Midnight Dreams and Mid-Summer Schemes   Wednesday, July 08, 2015






More photos this  week  from  south, central and west Texas and more poems from my library and more poems from me. Too hot to do anything different from regular.


Me
hindsight

Richard Wilbur
The Writer

Me
first robin of spring, takes  1 & 2

Me
protocol

Thylias Moss 
The Owl in Daytime

Me
morning chores  

Me
brown legs walking in  sunshine

Nila northSun
euell gibbons eating a corn dog

James Hoggard
Vincent Van Gogh
The Painter

Me
gray day

Wendy Barker
Deer Running

Me
Gwendolyn

Me
my  really lousy friend

Bobby Byrd
Saying Goodbye to Ann Enriquez

Me
 watching Reba sniff the grass

Shirley Kaufman
"The World's Longest  Tramway" at Albuquerque

Me
to rant, to scream, to kick  some ass   

David  Eberhardt
In Mem. Peter Matthiessen

Me
howl (updated)

Me
sailors on a fading sea

Me
taking my sun

Anyssa Kim
Pretense

Me
throw in a hole in the ground

Pablo Neruda
Love Song

Me
how did I forget
           
                  






                                                                   






I start the week with a poem about my dog and why she is special.











hindsight

unlike other dogs
who like to ride  in cars
with their heads out the window
facing  with a silly grin
the wind as it  blows their flapping ears,
my pal Bella
rides in the back of my little SUV,
watching out the back  window as the world
just goes by and by...

demonstrating again
the higher intelligence of my dog
over other dogs in the world,
smart and inquisitive she is,
knowing the future
passes quickly while the past,
more clearly seen, lingers
on and on...

the value of history,
seeing all that's been as it lingers on and on,
learning from the errors of the impulsive future passing...

historians,
a most important profession

and I think my dog might be one,
an historian, an expert
on the roads and trees and bushes
and critters as they linger on  and on,
dwindling
as she studies and learns...

want to know where we've been
and what it was like, the green  fullness of  trees,
the music of the singing birds
and the sighs of blue-eyed owls and
sharp-eared foxes
and sturdy cows  as they graze
in the fields?

easy, talk to my dog 








First from my library this week, I have a poem by Richard Wilbur from his book Collected Poems 1943-2004. The book was published in 2004 by Harcourt.

Wilbur, born in 1921, was educated at Amherst College and Harvard University. A poet and translator he was appointed the second Poet Laureate of the United States in 1987 and is a two time Pulitzer Prize winner, the first time in 1957 and the second in 1989.











The Writer

In her room at the prow of the house
Where light breaks, and the windows are tossed with linden,
My daughter is writing a story.

I pause in the stairwell, hearing
From her shut door a commotion of typewriter-keys
Like a chain hauled over a gunwale.

Young as she is, the stuff
Of her life is a great cargo, and some of it heavy:
I wish her a lucky passage.

But now it is she who pauses,
As if to reject my thought and its easy figure.
A stillness greatens, in which

The whole house seems to be thinking,
And then she is at it again with a bunched clamor
Of strokes, and again is silent.

I remember the dazed starling
Which was trapped in that very room, two years ago;
How we stole it, lifted a sash

And retreated, not to a'fright it;
And how for a helpless hour, through the crack of the door,
We watched the sleek, wild, dark

And iridescent creature
Batter against the brilliance, drop  like a glove
To the hard floor, or the desk-top,

And wait then, humped and bloody,
For the wits to try it again; and how our spirits
Rose when, suddenly sure,

It lifted off from a chair-back,
Beating a smooth course for the right window
And clearing the sill of the world.

It is always a matter, my darling,
Of  life or death, as I had forgotten. I wish
What I wished for you before, but harder.








                                                                                 





This is a little thing about the uncertainties of spring thing from April, 2007.













first robin of spring, takes 1 and  2

bad weatherman version

on the
porch today
chill winds
blow
discouraging
extended stay


good  weatherman version

on the  porch
sun
warms
sleeping dogs
encouraging
extended stay








                                                                                  
I discovered several  months ago the TV half hour comedy, The Bang Theory, fit for a return  to  the golden age of TV situation comedies in the seventies when one could spend a night in front of their TV set watching one after the other half hour programs destined to become comedy classics. Most of what  passes for comedy on TV these days is crap which is why I avoided this one for several seasons until my wife talked me into watching an episode, leaving me now with several years of hilarious reruns to catch up on. If you don't watch the show you don't know who Sheldon in, which is too bad since it's too complicated to explain here and therefore, unfortunately, your loss.

But I think the poem's okay even  if you don't know Sheldon like many of us do.







protocol

        after Sheldon - The Big Bang Theory

say
for example
someone asks  me
what I had for lunch and it turns out
that what I had for lunch was
a hamburger patty I fried
and ate between two slices of wheat
bread, is it proper for me to say I had a
hamburger or can I  only say I had a hamburger
if I ate my fried hamburger  patty
inside a hamburger
bun?

this is a question
a lot of people are asking...

well,
some people are asking...

well
a few of my friends are asking..

well,
I am asking...

and others might also
who like their hamburger patties
between two slices of bread instead of
inside a hamburger bun...

I just don't know  the  protocol
when it comes to these things, like, for example,
I'm pretty sure a hot dog
can only be called a hot dog if the
wiener is laid within the two  sides of a hot dog
bun...

(and,
I might add,
can only be called a good hot dog if it is laid
on the plate open-faced with chili, onions, cheese and
sweet pickle  relish)

but that doesn't tell me anything about hamburgers
since hot dogs are long cylindrical things
while hamburgers are not, being either round
or, by my preference, roughly square
in shape
unless you have your hot dogs open-faced
in which case they are flat and roughly
rectangular
which is certainly closer to my
hamburger squares than to the  traditional  hamburger
rounds

except the skeptic asks,
what shape are your patties,
round or roughly square?

doesn't it upset the natural state of things
to put a round hamburger  patty
on a roughly square piece of bread?

so,
do you see my  problem?

I don't know the proper protocol
and don't know how to respond  on those days
when someone asks me what I had for lunch
if it happens to be a day when I had a fried hamburger
between two slices of wheat bread...

maybe to be safe
I should always just have soup  for lunch
for which, round bowl
or square,
there is no established
protocol,
leaving me to peaceful and uncomplicated
slurping...








The next poem from my library is by Thylias Moss, poet, experimental filmmaker, sound artist and playwright. Her poem is from her book Small  Congregations, New and Selected Poems. The book was published by The Ecco Press.

Born in 1954, Moss was educated by the University of New Hampshire, Oberlin College and Syracuse University. She is winner of numerous awards and honors, including a MacArthur Fellowship.








The Owl In Daytime

No one  knows where the undertaker lives.
It should be impossible not to  know.
In this village we find the owl in daytime
just to call him an ugly bird.

At night we have other habits
so we spill our guts to the owl,
tell him the worst tales we can think of,
how natural orifices evolved from wounds.
Yet the owl is too ugly to lose feathers.
Also, the owl has no neck.

Between  the undertaker and the owl
there's no telling  who's uglier.
Give us real differences, not  night and day
that embrace each time they meet.
Give us the undertaker's daughter,
the bread she makes.








                                                                               





This small one is from 2012.














morning chores

little blackbird
skitters across the parking lot
chasing a crumb
of something blowing
in a sunrise breeze

big daddy
watches, puffs and preens,
does his macho
fuck-me
dance

little blackbird
runs down
the racing crumb
with one quick  stab
of her beak, satisfied the morning
has begun, looks at the
puffed-up, prancing
male,
sighs, oh well,
she whistles softly
through  her
nose,
not quite  done yet
after
all








                                                                                    




A nice sun-shining day and old memories surface.














brown legs walking in sunshine

remembering
brown legs  walking
in sunshine
and I'm  sitting by the gym
and it's 1957 again
and I'm 13 again, and
a new center of the
universe
is revealed to me









Next from my library, here is a poem by Nila northSun from her book, a snake in her mouth, poems 1974-96. The book was published West End Press in 1997.

northSun was born of Chippewa-Shoshone descent in Nevada in 1951. A graduate of of the University of Montana, she lived at the time of publication on the Stillwater Indian Reservation in Nevada where she was director of a teen crisis center.

I expect at  least  half the people who read this will not  know/remember who Euell Gibbons was. For purposes of the poem, suffice  it to say, seeing him eat a corn dog would constitute a great surprise. For more see Wikipedia.





euell gibbons eating a corn dog

thought i'd write
a nature poem
so i sat on the porch
& looked out
saw air-conditioned tourists
with winged trailers
saw a million grasshoppers
somersault when my dog dashed
thru the weeds
saw campers & mobile homes lined up
at the drive-in eat place
rolling down their windows
only to say
"4 chizburgers with all da trimmins
2 orders  a fries, 1  softee cone
3 large cokes & 1 chocklit shake"
next to the eat place bulls fucking
each other in the unshaded pasture
daddys telling their kids to
"look the other way"
mommas saying
"i've lost my appetite"
a skunk wanders b7 somewhere
i call my dog to get inside
grasshoppers hop
the summer sun has dried everything
so nothing is green
& i'm not so sure what
a nature poem is anyway








                                                                              
The next two poems are by James Hoggard and are taken from his book, Breaking an Indelicate Statue. The book was published by Lattitudes Press in 1986. It is printed upside down inside its cover which might be partial explanation for why I was able to buy it for 50 cents at the half-price book store. It was certainly not the quality of the poetry which is fresh and interesting.

Hoggard is a Texas poets, author of 16 poetry collections, professor at Midwestern State University (rated by his students as brilliant, compassionate, arrogant and professor of the best class ever taken) at Wichita Falls, Texas and former Texas Poet Laureate.








Vincent Van Gogh

I told you what agony means
but you said I was whimpering
so I held my trembling hand in the steady,
searing candle flame     and     you grimaced,
you thought I was mad.

I told you about my anguish
and you laughed and ran laughing
to a night's adventure.         I the slashed off
my ear with my bone-handled razor
and took it to you,

but it made you sick.     Each time I speak
you laugh then draw away so I
mutilate my tortured self.    But,    still,
I don't know if I'm proving my pain
to you or myself.


The Painter

He had finally managed to kill himself.
No,    he had simply killed himself.    But no,
the first was was right:    he only managed
suicide,   having failed a number of time
before.    He lay on his cot.    The room was
violent   yellow in his mind but bland and drab
to his eyes,   and his brother   on a wicker   chair
weeping.    Maybe he thought of sunflowers carved
by his brush into oil,   or the rhythms
convulsing purple in the sky.    Maye he
though  a number of things,   but he only said,
"Theo, bring me my pipe."    The action made
all the bad dreams disappear.    Nothing sad,
only done,   and irrelevant this time.












A morning poem from December, 2013, on a very, very bad day.















gray day

I could write a poem
about a cold, dreary
December day and though
it is, in fact, such a day
today,  exactly such a
cold, dreary December
day, my descriptors
would be more about me
than about the actual  day
outside

in the third day
of recovery from a particularly
virulent episode
of food poisoning, I remain
gray of face and lifeless  of affect,
empty-bellied,but afraid
to fill it
for even the smallest bite
sets the roils to  a-roiling...

but
enough about me

it is a gray, dreary December day,
perfect for sitting outside
by a  fire in my  chiminea,
which I have done
and felt better doing it,
but as with all life's fires,
the wood burns only as  a temporary
respite before the fire within
is exhausted

then the hollow,
the gray December  hollow
returns








                                                                              .

I've used the next poem before but I find in it a great sadness and I like it very much. It is by Wendy Barker Poet-In-Residence and Pearl LeWinn Endowed Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Texas at San Antonio where she has taught since 1986. Publisher of six volumes of poetry, she earned her PhD at University of California, Davis

The poem is from her book, Winter Chickens and other poems, published in 1990 by Corona Publishing.










Deer Running

This is not brush weaving
in and out of wind.
The deer leaps
away from the cars, terror
explodes in her legs,
she hurls against the wire
webbing of the fence,
tangling through.

When she crawls
into the safety of cedar brake
she stands only to fall
on her side, and fall
again, again,
before she moves off
and loses us
among the dry leaves.

We're late
for David's piano lesson.
He says, "Well, we did what we could do."

This morning, on the stairs,
it felt good, good to run
to the coffee, clean dishes,
you at the table.

I remember in southside Chicago,
you said when you saw them
coming, twenty or thirty,
moving straight for us,
you said, "Walk as fast
as you can, walk.
Walk like hell. Get out
your car key now
and slide in fast.

But I don't think
they were after us.
We were just there,
they were in a righteous
hurry, headed somewhere else.

She had no room.
She couldn't jump
because the cedars crowd so thick
and high near the fences
by the road.

For knowing the music
David's teacher gave him
a plastic bust of Brahms.
She's teaching him to use
the right fingers
on the right keys,
not to rush the tempo.













Another short coffeehouse  observational from 2008.











Gwendolyn

Gwendolyn,
            I've named her
  and I love
                        to  watch
her talk -
             American Sign,
                                 with flashing eyes
              and Gwendolyn
                                  body
                                          English
               that seems  to involve
every
         movable
                          part
     of her physical              being

as
     I watch her from
            across the coffeehouse
                                  I have no idea
  what  she's talking      about


                           but
                           by God
              it sure looks exciting








                                                                             





Lots of change in the past fifty years, but not much of the progress I was sure back then was coming.











my really lousy friend

I used to come here
just about every day, but things
change and having made change my friend
I accept that I don't come here hardly at all any more

but that doesn't mean I don't miss coming here,
but life today, I'm told is about making
change
my friend and I only wish change was a better  friend
to me as I am to change
because
frankly my dear, while I was being as friendly
as I could be, change
was screwing me seven ways to Sunday, like
I really liked coming here and don't
hardly get to anymore
and I am
once
again, change deprived,
that is deprived by change as a daily pleasant
experience is wiped away
because
change is a really, really bad friend

like
just look around and you'll
see








                                                                             
Now from my library, here is a poem by Bobby Byrd from his book White Panties, Dead Friends. The book was published in 2006 by Cinco Puntos Press.

Byrd, a poet, essayist, and publisher, grew up in Memphis, Tennessee during the golden age of that city's music. He moved to Tucson in 1963 to attend the University of Arizona, eventually settling down in El Paso in 1978. He and his wife are owners of Cinco Puntos Press.









Saying Goodbye to Ann Enriquez

It's the Sunday night three days after you died.
I keep remembering you inside your body.
Like a ghost.
Little glimpses here and there,
like running into an old friend at Albertson's -
the aisle where they stock the sandwich spreads and the jellies.
I'm supposed to pick up a jar of peanut butter,
a loaf of bead, a nice bottle of wine, one or two other things.
But you are waiting for me
gray and tired but your eyes are radiant.
Gaspar, you say, is at home, staring at a blank canvas.
He's lost, but what can you do?
You  tell me the cancer simply asked you into the other room.
the bright lights of commerce tremble in your shade
and I become embarrassed - your death
was a random event, like
a drive-by shooting or a freak accident on I-10.
Our lives disappear like so much white noise.
You kiss me on the cheek and whisper goodbye.
Your lips are cold.
A woman looking for a jar of mayonnaise
pushes her cart with its load of food and a screaming kid
between us, and you are gone.
I'm left alone, sad and uncertain.
I should have had a gift for you to take on your journey.
A flower perhaps.
A Mexican woman had been outside the store
standing in the cold and selling beautiful gardenias
she had smuggled across the river.
Two dollars each and the gardenias smelled so sweet.
I should have bought you a Mexican gardenia.
Oh well.
I proceed to the checkout.
A pretty girl named Estela scans my groceries.
$27.83 worth of life's wheel.
Just the way life is, one day to the next.








                                                                         




Making do with unusual places Saturday, July 4th.













 something I particularly like in my birds

it is Saturday
and it is Independence Day
and I see a band of sparrows
foraging
the cracks between the bricks
on the Starbuck's patio
and they hop and they nip and they hippity-hop
from brick to brick, digging deep in  the crevasses,
getting for their effort breakfast
fit for tiny tummies of such energy and conscientious birds
as sparrows and can you imagine a sparrow
any way but energetic and conscientious, I certainly can't
never having seen a sparrow laze around waiting handouts
like pigeons, the welfare queens of the park, hanging out in the shadows
of every park bench, waiting for some lonely old man or bedraggled old woman
to toss popcorn to them, never even saying thanks, not like a dog who
if give a treat will come for a head scratch from the treat-giver, or a cat
who will come over and rub against your knee before ignoring you for the rest of the day,
not like pigeons who flock to their popcorn without even a tip of their hat, but
at least they are not as bad as gulls who will gather over you like a cloud of squawking
doom when they see you on the beach or even close to the beach - if pigeons are
the humble bums who quietly gather on street corners with their cardboard signs,
gulls are like the insane homeless guy I saw in Seattle who screamed obscenities
at people until they gave him money to go away and scream at someone else,
that's gulls, screaming marauders of the beach, screaming gull-talk obscenities
 as they cloud over your head - and they never say thank you either...

that's why I  like the sparrows, like the one standing at my feet right now,
not begging or being obnoxious, just standing there waiting for me to accidentally
drop a crust or other tiny piece of my croissant, or donut, or other morning
treat, very polite little birds and I appreciate that, given all the noisy beggar birds
that crowd our city streets and sidewalks and trees...

and that's another thing - no sparrow has ever, to my knowledge, pooped
on me or my car or anyone else known to me
and I appreciate that cause
good bathroom habits
is something I
particularly
like in my
birds








                                                                              


 
Walking my dog in 2009. Our beautiful old border collie, Reba, a combination canine Einstein and Mother Teresa, in such continual pain after nearly 20 years with us that  we had to put her down. That sad end was  still a couple of years away when we took this, one of our regular morning walks.












watching Reba sniff the grass

a clear cool day,
too good not to be out in,
so Reba and I took a  little longer
with our walk
than  usual

most mornings, Reba slows down a bit
after her initial excitement,
but today this beautiful day,
she was frisky
and eager from start
to finish,
her nose  buried
deep
in the grass,
her nostrils twitching,
delicate
little shivers,
as she makes minute
adjustments,
pushing the grass
this way and that,
searching
for the clearest scent

like a jeweler
bent over a fine  gem,
loop
to unblinking eye,
studying each facet,
looking for purity
that will make him
draw back  his  breath
in wonder

I watch and wonder, too,
how it must be
to be
so open to  sensation,
to be so filled in the
morning
with such joy of
discovery...

ahh,
success,
a tiny bit of something
dead,
or, in her lexicon,
food








                                                                               



The next poem from my library is by American-Israeli poet     Shirley Kaufman. The poem is from her book Rivers of Salt, published by Copper Canyon Press in 1993.














"The World's Longest Tramway" at Albuquerque

Once on the Gornergrat I thought the wind
would sweep me out of my body,
all that immensity of light
and the gates wide open.
If I didn't look back
I'd be lost.

Looking back is the problem.
Every chunk of the poor earth keeps us
accountable, this scrub
and the dwindling pines
with their little white shelves,
one hill sliced flat,
and after that to the north
stubble, the parceled land, Los Alamos
on which the snow swirls
soft and elegiac.













This rant is from 2013. Can't say anything's improved that  I can see.












to rant, to scream, to kick some ass

it is my job
to write a poem this very minute

but after
reading today's newspaper,
piled on newspapers from the past several weeks

I don't want to write a poem...

I  want to scream,
to rant,
to register my discontent
with suitable
impolite action,
to raise hell,
to be offensive,
to shout obscenities,
to kick some ass,
to get into a bar fight with a pool cue
and busted beer bottle as m
weapons of choice,
the one
for severe blows about the head of the subjects
of my rage
and the other to
castrate those  same evil, political motherfucker lowlifes
so that there is  no possibility
that the scourge they bring can  be biologically reproduced...

that's what I want to do,
a rant, a scream, a waste of time
for me and for any reader
so unfortunate
as to stumble across it on this early
beautiful day
when
rants should be restricted to crazy people...

which I am not,
though greatly tempted
by this insane, paranoid time
to join  the crowd
of loose
nuts
roaming like rabid  dogs
through
the plains and woods and mountains  high
of my country...










The next poem is by Baltimore poet and activist, David Eberhardt.









 In Mem,  Peter Matthiessen

I dreamt last night of the snow leopard under the mountain wall, in
the cloud forest...just out of view; it was a ghostly apparition, and
the hint of it was enough - there was no need for an actual sighting.
It was a scat, a koan, the sound of prayer flags snapping,  of prayer
wheels turning... it was a bamboo  flute that smelled of patchouli,
an African thumb piano. The effervescent present being enough, I
took a deep  breath and tried to be mindful.

O it's not far
To our tomorrows,
Nor is it far
To  yesterdays;
But it's the present
That's so distant,
And so sorrow
Lines the way.













This from 2009. I hate to do two rants in one post,  but that's just the kind of times we live in.












howl (updated)

did you see
the picture of the guy
with an  assault rifle
at one of Obama's town hall
meetings?

somewhere in hell
Lee Harvey Oswald is really
pissed
that his timing was so bad

had his murderous little self
been out on his assassinating way
today
he could have saved cab fare
to the book depository

there being any number
of right-wing Republicans
eager to give him a rid
so as  to insure his right
to bear arms
in not compromised

have to protect  our rights,
you know...

presidents -

well, hell, we can always
get another one of those








                                                                                





A morning poem from 2013.











sailors  on a fading sea

in the misty 
morning
streetlamps pool
light on dark parking lots

brown leaves blow across
the light
like tiny fish
swimming
in  a glowing pond

winter night
finding its  way
to day
taking me
with it, quiet
as the tiny fish
that swim
in their little  fading
seas










This poem is from the middle of summer, 2011.

I grew under south Texas sun, worked in it for some time. I'll never voluntarily do without air conditioning, and feel pretty much the same about sunshine.









taking my sun

taking
my sun yesterday
lying on a thick blanket
on the grass in my backyard
near the Chinese firecracker plants
by the fence, hundreds
of small, red blooms painting the fence
like waist-high  broad-brushed graffiti
calling to the bees,
come and sip  from  my trumpet-shaped
blossoms,come, it calls to  the humming birds,
dip your long sharp bills and taste my nectar...

and they came,
bees plummeting from blossom to blossom
and humming birds, including, I'm quite sure,
the one I came to know last year,
the one who studied me so closely then,
the one who returned this year
to  study me again, hovering no more than eight inches
over my face, checking out the wear and tear
of  the year passed as it sags on my face,
flits sideways to sink its bill
into a nearby blossom,
returns, wings  a blur,
to study me
again...



la chuparosa,
el ojo de Dios

"eye of God"
I  called the hummingbird
in a poem years ago,
and though I didn't  then
and still don't now, believe in God,
I must believe in the marvel
of this creation, this tiny chuparosa
hovering so  closely, so intently
over my sun-turned face








Here is a poem from my library by Anyssa Kim.

Born in Seoul, South Korea,   Kim was adopted and raised in Westbury, Long  Island and has lived in New York City for over a decade. She is a poet, writer, self-taught visual and performance artist and a classically trained violinist, playing regularly with the New York Repertory Orchestra.

The poem is from her book, Ovarian Twists, New and Selected Poems, published by Fly By Night Press in 2003.









Pretense

some days I pretend
I'm a superstar
in jeans
a cap
old t-shirt
as if it were choice
to grunge around
walk my island of
pretend
I am     incognito

yesterday I
played this

charade
me, attentive
audience

oh Eyes!
try not to see
it is a game

of no-show-tell
             of     who gives a flying
Eyes averted
                          in this city of
                          home  sweet
Don't look at me
              please     Look at  me
don't look at me
             unless I want you
to see me
in Central Park
drowning in green

in Washington Square
baking on asphalt

in Times Square
gagging at Disney
cursing Giuliani     what he did

I huff like a 212-er
pissed to have
to  add 4 more digits
for local calls

angry angle
elbow of hand
on hips

dammit!
why didn't anyone
let me know
               my fly was open












More deep thinking, in this case, from 2010.













throw in a hole in the ground

thinking about all the  people
who don't  know their  ass from  a hole

in the ground and thinking how i'd like
to  write a poem that wasn't about

that and thinking about
how i don't know how

to do that, i don't know how to  write
a  brain-free poem...

maybe start with random phrases
and images

throw in the kitchen sink;
throw in a cat  in the kitchen

sink, throw in a wet cat
in the kitchen sink,

throw in
a  pissed-off wet  cat

yowling
full extended claws

scratching the porcelain;
throw in a porcelain

urinal,
(why the hell not - gets

me away from the
pissed-off cat)'

throw in a porcelain
urinal

in a bus station restroom;
throw in a bus station lobby,

people sleeping, people talking,
babies crying, old men coughing,

spitting, farting in plastic chairs,
pinball machines clattering

and whistling and clanging
and pinballing

kathunka  kathunka  kathunka
pinballs bouncing off the rubbers

thacka thacka thacka
pinballs scoring

whanga whanga whanga
thunk - free game

echoing
off concrete walls

echoes echoes echoes...
stone wall echoes

throw in a rock band
guitars and drums echoing

in a tiny room
of sweaty people  jumping,

Saturday night
on 5th street, throw in sweaty people

on the 4th of July, walking

dancing, jumping,
a  little drunk  some, mostly

drunk others, having a
good time mostly not remembered

tomorrow
but why the hell not

there's be another tomorrow
after tomorrow

for most of us,
odds are for you  and me

well,
me anyway maybe who knows -

throw in a box;
throw me  in the box

throw in a hole in the ground;
throw in  people who don't know

there ass
from my hole in the ground

and i'm back where i
started








                                                                 



Last from my library this week,    Pablo Neruda, with a poem from his book, The Yellow Heart, published by Copper Canyon Press, with translation by William O'Daly, in 1990.











Love Song

I love you, I love you, is my song
and here my silliness begins.

I love you, I love you, my lung,
I  love you, I love you my wild grapevine,
and if love is like wine:
your are my predilection
from your hands to your feet:
you are the wineglass of my hereafter
and my bottle of destiny.

I love you forwards and backwards,
and I don't have the tone or timber
to sing you my song,
my endless song.

On my violin that sings out of tune
my violin declares,
 love you, I love you my double bass,
my sweet woman, dark and clear,
my heart, my teeth,
my light and my spoon,
my salt of the dim week,
my clear windowpane moon.








                                                                  

Now for my last poem this week, after a very pleasant week-end trip to the coast, to Corpus Christ,  where lived very happily for 15 years until moving to San Antonio in 1993. As I've said often, our years there were the best years of my life and I get very nostalgic for those  happy times whenever I visit.

Even so, all there was not  to love.









how did I forget?

though it's been many years,
I remember the sun, filtered through the wet, salty air,
sharp  as a knife, sharp as the knife
my father honed to a razor's edge once a week, a dull knife,
he said,, is just a stick, and though I don't carry
a pocket knife, being of a generation that could be arrested
for the kind of folding knife my father carried
in his pocket every day of his life,
if I did, I'd keep it sharp
just like my dad...

I remember that knife-edge coastal sun,
but I can't believe I forgot about
the wind, blown across
Corpus Christi Bay and a thousand or more miles
of the Gulf, like a fist it hits you, if the sun is a knife,
the wind is a fist...

living her for so many years and growing accustomed  to it
such that I didn't notice it until we moved and then the lack of it
was like an airless hole in the day, and now
more than twenty years have passed
and I didn't remember the force of it,  the way it deafens
as it blows  across your ears, the way it stings on the beach as wind-blown sand
peppers your face, the way it swirls around tall palms as they dance
in it, the way the gulls fly in erratic circles like a kite escaped
from the hands of an inattentive child...

those were good years we  lived here...

and I remember the razor sun and the sweat-soaked  shirts
just  from standing
outside,
but how in the world
did I forget about this damned wind...








As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me
 
As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:
 

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)



´╗┐Poetry
New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces
 



Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around




Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer







                                                                               Peace in our Time



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