Butch

My last of February. In respect of Black History Month, I’ve been reading African- American poets, Harlem Renaissance and such. I’ve been wanting to understand the voices of poetry, although I’m sure likely our brothers and sisters neither want nor need me speak for them.
This feels angry, perhaps more so as I feel it’s not for me to say, although it says what I've said when sometimes I've been angered. 


Butch

I was told I’m not a man,
And I told that young man,
  No!

I was told I can’t own land,
And I told that old man,
  No!

I was told "Get outta here,
You and your damn ass disappear"

I been told a lotta shit
And I told all them,
  No!

I am a man and I own land,
And I am telling you,
  I do!

I’m not going nowhere,
But when I want to,
  I’ll Go There!

I earn American green money,
So don’t tell me my credit’s
  Funny,

I ‘m here, I’m now, and I shall vote,
I’m telling you, you best 
  Take Note!

You Haters preach, but I don’t care,
You put away your spiteful stares,

I will be free, I do declare,
And Yes!
  I’m telling you!

Young Merlin’s Old Blog

Ever read someone's blog and realize each post is a step back in time? I was reading our Church Rector's blog yesterday and noticed that. (She'll be leaving us next week, like I haven't said that before.) I've also another friend who died a year and a half ago. Her husband still posts pictures, and her nature blog of dead plants is still up. And the further you go back, the younger and more innocent was the blogger.
Blogs is freakin' me out things.


Young Merlin’s Old Blog

With my PC warmed up like a toaster,
  I read old daily postings on your blog,
Wherein, by your memories, you returned to me,
  as re-awoke from seasons past in fog

One writes memoirs from first on to last,
  the end pages the more recent, the beginnings far far past,
Yet your blog begins at the end,
  retreating back to when from when

And I read your thoughts as if raised by Hamlet’s gravedigger,
  resurrected, your old crown and pate fresh above the ground,
I saw hallowed flesh grow back, your lips, those cheeks,
  and you spoke again the wise old elders’ sage advice,
Soon retreating to your younger quips and jokes,
  those you would use with simpler folks,
When an innocent who had no wisdom,
  untaught yet forth from life

As I read on, I began to fear your regressions
  might return you infantile to the cradle,
But no more can one write of being born
  then of that last event, which we all mourn the coming

I saw you were my Merlin,
  and I your simple Wart,
Who passed upon our road our days,
  each walking in our separate ways,
Mine being crude, yours crafting art,
  now a constant dash, no marking dates,
You live yet on in what you’ve wrote,
  where none need bear a mortal fate 

# 193

I'm not usually too OCD about my poem names or when they get posted here. But as I named this #193, and my last was the 192nd on this blog, then I either had to post it now, or change the name. But that would have made it a different poem.  %^P
So, now it must be;


# 193

Well, that’s what poetry does,
Poetry isn’t
  petty and conversational, nor
  protesting and controversial,
Poetry distills the silence of the lonely
  into the elixir vitae of talk, talk that
Speaks volumes on the non-thoughts between
  what lies on our mind and
  the beast at the door

Poetry is all faggots,
  which is why we are ever traipsing faerie woods,
Where faggots become fardels, and fardels then
  the burdens of a generation,
Not yelled from bullhorns,
  nor ignoble in riot,
But quietly wrote, born,
  born to be borne, ever needy, baby crying,
The one thing every body wants,
  the one thing everybody needs;  

"Please, someone, please,
  Could You heal my ill world?"

Hallmark of an Owl

A college friend of mine posted a picture she took cross country skiing.
I could describe the whole damn thing, but then what's the purpose of you reading this poem?
Maybe if she gives me permission I'll post her pic here.
(The one below I "borrowed" off a Google page.)


Hallmark of an Owl

In a morning wood, on cross country skis,
She marked odd tracks by where she stood,
They were the tread marks of a vole,
Abruptly ending with a hint
  Of  bracketing wingtips imprints

She thought, Raven, Hawk or Owl at feed,
Who’d rend smooth snow with two such holes,
What thief in the night could do this deed, to
Silence prey’s prayers as it broke in?

The first hole’s where the vole descended
Once seeing a specter above on a wing,
To then quick tunnel inches further,
Believing himself an invisible thing

A Raven will steal nestling chicks,
Eat carrion, beak bugs, take sticks,
His feet don’t have the talent, though,
To grasp a vole under fine snow

But this winged ghost above the white,
Had better ears than eyes to sight
How far the fleeing vole had got,
Before it struck feet first it's spot

And with that thought, the skier knew,
To hear it’s prey that well,
  this fowl,
Bore all the hallmarks of an owl

The Tigress Widow

For these last few days I’ve enjoyed channeling my inner Kipling.


 The Tigress Widow
  (or, a special tale of love)

There’s an Indian story which I’m told of,
A Bengal tiger in a radio collar
  Was seen romancing his tigress love

By the driver of a mining train,
Upon the banks of the mines’ railroad tracks,
  And often times out on the plain

Until, on time en train as usual,
He saw the tiger jump out before,
  The resulting strike was brutal

Hours later on his return route,
He saw the tigress standing by him,
  Her mate was dead, no doubt

He reported this to the railway,
Who reported that to the game wardens,
   Who eventually found his collar five miles away

"But, if he died on the tracks, who moved his collar so far off?"
"She ate him,"  

Rusted Trowel

Unusually timely for me. Usually these things need a month or so to settle out. 
I wish I could post every of my poems in their right season.


Rusted Trowel

Revealed by the melting snows,
I found a rusted trowel today,
Just remained where it had lain, it seems,
Hibernating winter’s cold away

I used it with my snow blower,
When slush and ice clogged up the chute,
I left it by the mail box post,
Of how it moved, it’s lips are mute

Red as a hawk, or an old woodchuck,
It’s grown a rust patina since,
Molting the yearling’s chrome plating
That shined so bright it made me wince

It’s Spring return is timely though,
Despite these dormant months in snow,
Soon garden seeds we’ll plant enough,
And how much weeding, who can know?

Yet February’s chill still sings,
Too early to plant green things,
At night the coupling owls hoot,
  so for now,
It scrapes the mud off of my boot

Sleepy Oaks

Just read Frosts’ ‘Good Hours.’ Always a wonder how simple and plodding his lonliness is. It’s as if some mindful poetic reaction – not unlike a computer virus - took all my memories of empty cottages, combed them straight and laid them out in iambic rhyming rows.
That never happens when I read the Beats.
PS: That's not me in the pic. That's my younger brother Neil. I'm jus' sayin'.
　

Sleepy Oaks

When I returned to Sleepy Oaks,
I thought I heard my cousins and folks,
The old gray cottage standing still,
Gray clapboards window sill to sill

The face of old Mount Moosalamoo
Has cliff faces which to me used to
Look like roads flat on the hill,
I look at them, they seem so still

I walked down the old gravel way,
Which had not changed much since the day
When a kid I stumbled, playing drunk,
With an orange soda, ‘hic’, I thunk

But it’s the inside of this cottage |
Wherein we stayed, we played, we aged,
Our old voices I hear with ease,
Or are they oak trees, on the breeze?

Boxer

As it’s Black History Month, I’ve been reading African-American poetry. Someday I’d like to properly, and respectfully, learn to write with their perspective This is one attempt.
Of course, the main character here need not be black, nor Whitey white.
The frustration of being held down by some ‘Boss’ is universal.


 Boxer

On his right hand,
  His gym championship boxing ring,
As out of date as his worn club boxing gloves,
  On his left, his wedding band

Working the speed bag, he knew his force by
  It’s bounces off the ring mount,
Bap bup-bup, twice
Bap bup-bup, bup, three, harder

He thinks of Whitey and all he’s done,
  He brought him over on a boat,
He thinks of all the fights he’s won,
  Never once had his day in the sun

Bap bup-bup-bup-bup, four, five, nine, twelve
  He’s feeling oiled, tight and mean,
His roundhouse brings it to thirteen

Home later,
The Boxer sees that Whitey’s on,
  And punches out the TV screen,
Some broken glass, cuts on the hand,
  No matter

For tomorrow, Ol’ Whitey will surely be seen
  With a shiner on the eye, and on his forehead
A mark, a dent, the reverse imprint 
  Of an old boxer’s club signet ring

Valentines In the Dark

We're abut halfway through a 2 day snowstorm. Still I heard them
In Northern latitudes; North America, Europe, Russia, this time of year, and you live near some decent woods, go outside. Snow storm, clear moonlight, you can hear them.


Valentines In the Dark

Black overcast and frosty night,
Fine snow’s falling ‘fore the streetlight,
Though nothing stirred, I think I heard,
These loving words spoke by a bird,
  "Wu, hoo-hoo,"

Singing white noise, the waltzing snows
Dampen all sounds wood’s can deploy,
Her lover’s voice, tall deep and bold,
Returns red February’s rejoice,
  "Wu, hoo-hoo,"

No chill she knows when romance grows,
She does not mind the piling snow,
Her love’s out there, not long she’ll wait,
This is the season owls mate

Secret of the Dad Hats

I love writing poems of my Dad.
One time, while I was down to visit, we were driving up I-95 coming home from a movie. And in a few weeks I’d planned to come back to take him up to visit my brothers in New Hampshire. So I wasked him,
"Hey Dad, how do you feel about going and visiting Brian in a few weeks?"
And Dad said, "Yeah, he continuences."
I thought that sounded weird, so I asked what he’d meant, and he said,
"Yeah, he continuences. He was the first to give Reagan the cat."
So I memorized that for posterity. And here’s another story from the annals of Reagan the cat:


Secret of the Dad Hats

"I keep finding these hats in the hallway" she said,
"I don’t understand where he’s getting them,"

To be fair, caring for my Father,
  possessed of alzheimers, was a handful,
Though she’d say it was no bother,
  but of course that’s why I’m here

Some come from a cheap thift store,
  one I found behind my church,
Another in a parking lot, they help,
  when Dad freaks out about his hat
And then begins his panicked search,
  so I keep old hats in my pickup
  (but that’s our sworn secret!) 

"When," she added, "You take your Father out later,
  make sure he has his hat and scarf, he
  always goes out without and likely he’ll forget,"
Which told me, when we go out,
I’ll make sure we leave them behind,
  lest he really will lose them

Out to lunch, later a movie,
  went off without a hitch
Excepting he threatened
  to throw a plate at the waitress,
Who kindly returned three minutes later
  and I ordered for him

And then, on the way out;
"Where’s my hat, I can’t find my damn hat!
  I know I had it with me!"
"Dad, you didn’t bring a hat,"
"I know I had my hat, where the damn things go?"
"You left it in the car, Dad, look at me,
  listen, I promise, it’s in the car,"
Back at the car;
"Here it is, Dad, see, your hat, was here all the time,"
"There it is! That’s my hat, my favorite hat!"
And then he usually hugged me,
"You’re welcome"
 
 So, you know where they came from… 

We Wait the Coming

  One comment - it's Feb 6, 2017, 5pm EDT, and already there's been 91 hits here today!
I don't have that many Facebook friends! I don't know that many people! Who are you?
Please leave a comment here, (Get a blogger ID if you have to...)
  I'd like to know who you are.

Now, onto todays poem-
It’s not just about our departing Rector. It’s also a secular enough song to sing anytime in the future. And it’s just weird; In addition to Sara, I look around, where is Vicki? Where is Warren? Jonathan?
  Maybe it’s winter vacation season, but all too often people just silently disappear.


We Wait the Coming

When she announced
That she was leaving,
We said all our long sad good-byes,
  With many hugging and some cried
Then there came that day
That marked foretold day,
We witnessed her bare empty pew
  And did not know what we could do

  (solemn refrain);We wait the coming,
We wait the coming,
We wait the coming of the one
  Who brings the Word of the Lord

Some will take new jobs,
Some move to new homes,
Some elderly don’t walk away
  They walk to greet a gracious Lord
Some move on timely,
Some go un-rhymely,
Some days we look out, don’t know what
  To do, another empty pew

  (solemn refrain);
If you are lonely,
You feel you only,
Are pining for beloved friends
  That you may never see again,
Then come to me, dear,
You talk and I’ll hear,
And we will walk and talk and we’ll
  Recall them back home once again

(solemn refrain x 2)

Cassette Kids

Was listening to Cat Stevens on my crappy stereo.
In the years between 1970 and ’72, my mother thought it well to buy each of us a cassette player/recorder. Over time & birthdays, we older three each got a panasonic portable (eventually our youngest brother got a thing that looked like a red plastic lunchbox).
Anyway, during our grade and middle school years - we were cassette kids. 


Cassette Kids

I don’t so much like their new ones,
  the ones after ’76, or ’82
But we played those albums,
  in the car on the way to Florida,
When Dad found the radio came in all fuzz,
  or Mom refused hear another Baptist revival,
You’d put an album on your cassette player,
  battery operated, on your lap,
Those songs, I remember!

Some were their big hits,
  as now we know,
Others were what’re called deep tracks,
  never heard on FM,
Loved them just as much,
  so what? Then who knew?

Did they give us great music?
  were they recorded electric folk?
We know we were the folk that they sang for,
  Moon-shadow, Moonshadow,

There is a peace where I think "Wow,"
  long long later from when then was now,
These old roots, let’s feed them once again,
  let’s pour Calliopes’ liquor on the Dahlia corms of our youth,
I bloom to the old tunes now,
  as once we flowered by the meadows near the highway
   to those cassette taped heart songs then




 

Automat

Earlier this week McDonalds tested Big Mac vending machines.
In the 1960’s, Our Dad used to take us into his office in NYC on Chistmas eve day.
I remember eating at the Automat.


Automat

In 1966, my Dad went to lunch
  at the old automat,
He’d put in a few quarters
  and he took out what he got,
Whether sandwiches or soup du’jour,
  fresh coffee much too hot,
He felt no need to wonder what,
  he saw just what he bought

"Untouched by human hands," they sad,
  was their cleanly trademark line,
But there were people working there
  creating delicacies fine,
Earning wages that the Boss Man paid,
  every Friday right on time!

So, why was it called ‘the ‘Automat?’
  I wonder, no one knows

Now progress brings us Vend-Or-Bots,
  that grill the ‘Perfectest™’ club burger,
Without a "Hey-Ya" or "Hi-Ya Hon."
  well, medium or rare – push button,
With spicey sauce and cheaply done
 
Can you see, we of tomorrow?
  does it come as a surprise?
That living in this nation
  of progressive automation,
None of us will have spare change
  when we pass brothers with their hands out,
And the Boss Man who once thought
  he loved the Vend-Or-Bots he bought,
No club burgers he’ll be selling, 
  Vend-Or-Bots do not need eat!

THE Reverend Anne

As I've mentioned, our favorite Church Rector is soon to leave us. However, she graciously invited parish members to meet one last time (for an hour even!), and I had the pleasure to shoot the shit with her one last time.
I brought coffee and a Balvenie Double cask for a parting gift.
One of the things she asked me was what I thought about her taking vacations and having guest Priests in during her absence. Hence, less of a poem and more of a character sketch (could work as a theater monologue), I invite you to spend a moment of conversation, in the choir room, with;

THE Reverend Anne

"You may call me THE Reverend Anne,"
She looked about 70, stood 5’4",
  maybe weighed 95 lbs., her nose perked up
With her hands clasped together before her chest,
  the old way they taught girls in finishing Schools

"But I understand your Rector will be back next week,
  so I don’t know if ever I’ll be returning,"
She had three suitcases in the choir room,
   whereas the average visiting Priest brought (lemme count...?) none!

In the unstated Episcopal bylaws,
  we don’t ‘do’ church in summers,
The Nave is locked all the week,
  the summer sun on the roof makes the communion wafers rise like a bread oven,
And the only reason we do it is;
  the lapsed Catholics will feel put out,
  and we’ve more of them at our church than Episcopalians

"It’s not easy, they make us retire after thirty years,
One doesn’t know if we’ll be called in with any regularity,
  and it’s always a long drive,
Still, it’s not like when we were younger,
  my husband and I both worked in separate parishes,
And we had our kids, always driving back and forth,
  never spending enough time with either,
Now I’m retired, the kids are grown up and moved on,
  and still never enough time with either,
  now short visits are all I get,
Don’t you think?"

  I answered,
"I was just wondering if you needed help with the suitcases,"
"No, I’ve got them, actually yes, I’d be glad you could,"
   I shouldered two, she carried the lighter,

And I’m guessing her thoughts then were like yours are now