Lull   Wednesday, December 20, 2017

I wrote this small piece in 1969, responding to a photo I saw in a magazine. The picture was, as I remember it now, of Herbie Hancock, though that seems wrong since he doesn't play flute.

Whatever is to be said for the piece, it is an appropriate beginning to this post, which begins a kind of two-week lull.

This post will be short, just a few short, with one exeception poems from my first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind (poems 2007-2008). The post next week, if I do one, will also be short.

Just too much going on.








lull

black man
with
your silver flute
sing us
soft
a song
to sleep









Here they are, all me. 

lull

between

post-it notes

little man

girl

fresco on the other side of sunset

the girl with a small mouth and long brown hair

barku

sunset

red

winter postcard

yellow

blue

she used to be somebody

i swear

a cool breeze in August









between

not autumn
not
summer

dark
cool 
mornings
&
early dusk

cicadas
crying from trees

the end of their
cycle
or the beginning

i don't know
which
but i feel it
too
like something is over

 a lull
before
whatever is next







post it notes

crowd murmurs
in a large room
hundreds
of stories
shattered
into random
word pieces


```


i love
you
in little
yellow
flashes of
sticky note 
passion


These are from a series I did over time, poems that were supposed to be short enough to fit on a sticky yellow post-it-note 








little man

little man
on a cellphone
advertises
with a booming voice
there is more to him
than appears










girl

dancing
across the stage
as she delivers 
my order of decaf
and a scone,
then back again
still dancing
still in the music
the abandon
of dance
and rhythm
and music
and youth
elixir
bringing 
a moment of light
to an old soul
heavy
with the news of the day









fresco on the other side of sunset

a
ridge
of low clouds
pink
as cotton candy
against bellows
of
virgin white 
above
a Mediterranean
sky









the girl with a small mouth and long brown hair

threw back her hair
with a flip of her head
and smiled
little mouth a bow
drawn tight like a knot
on a pink and white tie
or a kitten
that curls like a ball
when you tickle
its belly











barku

lonely whistle
in the dark
lost
little bird
calls
home


```

whale song
ripples
the deep

navy sonar
roils 
the tide


```

conversations
in twos
and threes
i listen
while 
i write


These are from an fairly extensive series of poems I wrote, using a form I invented and called "barku" - the idea was based on a kind of simplified haiku, ten words on six lines, short enough to fit on a bar 
napkin (it being a bar where I wrote the first one).









sunset

sun lies low
behind scrub branches

yellow jigsaw
puzzles
at end of day








red

blood
on white paper
bright red
like an apple
on a bed of
snow


```


winter postcard

white horse
on a white field
enclosed by a white fence

i am blinded
by the light


```

yellow

lemons
overflow
a pewter
bowl
roll across the floor
crying
caution...caution


```


blue

blue eyes
under clear
skies
ice 
on cut 
crystal


From a series I did on colors.









she used to be somebody

poor Babe
at six hundred pounds
now just bacon
on the hoof

the life of a 
grown up child star
is precarious
indeed









i swear

business suit
charcoal gray,
pin
striped,
red necktie
on pristine, white shirt,
whispers to himself
as he picks
at his Blackberry
with his plastic stylus

i read his lips

"beam me up, Scottie"

I swear








a cool breeze in August

from the north
in a season of southerly winds

trees sigh
with early morning pleasure
welcome this reminder
of better days to come









My single long poem of the week, a poem of personal history that won't be finished until I die.



this old bed

i sleep
on the bed
where my father
was born
one hundred years ago,
second child of Celeste
and August
amid the rocky hills
and pecan and oak and
flowing streams
in the little
Texas-German town
of Fredricksburg

                                           i sleep
                                     on the bed
                that has slept my family
                through two world wars
                                    a cold war
          and multiple wars of lesser
                                            scope
     through twenty two Presidents
                       of the United States,
                                     some wise
                                       some not
                at least one a despicable
                                   malignancy
                                  some equal
              to the needs of their time,
                                        some not,
                 through musical genres
                                 from ragtime
                                      to hip-hop,
                      through prohibition
                             and bathtub gin,
          and the continuing scourge
                                        of drugs
           natural and manufactured
                      always multiplying,
                through the gilded age,
                                 the jazz age,
                               rock and roll
                   and Chuck and Elvis
                         and the Fab Four,
         and for a few illusory years.
                                    normalcy,
                              before fire bombing,
                            atom bombing,
                        terrorist bombing,
                          getting bombed
                              in the suburbs
                        and getting sober
                                       with AA,
          through seven presidential
                  assassination attempts,
                              death in Dallas,
                     death in Los Angeles,
                          death in Memphis
                                               death
                           on the launch pad,
                                              death
                           in near earth orbit,
                                    Kitty Hawk
                        to men on the moon,
  to challenging the deepest reaches
                          of interstellar space,
                        the cries of the dead
                                     from famine,
                                  from genocide,
                              from indifference
                              of the ruling class,
                         through Bull Connor
                            and his police dogs,
                                     through King
                                   and his dreams
                                     and his death
                             on a motel balcony,
                      through Barack Obama
                                   and the triumph
                                             of dreams,
                        through Donald Trump
                                 and the crushing
                                            of dreams,
                            through the triumph
                                              of good
                          and the reemergence
                                                  of evil,
                           the cycle played out
                               over an over again,
                  through the days of yellow
                             journalism, through
                        Murrow and Cronkite
                  and Brinkley and Huntley
                                on radio and TV
                                 and on the web
                          where truth and lie
        fight the old and never ending
                                               battle,
                                                  with
                                 Wikipedia fact
                        and Wikipedia fancy,
                                   truth swaying
                     on a tumbling pedestal,
                      lies flying in the wind,
                                      opinionators,
                                          blowhards,
                                      conspiracists
                                          plain racists,
                           and everyday bloody
                                                    fools

          and through it all,
all the times of reaping
     and sowing,
the bed has calmed the nights
through three generations
of sleep and passion
and midnight dreams

waiting now
for the final sleep
of this generation
and the lying down
to rest
of the next








This being the street where I live - it's to home for the week, maybe two.

Until we meet again, happy holidays of your choosing.



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





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