hiding in the trees

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk upright across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees

with a saucer in hand and a cup for drink

on the edge and near the brink

imagining what it is to think

and one foot stands above the crowd

looking for love as you cry out loud,

"I no longer want to feel so proud."

but the hush of night 

conceals from sight

the doing wrong and the hoping right

and you begin to drift and feel the sway

telling yourself that you're okay

"It's easier to feel this way!"

the trees are high and the fall will be fast

and everybody wants to be the last

it's easier to embrace the past

where all secrets are concealed

hearts open but never healed

holding high the human shield.

live at Pompeii

what more should i say

living my life from day to day

where everything goes from hand to hand

managing to walk across the land

when even though i can't understand

the echos stirring in the breeze

bringing me to my knees

i can see you're hiding in the trees.

delight

delight

all thru de night

and de following afternoon

you and i 

noticing the clouds and the sun

when they're in the sky,

and the far horizon of an imaginary sea,

as deep as our memories will allow.

and oh! we can be loud 

and bellow and sing

with all the air our expanding lungs can bring

forth

so we, too, can fly

like the breezes on our face

leaving a sweet taste 

maybe like frozen pistachio ice cream

or whatever it is we dream

if wishes really do come true

for everyone but especially for you

digging into the depths of a golden castle high on the hill

and finding bones

and a temporary chill

which captures a moment

just before hearing the delighted laughter of children playing on a sliding board or swinging

from a low-branched tree

and when looking closer you notice it's both you and me

but i'm wearing my linen shirt

while walking slowly in the soft dirt 

of my old age

enjoying the feeling of being very light

like 

delight

all thru de night

and de following  afternoon.

freedom of choice

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific 

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned

War was in great demand!

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face 

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

but sometime long ago when i rode in a jeep

hours from family and days without sleep

there were explosions and confusion with Vietnamese tears

everyone homeless and wrapped with their fears

and i flew in my chopper with a terrible noise in my head

the landscape seemed empty and everyone dead

and the home of the brave

told me there were friendly strangers to save

but thousands of dead were found buried in a grave

while the home of the brave

felt the sun on its' face

winning every contest

winning every race

singing songs with an adolescent voice

healthy living with freedom of choice:

nothing to do but simply rejoice!

when i rode on a crazy black horse

across the vast Pacific

there was a hot wind in my face

and a letter in my hand:

a mission to fulfill which i didn't understand

but i heard it from the President firsthand

everything was meticulously planned 

War was in great demand!

there was a letter in my hand.

pecking for crumbs

Charles,

in a deep black back alley,

resumes spitting at the few birds pecking for crumbs,

perfectly shirtless and unconsciously proud of his few chest hairs,

he quizzically looks

at the sun,

confident he will never run

from imagined or actual fears.

he eats alone in his unassuming flat,

where an empty bird cage hangs,

resembling a southern cross.

Charles,

in a practiced stupor of his own design,

and with a pen he grabs too well,

screams often in an elemental voice harsh with scornful intent

about his social security check which wasn't sent

on time

and that he'll never attempt to write academic rhyme

and feels proud of it,

unaware of what it means.

Charles,

always gruff and all that stuff,

tries to beat and beat and beat,

lifting both feet

to praise convention and to make a mark or a smear

of some sort or the other within the boundaries of the social frontier,

where a few birds are pecking for crumbs. 

the birds resemble Charles,

who spreads his wings for no reason

and becomes his own bird.

in a bed of tall grass

far

and further away

passing hours

into the early evening of every precious day

chasing fireflies and dreams and a wayward dog

off the fallen log

where Turkey Tail and snail

seem to be in no hurry

throwing off the deepening shadows!

there's no need to hurry

from the thin deer trail hidden from view;

i'm thinking of you

as i'm rock hopping across a shallow creek

and up an embankment almost too steep

climbing imaginary summits into a low cloud

which spoke to me in voices profound:

the vernal sound

putting me to sleep in a nearby bed of soft grass.

Lynden Gallery

so i went to an art opening
at the Lynden Gallery
in etown & many people came out
including Luke and Mallory
whom i hadn't seen in about
two years or so plus Lisa
the owner was there
with her beautiful raven dark hair.

Ned Wert was the artist on display
(i met his sister & her fiancee)
and his works are now largely abstract
hanging with deep red as the predominant shade:
i was gasping at the numbers as fact
then noticed several full prices were paid
but it was simple since the mood was so good
to be friendly and feel that you should
in this fire hall converted to art 
just mingle and fondle a heart,
drink wine, eat crackers, and cheesy
to imagine that living is easy.

here is original stuff as it should be
poking holes in the idea of normality

a space which is happy and free,

so visit.

Louise Gluck

sad and strange

off the range

beyond the boundary fence

where you rest with barely a lick of sense

Louise Gluck

sad 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.