one after the other

 Mary Oliver said

"If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,

don't hesitate. Give in to it.  There are plenty of

lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.

We are not wise, and not very often kind.

And much can never be redeemed.

Still, life has some possibility left."

And upon reading this message,  I wonder:

doesn't life have vast oceans full of possibilities

remaining?  I mean, like unlimited gallons

and decades and inhales and exhales of possibilities? 

Well, Mary did say some possibility left.  That's it.

So I'm wondering.

Am I in locked months, such as Kurt Vonnegut

describes perhaps being January and February?

Cold months.  

Perhaps barren months?

Vonnegut talks about March and April as being the

season of unlocking. 

If he's right, and I believe he is, the greater possibilities

emerge with the coming spring.

So Mary, I'm thinking of emerging possibilities 

as being a warehouse filled with surprises, not an

Amazon warehouse, but a life affirming warehouse.

More than some possibility.

Example:

I went with Bette to Tudbink's Nursery on Saturday.

It was our first visit and we only learned of its' exsistence

through happenstance.  And it's located merely a short

drive from Bette's home.  We went in looking for possibilities.

And here, on the cusp of spring 2026, as we entered

each small greenhouse, we grew amazed at the beauty

of their fabulous offerings, the myriad flowers, shrubs, trees,

herbs and artisan pottery.  Colorful, healthy growth.

We thought of our garden and how to expand it,

how to grow it, how to imagine it becoming bigger and

better and even more satisfying.

We lived in a prolonged moment of emerging possibilities.

After our return to 36, we plotted and planned and prepared

the soil.  Shovel, wheelbarrow, trowel, mulch, ice water, of course,

and enthusiasm.

We were unlocking.

We were within the realm of possibility.

We were growing alongside the flowers as we planted,

one after the other. 

your enticing lips

your enticing lips and whispers

fills our boat with sensations

as the tide rolls us toward the early light. 

the Earth moves in tandem and continues its' slow spin.

my tongue inspects the hidden folds you inhabit beneath the sails.

we are mariners, too, plotting our heading,

and digging for treasure on sandy shores.

my bare forehead is pressed against your stomach;

our dreams float. 

our sleep is deep as is the valley we inhabit.

is that a dinner bell?

 

and it was Mary Oliver

speaking directly to me!

her voice was full of blessings

and insight

about life and love and light

and darkness, too, like a bowl of the blackest chocolate fudge

eaten spoonful by spoonful by a curious man 

biding his time inside his prison cell.

oh, but do tell,

is that a dinner bell

i hear?

yes, Mary Oliver is making mention

that i need to pay attention 

to the brighter light in a certain direction, so

i have time to linger, wondering about my little finger

and how it attaches perfectly with my left & right hand

when i pet my dog or comb my hair.

i notice everything is simultaneously here and there!

the simple fact of focus upon my speeding moment:

is sufficient for the infant

and the young boy and the man

and the older fellow filling his bird feeder with oiled, black sunflower seeds

while the noisy chickadees bide their time, watching attentively.

and nearby Elizabeth sips her wine slowly with smiling eyes, pools of promise 

shimmering beyond the calm waters of a lake filled with ever-expanding infinities.

I hear a Pink Floyd song and imagine kissing her lips in rhythm to the bright side of the moon circling

around the Earth, remembering the constant push and pull of a tender tidal embrace;

remembering, too,  a yard of grateful gardens and bountiful fertile fields of joy;

the laughter of a child swinging from a strong braided rope 

tied above a deep creek's pool in a neighboring meadow; 

the splash and the bubbles and the delicious feel of cool water on skin,

laughter and riotous splashing everywhere.

it's a very important day, right here and right now.

this second passing.

a new second, also passing.   here it is.  and again.

again. 

it's only a short walk to the end of the boardwalk,

walking atop the boardwalk,

and under the boardwalk there are songs.

sing songs. 

i'm not ready to dismount my bike, whose tires are always spinning like a distant galaxy 

and they are comfortably filled with air.  my chain is cleaned and well-lubricated.

the road ahead is endless.  the invitation to play is signed, sealed, and delivered.

and so it goes.  and so i ride. 

a train whistles.

a baby cries for her seat; everyone makes room, moving and watching protectively.

we all have sufficient time.

we all feel.

we all love.

and my love shares her wine with me and i admire her spirit of sharing,

as i sip. 

she also feeds the noisy chickadees.

what i thought was happening then and now is a constant unfolding,

as we fold our lives together like the petals of a beautiful flower,

and the ultimate message is, like a dinner bell ringing,

to focus on life. 

a hummingbird

with a hat wreathed in flowers
and after energetic sex on the floor 

near the water garden
under an open sun shaped like a satisfied vagina

the woman felt relaxed
holding a large cigarette in her mouth.
reading Dionysos
while wet sand pushed and throbbed between her toes

the lady felt the heat of July
little by little
draw salty beads of perspiration
into wavy lines
on her wet skin.

in a loose-fitting towel
and barefoot
in a quiet way
she looked at herself in a handheld mirror

and saw a hummingbird fly from a wire cage.

at last light

i held my gun at last light
aimed it at a mad man at my door
and after his untimely death
i found him on the floor
i removed all his clothes
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i went down to Mexico
you came looking for me
what you found was nobody
i lost myself at sea
nothing much there grows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

i imagined late one night
you would find me in my chair
it was a hard place to be
when you looked i wasn't there

the wind always blows
and now no one knows
when the morning sun comes
which way my shadow goes

it's you that i now miss

it was a time before television
or radio was perfected

when poetry was important
the words and phrases dissected

seriously contemplated,
simply stated
like the dandelion seeds
without philosophical creeds
released freely into the air

blown happily everywhere

into currents they swiftly rode
nothing else showed
no hiking signs or spiritual pointers
no businessman who loiters
on his busy trail

without fail

the wooden bridge spans
this clear creek where we hold hands
and kiss

a special angel
with wings joining our hearts

is this how it starts?
i wonder

torn asunder 

with wildness
and scents of bliss

it's you that i now miss.

color me blue

i can't find you

hiding within gardens and trash
perhaps full of hurt & pain
empty of cash

but full of sun & rain

i want to have eyes
reflecting me
on honest secondary streets

fancy free

musical beats

i want to feel love
in a forever kiss
or later tonight
with sublime happiness

without the cat fight
listening to songs
between the lines
i'm looking for you

reading zodiac signs

so color me blue
i can't find you

into the wind

into the wind:

the air had come briskly over from the one side
and left a mark
on the water's cold edge.

the sun shining down caught the steady breeze
shaking the beach with bits of fractured light.

and where it was dry:
a child's toy, two women talking about life,
distant organ grinder music, a plastic fork,
an assemblage of bric-a-brac, drift wood and unrealized dreams.

with a flower vase carried in her right hand,
which held ointment instead of fresh cuttings,
a weeping girl sat heavily on her shadow,
her bald head filled with mystery.
she looked up and saw a darkened cloud
about to block the sun.

a kite spun crazily overhead
when a young boy unrolled his string.

his hair was whipped by the wind.

he saw the toy but knew it wasn't his. 

he heard the crying girl, but knew he didn't know. 

the two women kept talking about life while walking away. 

It takes a village

Hillary Clinton once said that

"It takes a village" 

in reference to raising our kids.

She was exploring the notion of

embodying resilience,

of recognizing we're members of the same tribe,

of our mutual responsibilities to the 

recognizing the importance of the other. 

Notice, too, that embodying

has the word body as part of its' letters.

body.  somebody. anybody. everybody !

the web of nature finds us sharing so much

more than sounds and colors, appetites

and agonies, laughs and lusts.

we are the village.

we are a single musical note within the score.

 

when Bette and I sought to climb Quandry Peak,

the highest summit in Colorado's Tenmile Range, 

standing at 14,271 feet, we weren't thinking

about the village.

we weren't thinking about our relationships

with others.

we weren't thinking about caring for others.

at the moment of beginning our ascent from the dirt

parking area, we saw a sign that said there are no

easy 14'ers.  We thought we'd walk up the hill.

and then, the walk became serious. 

it was no cake walk, that's certain,

as i reflect on the effort. 

scree slopes; huge rocks; few flat sections and those only for mere feet;

hours of up and up looming over us in the distant clouds.

each step and a foot tilted and angled and, sometimes, slid.

one step followed another.  higher altitude with less oxygen caused

our breathing to become labored.  heaving chests.  no air.

we weren't thinking about the village.

Until, that is, descending climbers passed by with words

of encouragement.  "You've got this!" they said.

still, fatigue set in.

we stopped many times, trying to slow our heart rates,

catch our fleeing breath, again and again and again.

One passing couple suggested to Bette she should think short term:

take a couple of ascending steps

and then pause.  it was a good strategy.  It worked.

Another older gentleman told us that he already made several prior

attempts to reach the summit and failed.  This was his third try

and he made it.  He was elated at the success, proud and injected us both

with a renewed sense of optimism.

"You've got this!"

"Just a little ways to go!" said others.

"you're almost there!" 

We realized we were on a group effort.

The distance to the summit was closer, reachable.

and, yes, eventually we did stand on the summit in gratitude, 

sitting down for a long while,

soaking in the amazing views which stretched

for dozen of miles overlooking surrounding peaks and steep

valleys.  How did we manage?

I'm convinced we couldn't have made it on our own.

it was what strangers provided us as they spoke up and smiled.

feelings of support.  encouragement.  connection. 

yes, it was what we had inside of us, but equally important\

was what was between us and around us.

"You got this!" 

"It takes a village!" 

Chair with Peaches (Matisse, 1919)

the straw seat of the chair was near the altar
when i approached with my new idea.

i placed three peaches
on their white plate atop the French chair sitting
near the patterned wallpaper inside the blue space.

but the angle of the chair was unfamiliar to me
and my point of view.

moving forward, i held one peach
and took a single bite.

and as far as the chairs were concerned,
i had made a choice.

we were forever changed. 

a battle for the human soul

The Bridge at Remagen

is not in the United States,

but it is a bridge too far,

no matter who you are:

what don't you understand?

it is not in Minneapolis

never has been

and never will,

no matter who you are

or how many you try to kill

with a hammer or an ice pick,

you prick.

the Super Dooper Looper

is a roller coaster

not a super storm trooper

with Kevlar vest and thermal eyes,

a black heart of steel and forked-tongue lies.

a grieving mother cries

under your cloud of steaming gas:

she's all the way from the fertile underclass

with an academic degree of dirty nails,

disdainful of your modern jails,

scornful of your belly fat:

your constant bragging about this or that!

if it's not a charade,

it's no longer an Independence Day parade

as far as i can see,

morally and intellectually,

it's a battle for our deepest, most humane human soul

and everyone has a role.

Mao's little red book

The Yellow River

with a mighty brown flood,

and the Yangtze

with potent dragon's blood:

millions of buried ghosts,

bodies dead or alive!

brave protesters in Hong Kong

finding it hard to thrive

inside Mao's little Red Book,

raising their heads for a gambler's quick look.

See!  there's the Great Wall:

a Terracotta army of the first Emperor

holding swords and shields, standing tall.

Dynasties leading deeply into times that last

with echos of great tragedies

from present to distant past.

fields of plenty and loss

almost too far to walk across;

sprawling cities on expansive coastal plains;

thunder beyond the near mountains followed by torrential rains,

arriving early or leaving too late,

keen eyes sipping pearl milk tea served on a special China dinner plate,

too proud to kneel

for another expensive Western meal!

you're no longer there

it's not as it used to be

as you can plainly see

not in our hours of daylight

or even late at night 

when i hang the picture of your face

on the wall by my resting place

and reach to touch your hair

when i look

you're no longer there 

when i thought i couldn't miss

you walked away with your kiss

so you don't miss me

confidentially 

like a tango would miss a beat

or a hot rod might miss the street

it's uncertain in my heart

how this stop can become a start

when i saw your smile on Sunday

it was gone again on Monday 

i reach to touch your hair

when i look

you're no longer there

on the edge of a knife

as white as ice

and not so nice

filled with dread

moments from dead

a shot in the arm

there's no charm

in the crowded street

there's strangers to meet

decisions to make

is it real or fake

but it's my life

on the edge of a knife

watching the news

trying to choose

which way will it go

but i don't know

wishing upon a star

there's agents in an armored car

and a dark truck

people without luck

holding a big gun

spoiling our fun

running their own show

unable to know

how to stop fights

how to uphold rights

as white as ice

and not as nice

filled with dread 

moments from dead

a shot in the arm

there's no charm

but it's my life

on the edge of a knife.

on a southern horse

i heard Merl sing
after lunch time
on the prison floor
for a red hot dime

he sang real hard
meant everything he wrote
about a hanging judge

and a midnight rope

and a dark man
on a southern horse
underneath the tree
being held by force

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
with an ominous heat

 

remembering love
smiling at pain
trying to be brave
swinging in the rain

i heard Merl sing
outside his cell
just like Johnny Cash
deep in a wishing well

he sang real hard
meant what he said
that a Jim Crow's life
was how he was bred

long time ago
white as a sheet
in a rural land
with an ominous heat

 

and a dark man

on a southern horse

underneath the tree

being held by force 

Room 41

i'm sitting in Room 41
polishing and cleaning my gun;
i hear the copy cat blokes

as they're scorning my music hall jokes.

with no worries i'm out of their loop,
just spending time eating my soup

of the finest kettle of fish.

i'm framing my painting school dish:

it's a masterpiece of the new
with blue leather instead of a shoe.

 

opening all the heavy doors

look at the light show all around

full of the freshest air

sprouting from the cold hard ground

it's surrounding me on all my fours

and i'm running in place

keeping my own pace 

opening all the heavy doors

feeling fine

like a ripe grape hanging from a famous vine

where we sip and dine

on our dreams

yes, love, it's everything that it seems! 

a touch of my heart beating

realizing all my moments are fleeting

i'm facing ahead where my current steps lead

ignoring any obstacles trying to impede

my smile

yes it's been quite awhile

since i felt abused and poorly used

by some who thought me vulnerable and small

i've answered questions tossed my way across the hall

where monsters roam and spitballs fly

but i no longer wonder why

and i'm running in place

keeping my own pace 

opening all the heavy doors

feeling fine

like a ripe grape hanging from a famous vine 

where we sip and dine

on our dreams 

yes, love, its everything that it seems! 

a humble moment to reconsider

he was senseless in bed

she arranged the pillow around his head

it was a confusing day

no one had much to say

either the easy way or the hard way

was what he had last said

now everyone rejoiced that he was really dead

in this pleasant land

this Greenland land

where the natives danced and sang

and a church bell rang

then millions more began to ring 

globally celebrations under the sheets

happy marchers in the main and side streets

dogs and cats no longer being eaten

immigrants no longer being beaten 

the pillow was stained orange with sweat

and yet

the bands played with such joyful surprise

that all those lies

would be given an urgent moment to reconsider

what they had intended to do

now that truth was shining thru.  

saving the world

i'm looking for feedback and community:

Solidarity, Lech Walesa, Poland

unity

in this terrible hour

in this time when peaceful co-existence is imperiled 

in the face of a terrible menace

don't guess 

which way to turn!  

a group is waiting for you

to add your strength and your courage and hope...

yes, hope is not hopeless.

the saying 'Don't tread on me'

is really saying don't tread on us.

years ago,  i left my fellow Team 95 comrades;

it was simply another hot, dusty day in South Vietnam,

early 1970 and i remember it well...leaving hell

some said, and wished me well

others said don't forget us

tell everyone what you've seen, what you heard 

spread the word

of truth when back in the land of the big PX

in the land of the beautiful round eye

apple pie

and i boarded my freedom bird

heard the relieved cheers

saw tears 

and i went to march in the street

beat

the drums

sound the alarm

i felt that we had done so much harm

here to ourselves and to the people of that foreign land

and so,

and so

i drove to foot march the streets of Washington, DC

near the mall and the monument

where i was surrounded by thousands of American people

protesting as we could the continuation of a faraway

war

and many of our signs said STOP THE WAR

but there was more.

what we were saying was 

listen to the citizen speak,

the voters must have a voice

we deserve a choice!

we will not be shut out 

we will shout

we will persist

we will resist 

and i continually felt the presence of my fellow soldiers 

those left behind in Vietnam 

from where they watched

behind their sandbags and their towers

and their armored vests 

i heard them urge us all to do more

not only to STOP THE WAR,

to stop the insanity. 

a rushing wind blew and i knew 

we needed to find new words,

new messages,

new heralds who will take up the torch

carry it into any looming darkness

with nothing less to do than

saving the world...saving the world.

and so,

we are now here. 

we will resist together. 

visiting Caracas with Absolute Resolve

early one morning

they grabbed him by the balls 

they took his wife along for the ride, too,

shuffling blindfolded down those darkened halls. 

his bodyguards lay scattered on the floor

unable to protect anything anymore. 

a quick and bloody raid

USA made

in the dead of night visiting Caracas

without passports or visas or any intent to party 

uninvited the Delta Force personnel came

hale and hardy

locked and loaded

to kill and then to kidnap

the narco-terrorist fat cat

that the American foxy media said was a threat!

well, who will take that bet? 

the President and his wife, Cilia

both claimed their innocence

which made perfect sense

because that's what Trump always proclaims

as he blusters and babbles and defames. 

Ginsberg

Ginsberg saw the punch of heavenly insanity
through glassy homosexual eyes
across oceans of distance & nearing death
He wrote from his head the trade wind Howl
of demon smokestacks and collapsed cities
screwing a Buddha universe of astronomic atoms
where lived man who spit blood and broke heart
among hard machines made by harder machines
on a hard rock surface called a world
pregnant with firearms & hypodermic needles
in need of cash and the warm hot fix
of a thousand squirming angels in a passionate frenzy

Ginsberg felt this madness of America
& the naked copy world of cruise ships
underneath their starry night
with cots full of spent sperm and false hips
and wigs with plastic faces before He died
beyond a prison wall with His tender man
confessing eternal love within a soft earth womb
powdered dry like the Sahara desert
without relief from quick suicide or happy June weddings
with happy cake & wall street traders
pumping for their gymnasium memberships
when the dancing couple fell into a bloody hole
& found a habit without a flying nun attached
near the Harvard yard of peak nothingness

Ginsberg danced on strings of his own inspiration
with Beating poets studying the crowded beer hall
of ashcan lids craftily blown across the lonely street
to where the Brooklyn Dodgers once had played
before an admiring crowd of immortal souls:

on Ebbets Field the memories grow like Hell

 

the Crown Prince

it's near the new year:

the Crown Prince wants a rinse

and a do-over with a new Range Rover 

and an increasingly cozy relationship with his new pet

who is currently sleeping in the white house

like some drugged up mouse, 

fondling his cheese at his ease,

heedless of his lack of sleep

as he harangues his loyal sheep.

the Crown Prince knows his own stuff is cool

and the sleepy head is a demented fool

so the advantage is oil and money

no joke

but its almost funny

how he remains on guard,

parrying the sleeping mouse who holds no card 

and is losing his mind.

life is unkind.

the Crown Prince wants a rinse 

and a do-over with a new Range Rover. 

Louise Gluck: 2020 Nobel Prize in Literatrure

sad and strange

off the range

beyond the boundary fence

where you rest with barely a lick of sense

Louise Gluck

soft and slick in your metered brain

teaching poetry under the driving rain

of New England

where you stand with sharp words and fate

heavy on a wounded heart, the cemetery gate

opens as you wander by,

closes when you shut one eye:

a skeleton with bones raw white

rises to kiss your lips tonight.

we are the flowers

after the destructive fires,

when the newly bloomed meadow flowers

speak clearly with voices full of hope and promise,

the tiny sprouts of trees show gardens of green 

and small birds can again listen to a spring stream of

clear water washing over rounded stones,

i stand in awe, inhaling deeply and grateful to

be among nature in her finery:

hope.

once upon a time, long ago,

i had a brief tour with the

army, and there were no meadow flowers,

no joyful streams, no birds.

the words that came to me said hope wasn't a course of action.

No, it was 

planning and preparation.

precision and purpose.

know your foe.

rely on stealth.

shadows are your friend. 

hope isn't an option.

now, today, while flowers are blooming

i read the awful news of Bondi Beach,

a lovely strip of warm sand and shore and sea

near Sydney, Australia.

It's a celebration for Hanukkah. 

The city's Jewish community has gathered,

children and the elderly.

then, madness! 

bullets fly. 

A respected Rabbi, shot.

A holocaust survivor, shot.

More, too, too many more!

do we feel the loss? 

This tragic event, seemingly far away,

but suddenly Brown University in Providence,

Rhode Island, is looking for flowers, too.

During final exams, inside their classroom,

two students were killed.

Flowers will be at their funerals.

do we feel the loss? 

I know we're going thru rough days,

looking for hope, trying to define it once

again, hold on to it, cherish it.

Hope is here, though.

Immigrants to America hope.

I hope.

And am so blessed to be with my group of Soul Matters

friends.

You give me hope.  I hope i give you hope.

It is our course of action. 

It's in our smiles and our laughter.

Every word we share, every voice spoken,

every moment we acknowledge one another

provides us hope.

And we become the flowers, and the wild birds,

the trees being born, 

the freely flowing streams, and the life-giving sun. 

This is our reality; our hope.