Beach Blanket Turkey Trot   Wednesday, November 22, 2017




Starting with this poem, Thanksgiving, 2007.














family time

full of turkey
and dressing
and all the rest,
napped,
said hello
to everyone
and goodbye
to some

nothing
to do now,
everybody
else I knew
in this place
were I grew up
is either dead,
gone, or, in one
or two cases, in
jail - so I think
I'll just go to the
movies, there's
a good one
across the street
from the hotel,
people killing
people
and things blowing up,
no sex though
or naked
people
so we can
take
the kids

it's
exactly
what this season
calls for -
good, family-friendly
entertainment








No random pictures this week. Instead, pictures from Thanksgiving, 2015, when we spent the holiday with my brother-in-laws family in a place they have on South Padre Island. While there we also visited downtown Brownsville a block from the international bridge to Matamoros, then, from Brownsville to Boca Chica beach which was, when I was a child, our only beach access, the first causeway to South Padre not yet  built. Along the way, we found the site of the last battle of the Civil War, fought some months after the war was officially over. I had often heard of this site and could never find it, the reason plainly evident, there being nothing there but a plaque and an over grown field. Also along the way to Boca Chica we stopped at the Palmetto State Park, where the last of what used to be a vast forest of Palmetto trees along the Rio Grande are protected. The park, it turns out is on the Mexican side of the border wall (there are often similar places along the river that are still United States territory but inaccessible because of the wall). In this, there is a gap in the wall for entry into the park. One of my pictures are of that awful wall. Also in the park is the home of the previous owners of the ranch that include the park area. A beautiful home, long deserted and run down, now in the process of rehab to its historical grandeur.

I have a couple of extra poems this week because I had a couple of extra pictures I wanted to use. So, as the past couple of week, a few of my new poems, bunch of my old poems, and, if I get tired of my old poems, a few from my library.

Too much of me, I know, but I promise I won't do it again.


All from me, new and old.


````family time

````Sutherland Springs

```departures

````or if you prefer

````homecoming

````a science kind of guy

```behind bars

````stand tall

````what strange honor this is, she thinks

````what I did in the war

````a norther blows in

````cover our eyes

````a winter morning

````who needs science

````according to chatter on the net

````impatient

````let us consider blood and water

````let us consider dreams

````let us consider life an death

````the day calls

````let us consider magic

````let us consider skin

````let us consider the best of times

````a transitional day

````let us consider the random occurrence of good and bad poems

````let us consider those who dare

````star bright

````a holiday card from the fine Mr. Scrooge

````peace on you, brother

````captain of the palace guard












The wrenching apart of families at the time of the year that seems most relevant to families.
















Sutherland Springs

one of those
tiny towns often described
as a wide spot on the road, a wide
spot of which it is often said
"blink and you'll miss it"

I've seen many of these
places in my travels through Texas,
many dead or dying, but
apparently
not this one,
until now...

on Hwy 87,
a route I've driven often
on the way to visit relatives
in Victoria,
but of this little not-even-a-stop-light town
I remember next to nothing

I remember the road sign
saying it's coming,
but of it, I remember neither the Dollar Store
nor the Valero gas station & convenience store
nor the little white frame church
on the edge of the
road...

a hole in my past before
I expect I'll be remembering
little Sutherland Springs
now












This, a very old poem, rewritten in November 2008, reminding me of how many empty chairs will be with me at the table, sharing Thanksgiving Dinner.















departures

snow pelts the parking lot
with cotton ball ferocity,
muffling street and city noises,
cloaking the bustle of early evening
with a mantle of winter white...

from behind our frosted
plate-glass curtain,
we watch and draw closer
in sympathetic chill

softly,
we join each other
in quiet carols...

spring is the proper time
for leaving friends and lovers,
when the earth and a reborn universe
demand there be new ones to comfort us

but Christmas -

Christmas is a sad time
for long, perhaps final,
departures

Originally written
Albuquerque, New Mexico
December, 1964















I love the weather this time of the year, and am keeping myself dosed up with anti-allergy pills so I can enjoy it.













or if you prefer

thin
crescent moon
behind a loose veil of clouds

so thin,
so sharp,
like the razor, goblin smile
you see in your nightmares...

or
if you prefer
the shy, guilty smile
of a child
in her dim-lit bedroom
awake
when she's supposed to be
fastly sleeping












Home for Thanksgiving














homecoming

traveling holiday
tomorrow,
300 miles south to the border,
turkey dinner, lots of
howdy-dos
and how-ya-beens,
then,
Friday,
300 miles home

as usual,
sometime before we leave,
I'll drive the 7 extra miles
to the little town I came from,
take a look around,
check out the old house
where I grew up,
and stop at the cemetery
where most of the people
I knew who stayed around
currently reside,
brush dried leaves
off my parents' headstones,
and pause a minute
to remember them anywhere
but below the ground I stand on

and that's it for
homecoming













I flunked every college level science class offered by the university I graduated from, swept the board, biology, chemistry & physics. Obviously my professors' teaching methods were insufficient to garner my attention. They could take lessons.

(I did finally pass two semesters of general science -the football players' keep them - on-the-team version - fulfilling the school's science requirement my last semester before graduation.)

















a science kind of guy

am writing 
this poem
under
duress

I'd
much rather
study
the geometry
and physics,
especially
the laws of motion
explicated
by the renown
Professor
Droolinbanger
as applied
to the blond girl
in
tight
black
pants
just now walking
by

but then
I'm a science 
kind of guy
not
so much a
poet












A get-up -late mid-November poem written in 2009.



















behind bars

sunlight
heavy with early dew
rushes
through the window,
horizontal blinds
throwing shadow bars
across the floor

a prisoner
of morning light,
I bask
in my confinement
















From this year, a mid-November coffeehouse observational.



















stand tall

a
very
tall 
woman
came into the coffeehouse
yesterday

6'4
maybe 6'5"

very tall

and thin,
slumped shoulders,
blond head
turned to the ground
as if threading
through
a Central Texas
rock-strewn
pasture

as if expecting
to see
a snake
slither
from under a rock
with every 
step

like
many tall women,
I bet
she's been walking this way
all her life,
trying
to fade,
pass unseen,
a shy
giantess
hoping
nobody notice
their own pitiful passage
so close to the
ground,
in their dark
envious hearts
hating all those bigger
and by 
extension
better than they

how did she get this way?

how many nicknames
growing up,
"Stilts"
"Stretch"
names of dull
and
dismissal,
when
all she 
ever wanted
was to be seen
as small,
non-treating,
pretty,
even cute,
to be called
"Princess"...

so 
now
she walks
seeming to avoid
the world's eyes,
hat nether world
of short,
staring
creatures
that she walks through
as if passing through
a stony pasture,
possibilities
of snakes
everywhere

I'd
like to tell her,
straighten
up,
be
the proud 
warrior
you were born
to be

but
I suspect
it's too late












A reflection on "Turkey Day" from 2011.


















what a strange honor this is, she thinks

printer and patriot,
portly old Ben Franklin
thought

the wild,
waddling turkey
should be the symbol

of our country, celebrated
throughout all the various parts
of our great United States of America...

poor bewildered fowl
and one day a years
she is

and,
as she is celebrated,
what a strange honor this is,
she thinks

















A veteran's day reflection, this year.

















what I did in the war

thinking
on this Veterans' Day
of my own military service...

nothing
in that service
deserving
of any special attention
or honor

except that I did it
when others with bone spurs
and other such serious
maladies
did not,
and ever then
I was an involuntary
volunteer

joining the Air Force
a week after receiving
my draft notice,
arriving at the gates of
Lackland Air Force Base
just a couple weeks
shy my 22nd birthday

I did two overseas
assignments,
each for a year,
and neither were in Vietnam
where many of my contemporaries
served and sometimes
died

these assignments,
coming after nearly a year
at Indiana University
studying
Russian history, culture,
but mostly,
language,
the time, except for
five of six hours
in uniform,
much more like
civilian lie
than anything military...

they a year
in West Germany
(yes, young souls. there were
in those long-ago days
two Germanies, east and west)
in the city of Darmstadt,
roughly half way between
Heidelberg and Frankfort,
in old WWI German cavalry barracks
with hitching rings for horses
out front,
again for a year when except, for work hours
when a uniform was required,
living more like a civilian with a steady
paycheck than a soldier...

a good year overall
when I was able
to visit much of Europe
and where I learned how beer,
cellar temperature,
was supposed to taste
when done right...

this near idyllic life
ending when assigned
to the Northwest Frontier
of West Pakistan
for a year,
right outside Peshawar,
currently described as a terrorist haven,
then a city more like a village of several
hundred thousand souls
who didn't want us sharing
their desert view

my two benefits of time spent there
were, firs, a plane ride over the Hindu Kush
on the way to an Easter break
in Kabul, a city vibrant before multiple
wars and war lords turned it
into one of the most oppressive
cities in the world,
where rebels and dissenters
were beheaded in the city's soccer field,
attendance by the masses
compulsory...

and as to Peshawar,
a chance to add to my places,
including a number of East Texas
redneck and racist locales,
where I hope to never have to go
again...

`````

so this was my contribution
to the security of my country and
The American Way of Life
during the years 1965 - 1969,
a time of few honors
for me, expect for
the third stripe
that made me a buck sergeant
and eligible to drink
in the NCO club,
and the proud moment
I earned the single ribbon
that adorned my chest when wearing
my dress blues -

my marksmanship ribbon,
earned in basic training, the only time
in four years that I was allowed
to hold a weapon

I was quite proud
of it...















This one from 2010, the day after thanksgiving, having met family requirements and wanting to go home.













a norther blows in

a norther blows in
right before dawn,
throwing ice knives
at the sun,
cold, cutting,
aching for the warm

I walk Reba,
face burning
from the wind

a quick walk
and a hurry-up pee
on the grass in front
of the hotel

haven't had my coffee

want to go home












From a couple of weeks ago. Not by nature or skill a dancer, but sometimes you just have to do what you have to do.














cover your eyes

it is a cold
day,
dim and dismal

and in the hall
of the Viking kings
buxom maidens
dance

here too,
or would be
if we weren't short
of buxom maidens this
morning

cover 
your eyes,
for I will dance
instead...














An appreciation of a November morning written in 2013.














a winter morning

I like
car lights reflected
on cold, wet streets, women
dressed in bulky coats,
boots, the old woman at the doctor's
in her leopard-spotted
cap

the smell of fireplaces burning
in the neighborhood,
pigeons
in the supermarket parking lot,
huddled, chasing crumbs,
waves of pigeons
scuttling in mass for every bite,
normal competition
subdued
by the chill, and the geese
flying over, the beauty of order
and discipline genetically
embedded,
the sound of cars splashing
puddles, the crackle of frosted grass
as I walk across the front yard
to get my newspaper, securely dry
in orange plastic wrapper, all the orange
newspapers as we walk our early morning walk,
a colorful welcoming to the new
day

a winter morning...

I like these winter
mornings














Science, years of study to discover the obvious.















who needs science

so
some scientists
with too much time on their hands
decided to investigate
tar pits
wherein
animals have been trapped
for thousands of years, possibly
longer

among
many findings,
the scientist discovered
woolly mammoths in the pits
were predominantly
by a large
margin
males,
suggesting that females
were too smart
to fall into
tar pits
or
stated differently
it seems clear that only male
woolly mammoths
were dumb
enough
to get trapped in tar pits
validating a rumor
heard
for thousands of years
among the most subversive
of us that
females are just
naturally
smarter than males...

hell
I don't need scientists
to know that

just have to look back
through the story
of my life for
validation

it's
clearly
indisputable...
















Written in 2014, remembering a November morning in 1968.





















according to chatter on the net

winter night under a clear desert sky

more stars than you ever knew were up there

the Hindu Kush, the sun's hinge
as it begins its red glow
behind their dry, ravaged peaks

the guard camp
outside our walls begins to sir,
the shuffle of sleepy soldiers waking
as the over-nighters come weary to their beds

I, a soldier too, but not in their army,
walk to morning mess, then
to work, day shift on Moscow time

a Cold War warrior,
I will listen to their chatter
and write it all down...

the day begins....

an early flight for their highest commander,
crossing the Afghan air gate,
a roundabout destination, to Paris,
his dour Russian wife left behind, it's said,
who suspects, it's said,
the jolie fille who awaits him
with bonbons au chocolat by her bed

according to chatter on the net
the war will not start today...













A couple of weeks ago, not yet adjusted to the time change, I continue to get up at what to the rest of the world is 4 a.m.
















impatient

71 degrees
at 7 a.m.

a strong wind blows
fallen leaves across the patio
outside the windows of my Sunday Starbucks

birds
circle and swoop[
with military precision -

the black march on parade...

it is a day
waiting for a reason,
the planet's turning altered just enough
for the sun to oversleep
its full rising

and me,
waiting for the Sunday paper
and the hesitant sun

for it is the moon tides
I am attuned to

impatient
this morning
for the rest of the world
to open its eyes
and stretch
along with me...













I used my poem-a-day forum in 2015 to write a 9-part series, a poem a day for 9 days, around a "let us consider..." theme.

The poems are too long to post all at once so I'm breaking the series into three parts.
















let us consider blood and water

water is the blood
that lets our blood flow
the blood of all life
the blood of the forest
and of the meadow
and the pastures
and bluebonnets
and daisies and the
blood-red rose,
the blood that eases
drought, that allows
farmers to plant and sow,
that allows the cow and the pig
and lamb to grow to fill
our stomach, the blood
that we rise at midnight
to lubricate our dry mouth,
the blood that washes
away desert dust at
at a noon oasis, panacea
for both our hunger
and our thirst...

water is the blood that
flows between rivals
in dry times, blood is the
disputed creek or river,
the range war,
neighbor on neighbor,
water is the blood that
flows as aquifers are drained
for some at the expense
of others...

water is the blood
ow wars coming, the blood
for which we will fight,
the blood to be shed in the
fighting, yours for mine, mine
for yours...

water is the blood o all
our future desires...


let us consider dreams

sometimes
I dream that I am the hero

flying on a white horse
across a purple waving prairie;

sometimes
I dream I am the prairie,
ancient,
clean,
vibrant and fertile,
forever waving beneath
the sun and clouds slowly
drifting:

sometimes
I am the clouds,
soft and billowy,
traveling continents
and oceans
beneath the warming sun,
beneath the cool, yellow moon;

sometimes
I am the sun an moon,
sisters in the sky on the edge
of stars gleaming,
stars afire in the black eternal
space of good deeply
sleeping;

sometimes I am the sleeping god,
dreaming
that I am a white horse
flying across the purple waving pasture
of my forever spreading
home...

sometime
I wake, sorry to be
still lonely among my kind, sorry
to be awake
again
in the world of
undreaming...


let us consider life and death

white knight
at one end of the jousting field, resplendent
in white armor, horse draped in white armor as well,
brilliant in the noon sun,
Lancelot I think it was, the King's champion,
the Queen's lover...

and onto the field rides the mystery of the black knight,
a huge man on a huge horse, unknown
as black as Lancelot was white,
a spoiler in the game...

and we all know, sitting in our theater seats,
that this is going to be a battle
between good and bad,
dark and light,
life and
death

and there it is...

the essence of the battle
we fight between our birth and our end,
the life-light that is born with us, and that we carry
with us, the sunshine
of all the days allotted to us

and the inevitable everlasting dark
the black at the end of the tunnel, the final mysterious
fall into the nothing and nowhere
of night so deep we lose our place
forever, lost to the dark
forever

the white, the shining light
of life, the brilliance of all possible good
wrapped around us, our cocoon of potential
protecting us from the black that always surrounds
us, the dark that daily tries to seduce us
into its cold embrace...

a fight we know we will lose
in the end,
for black
is the natural state of all around us,
the natural state of us
and all our works as well,
broken
for a short spell
by the sun passing over us,
rising, then falling,
true to its end as must we be
to our own














Earlier this month, before the time change.















the day calls

7:30
in the a.m.
and the new day
has barely made an impression,
still that mysterious dark
when day calls
but night holds on
with its black panther grip

time change
this weekend
and I will miss this...
















Returning to the "let us consider" series.


















let us consider magic

let us imagine
magic is
real

that a young man
with a trumpet can blow down
the walls of a mighty city;

that the dead
can rise;

that a man
can walk on water
and a boy can
fly;

let us imagine
that all we know not
can be learned
through the dim arts
of magic, that the truth of all
lies buried in Merlin's secret cave;

that once there was a Camelot
that love and truth and beauty flowered
under the rule of a sorcerer's
magic;

let us imagine a world
where the witches of west and north
and south and east rule all but the realm
of a counterfeit wizard;

let us imagine yellow brick roads
and loaves and fishes
and water to
wine

and the power of goodness
forever triumphant
over the bane of
evil;

let us imagine
love
everlasting;

let us imagine
life
unfettered
by anger and
fear;

let us live as we
imagine;
imagine
as we live all the better
lives that might live
within
us


let us consider skin

there is much to consider
in the matter
of skin...

at its most basic
a natural packaging,
keeping all the gooey parts
in;

for many years and for some
less enlightened still, a shortcut
for identifying social, moral, and philosophical status
in shades of lightest white
to darkest black;

also for many years, protection
against the coldest winter day
and snuggle comfort
on a chilly night,
and even now for some, a status symbol,
social status determined by the kinds and number
of skins one can carry upon one's
 most stylish back;

all that I understand,
but for me, the best of skin
is the pink skin of a kitten's belly

and the soft skin
and scent of a freshly powdered baby

and, oh, that long slow glide
of skin upon skin in
my lover's bed
at midnight -

that's the very best use of skin
I can think of...


let us consider the best of times

the little blond-haired girl
riding her tricycle in front of your house
when you were three;

the '49 Plymouth
you overhauled with your dad,
never went more than 45 miles per hour,
but, oh, that first drive so
sweet;

the first great afternoon
of sex on the beach,
never mind the sunburned ass
or the sand lodged
in delicate
places
for her name was Julie
and we loved each other for
for at least three
weeks;

and later
the girl in the back seat,
not Julie, for that love gone,
but never forgotten,
she, with great billowy
breasts, lying back against soft cloth seats,
astride her
like riding hot waves
in a great sailing ship with white
billowing sails;

the wedding,
vows complete, the stately recessional
past guests standing, applauding,
your father in a pew by the aisle,
your father who disapproved and said
he would not come, in a pew by the aisle,
thumbs up as you and your bride pass;

the baby,
one month old, in your arms
for the first time, tiny, tiny crying thing
who will not stop for you or for his new mother,
silently sleeping within a minute
of being held by your mother, his new grandmother

the look in the eyes of your child
when they ask you a question,
knowing
that of all the moms and dads in the world
you are the one who will know
the answer;

the band,
your son's first band,
first hearing, the blast of horns
and guitars and drums, realizing how good
they are...

all the best times of a life...













I just wrote this this week, about a day when things were changing.

















a transitional day

it is a transitional day
between several warm days
just passing and a cold front
set to blow in this afternoon

transitional light
fading the colors
of the trees in the atrium
from brilliant green
to shyly fading
mint

a wind,
just a hint
stirring, first suggestion
of storm winds coming from
the north, hazy sky
laying down a temporary marker
to be overtaken
by black, swirling clouds
after noon...

I remember such days
on the coast,
tide changing, flat bay
silent but for the occasional
slap o the water of a
fish jumping,
masts at the marina
stuttering
in small waves
building...

transitional day...

I await the changing...
















Here is the last 3 parts of the 9-piece "let us consider" series from November 2015.

















let us consider the random occurrence of good and bad poems

some poets
are determined to write wonderful poems

but since they don't feel capable
of writing the wonderful poem they imagine
they write no poems at all;

some poets
are determined to write wonderful poems

and since the poems they write do not seem to them
as wonderful as they would like
they throw them away;

some poets
are determined to write wonderful poems

and since the first poem they write
is less wonderful, they rewrite it
over and over and over again,
never writing another poem, concentrating
all their poetry strength and creativity
on making that unwonderful poem
wonderful;

and some poets
(like me)
born with no poetic shame,
just say the hell with it and write
poems and poems and poems,
confident in the random distribution in the universe
of good and bad, and certain as the bad poems accumulate,
there will be a good one coming any time,
maybe even
a wonderful one...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and about this poem, one might ask...
though I doubt it is wonderful, might it be good
or is it bad?

don't answer that
My Critic,
because whether it's good or bad
I'm going to write another one
tomorrow
anyway...


let us consider the rot of progress

tomorrow
I will watch the sun
rise over gently stirring waters
of the Gulf of Mexico
as I have done many times in years passed
,
loading up a pick-up truck or beat-up station wagon
with friends and driving to the island
where we gather driftwood and start a fire
that would burn all night as we watched
the bright stars that shine in the inky black gulf night,
with the whisper of surf ever constant,
doing their dosey doe, in and out, with the turning world
until the sun rises from the sea, burns
the water orange and then the morning,
and orange, then yellow ball that
brings the sky to cloudless blue...

but that was then...

tomorrow
I will watch the sun rise over the gulf
from the ninth floor balcony
of my friends condominium, buildings
like this one on either side, the days
when we would come in our pick-ups
and station wagons long passed, the
stubby, low sand dunes that were
the island, covered now by a city of towers
and restaurants and grocery stores
and a fire station and a chamber of commerce,
all that makes a city a city, planted
to grow forever...

but I know as many do not seem
to know, that the storm will come
because the storm will always come
always on its own schedule, blowing across
the Gulf, bringing tornado winds and rain
and a flood surge that will clean bare
the island, some will die, mostly new ones
who do not understand the storm
and its power and do not listen to those who know
and much pain will afflict the others
who built the glistening towers and supermarkets
and chamber of commerce...

I will feel sad for whose who died by
their own ignorance and I will feel the pain
on those who bet fortunes against
the certainties of chance...

and when it is all done,
when the pearl colored sand
glistens bare again
on moonlit nights, and the
stars shine in the inky black sky
and the tides whisper in and out
all night...

I will return
and gather firewood
and build a fire to burn all night

celebrating earlier times
and never forgotten
nights...


let us consider those who dare

no man wishes
to be called a coward
yet there is a political movement
in our country daily building
on waves of cowardice...

how to explain
when in reality it costs little
to be brave, one person
in a city of millions stands up
to the fear, displaying
not bravery
but trust in the mathematical
certainty that there is safety
in numbers..

it being so easy to take
such a "brave" position
why are so many choosing
to hide under their beds...

disdaining such spineless behavior
I declare nos that I am one
with the resistance, ready to stand firm
against the barbarian hordes...

standing stalwart at the shoulders
of the valiant defenders

but expect you will have to find me
in my one in a million cave
first...




-









Norther blew in last week, dropping the temperature, clearing the clouds, and giving us a bright morning sun.
















star bright

on the interstate,
driving straight
into the white blaze
of early morning sun

behind my
squinted eyes I see
its companion stars
flickering














From Thanksgiving, 2016.


















a holiday card from the fine Mr. Scrooge

feeling
as I always do around holidays
that everyone in the world
is having a huge party
that I don't get
the purpose
of

it's a lousy attitude
but
I just can't get excited
about a mythical band of Englishmen
and Indians
that is used as an excuse
to eat too much, lie
on a couch
and
watch
 a stupid football game...

(and anyway, it is now revealed
that the first of such feasts
was not in Massachusetts but in Florida
and involved Spaniards and Indians
with no Englishmen involved at all,
the whole story another example
of English oppression)


and then I recently learned
this fake English/Indian holiday
is one of 27 religious and cultural
holidays between now
and, roughly, the first of the year,
and having no interest
in the holidays of my own
religious/cultural heritage
I am now expected to function
in the wake of 27 such
big to-dos
from people and
places of even less interest to me
than my own people and place, so
happy holidays
whichever
mode of religious/cultural excess you choose
to exercise over the next six weeks
or so...

just leave me out,
please
















From 2016, a Thanksgiving expression of peace and love to those who don't deserve it.


















peace on you, brother

Sunday morning
and the faithful gather,
the Christians,
pumped by their weekly sermon,
fat
and fed full of
conviction
of their own moral
superiority
to all the rest

you know who they are,
the Christ-killer Jews,
and the sneering bearded bomb-bearing Muslim's,
and the dark Hindu,
and the slant-eyed Buddhist,
and, of course, the straight-to-hell
atheists and the wish-washy-washy agnostics,
and the believers in earth and sky spirits,
I mean, they say, how dumb is that?
and alien abductees
and wife-hoarding Mormons,
and believers in the powers of plastic
pyramids,
and artists and intellectuals
who might try to think their way
out of this mess we're in
instead
of forsaking sense and bowing
before the loving God
of mass extinction,
and Democrats of course, that
goes without saying,
and illegal poachers on America's goodness and righteous
of all stripes, colors,
sizes, and shapes,
and, of course, all the cocksuckers
and sodomites
who threaten the security of our Christian-nation
by seeking to jump to its
defense,
and the horse I rode in on

-cause even old Nelly ain't safe
from this crowd -

but
I forgive them
of their arrogance
and evil thoughts, for they are
oppressed,
they say,
and must be a un-Christian
as those who oppress
them...

well, peace on you,
brother,
I say,
despite all the pain
you bring to the world,
and a happy Sunday
Tuya...














Last for the month, from last week.



















captain of the palace guard

people
gather in front
of the VFW by the river
for some big
Saturday event, dog
claims her high spot on a loading dock
and watches...

so many people,
so unusual,
unsure...

is this a benign event
or should she prepare for a fight to the death
to protect me?

dog
makes these decisions
moment to moment,
embarrassing me sometimes
when she decides
some one's grandma
with her shiny aluminum walker
is the latest threat
clearing
the horizon

barks ferociously,
scaring grandma damn near
right out of her
Depends











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



Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:


Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony accusatory, 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

 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.






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



0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
December 2017
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet