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The Worldwide Web
Wednesday, September 26, 2012 My anthology this week is World Poetry: An Anthology of verse from Antiquity to Our Time. If you are poetry reader, I recommend it to you, 1,300 pages of poetry from all over the world for over 5,000 years, available on Amazon as little as under $4.00 in used hardback ($15.00 new). Poetry as another kind of worldwide web, stretching through all of human history (and pre-history) wherever humans were and are today. Also this week, other poets, and my own stuff, a little more of me than usual because I wanted to.
Here's the bunch of us.
Me
a hairbreadth
Ki no Tsurayuki
Three Poems on Spring Blossoms
Lady Ise
Four Poems
Man Enough
Good-bye
Me
the creators
Me
too much time on Facebook
Pierre Reverdy
Endless Journeys
Me
the gift
Meg Kearney
Silence
Me
about the equine prone on the living room carpet
Anonymous
Pleasant Songs of the Sweetheart Who Meets You in the Fields
Me
bus stop passions
Me
they’re making things too dern small
Me
the dimmest star brighter than all our philosophies
Langston Hughes
Mother to Son
Dylan Thomas
In My Craft of Sullen Art
Philip Larkin
Going
Me
a ride in the Intestinal Falcon
Georg Heym
Final Vigil
Giuseppe Giocchino Belli
Greed
Me
rain at midnight
Anonymous
American Indian and African poems
Me
nothing ever changes
Marge Piercy
For shelter and beyond
Me
Monday morning
I wrote this last week, after, apparently, exceeding my maximum daily dose of Facebook, the land where all the crazy people unfettered. The experience does make one wonder if there's hope for the human race.
a hairbreadth
pale, thin crescent
of a moon last night, bad news for those of us who look to the moon as a forerunner for the day dark night overcoming the airless struggle of the virgin bride to shine unmolested, just as lunacy is the ever-spreading rape of our time there is no goodness in our day, insanity, like the dark side of the moon, the unseen ruler of our time and tides… it is today as if the moon turned its back side to us, revealing all its dark and hidden secrets, its reflected glow of solar light turned away from us forever this is the perversity of our time, we deny the light; reach always for the darkest of all dark shadows swallow the gun daily, our fingers hovering a hairbreadth from the trigger 
   There's really a lot of craziness in the air, reminding me of growing up in South Texas in the years leading up to the assassination.
too much time
already on Facebook… my god, the lies and lies and lies - what chance for the future does a culture have when facts have become lies created for political convenience, when up is down if it suits your purpose, when black is white and a partisan can blame the tragic depletion of white on political opponents what do we do when facts are captured by possessive pronouns, “my facts” versus “your facts,” when facts are presumed to take sides, and, by god, when they don’t take the right side, we’ll just toss them out, make some new ones that better serve us how can we survive in a world where people can so hate that they blind themselves to all conflicting truth and find pride in their ignorance like people who so hate rain they will not acknowledge the rising waters; people who would rather drown than admit the wet… ~~~ already this morning too much time on Facebook where the inmates, having overpowered their institutional keepers, roam free and unfettered in fantasies of their own creation if this is the future I don’t think I like it  Next from this weeks anthology of world poetry, I move forward in time and in the book to Part VIII: The Twenthieth Century, for a poem by French poet, Pierre Reverdy.
Reverdy, whose works were inspired by and subsequently proceeded to influence the provocative art movements of the day, Surrealism, Dadaism and Cubism. He was born in 1889 and died in 1960.
His poem was traslated by John Ashbery.
Endless Journeys All those seen from behind who were moving away singing Who had been seen passing along the river Where even the reeds repeated their prayers Which the birds took up louder and farther on They are the first to arriveand will not go away They counted each step of the road Which vanished as they went along They walked on the hard rock At the edge of the fields they stopped At the edge of the water they slaked their thirst Their feet raised a cloud of dust And it was a coat embroidered by the sunlight All who were going away walking in that desert And for whom the sky had now opened Were still looking for the tip of land at the world's end The wind that pushed them continued on its rounds And the door closed again A black door Night 
Here's another poem from last week.
I'm struck by how many people avoid the subject of death, as if it did not apply to them. the gift
my wife says
I am obsessed with death; but that’s not true, I just, as each year passes, become more attuned to my own mortality; I am flesh and as flesh I will die and each year I begin to understand a little better what that means, that death is the sum of life and there is no avoiding the final tally… I do not fear death, no more than I fear the end of a book - a story, once told has to end, good or bad, the end is the end, and there are no sequels and I’m fine with that, hoping, as I do with every book, for a happy ending, knowing that the end of my book is not the end of all books and that my story is only one of millions in a vast library of stories, many better, many worse, but all never to be read again, that I will lie in the end on a dusty shelve with all the others, the tattered and worn company of all the lost and gone forever but while the story lasts I don’t know a better way to live it than to welcome each new sunrise as the unearned gift of another chapter, to understand that though the final coda will certainly come, the time for it is not now - for there is still another page to read 
Here's a poem by Meg Kearney, from her book, An Unkindness of Ravens. The book was published in 2001 by the BOA Editions, Ltd.
Silence Nothing has changed after thirty- nine years. The grown children have come home for dinner. Each sits in the usual seat, disliking mushrooms, hogging the garlic bread. They say grace, pass the pepper. Slat has never been allowed on this table, though the youngest daughter will fetch it from the kitchen cabinet for a guest. Mother has barely touched her food as she passes the chicken and string beans for a second time, urging, Eat. Eat. Someone says Why don't you eat. Someone says This is delicious, and the rest nod. Then the unsteady hand spills the wine, a Rorschach test spreading its red blotch across the tablecloth. Each of them sees the same thing. the phone rings they go on eating. Someone says get a sponge. The phone goes silent. Someone says it might come out in the wash.  Here's a poem from last week. I wrote a poem earlier that I was really not happy with, and made the comment when posting it on my regular forum that I was going to work on it more.
The next poem, written a day later, expresses my feeling about re-writes.
about the equine prone on the living room carpet
this poem,
whatever it turns out to be, will be only whatever it turns out to be and that will be the end of it… thus fitting my working definition of my poems, there being those written and those being writ, with no intermediate category of poems in need of repair, which is also a pretty good example of my general approach to life - I do, and then I am done there is no reverse gear in my transmission, you can’t be a backward-looker in a forest crowded with trees since no one ever ran into a tree they’ve already passed - It being only the ones ahead that might obstruct you… and it’s the same with choices-past which cannot be unchosen, or with poems written that cannot be unwrit the poem i write will be the poem I wrote, all its value to me in its writing and there are too many poems in the universe waiting for me, waiting to be writ and too much passion possible in their writing to worry about stragglers… but now, I have committed myself to rewriting a poem, and I am sorry I did since cabbage, once chewed, incites no interest, much less passion, in me and a poem with a broken leg just needs to be shot, given the same merciful ending as you would give a mortally wounded horse but given what I said I would do, I will try to breathe some life back into that prone equine sprawled on the carpet in the middle of the living room… but don’t be surprised if you hear a gunshot from behind the barn, one shot, possibly two, since this poem is limping, itself, more than I like 
Next, we jump into the way back machine for a return to Part I of the world poetry anthology, "Poets of the Bronze and Iron Ages (2200-250 B.C.). The poem, a three to four thousand year-old love poem, is by an anonymous poet from "Sumer and the Ancient Near East," including, as defined, in the anthology, Akkadian, Old Babylonian, and Assyrian; Egypt; poetry from the Hebrew bible; Archaic Greek Poetry and the Homeric Tradition.
The poem is from the period 1567-1085 B.C. and was translated by Ezra Pound and Noel Stock.
Pleasant Songs of the Sweetheart Who Meets You in the Fields
from Conversations in Courtship
I
you, mine, my love,
My heart strives to reach the heights of your love.
See, sweet, the bird-trap set with my own hand.
See the birds of Punt,
Perfume a-wing
Like a shower of myrrh
Descending on Egypt.
Let us watch my handiwork,
The two of us together in the fields.
II
The shrill of the wild goose
Unable to resist
The temptation of my bait.
While I, in a tangle of love,
Unable to break free,
Must watch the bird carry away my nets.
and when my mother returns, loaded with birds,
And finds me empty-handed
what shall I say?
That I caught no birds?
That I myself was caught in your net?
III
Even when the birds rise
Wave mass on wave mass in great flight
I see nothing, I am blind
Caught up as I am and carried away
Two hearts obedient in their beating
My life caught up with yours
Your beauty the binding.
IV
Without your love, my heart would beat no more;
Without your love, sweet cake seems only salt;
Without your love, sweet "shedeh" turns to bile.
O listen, darling, my heart's life needs you to love;
For when you breathe, mine is the heart that beats.
V
With candour I confess my love;
I love you, yes, and wish to love you closer;
As mistress of your house,
Your arm placed over mine.
Alas our eyes are loose.
I tell my heart: "My lord
He has moved away, During
The night moved away
And left me. I am like a tomb."
And I wonder: Is there no sensation
Left, when you come to me?
Nothing at all?
Alas those eyes which lead you astray,
Forever on the loose.
And yet I confess with candour
That no matter where else they roam
If they roam towards me
I enter into life.
This is an old poem, another of my book rejects.
bus stop passions
I've seen him
walking
in the neighborhood,
a broad smile,
a friendly nod
as he passes -
yet,
still an air
of strangeness
today
he's standing
alone
in a small pasture
by Apache Creek,
about fifty yards
form a bus stop
middle-aged
he is,
very tall,
long thin legs
encased
in blue, bluejeans,
wide white strip
above his feet
where his pant legs
are rolled up
like it was 1957
all over
again
he stands straight
like a high
blue
tree,
elbows
jutting out
like sails
in a heavy wind
holding
open before him
a large,
heavy-looking book
hard-bound book
a true
tome of a book
reading it seems
aloud
disclaiming his
passions
to the wind
waiting
for the bus
Feeling like doing book rejects this week, so here's another for its moment in the sun.
They're making things too dern small
they're just making things
too dern small
telephones
automobiles
newspapers
and the worst blow of all,
The Rolling Stone
by actual count,
well, not exactly count, but
by actual estimate, there
are 347 music magazines on the racks,
every cover featuring
very ugly men
and/or
tattooed in-
cushioned women...
used to be
The Rolling Stone,
in its large coffee table format, was
easy to spot amongst the detritus,
but now that they've sized-down
I have to look at every one
of the 347 to find it
but
at least
I can still go home
and look at my new giant TV
too bad the shows
are all so
small
Here's something I don't think I've ever done here, a before and after version of a poem.
I wrote the original poem last week, didn't like it and committed myself to a rewrite. The "prone horse" poem above was my reaction to the task of rewriting I had committed myself too. As the poem says, I don't like to rewrite. But I did, two days later and here's the product. The first poem is the rewritten version, the second poem the original. Not sure either the original or the rewrite worth the effort. the dimmest star brighter than all our philosophies
the rewrite
the clouds this morning were thin and patchy, passing fast, and above them, covered, then clear, then covered again, an open sky, clusters of stars shining in the infinite dark… contrasting a frustrating discussion yesterday with an intense Christian, whose ancient text she believes to be literal truth about a creature, an immortal, who created her in his exact image, who listens to her every breath, who responds to her every call, who walks with her through every daily chore, with her down her every daily path, who clears that trail for her, marks the way, and anticipates her every step… i believe none of that, having no faith in magic or magical creatures, and do not understand how anyone can stand on a hilltop at night and lift their heads to the sky to see the vast dark mysteries that surround us, to see the so-far lights bright in the dark, to see the stars that signal with their light the possibilities of so much more then we can imagine, to see all this and then still choose to settle for myth and fantasy when the reality of the real is so much more beautiful and grand and awe-inspiring than the tiny corner of magic believers allot themselves, that small place where they fold themselves into a submissive crouch, forbidding themselves to ever raise their head and see all the wonders unimagined in their book…… our conflict, which seems inevitable even as I seek to avoid it is, that in their tightly-wrapped life ever question is a threat, whereas I live within the framework of a universe where questions are the very purpose of it all… the only answer to this divide is respect - so hard for True Believers to extend to those who do not believe, who threaten by the simple act of disbelief the original the clouds this morning were thin and patchy, passing fast, behind them, covered, then clear, then covered again, was an open sky, clusters of stars shining in the infinite dark… contrasting a frustrating discussion yesterday with a very strong believer in the God, whose ancient, often edited and rewritten, text she believes to be literal truth about a creature, an immortal who created her in his exact image, with fingers and toes like her fingers and toes, with white hair and a long white beard and blue eyes, coincidentally, or maybe not, the exact same shade of blue as hers… I understand the fear of people, and the need because of that fear to create a greater, grander version of themselves as a comfort in the night, a protector, familiar to them as their own mirror reflection, be-robed, tall and straight and powerful, at home in the gardens of a magnificent palace in the cloud… our conflict, which seems inevitable even as I seek to avoid it is, is that in their tightly-wrapped life ever question is a threat, whereas I live within the framework of a universe where questions are the very purpose of it all… I do not believe in magic or in the existence of magical creatures and do not understand how anyone can stand on a hilltop at night and lift their heads to the sky to see the vast dark mysteries that surround us, to see the so-far lights bright in the dark, to see the stars that signal with their light the possibilities of so much more then we can imagine, to see all this and then still choose to settle for some threadbare magician, some traveling snake-oil trickster on a fold-up stage, seems incomprehensible to me, the real universe, to me, so much more wonderful and awe-filling than the tiny corner these believers allot themselves, that small place where they fold themselves into a submissive crouch, forbidding themselves to ever raise their head and see all the wonders unimagined in their book… the only answer to this divide is respect - so hard for True Believers to extend to those who do not believe, who threaten by the simple act of disbelief   Here's another book reject from a couple of years ago. a ride in the Intestinal Falcon they let me watch the procedure on TV as they were doing it, kinda cool... reminded me of that art of the first Star Wars when Han Solo hid himself and his ship the Millennium Falcon and the princess and the rest from the Imperial evil-doer whosits who were chasing them in those little bug-looking ships and of course it wasn't a cave but a gigantic worm's gigantic worm hole and whooooosh they barely made it and since it was the first of the series we weren't sure they would. and anyway even though there weren't, thank goodness, any gigantic-hungry-for-a-space-ship worms in my case, that part of the movie came to mind as I watched the procedure going on inside me and in the recovery bay I was next to an old man singing western ballads in a creamy smooth Ray Price kind of voice and by far it was the best part of the morning  
rain at midnight
rain
at midnight so soft in the dark, defying gravitational concepts like “falling” like leaves instead, drifting to the ground in the cool, wet breeze of autumn-arrival like a Greyhound bus overdue at a small, prairie-town bus station, a long and lonely wait before the first orange of sunrise breaks the flat horizon… then… finally! headlights break the desolate highway 
Next from the anthology, again Part VII: Eighteenth to Twentieth Centuries, I have several short, anonymous poems from various American Indian and African cultures.
These are from American Indians.
Chippewa - 19th Century
Translated by Robert Bly (after Frances Densmore)
Sometimes I Go About Pitying Myself
Sometimes I go about pitying myself
and all the time
I am being carried on great winds across the sky.
Nootka -c. 1900
Translated by Frances Densmore
Song to Bring Fair Weather
You, whose day it is, make it beautiful.
Get out your rainbow colors,
So it will be beautiful
Inuit - 19th Century
Translated by Stephen Berg
Mother's Song
it's quiet in the house so quiet
outside the snowstorm wails
the dogs curl up noses under their tails
my little son sleeps on his back
his mouth open
his belly rises and falls
breathing
is it strange if I cry for joy
Uvavnuk - 19th Century
Translated by Jane Hirshfield
Shaman Song
The great sea
frees me, moves me,
as a strong river carries a weed.
Earth and her strong winds
move me, take me away,
and my soul is swept up in joy.
Takomaq - 19th Century
Translator unknown
I Think Over Again My Small Adventures
I think again over my small adventures,
My fears,
Those small ones that seemed so big.
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach;
And yet there is only one great thing.
The only thing.
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world.
The next poems are from Africa, the same period.
San - 19th - early 20th Century
Translated by Arthur Markowitz
The Day We Die
the day we die
the wind comes down
to take away
our footprints.
The wind makes dust
to cover up
the marks we left
while walking.
For otherwise
the thing would seem
as if we were
still living.
Therefor the wind
is he who comes
to blow away
our footprints
Pygmy - 19th Century
Translated by William Trask (after O. de Labroube)
Song of a Marriageable Girl
Will a man come for me?
The good spirit of the forest knows.
He could tell little Medje:
But he will not tell.
There are things it is not right to know:
If there will be dew on the grass tomorrow,
If the fish will come to the trap and be caught,
If a spell put on the gazelle
Will let my father kill it.
Bagirmi - (c. 1900)
Translated by Ulli Beier (after H. Gaden)
Love Song
I have painted my eyes with black antimony
I girded myself with amulet.
I will satisfy my desire,
you my slender boy.
I walk behind the wall.
I have covered my bosom.
I shall knead colored clay
I shall paint the house for my friend,
O my slender boy.
I shall take my piece of silver
I will buy silk.
I will gird myself with amulets
I will satisfy my desire
the horn of antimony in my hand,
O my slender boy!
Here's another new one from last week.
working in the trades
sounds
of construction, nail guns like AK-47s, tattattattattat, nothing like the sound of individual carpenters swinging by hand their individual hammers… ~~~ I have three hammers, I love the feel of them, weighted toward the head-end, the power of a swing multiplied, the joy of a hammer driving a nail into virgin lumber, or, for me, the more useful feature of the hammer, the claw opposite the head that I use to pull the two out of three nails that bend and turn crooked as I swing with all my misdirected intent… ~~~ shingling a roof - sitting side-legged on the roof, each shingle, its thin side carefully placed under the thick side of the one above to insure against leaks, (or maybe it was the other way around, thick end up - it’s been a long time, 50 years, at least, so perhaps I should not roof again without close supervision), each row of shingles neat and complete, each row a beacon of useful work accomplished… ~~~ I learned, once, how to make construction blocks out of compacted mud and straw - then visited a country, a city surrounded by mountain slopes where such houses were built, where annual monsoon rains melted the homes of the people on the mountainside, sent them washing in muddy streams through the streets of the city ~~~ a good cook adheres to his recipes, a good mason does the same - I am neither a good cook or a good mason, free-flow and imprecise as in my poetry, each mix of sand and cement and water an exercise in improvisation, so my concrete cracks in the sun, melts in the rain ~~~ the smell of hot tar, shiny black liquid in its two-wheeled fire pot - stinks if it’s your neighbor’s roof being fixed, oh, well, if it’s yours ~~~ electric power line construction, hardhats, heavy leather tool belts swung low from hips, linemen up top, “grunts” down below, “headache” yelled from above means duck and cover, something heavy’s coming down… ~~~ the art and technique of manipulating a shovel, taught to me by a man three times older than me who dug four holes to my one ~~~ the lesson from my time in the construction trades - life favours those who know what they’re doing, but the rest of us sometimes have more fun 
It isn't that cowboy poetry is some kind of lesser poetic form, but that the constant rhythm and rhyme wears me out as a reader. But still, read occasionally, it is a treat.
The next poem is from the book, New Cowboy Poetry, a Contemporary Gathering, published in 1990 by Peregrine Smith Books.
The poet, Barney Nelson, is one of an increasing number of female poets entering into the cowboy poetry field. Born and raised on a ranch, she is a professor at Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas, in the Trans-Pecos region of the state between the Davis Mountains and the Big Bend National Park. She teaches courses in Environmental Literature, Contemporary Rural Western Literature, and Rural Women's Literature as well as freshman composition and all manner of writing, from creative fiction and poetry to research and technical writing. She is also a professional photographer, specializing in the American West, the cowboy, ranching, rural women, cattle, horses, and wildlife.
Gettin' On
You cowboys can tell your bronc ride tales
of fannin' hats and glory,
Of how they spin, sunfish, and dive;
It's all there in your story.
But me, my stories ain't so wild,
I'm just a girl, of course,
And the worst trouble that I seem to have
is just gettin' on my horse.
I hafta find an old tree stump,
Or a water trough will do,
Creek bank, board fence, salt block,
Walk a mile before I'm through.
And it seems like when I hit a gate
And no high spot in sight,
It's three-stand wire with flimsy posts,
And my pants are awful tight.
Some women claim that cowboys
Don't want them on the crew.
And I guess for boring ladies,
That sure might be true.
But I've never had to beg or plead,
To get to go along,
'Cause their favorite morning' pass time
Is watching we get on.
This is another new poem from last week. It's about a place where I often end up when I wake up very early, on this particular day, about 3:30 a.m. I've been going to the place in the morning for years and, even though I may get there only once every couple of weeks, nothing changes. The same people who were there the last time are there again the next time.
nothing ever changes
pre-dawn diner,
no one here but me and Teresita, round little waitress, “mas cafecita, mijo,” she says, my cup never falling below half-full the regulars have their schedules to keep, and I’m in-between their coming and going, the table of cops who came before me, leaving as I arrived, six patrol cars scattering in five directions and we are left temporarily defenceless… but not for long, the very tall guy with the comb-over will be here soon, a happy fella - talks to the empty booths all around him, seems to enjoy the conversation, always smiling… and then the fat preacher guy with the guilty look, caught too many times trying to look up young girls' dresses, doesn’t do it anymore, but you can tell he’s thinking about it all the time; and then there’s the dried-up shrimp of a guy, reminds me of a plumber my dad had a beer with after work every day, little guy, half-smoked Bugler roll-your-own always hanging from his bottom lip, very clean, clean clothes, clean hands, how does a plumber stay so clean - I always wondered that, my father, a mechanic, welder, blacksmith, had grease in the cracks in his knuckles that never came off, no matter how hard he scrubbed with the thick brush kept by the bathroom sink just for that purpose, only the undertaker, finally able to erase the marks of fifty years of hard-hand work… but the skinny guy at the diner not so clean, no hand-rolled cigarette, no Bugler tag hanging from the pocket of his work shirt, but, even so, a later version, weather beaten, with the same gimlet-eyed stare at the passage of fools, of that plumber I knew from another place and a time far gone… and after him, the old guy in the watch cap who brings his own mug, likes to run around the diner like he owns the place, going behind the counter, getting his own coffee, and then another fellow, tall, broad shoulders, silver hair and sideburns that flare out over his ears, boots shined like a mirror, always in a western style suit, sharp creases in his pants and leather patches on his jacket, like the old cowboy shirts Roy Rogers and I wore when I was a kid… and now we’re about 30 minutes from sunrise and Lorna, the other waitress comes in, drives in every morning fifty miles from her place on Lake Medina, a “tough broad” I would say if this was that kind of story, been in the waitressing business forty years and it’s written on her face and hands, written there with the follies of man and her ten thousandth plate lunch special and the millionth time she’s heard the joke about the blond waitress and the encyclopedia salesman… and, 30 minutes before sunrise, the night-walkers begin to fade back into the shadows, old men, the forgotten-how-to-sleep brigade, beginning to fold the ends of another night like a ceremonial flag, so carefully folded when the ceremony comes to its end, and I guess that includes me, too, my flag flagging as first light breaks to the east and I leave this place where nothing in the dark ever changes 
This next poem is the last from my library for this week. It is by Marge Piercy, and it is from her book, The Twelve-Spoked Wheel Flashing, published in 1980 by Alfred A. Knopf.
It's a tough poem. For shelter and beyond For battered women,battered by the fist of your keeper, by the nailed boots of the man drunk on the bottle or the booze of his will, by the angry man, by the self-pitying man, by the man kicked by those who can afford to pass on rage. For battered women, battered and bled by hunger, by bills coming in with the old bills unpaid and the phone turned off and the children with no shoes to wear to school, For battered women, battered by the rapist in the street, by the rapist you thought your friend, by the rapist your uncle, the rapist in every man who uses women like something he can wipe himself on. For battered women, battered by birthing methods invented for doctors' profits, with your baby yanked out of you strapped down, battered by social workers prying, battered by jail, battered by divorce court, battered by electroshock, battered with drugs that slow your body and snuff your mind. For battered women, battered by insults on the corner and on the job, by the lack of love, by the loss of love, by the rancid, garbage abuse that comes to the aged, by the death of children, by the death of respect for you and who you are battered but alive, woman ready to to give birth again to hope, ready to midwife hope for other bleeding women. 
So much crazy stuff going on, crazy Islamists, crazy Jews, crazy Iranians, crazy Republicans, it's hard to get my mind out of it when trying to write a poem. Concentrating intently on the most immediate realities seems to be the only.
Like this poem, even if it's one of my own.
Monday morning
through the large windows
that run the length of the room, a small grove of young oak trees, leaves incandescent green in the morning sun; beyond them the street, Monday morning coming awake as I watch at home my largest oak, a fast-growing red oak tripling its size in the last ten years, has dropped a festival of acorns this season, huge acorns, with their smooth brown bodies and gray crowns, the size of a bumbozer marble… a gift from the tree this year to fat squirrels, lounging in their treetop nests all winter  As usual, everything here belongs to those who made it.
I am allen itz, owner and producer of this blog. My stuff is available to ever who might want it for the simple price of proper credit for "Here and Now" and me.
And I still have books to sell, available at most of those places where eBooks are sold.
That includes:
Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Sony eBookstore, most all of the Apple machines, plus
Kobo, Copia, Gardner's, Baker & Taylor, and eBookPie.
Places and Spaces
Always to the Light
Goes Around, Comes Around
  And, for those print-bent, available 
PLUS -
COMING SOON
Sonyador
(The Dreamer)
a small book
of very short stories
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