound ideals,
In season they come, they sit,
  Tea times of an afternoon supply the pitch
For the local leisure sport, discussing what ‘It’ is,  
  "I was here," and "I did this,"
  "I think this," and "You think that?"
Punctuated ‘me me me’s, constant as an opera diva,
  To the applause of one hand clapping,

Yet seasons wane, retreats come to their end,
  The seasonal residents leave, often ‘donating’ books,
Those peeled husks, these snakeskins of the once believed in,
  The dander of their lately sloughed off ‘…ism’s,’
Which we staff, silent as mites, gather while house cleaning,
  And unceremoniously stack here in this corner,
In this ad-hoc library basement under the zendo,
  Don’t ask me about ‘ism’s,’ I have samu to do

Of a time a Monk came by, never mind his name,
 "Looking for a read?" I guessed,
  Though I’d no idea which worst nor best,
 "I need," he said, "Something enlightening,"
  As none I’d read, none I could proffer,
Yet having shelved them for the last hour
  I felt I knew all well enough to offer…
"No, thank you," spoke the monk,
  He fingered a paperback from the short end,
Said, "This … this will do,"
Me: "A tale of Princesses, Knights, Wizards, a Dragon,"
Him: "A light read, it’s pot boiler pulp suit my needs,"
(Cue: awkward pause)
Me: "Tomorrow, Roshi is doing Junryo, the room altars, you’ll
  Be joining us as we make the rounds?"
Him: "I’ll be at work then," adding, "Wash your bowls!"

Morning, zazen, dawn, breakfast,
  Timely at Eight: Ten, Roshi commenced Junryo,
Lighting incense and speaking gathas "Gyo gyo gyo…"
  At each room altar in the Main House, after which
We processed up the hill to the cabins,
  First of which was that monk lived in,
Which was chilly, the fire in his wood stove
  Having long ago, like him, gone out,
Roshi continued his offerings, some phonetic Japanese, as
  I looked to the floor, by the iron and cold wood stove,
Near the kindling, in the scuttles’ alcove
  Was that same book, left lone about,
    The first two chapters having been torn out

The Knock

In Vermont I'd hear this strange knocking sound high in the trees. I used to think they were Pileated Woodpeckers, but last fall I heard the same sound here in Waltham where we have no Pileateds. (Too much Oak in Metro-West Ma, Vt is full of softer pine and birch.)

I know no one publishes poems like this. Still I started it last fall and on this mean Fall Hermine day thought it maybe seasonal again.


The Knock

We think he's some breed of woodpecker
  without a hollow sounding block,
In branches high, no good for drumming,
  instead he speaks just  the word 'Knock!'
Our Sapsuckers when in the mood,
  will drum upon aluminum roofs,
Our Downys squeak a common call,
  their beak’s to meek to drum at all,
Rude Flickers ‘Yip’ from mid tree wood
  where rotting, bugs and ants are good,
Pileateds carve sap wells in trunks,
  silent, and almost as low skunks, 

Yet our Knockers roost so way high,
  where branches wave, too thin and spry,
How can he call his mate to come,
  high up where wood’s too thin to drum?
Then, kind Nature taught him "Say this word,
  since you can’t drum like other birds,"  
That’s why on high you'll hear him call,
  Hello-ing ‘Knock!’
    from Spring to Fall

August 31st

I don't usually date my poems,
(I prefer to date my girlfriend!)


August 31^st

I’ve greeted the hummingbird for years,
  I say ‘Hello,’ though naught she hears,
She looks a finger on the wing,
  An emerald the breezes bring,
She needlepoint’s each tatted flower,
  Then off she zips, magneto powered

Soon Autumns’ wind will brag and boast,
  Then tail wind her down the coast,
Flower petals will fall, broad trees will brown,
  And in orange hours earlier,
We’ll hold hands
  And watch our Sun go down 

Beans

Today, a love story… (queue music)
Where shall I begin…?


Beans

The day she reclaimed her old Spring nest
  We made no bold fanfare,
Just, from invisibility over that
  Straw grass mess,
Pop! That morning she was there

Those next few weeks I’ll not forget,
  I grew to think her like a pet,
As I stirred my morning eggs,
  So she turned hers,
Often would I talk to her,
  She being a good listener
She, of course, never spoke a word,
  She, who waited by my kitchen door,
Always poised, that demure bird,
  Had become the mourning dove that I adored

After her broodlings hatched,
  I dared only painfully, so quietly, to turn the latch
Then tip-toe, quiet as a cat, past the nest,
  Stealing my way, out my own kitchen door!
As they grew, I knew,
  Their time to fly would come around,
When I found, on my shoes and on the ground,
(this ‘ground’ here being the cement apron before the garage)
  That which under birds’ nests is commonly found,
Beans, little black beans, with white bird poop eyes,
  Imagine them the negative of black eyed peas

Then came the dawn, looked out the door,
And saw that they were there…
  No more,

Three days later with a broom and dust pan
  I swept up the beans,
And carried them around back,
  The Beans,
Beans, from which no magic stalk shall grow,
Beans, to dissolve into the Earth,
  Or for spare blanket, just the Winter snow,
Beans, upon old summers dead garden to throw,
Beans, though these were are all that I had left
  To console my pining heart, bereft,

I tossed them away…

The Sun Can See

I know, I’ve been going to an Episcopal Chruch since ‘06. 10 years? I like it. I call it Vitamin People! But, on the fear of Hell or the discernments of Heaven, there are just some old Buddhist weeds I haven’t pulled yet.
Maybe won’t.


The Sun Can See

The Sun, it sees no shadows
  As it’s glow enlightens Earth,
It does not cast our darker moods,
  By which we judge our worth

At times I’m crooked, sometimes ill bent,
  At times my lenten angel shows,
As I stand, lit, in enlightenment,
  My shadow shapes dance me below,

Say, what swallows catch our egos,
  As we rise proudly in rebirth?
The Sun but sees it’s radiance show,
  As it nurtures us on Earth

Nor a Cozy Hudson Valley House

Today, after a recent purchase on Amazon.com (not an endorsement) I wrote a review of H.G. Wells "First Men in the Moon." This is an exaggeration of that review;


Nor a Cozy Hudson Valley House

I and my friend Wells packed for
  A trip we’d planned for all alone,
Not on Fire Island,
  Nor a cozy Hudson river home,
But our three day stay weekend on the Moon!

We packed water biscuits and dry good triscuits,
  Cellophane saltines wherever they would fit,
Boxes of crackers in wax paper wrappers,
  And drove off in Wells Volkswagon stick,
On reflated helium tires pumped
  With little rubber stoppers

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control,
I’m driving in my camisole,
  It doesn’t cover everything
Leaves some to ‘magination,
  Despite all this thin air up here,
No problems with ignition!"

Nearing the moon Wells turned with a swoon,
  As we rumbled down off the gang plank,
And bless out Stars! We had made good time,
  And still had us half of a gas tank!

With his paring knife Wells cut a slice
  Just as pretty as you please,
Only to choke, and kinda half throw up,
  Exclaiming, "The moon, it’s not made of cheese!"

Still, though the tide was way out,
  We decided to romp in the dutch,
We’d been told this was a gay moon beach, but
  Found that all Moon Men are dead straight butch!

"This is ground control to Major Tom,
You’re getting "stares," and "how do you dares,"
  Is it something has gone wrong?
Better put your suit back on…
  Better put your suit back on…"

Thus were we taken prisoner by
  The Straight Men in the Moon,
Is wasn’t funny, with their Muffin Top Wives,
  Leading straight suburban lives,
And all their two-point-three Moon kids
  Strapped in their Moon baby buggy SUV’s

And that’s when Wells had THE idea, saying
  "Does anybody know some show tunes?"
And together we proceeded to do
  The musical we’d rehearsed together,
Called "Drag Race Banana Beach Riot!"

For which the moon people just wouldn’t stay quiet!
  Howling, like a pack of Moon Wolves at the Earth,
Waiving their arms (of which they had six),
  Up in the air like they just don’t care,
In a lunatic ecstasy of mirth
 
Now, you just won’t believe me,
  But that’s when we discovered
The Moon is really a kinky place, where
  The Moon Men wear makeup,
And Moon Women strap things
  Onto both of their hips,

But you didn’t hear that from my lips!

Get Fuzzy...

Today was Christines' Birthday. Got Foods from the 99, had prezzies on the porch. And she gave me this cartoon, from last Sundays' funnies.
When a girl gives a poet sumpin' like this, we lissens'!

Again! (For Our Athletes’ Return)

Seen enough of the Rio Olympics?
There'll be a vacuum when they're over...tomorrow.


Again! 
  (For Our Athletes’ Return)

When first you met an apparatus,
  The track, the beam, the mat,
Whose first poke prodded you ‘climb on?’
  Run down, climb up, jump over?
What bound enthrallment’s lock on you,
  That you went back
    Again?

Are there words for your intangible desire?
  Men and Women too often return to brutal lovers,
And you’ve been knocked down,
  Bruised, suffered ignoble injuries,
Breathless chasing the endless mile,
  Take the stand for another trial,
Does it really love you like none else.
  That you go back
    Again?

Your world is a stoic pyramid,
  Where athletes all, in teams and blocks,
Are but foundation stones, square cut and base,
  For others to step and climb above,
Or perhaps you step on them, to find,
  That you crush them like grapes to wine,
Feeling deserving, you’ve got the right
  To stand on Mt. Olympus heights,
Until, sic transit gloria mundi,
  You fall back down
    Again

Yes you, the naked challenger.
  With no triumph yet to bear,
And you, the just once honored,
  Having tasted the rarified air,
And you, Victor, with twenty-eight,
  Whom one would think no longer cares,
What straw boss whips you on to pare
  One tenth of a second, gain
One tenth of a point, set
  For the ten-thousandth time,
You’ve suited up, gotten rubbed down,
  Chalked it up, done your cool down,
And now has come the time 
  For you to claim your crown
   Again!

I loved you when a little child,
  I love you more today,
I’ll love you more next year, in four,
  When you return
    Again!