The Passing of Giants   Saturday, March 24, 2018








Blessed are those like me who are fortunate to have lived in a time of giants, beginning with people like Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower, Winston Churchill, and many more, including, in this picture, Albert Einstein, explorer of the universe, and Rabindranath Tagore, Bengali poet and mystic. Unfortunately we are beset today by a plague of lackluster, unimaginative, small time shadows of their more impressive forebearers.

One of the last of the giants died very recently.












about Stephen Hawking

I admired Stephen Hawking

I admired his spirit, the part of him
I am most able to understand,
and his mind that set him traveling places
I will never know...

at a time when tribal gods and demons
fight to keep their dominance
as oppressors of the human mind and essence,
I appreciate all those who fight back,
those, like Hawking, who tell the oppressors
the universe is too big, too grand, too wondrous
to be limited by their small, pitiful souls

Stephen Hawking, just by his determination
to live and imagine, to chart the marvels of time and space,
to fight back against those who would suffocate
the human passion for life and understanding,
he, in his remarkable life,
fought for me







"Here and Now" is back, but in a less obsessive way than before. No more publishing weekly, instead when I feel like it, every once in a while, maybe every couple of weeks or fewer.

I'll see how it goes.


In the meantime, this is how it goes this week.


Me
about Stephen Hawking

Deborah Lee
Women Open Cautiously
Taking Care of It

Me
I like the way the tall girl sits

Thom Gunn
Gift

Me
the girl with the small mouth and long brown hair

Chkao Chih-Hsin
A Mid-Autumn Night
Fireflies
Presented to a Mountain Dweller

Me
from the jaws of victory

Me
a leg-man

Me
a mid-winter poem

Lucille Clifton
anna speaks of the childhood of mary her daughter
holy night

Me
my affirmation

Jane Kenyon
yard sale

Me
blue
red
yellow

Naomi Shihab Nye
her way

Bonnie Lyons
walking out

Me
planning is required

Nazim Hikmet
Angina Pectoris

Me
naked rolling, parts rubbing

Emilian Galetcu-Paun
Pieta (Ivy on the Cross)

Jeffrey McDaniel
Logic in the House of Sawed-off Telescopes

Me
Sunday Morning

Me
night winds

Jorge Luis Borges
Spinoza

Me
in the long run











Here are two short poems by Deborah Lee from, Breaking Silence, An Anthology of Contemporary Asian American Poets. The book was published by The Greenfield Review Press in 1983. 

Lee says of herself that she was born in Seattle in 1954 to a Chinese father and a mother of undetermined white nationalities who always wore her hair black and could pass for Chinese. She has a B.A. in English Literature  and a B.A. in Art History. At the time the book was published she was in the process of earning a masters in creative writing.












Women Open Cautiously

   - from a door in Suzzallo Library,
     University of Washington

Here they are, Think of it.
You are warned of women
and the term is less specific
than your fantasies. True,
they may wait beside
cushioned couches, poised with grapes
and wanting you. But what if
they're all on telephones, talking
about, calling you clumsy
& quick, saying your hands
grip everything like the wheel
though you can't tell where
you're going? Consider the faces
of women, they're there
theoretical as money. Yes,
it's this way to the wonderful women -
store them in your cheeks
like nuts, for when
they will say they love you
and you must say it back.


Taking Care of It

That's my house with the red door, and all those steps
lead to it. The rockery is serious grey today.
I can't see the hens and chickens or elephant ears
My dress has two rows of ruffles down the front
and lace all around.
I don't understand,
my knees don't bend well.
Babies don't sweat and I'm no baby.
Why don't they move from the blood? Blank
and twitching as shot deer, they look
to me. They didn't mean it, but someone is dead.
Now, I'm telling myself, time to wake up.
I don't  have to be here, I know I'm not three.
No playing with knives 'cause knives hurt.
I have to find a hiding
place for it, this secret
is for a crack to eat.
But shh, don't worry go!
The blade gestures in my hand
for my parents to run,












Another coffeehouse observational.














I like the way the tall girl sits

I like the way 
the tall girl sits

(in her twenties, is it somehow
wrong to call her a "girl" when she
most certainly is a woman, and possibly
would be offended to be seen
as a "girl" - but anyway,
there is a line between "girl"
and "woman" and neither is subordinate
or superior to the other but I don't know where
the line is and  to me this female is on the girl-side
and I like the way she sits)

her long legs, jeans encased, stretch beneath
the table to rest her feet on the chair
opposite and she looks incredibly
at ease with the world and herself and
I like such confidence in repose
and since she is one of the contingent
I am turning my world over to,
her ease eases me in this difficult world
and her confidence makes me confident
in the prospects and future 
I will for a time
share with 
her













This poem is by Thom Gunn, taken from the book A Day for a Lay, subtitled "A century of gay poetry." The anthology was published by Barricade Books in 1999.

Gunn was an Anglo American poet, born in 1929 in Great Britain 
and died in San Francisco in 2004. 
















Gift

First saw him
on the street in front, in the
bars garage, identifying
unfinished beer and swigging
off what was left of them,
shameless and exuberant
remarking in friendly fashion
"It's a doggy dog world."
Charming error. He
had little idea of his looks
caught on a brief sill
between youthful lean times
and blowziness to come,
and too unfocused to try
hustling more than beer
and a night out of the rain.
Later, circling vaguely
the bar's deep dark inside.
"Hitched up from New Orleans,"
he said, "here, wanna feel it?"
It was already out,
pushed soft into my hand. It was
a lovely gift to offer an old 
stranger
              without conditions,
a present from New Orleans
in a doggy dog world.














This is a coffeehouse poem from my first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind, published in 2011.















the girl with the 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












The next several short poems are by Chao Chih-Hsin, born in the Shantung province in 1662 and died in 1744, Chao had a promising political career, receiving his first degree a age 14,  was ended when, in 1689, he attended a play by a friend during a period of official mourning for the death of a member of the imperial family. He lost all official positions when an imperial censor who Chao had arrogantly rebuffed took the opportunity to attack him.

The poems are from the book, Waiting for the Unicorn, "Poems and Lyrics of China's last Dynasty, 1644-1911, published by Indiana University Press in 1990.

The poems were translated by Michael S. Duke.











A Mid-Autumn Night

The autumn air banishes lingering rains,
An empty courtyard invites distant breezes -
One glass of mulberry dew wine,
At midnight in the moon-bright season.
A longtime traveler feels the night is endless,
In early coldness grows drunk too slowly.
Still resigns his bleak and lonely feelings
To a rendezvous with far-off chrysanthemums.


Fireflies

Once more coming through the door with rain,
Suddenly flying over the wall on the wind,
Although the need the grass to achieve their nature,
They do not depend on the moon for light.
Understanding the secluded one's feelings,
I briefly invite them in to dwell in my gauze bag.
Just look: falling through vast empty space,
How do they differ from the great stars' rays


Presented to a Mountain Dweller

Looking like a wild deer sleeping against the cliffs,
Casually wandering out of the valleys with the flowing streams.
Since the travelers asked him about the frosty trees,
The all came to know his face, but do not know his name.













It's an election year again, meaning democrats are hunkered down, hoping they can get through it without screwing themselves again.












from the jaws of victory

tiny buds
sprouting on my peach tree,
while trees along the creek
that shield me from prying
eyes are still as bare as
republican election
prospects
are said to be

a cautious optimism...

cautious because 
the trees
will grow green
and full again
and once again contain
my gambols
in my own private
space

the certain revival
of the creek's green cover
concerns me as a
reminder of the nature of cycles
and how Republican chances
for similar revival
before the end of the year
can't be ignored, especially
given the ever-present prospect
of democrats and their
hope-crushing capacity to snatch
defeat from the jaws
of victory

nature is truly a bitch
especially if she's 
a democrat...















Another new poem, this one from a couple of weeks ago.

















a leg-man

stick-thin women,
looking like they need
a carry-on anchor if they should
go out in the southeast blowing wind
I got used to during my years living on the coast

now, hill-country women,
that's another kettle of strong, shapely
women with well-formed, muscular legs,
like the girls that went to school
with me in the hills
on the Edwards Escarpment,
where the coastal plains
butt up against the rolling hills of central Texas,
and where every place you go
seems uphill all the way...

I just don't admire
those stick-thin women
with stick-thin legs,
who'd need a carry-on mule
to get them up those hills twenty-seven
time a day or more...

I guess that's why I grew up to be
a leg-man, most admiring sturdy 
women
who could carry the
mule up the hill instead
if they had
to...














This poem is from my latest poetry eBook, New Days and New Ways, published in 2014 and available, as are all my eBooks, at Amazon and most everywhere else where eBooks are sold.

Perhaps better titled as a mid-funk poem.
















a mid-winter poem

I have the feel
of a string running out,
a slackness in my lifeline,
all that I am reduced to
loose ends

I've done many things in my life,
good and worthwhile things,
though none lasted long than
it took my shadow
to fade around the corner

my proudest legacies
remembered only by me -
like clouds blown apart
by the wind, so much more fragile
than I had imagined...

and now the line that anchored me
to the future
has gone slack and I feel just another
of the world's many forgettable
loose ends












Next, two short poems by Lucille Clifton, from Voices of Light,"Spiritual and Visionary Poems by Women Around the World from Ancient Sumeria to Now." The book was published in 1999 by Shambala.

Clifton was a poet, writer, and educator from New York. Born in 1936, she was Poet Laureate of Maryland from 1979 to 1985 and was nominated twice for the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. 














anna speaks of the childhood of mary her daughter

we rise up early and
we work. work is the medicine
for dreams.

                      that dream
i am having it again:
she washed in light.
whole world bowed to its knees,
she on a hill looking up,
face all long tears,
                         and shall i give her up
to dreaming then? i fight this thing.
all day we scrubbing       scrubbing.

holy night

joseph, i afraid of stars,
their brilliant seeing.
so many eyes. such light.
joseph, i cannot still these limbs.
i hands keep moving toward i breasts,
so many stars, so bright.
joseph, is wind burning from east
joseph, i shine, oh joseph,      oh
illuminated night.
















This piece, a personal note to myself as much as to anyone else, a decision to put aside obsession, at least for a while, a decision to decompress.













my affirmation

decided today
to make some space
in my life
for the restoration
of pale and spindly
inspiration,
like a gym membership
for my slowly fading
body...

having been so busy
in my life
pretending
I was a real poet
and photographer
that I left no time
to be truly
either

instead
spending most of the day's hours
in a dark cave of routine
doing

that routine
a protective shield
from real-time
living
and
purposeful doing

the flatness of my life
a prescription for 
barely living

I'm done with
it













This poem is by Jane Kenyon, taken from Claiming the Spirit 
Within, "A source book of Women's Poetry."  The book was published in 1996 by Beacon Press.

Kenyon, born in Michigan in 1947, was educated at the University of Michigan. She died in 1995 in New Hampshire.

















Yard Sale

Under the stupefying sun
my family's belongings lie on the lawn
or heaped on borrowed card tables
in the gloom of the garage. Platters,
frying pans, our dead dog's
dish, box upon box of sheet music,
a wad of my father's pure linen
hand-rolled handkerchiefs, and his books
on the subsistence farm, a dream
for which his constitution ill suited him.

My niece dips seashells
in a glass of Coke. Sand streaks giddily
between bubbles to the bottom. Brown runnels
seem to scar her arm. "Do something silly!"
she begs her aunt. Listless,
I put a lampshade on my head.
Not good enough.

My brother takes pity on her
and they go walking together along the river
to places that seemed numinous
when we were five and held hands
with our young parents.
                                        She comes back
triumphant, with a plastic pellet box the size
of a bar of soap, which her father has clipped
to the pouch of her denim overalls. In it,
a snail with a slate-blue shell , and a few
blades of grass to make it feel at home...
Hours pass. We close the metal strongbox
and sit down, stunned by divestiture.
What would he say? My niece
produces drawings and hands them over shyly:

a house with flowers, family
standing shoulder to shoulder
near the door under an affable sun,
and one she calls "Ghost with Long Legs."














Next, I have three very short poems I did as part of a series on color. The poems are from my first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.
















blue

blue eyes
under clear
skies
ice
on cut
crystal


red

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


yellow

lemon
over flowing
a pewter
bowl
roll across the floor
crying
caution...caution













I have a couple of strong women in this post so far. Here are two more, both from Risk, Courage,Women, "contemporary voices in prose and poverty." The book was published by the University of North Texas Press.



















The first of the two is Naomi Shihab Nye. Born of an American mother and Lebanese father, Nye grew up in St. Louis, in Jerusalem, and in San Antonio, where she lives today. She is an award-winning poet, editor and world-traveling promoter of poetry and the poets of nations.











her way

He only listened to his own secret bell, ringing,
and saw another winter come.
                                                Mahmoud Darwish

What water she poured on the floor
was more than was needed. Someone suggested
she mop in strips ad they did
on the television, yet her buckets were full,
the great buckets of field and orchard,
she was dragging them room to room
in a house that already looked clean.

Te tune she hummed was no body's tongue.
Already she had seen the brothers go off
in airplanes, she did not like the sound.
Skies opened and took people in.
The tune was long and had one line.

And the soldiers flipping ID cards,
the men who editorialized blood
till it was pale and not worth spilling,
meant nothing to her.
She was a woman shopping for fabric.
She was walking with her neck straight,
her eyes placed ahead.
What oil she rubbed on her scalp was pure.
The children she spoke to were news,
were listening, had names
and a scrapped place on the elbow.
She could place a child in a bucket
and bathe it, could stitch the mouth
in the red shirt closed.


The second poet from this anthology Bonnie Lyons.

Born in Brooklyn, Lyons, lived in Miami and is currently professor of English at the University of Texas, San Antonio. She specializes in twentieth century American, British and Continental literature and modern drama. She received her doctorate at Tulane University. In addition to teaching at American universities, she was a Fulbright Professor in Greece, Italy, Spain, and Israel.










walking out

I know what you think:
weak and disobedient
vulnerable -duped
by the wily serpent.
Think again.

Our life in Eden was  idyll -
no work, no struggle,
an unbroken expanse
of pleasure,
a garden
of perpetual plenty.
We were protected children,
and I was bored.

When the serpent told me
eating the fruit of that tree
would make me wise
I hesitated
like any child
about to walk out of her parent's domain.

Had I foreseen
that my first son
would kill his brother -
but who knows the future?

Biting into the sweet fruit
meant entering the world
of time and death,
adventure, change, possibility
including the possibility
of murder.

I chose life.
I would again.
Do you wish
you were never born?
Do you wish to be
a child forever?

Then celebrate my wisdom.














Seeking to exchange my life for a more serene, sedate existence.

It's not as easy as one might think. This little poem from last week documents the problem.


















planning is required

attempting
to de-obsessivefy
my life I decided that I will sleep in
on Wednesdays
which
I did today
and it was wonderful
except I'm now two hours
behind
the rest of my day...

obviously
better planning is required,
maybe a duties and responsibilities
flow chart and a strategy
for timely and efficient
effectuation...

but
I'm willing to work on it,
just need to find  place for
it in my mid-week
calendar


































The next poem is from Language for a New Century, "Contemporary poetry from the Middle East, Asia and beyond." The book was published by W. W. Norton in 2008.

The poet is selected from the book is Nazim Hikmet, born in Greece in 1902 and died in Moscow in 1963. He was known as a poet, playwright, novelist, screenwriter, director and memoirist. Described as a "romantic communist" or "romantic revolutionary," he spent most of his adult life in prison or in exile.

The poem was translated from Turkish by Ruth Christie, Richard McKane, and Talat Sait Halman














Angina Pectoris

If half my heart is here
                                      half of it is in China, doctor.
It's in the army flowing to the Yellow river.
Then, at every dawn, doctor
                                      every dawn, my heart
                                                   is riddled with bullets in Greece.

Then when our convicts get to sleep
   retreating from the ward
      my heart is a broken down old manor in Camlica,
                                                              every night.
                                                                  doctor.

Then for all those ten years
all I have to offer my poor people
               is this one apple I hold, doctor,
                                                          a red apple:
                                                                 my heart...

It's not from arteriosclerosis, nor nicotine, nor prison,
that I have this angina pectoris,
            but because, dear doctor, because of this.

I took at night through iron bars,
despite the pressure in my chest,
my heart beats along with the farthest star.
















This poem is from my second eBook, Goes Around, Comes Around, from 2011 and, as usual, available wherever eBooks are sold.

















naked rolling, parts rubbing

a slow Sunday
afternoon
and we were trying
to decide what to do

and I suggested we get
naked
and roll around on the grass
in the backyard,
rubbing body parts together
fiercely

but there's a bit of a chill
in the air,
probably too much chill
to be rolling around outside
naked
no matter how fiercely we
rubbed together

so
I was thinking
well, we could go to 
the art museum
and take a look at the 
impressionist
exhibition,
settle down naked
in front of the Monet
and give him an impression -
rolling around 
on the carpet rubbing
body parts together
impressionistically - 
that might make the old guy
forget
all about water
lilies...

but they have these guards
down there,
that follow us around from
room 
to room
and I don't know why
except
maybe they can read minds
and don't abide
with
people rubbing naked parts
together
in front of Monet -


maybe
if we moved over
in front of the 
Duchamp,
he did a lot of his own
naked parts-rubbing, as I
understand it, and what's
the nude going to do after
descending the staircase
but some parts-rubbing,
cause
why else go downstairs
naked as a jaybird
if there wasn't some parts-
rubbing
intentions...

but the guards
are so guardedly attentive
the museum is out
and I was thinking we might
take a drive
in the hill country - the way
the leaves are changing
in our backyard there must 
be piles
of red and orange and 
yellow and gold
lying on the ground
under some of those big hill country
oak trees, ripe for some
good old rustic naked parts-
rubbing and rolling around,
but it is even
colder in the hills than it is here
so there's the chill factor to
consider,
plus all those rattlesnakes
who love to hid in leaf piles
on these chilly days, or
maybe up in the trees - they do like
to climb
oak trees to sleep through
the winter -
and I think they might not
welcome
people waking them up,
rolling around
naked in the leaves, rubbing
parts
together with sylvan
abandon, despite
the fact it was a snake in a tree
that started all this naked
rolling about
and parts-rubbing in the 
first place...

or, we might just do what
we always 
do
on lazy Sunday afternoons,
we could
just take a Sunday after-
noon
nap,
you in the easy chair
and me on the
couch

just 
like we always
do












This poem is by Moldovan poet Emilian Galatcu-Paun. It is taken from another anthology, New European Poets, published by Graywolf Press in 2008.

Born in 1964, Galatcu-Paun is a writer and editor, and member of the Writer's Unions of Romania and Moldova.

The poem was translated from Romanian by Adam J. Sorkin and Stefania Hirtopanu














Pieta (Ivy on the Cross)

ivy on the cross: vegetal blood
through arms spread wide
powerless, paralyzed
look at their arms bulging,
bluish green: wooden crosses
the ancient aristocracy of cemeteries

ivy on the cross: passionate, sainted
Magdalene winding around the foot
of the stiff crucifix: from the cross
Jesus, nailed fast, stares transfixed by
her lithe body in which God
discovers Himself - Aleheia! - in the process
of photosynthesis: more air

for the cemetery (only six feet lies
underground - the rest rises in open air
from the grass on the grave as high as
heaven: nothing but cemetery)

in spring: pious widows
keep coming to whitewash the arms
of the cross, which is bleeding (every March
the cemetery caretaker,
deeply religious, prunes
the green fingers like young branches
of both arms of the cross
as he believes sacred and proper:
that each cross remain
a cross crucified in and of itself)

ivy on the cross: it doesn't want to know
about the caretaker, it doesn't want to know anything
Magdalene-ivy taking
each cross of fresh wood
for the Savior of the flesh
crucified upon Himself, ivy-
Magdalene winding around His arms
year after year - until one day they fall
to the earth's lap: difficult is

the descent of the cross from the cross.














The next poet, Jeffrey McDaniel, is from one of my old standbys, the near-700 page anthology, The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry, that I bought just about the same time I started posting "Here and Now" twelve years ago. It was published by Thunder's Mouth Press in 1999.

The poet has published 5 collections of poetry and is recipient of a creative writing fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.














Logic in the House of Sawed-off Telescopes

I want to sniff the glue that holds families together.
I was a good boy once.
I listened with three ears.
When I didn't get what I wanted, I never cried.
I banged my head over and over on the kitchen floor.
I sat on a man's lap.
I took his words that tasted like candy.
I want to break something now.
I am the purple lips of a child throwing snowballs at a taxi.
There is an alligator in my closet.
If you make me mad, it will eat you.
I was a good boy once.
I had the most stars in the classroom.
My cheek overflowed with rubies.
I want to break something now.
My bedroom is so dark I feel like as astronaut.
I wish someone would come in and kiss me.
I was a good boy once.
The sweet-smelling woman used to say that she loved me.
The man with the lap used to read me stories,
swing me in his arms like a chandelier.
I want to break something now.
My heart beat like the meanest kid on the school bus.
My brain tightened like a fist.
I was a good boy once.
I didn't steal the kid's homework.
I left a clump of spirit in its place.
I want to break something now.
I can multiply big numbers faster than you can.
I can beat men who smoke cigars at chess.
I was a good boy once.
I brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror.
My mouth was a spectacular wound.
Now it only feels good when it bleeds.














A morning poem from last week.















Sunday morning

grackles
covering the trees,
black,
like a bumper crop
of rotted fruit

covering 
the parking lot
like a black ocean
rippling in a low-cresting tide

meanwhile,
inside,
a young woman
chewing with synchronous
nods to the music
only she can
hear

````

the slow early hours
of a slow day in a slow
season
and yet, still,
I am barely keeping up
















Hot days are expected in South Texas, a cool breeze in the summer is an unexpected treat.

This piece is from my most recent book of poems, New Days and New Ways, an eBook I must say again available wherever eBooks are sold.













night winds

night winds
blow in about eight
and it it's going to be a good night
they stay,
cool the air with fresh breeze
and clean smells
that blow away city-stale stink

if not
the wind will pass through,
leaving us
in an hour or so with dead air,
hot and humid,
a stifling blanket across island dreams

````

good times
come like spring winds
that lift the gloom of summer's
hot, still nights

stay with us
as long as our luck holds, then,
blow away again,
bringing relief
to some others' dark night,
teaching us the futility of high expectations;
teaching us the humility
due those who think
fresh winds blow only for them,
for the deserving,
a pleasure earned, not randomly dealt
with fate's dark humor

````

midnight
symphony, chimes
and wood block percussion
mark the passage of brisk night wind,
the outside dog,
asleep on his patio bed,
dreams of running into the wind,
stirs,
yelps a soft dream-bark
and returns to the
chase

````

I stand
in the dark
under trees rustling
with sweet night breezes,
under a silver dollar moon,
its soft reflected light
faintly shadowing on the ground
the weaving pattern of branches dancing in the wind
and were I not large and clumsy
and unfit for the purity of this pristine night, I would
dance in my own ungainly way with the wind

````

the sun rises
with its own bright day-warm winds...

morning...

summer day begins...

cool night,
another dream
denied














The last poet from my library for this post is Jorge Luis Borges taken from Twentieth Century Latin American Poetry, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux in 2011. It is another huge anthology of more than 700 pages. It is a bilingual book, the poets' language and English on facing pages.

The Argentine poet, arguable the most influential Latin American poet ever, was born in 1899 and died in 1986. His poem was translated from Spanish by Willis Barnstone.











Spinoza

Here in the twilight the translucent hands
Of the Jew polishing the crystal glass.
The dying afternoon is old with bands
Of fear. Each day the afternoons all pass
The same. The hands and space of hyacinth
Paling in the confines of the ghetto walls
Barely exists for the quiet man who stalls
There, dreaming up a brilliant labyrinth.
Fame doesn't trouble him (that reflection of
Dreams in the dream of another mirror), nor love,
The timid love of women. Gone the bars,
He's free, from metaphor and myth, to sit
Polishing a stubborn lens: the infinite
Map of the One who now is all His stars.


















Life's great wheel turns, measured in donut holes.













in the long run

so,
yesterday,
considering the likelihood
of living for another day,
I bought a dozen
donut holes,
confident
that,
while two dozen
would definitely amount to
playing with fire,
just a dozen,
while certain to raise my sugar count
wold most likely be survivable
at least in the short run,
and,
as to the long run,
well,
you know, 
who wants to be
a cockroach
living forever in the dark corners
of someone else's kitchen...












If you've a mind to, please comment by clicking on the comment button below and let me know if you have a problem accessing the comment section. I've been told there's a problem but I can't confirm it. I do now that I've not been receiving comments for a while now.


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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