handful of dirt

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

am i in Paris

or buried in Berlin,

with a handful of poppies

and a bottle of gin?

a killer takes aim,

but my driver knows the score,

running all the red lights

to the next World War

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

crossing the muddy waters

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape,

using all the tricks i learned.

she was a hungry woman;

excitement was in those eyes.

i asked for forgiveness!

i confessed all of my lies!

but she said it was simple:

i lost my way on the track.

beware or i'd find myself

kicked out of the sack;

and i'd be sad and lonesome

with no way to find my path!

there'd be no special woman

to heat water for my bath!

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape

using all the tricks i learned.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform

with God on his side, 

a holster with Lugar inside,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flashes of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

he took a big bite

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

on the street corner

with his eyes open wide,

he watched the passing traffic

looking for a ride.

the traffic was fast,

spinning way out of control;

he looked for a safe spot

to dig himself a new hole.

it took a long time!

he kept digging all alone;

he was looking for love,

but he only found a bone.

and the bone was old;

it smiled and sang him a song:

it was about a rabbit

that was always wrong.

he stopped his digging!

found and lit a cigarette.

thought about destiny

and broke out in a cold sweat.

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

underneath a railroad coal car

in the backcountry 

thinking backwards

to the devastating Marietta flood 

all the way to the 20's

the 1920's

with Susquehanna river water crossing over the railroad tracks

so people were rescued from their

second floor windows,

boats in the swift brown flow

and residents with no where to go;

and later my grandfather and my dad

carrying heavy coal sacks

back home,

a different home

near Front street

to provide a little heat

because wood was scarce

and the freight train stopped

without a watchman or a guard

nothing easy! 

mostly resignation for anything toohard

acceptance

improvisation 

without a moments hesitation

acting soberly

wearing blacks and white

every day and every night

working dawn to dusk

in the summer months 

delivering ice

when the roads were dry

and the air was hot

laboring for everything they ever got

the outhouse sagging in the back yard

one seat for every butt

hinges that didn't operate

so the old door couldn't shut

pages torn from newspapers

most old and torn

sitting happily or forlorn

eating a simple small town diet

no tv but a contented overnight quiet

with kerosene lamps, conversations and playing cards

three to a room or sometimes four

two sons going off to the Second World War

then, after and later 

sunning on the Jersey shore

with a shovel and small pail

no one sentenced to jail

i heard them say

that that's not the American Way:

no, climb the ladder from the shack

there's no glory in continuously looking back

prepare an adequate garden for your food

no time for being in a sour mood

stay in your own sweet lane

connected to each other

with an unbroken family chain

and with every sentence that one might write

make it short and tight

remembering how to crawl underneath a railroad coal car

where the spillage doesn't have to travel very far

to find it's way into your bag,

even if there's no money to be found

on the ground,

there's always love in the heart.

thousand of years ago

the pine and the downy birch

also the larch tree

all marching 

across the land

up hills and across the tundra

over the mountains

into the softening soils

toward the North Star

where reindeer herds look for solid ice

in the ever warming night.

blue and orange and with shades of green,

the forest expands

where trees once grew

thousands of year ago

before the fires and the wolves 

who walk on two legs.

two wolves then six

a black river

and a small herd

of blue sheep

crossing mountains

in the depth of winter

miles from cities

miles from a warm bath

sitting in a cloud tent

sitting in the wind

sitting with a Lama

perched like a moment

on a thin rock shelf

at 17,000 feet

with prayer flags by my shoulder

watching the air

breathe

watching time

watching myself disappear

smiling in the shadows

laughing in the sunshine

then two wolves

then six

black tails

with specks of white

like snow flakes

and deep drifts

that close the high alpine passes.

i thought i'd take a sip

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from an overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned:

we'd grab a bottle and laugh;

sing a Stone's song & take a bath.

we'd go crazy with the blues.

oh, we'd never need to choose!

she'd read the news

when the highlights were bold,

saying, all that glitters isn't gold!

my fortune was in the cards!

her private estate surrounded by armed guards

and i'd be a fool to try an escape,

inside where it hurts or out of shape

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from the overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned!

to peel an organic orange

running across America without any shoes

hearing the darkest news

shedding my coat

but still wearing the blues

wondering where it has all gone wrong

humming a sad song

about indifference

then jumping a border fence

and a wall

rivers wide and ten miles tall.

all my pants are torn

wondering why the richest people born

without a picking thing to do

wander around without a clue

in retreat or full charge

aiming at the world at large

are hitting the bull's eye

with mother's milk and warm apple pie!?

well, their crumbs don't fall far

it's too bizarre

to be a comedian's joke

staying asleep while acting woke.

thousands of workers looking for work

an auto mechanic or a retail clerk

with beautiful land underfoot

on shifting sands or staying put.

i think it's strange

my home on the range

just passing gas or looking for a buck

thinking bad company or wishing good luck.

i know i love you

but often what you do

needs further review.

it's half-time or quarter-time

out of prison or committing a crime,

i'm risking my life

sharpening my knife

to peel an organic orange.

you took a ride

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i've been walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

oh, it was long ago

just before the winter's snow

and that spring was hard

you caught me off guard

i wasn't your little boy

i didn't want to be your toy

but the stars in the sky

heard me cry

when you took me for a ride

thought you were a bride

wore white

every night

wore white

held me tight

took your bite

thought it was your right

to satisfy an appetite

well, you thought i was free

but it was simply your twisted memory

because you see, i was walking

to escape all your talking

and that road is long

without my favorite song

since you don't know the score

so i'm trying to ignore

what you said

when you jumped me in bed

as WE soak in the baths of infinity

I try to welcome myself,

and I seek for him:

maybe in Singapore?

or Lahore?

by the seashore?

perhaps on a mountain top?

between the moments of a ticking clock?

or within the lines of a haiku?

all the while,

while noticing the essence of YOU.

I am aware, though,

that within it ALL 

balance or stumble

I sometimes feel unwelcome,

and am greedy,

and unwise.

but it's no surprise.

I am standing on my hind legs,

sniffing the air

feeling the wind in my hair 

while I fly

among the stars in the sky

temporarily here

and there

recovering my health

from the corruption of wealth

hoping for a choice

listening to an inner voice

welcoming me

after all

loving me

before the inevitable fall.

so I stand

holding out my hand

and my heart

asking YOU

always 

for a continual restart

each and every moment

as WE soak in the baths of infinity.

with my tiny wings

i cried at night

and in the daylight

standing on unsteady feet

knowing i should eat,

there was no appetite

in spite 

of losing weight.

and when i tried to draw a deep breath

it came out small,

matching my size

as if to sympathize

with my growing concerns.

a friendly doctor said i could be dead

or perhaps not

but it all depended on what it is i've got,

and i had something

in my lung,

and being no longer young,

there was a good chance

i had attended my last dance.

Cancer?

but I'm a Virgo!!!

and i didn't want to leave,

YOU!!

my memories are not as important

as the here and NOW:

we sit 

sipping a dry wine and

our eyes shine.

you ask and I reply:

i want to wash dirty dishes in hot soapy water 

and thereby clean

my fingernails,

and ride the open highways and rails,

singing songs remembering Johnny Cash,

and then set a world record in the 100 yard dash,

while remaining humble,

writing a four line poem

which explains how the Rocky Mountains

became rocky,

and how our scars can be healed by a kiss.

let me be healthy,

to see the tiny hummingbird spin its' 

even tinier wings

all the way to the sea of Paradise and return

with a flower in its' mouth.

i want to hand you a flower, too,

with my tiny wings.

the bones of dead animals

the hyenas

with a swift run, yelping,

and a blazing red skull illuminated

on my waiting room wall,

both broke my concentration

and coughing,  i fled,

into an dreamworld

as majestic as the distant Mountain of God

and as cold as the snows of Kilimanjaro:

my left lung was filled with glass shards

as a Maasai warrior watched me from a high rock,

standing on one leg, impassive,

and i could see the sun dancing on his spear point.

i was being sedated in a hospital operating room,

watching the wild dogs chase a young zebra foal.

a heavy dark cloud enveloped me, and sheets of rain

nearly drowned me, but i awoke, foggy-brained,

covered with a buffalo skin shield for safety.

my right lung was  protected by my emperor's guard

dog and seemed healthy;

my left lung was not doing so well, but might be saved,

as a local witch doctor explained.

the bones of dead animals covered the floor.

i went home to sleep some more,

high in the safe branches of a Baobob tree.

Alabama's Africa Town

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while the phone line to the Governor's office is constantly busy

looking over to the Keys

hearing the shouted words "So help me, please!"

the old man and the sea

remembering stories of a shark attack

are calling: there's no turning back

dying or already dead 

the high rises 

proudly

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

and maybe the onslaught can no longer be slowed.

in Florida

the shore line is now a front line

while near Alabama's Africa Town

the sunken slave ship was finally found

buried in mud near Twelve Mile island where it was burned and sunk

treated by the enslavers like a useless piece of junk!

a boastful white man acting like a heartless drunk

hiding his crime thinking that if it's out of sight

there's no evidence to point to in the dark of night

but now the history books

can give this story many more serious looks

finding surprises

where the sun also rises

when high tide is spotted running across Lincoln Road

but maybe the onslaught can now be slowed.

careless words

in the night

maybe the middle of it

i awoke and felt like shit

knowing how i misspoke

with an ill-advised joke

about me and a tree,

a bum hip

and two wounded knees,

and please

know that life can be a bitch

being a snitch

or even while on the up and up

wearing a catcher's cup

to protect the balls.

no more falls

might be the best

on the romantic test

with a score above zero on a sliding scale

between serious woman and inept male

timing my shot

hoping for more than what i got

without being greedy

or, in the worst case, being needy

and alone

with no way to atone

for careless words perhaps like above,

less frivolous and more infused with love.

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

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.

there is always the moon: a memoir

there is always the moon
dropping light
like bright pebbles
or like an extravagant  annual ball
racing above the Earth in regular lunar phases
blurring the gap like opium blurs the brain
perhaps of a famous schoolboy poet
who wrote a memoir about a voluptuous woman
with a skill giving French lessons
to the poor
instead of using her beautiful voice to teach diction
and how
without a penny
and only a single friend,
she became a successful actress on stage
and the early screen,
who spoke with her golden voice on the radio
from where it was heard
by Gertrude Stein
who immediately wanted to visit for a book idea,
but the hour was late,
and the suggestion less than honest,
and the moon had already fallen from the sky

on a cloudless night.

all poets should be so lucky.

Van Gogh found his toe

Van Gogh
found his toe
beneath an olive tree
near the town of Saint Rémy
but he lost an ear
when the sky was crystal clear
during a strange sword fight
on a rumored starry night.

Pablo Picasso
knew where to go
on the Dinard beach
where he liked to teach
while playing with his ripe banana
inside a locked cabana.

The smaller towns were red,
the French man said,
while drinking local wine.

and a friend of mine
agreed,
as she peed
behind a Rhône valley tree
near a busy winery
where empty bottles grew.

the famous mistral winds blew,
Paul Cézanne so well knew,
all the way to the shimmering Med
the famous colors bled
into the air and, oh my, the sight:

such amazing quality of light!

he painted throughout the night.