on the path of courage

it's not always the one

that the greater society flatters

that in the short or long run

matters

on the path of courage:

there's the city tax collector and the forest bridge troll

collecting a toll

in relative obscurity

but at a steady pace

sometimes dressed modestly or all crimson and lace;

and there's the unheralded stage hands

preparing a venue for various bands

watching an early audience file in and take their seats

in anticipation of musical beats

which might help them make it through another day,

and some self-question if they'll stay

as the going seems personally rough,

yet they rally, dig deeper, stay tough

like the musical King

or Queen

or Prince

partaking in our great moveable feast

that passes from the most important among us

to the mouths of the very least;

and into the hallway mirror we often gaze and wonder:

does it matter if the world is silent or howling like thunder?

can we stay simple and recognize the magic of an overhead sky?

can we listen with our hearts to hear the world's brave babies cry?

and we cry as well 

and we laugh and we succeed and we fail

looking into our palm and seeing the nail

but knowing it's not bent

and it won't be bent

and we're spending our lives together, 

but we're not spent

on the path of courage,

where the handmade mozzarella melts 

and we tighten our memory of leather belts

searching for that perfect hole to fasten and hold,

being curious in spite of it all

as we're growing old

on the path of courage.

save the baby!

save the baby!

that was a cry from the next room

and i had to assume

it was for me but it could have been for you

we went together looking for a clue

we saw rusted tanks and bombed out cribs

skinny men with exposed ribs

and old men with the saddest eyes

consumed by the constant lies

their tears flooded the street

we felt the dead heat

like an immense weight in our hands

everywhere we looked we saw badlands

everything was being taken

chewed up and forsaken...

in our heads we saw dark clouds and felt the stinging hail

in the palm of our hands we felt the nail

and the cold freezing our skin 

you looked without while i looked within

and it slowly dawned on me that the sky would remain blood red

all the babies had fled

into a story book where another ending would be penned

make-believe and the terrible world of pretend

and the fog soon to descend:

save the baby!

you took a temporary seat and sat

no where in the pouring rain

is there an answer for the way you look.

there's no happy ending inside your pocket book,

so when you turned out your cat,

you took a temporary seat and sat.

you saw the town square was full of sharks and clowns

who took advantage of summer weddings and bridal gowns,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!

no real news for the online shoppers' blues

when they drop their pants, 

imagining an hour of private romance.

when the lights are dimmed and the drinks seem free,

you walk into a busy room and immediately agree

with whatever you're told;

you're acting young but you're growing old

with hair in your nose and gray, colorless eyes,

spending all your money on the latest and the newest disguise.

you've seen it all;

up and down the temperance hall,

on the lowest level or up on the roof,

everybody you meet is drinking from a bottle of 100 percent proof

but you've never tried a sip

until someone offered you a piece of lip;

and you knew you were cursed

when you fell into the wishing well headfirst

and found it bone dry!

there was no need to apply

for a job on the unemployment line;

no new words for you to define.

you've come a long way to find yourself,

watching the late show from an empty library shelf

and nobody came to lend you a hand

'cause reading between the lines had been permanently banned,

and the game wasn't fair;

there was no innocent playground there!

Bowie, you're hiding under my bed

Bowie,

you're hiding under my bed

and yet someone told me you were thought dead

no longer playing with the ground controls and spinning knobs,

singing for the few available spaceman jobs;

you were quite the looker,

dressing like an expensive alien hooker

in the backseat of your car 

playing with Ziggy's guitar;

oh, yes, biting the dust because you must

holding hands with a young China Girl;

a handful of roses, a bright red wig and a pearl

like a Spiders from Mars frontal attack,

but i've heard you're never coming back

and the genie is so far out of the bottle,

tearing thru New York City streets at full throttle,

like an instant revelation,

heading Station to Station;

so hey man, wham bam and thank you ma'am.

if you're tired of this channel and think you're gonna switch,

come back tomorrow same time to see the traveling Queen Bitch!

so take your time; it's a special home delivery:

you can eat whatever you see!

and whenever you take a look inside,

it'll be a Rock n Roll Suicide.

everything written on the wall

and just to be clear

there's a lot of heartbreak!

for goodness sake

it's true,

everything written on the wall

with a sharp pen

writing down to the raw,

the expansive and the small.

and there are numerous stories of lost lovers

smothered under their personal covers,

still pointing to the stars,

dreaming of life on Mars;

but when you asked me for my hand

what i didn't understand

was that it was for all of me,

from the deepest roots to the highest part of the tree;

so i stayed wrapped in my bedroom bundle

blind to the promise of a galloping horse

picking and choosing his wildest course

unnamed and untamed

across the expansive prairie

feeling the deepest breath of free air

longing for a companion with which to share

everything written on the wall

with a sharp pen

writing down to the raw,

the expansive and the small.

the heat

the heat

on a Brittany beach

caught the tip of his penis

and turned it Code Red,

inflated it like a weather balloon

and off he went

into his desert-like tent like a Sheik

counting his conquests,

using his brushes and colors to paint the day

to camouflage his true intentions,

which were raw with hunger.

she was young and innocent,

and watched him grow while she shrank

meekly from the advances he made,

smiling with his magical Spanish eyes,

feeling the heat.

Life is a Journey

And we all belong

Somewhere

Everywhere

And it made me high

And it made me cry

traveling across Kansas
Where for just one moment
Everything was dust in the wind

Blowing in the wind

curling and swirling 
Within you and Without you

And when I pause 

you tie my shoe

and when you feel blue

I feel sad
And I never had doubt
We’d remember

to come together 
For U2
Are part of the people

As me
Free falling
Rock steady
Gratefully alive
And always,
I want to hold your hand
Look into your eyes while asking,
Can’t you hear my heart beat?
it’s beating for you,
Child in time,
Like smoke on the water
A wisp and a whisper
Like the Sounds of Silence
remaining close

like a friendly ghost 
Like a vision
And a visionary
And when you light up the candle
It will show you the way
To find the moment
You’ve been waiting for
All of your life

And we share

the butterflies flying in the air,

seeing gardens everywhere,

And we all belong.

between bites of flesh

Jack said there was a dog in the tree,

howling to the moon;

but when i looked it wasn't there,

although i saw a haiku

hanging from a hanging branch:

if it fades away,

how will i know what it meant?

i can't see the dark.

but Allen said he saw the dog,

who was acting like a hipster;

he said it was wearing a French-style beret,

reading a poem called Howl,

barking like a mad man:

what was it about?

there was a lot of applause.

i had much to learn.

and Burroughs said there should be

intoxicating drugs floating in the air,

so he traveled to Tangiers

with his net and a tourist guide book,

looking for an African ass to drive home his point:

he had sex at night,

and in the morning felt fine.

his breakfast was fish.

he tried to eat like a native, he said,

between bites of flesh.

being proud of your face

simply no disgrace

being proud of your face

facing the world of friends and lover

in the chill of night under weighted cover

touching a soul with your fingertips

on sleeping lips.

finding your path to sail the high seas

without over-reliance on the word "Please"

while being respectful and alert

with healing words to avoid the hurt.

yoga and meditation

no hesitation

sharing your love of food:

shopping, kitchen prep, always in the mood

for an amble into a recipe book

happily exclaiming "Ah, yes!  Look!

You'll love this!"

Pure Bliss.

exploring beyond the shore

and so much more,

with a lust for adventure and yet the slow

reading of a map wondering which new way to go

beyond the boring

like an eagle on the highest winds soaring.

a quiet voice

maintaining a choice

to be spirited or soft in a favorite chair

like a lioness in her lair

singing her song

short or long

asking others to sit and lounge and love

watching clouds drifting above:

a talk about the future or the past

stretching a moment to make it last

for another minute or afternoon or for weeks.

it's simple:  whatever curiosity seeks.

they played Listz at his funeral

the first time he heard Listz play La Campanella,

he assumed the piano piece was a tribute to

Roy Campanella, a famous American baseball player,

who, before he died,

was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.

but no, that assumption was incorrect,

so he obviously wasn't concerned with the obvious.

he often sat all alone listening to his thoughts,

far out in the country,

where birds sang their own compositions

and rat snakes dreamed under the heat of a high summer sun.

he was not rich.

his choice of music was dictated by an FM radio

playing classical pieces,

hinting at news,

broadcasting political advertisements.

and he rode a bicycle for amusement,

employing trainer wheels to ensure his balance,

which was suspect.

he rode over little stones until his butt hurt,

then tried to explain the inexplicable using several rolls

of toilet paper which he draped over the low branches of

tall trees.

very funny, he thought, applying salve to his sore cheeks.

he closed his eyes and imagined a priest

smiling at him from inside a confessional booth.

the priest suggested a ride on a bicycle built for two.

the priest also said he knew Roy Campanella,

when he was still alive.

and they played Listz at his funeral,

not baseball.

try explaining that, he said, 

without using toilet paper.

before he was a poet

before he was a poet,

he was a judge

bearing a tiny cross on both sides of his face.

in front of a jury of peers,

his robes were black,

like his laughter

and his screams.

knives and guns and anger

were always in the courtroom,

presenting facts.

each case he tried

came to haunt him

when the moon was in the sky.

he heard the ticking of clocks,

and his heart racing for the next bus,

always arriving too late,

and he wore down his teeth with tension

before a dentist could make any adjustments.

so 

he left the law 

before the ground

completely disappeared beneath his feet,

before he was sentenced to life,

before his premature death.

and his poetry became all surface and angled innuendo:

he wrote in bare feet,

with headphones covering both ears,

pretending he was 

In the Hall of the Mountain King

with Grieg,

hugging himself between notes.

a garden growing in the distance

into a fenced pasture

she led me by the hand,

telling me in low whispers

i should do whatever she said,

whether in a rain storm or on her dried grass bed;

and when we got to the corral

she mounted a saddled horse.

i stood still

as her steed began kicking dirt on my face

& she handed me the reins and told me to pull hard,

and with all my strength i pulled

until dreams spilled out over my boots

and my eyes grew big.

i saw my youthful self throwing a ball

which a batter hit over the nearby fence

and she laughed as she ran down the third base line,

licking my face before she disappeared into the dugout!

she said i needed to release the reins but my hands hesitated,

so i sat on a stool next to the horse

from where i could hear her yelling at me.

what she was saying was no longer making much sense.

i thought she was poorly recalling poems by a Romanian writer

who once came to visit me, who reminded me of a saint for lost souls,

who wrote her poems by hand with clean sheets of paper,

all signed with her signature in blood,

and i liked the ones i remembered

while sitting next to the horse,

kicking dirt on my face.

when i let go and the horse bolted,

she jumped the fence.

i stood, grabbed the stool,

and walked toward a garden

growing in the distance.

the nightmare i tried to avoid

the quiet creature in my mirror

with shaven face and eyes aglow with narcissism

reaches for his blood pressure pill;

it's late at night and soon dreams will come,

so the heart needs to remain calm and steady 

if the FBI arrives with a search warrant and government agents

armed with automatic weapons 

open doors

crack windows

peer into toilet bowls

and they're wearing civilian clothes

having arrived in black SUVs 

locked and loaded

ready for civil war

ready to say that justice matters

looking for clues 

to my having been a bad man

and i'm sleeping nude under clean 100% cotton sheets

hearing the slow rumble of a wave crash onto my white sand beach

foaming until the last bit reaches my umbrella pole

stuck firmly beyond high tide line

holding the hot sun at bay

keeping my cooler cooler

and my face from showing shock

as my heavy safe is carted away on a wheeled platform,

my top secrets

highly classified documents

love letters from Kim and many other guys

and passports, too,

are unceremoniously measured and quartered

and swallowed up

into the nightmare i tried to avoid

but was unable

and i curl my left hand into a tiny fist and punch out meanly

into the vastness of empty space.

an Orc in my garden!

there was an Orc in my garden!

i heard it was an invasive pest,

so i grabbed it between my fingers and firmly squeezed

until it snapped, crackled, and popped, 

the final sound much more subdued than a bonfire roaring,

almost like a whimper from a newborn

after breast feeding,

the crib and pillow and soft blankets and toys

all comforting and offering security,

a full belly with gurgles of affection,

so hush my baby don't you cry:

the Orcs will eventually die!

i heard the mother natures' song,

& it was naturally voiced with common tears

that filled her deep sorrow

watching an Orc, heedless, who fell into a communal pond

and drowned when his dangling feet reached for the bottom,

reached and reached,

as uncomprehending eyes grew cold and blank,

unseeing the surface many miles above,

where the noon day sun brightened the surrounding wheat fields

and a harvest began anew,

farmers on their trusty tractors, diesel fueled and chugging

into their new day,

bellies filled with gurgles of affection.

Moldova was her name

Moldova

was her name and she

was a castle of a woman,

towering over my green valley with a presence

filled with ancient trees and soaring wild birds-of-prey,

solid in her rocky steadfastness

with bright historical eyes,

inquisitive and penetrating,

and i felt deep gratitude in her presence,

inhaling a rich Slavic note reminiscent of Codru,

where large cellars hold brilliant wines.

Mother Russia is nearby, and she watches our exchange

with what i hope is no more than curiosity.

Ukraine is listening, too.

looking out for my co-star

i once had a lot of long hair,

but it fell on a busy street

and when i looked it wasn't there,

don't let me feel sad

the broadway lights were bright

so i can't be mad,

that's the way it goes

sometimes it too damn hot

and sometimes it snows

but i'm dancing around the pole

looking out for my soul,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair,

jumping from the stage in a panic

i saw her swimming across the Atlantic

drinking and smoking while she wiped her eyes,

in disbelief she's winning the top prize

but i wasn't looking anymore

walking out the back door,

had a slip and a fall

now i'm behind the eight ball

in a corner pocket in a biker's bar

looking out for my co-star

but she's not anywhere,

maybe she took my hair.

to intoxicate your soul

nowhere near the point of return,

i wonder if you'll ever learn

the night is long and the day exhausts,

you'll struggle adding up all the costs,

glancing as the clouds gathering near

approach like the point of a sharpened spear,

aging in an age of unreason,

season after season,

the drums beat 

on a lonely stretch of street,

and when you reach the trees

will you allow a breeze

to intoxicate your soul?

go and cast your net,

check out what you'll get

pushing stones up the nearest hill

until you get your fill,

down where the animals are in bed

wishing they were satisfied and fed,

and their clamor keeps feeding your head

with visions of merchandise

as clear and cold as ice

and wouldn't it be nice

to have all the jewels in paradise?

and it was Mary Oliver

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 was a constant unfolding,

as we folded our lives together like the petals of a beautiful flower. 

who was there?

the hill was close

touching my face, kissing my hand

i took several deep inhales

not to grandstand

but to understand

how hard would be the climb

and could i navigate all the way blind?

when confusion and despair

filled the air

in the pitch black dark

who was there?

what was unjust and what was fair?

the music played loud

rattled my senses;

there were scattered villages

separated by indecently high fences

and a monster calling for death

watching people running, 

taking their last breath

indifferently

remorselessly

and the desert has no water

the horse has no name

who's to blame?

who's to praise?

for all those days

when

the drums shake and roll the terrain where i walk,

silently mouthing words but unable to talk.

Alexander Lukashenko

for the love of God

or V Putin

 or whatever the clever superstition of the moment,

Alexander Lukashenko 

is crafting his own uniquely Belarusian

WAY

to emulate the fate of Benito Mussolini

to be hung upside down

by the feet

from a steel I-beam

below which tens of thousands of his happy

citizens 

will be seen

CHEERING

wildly!

in the dead of the day

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks

down to the final seconds

intention and free will

perched on a lonely window sill

waiting for a reprieve, 

watching the scene

as the courts convene

and laws are changed

remarked upon, suddenly rearranged

like a fashionable hair style

and a magazine models' noon-day smile

moving month to month 

from behind the nearest door,

or the ballroom dance floor

where music can be heard

with every breath and every single word.

there's tragedy at the core

of what 

is never asked for

or planned

when individual choices

are criticized and banned.

in the dead of the day,

pregnant women

fade away

into a back alley and into memory

where nothing is free

nothing is as it seems

remembering childhood dreams

and playgrounds and school books

gathering dust 

and second looks.

a gypsy slyly distracting a tourist

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill

is the prelude to an evening meal

with a glass of decent red wine and Simon & Garfunkel's

The Sounds of Silence playing

as the sun begins

to slowly settle on the western horizon;

the table is set with cloth napkins

and porcelain plates,

and silver ware; 

and a screen wall is

enclosing the private space with welcoming arms.

wonderfully, there are no bugs.

the early evening birds are filling the soft, still air with

a natural song.

local flowers sweetly scent the air.

John Lee Hooker is soon to sing,

and his boom boom will be bluesy and enchanting.

he was very popular in Europe,

where modern tastes acknowledged genius without hesitation.

the poets of Europe, especially, are also brilliant chroniclers

of the heart beating in rhythm to the seconds of the day,

while astutely noticing any illusions 

fancied by the cafe crowd.

a gypsy slyly distracting a passing tourist

is a clever poet without a pen,

dreaming of a 

tender chicken

soaked with lemon juice and a special blend

of spices

on a pre-heated grill,

with a glass of decent red wine.

she started talking in circles

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

gave me more than she should

shut bedroom door

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the floor.

said her name was Martha

from the Deep South

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her mouth.

i asked for an answer

what was her wish?

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her kiss.

i wasn't a young man

lost all my steam

she started talking in circles

in the middle of my dream.

when outside the window

a new day broke

she started talking in circles

in the middle of her joke.

can't say i wasn't warned

turned down the light

she started talking in circles

in the middle of the night.

polishing the master's shoe

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung

there's no answer or welcoming mat

no hopeful hill when all the surroundings are flat

the clock was left with dust on its' face

unwound and out of place

and when the chains were being rattled on the early ships' deck

i wasn't allowed to hear about the ruins of the wreck

the high winds rolling over the hot southern air

watching cotton being picked from the comfort of a plantation chair

it was a most exciting thing to do

polishing the master's shoe

and the silver made so bright it was hard to see

more fresh-baked biscuits and sweet tea

down on the ground with bended knee

listening for a faint promise about being free

it's always five o'clock somewhere

and a belly somewhere is always running out of gas

in my way of understanding,

it's less than a half-filled glass

when some children smile with tears washing each eye

and there's no great outcry

well, my oh my oh my

no deep sadness from within

no institutional anger or chagrin

well, go west, young man! go west was sung

but that doorbell has already been rung.