The Days Come as Always    Friday, November 20, 2020


another day

the dim light of a thinly overcast dawn
filters yellow light into the air
and across the trees and pastures and commuter-rush...

looking out from my breakfast perch
the day seems a Chinese brocade,
raised golden thread embroidered on thick fabric,
gilded scenes of morning life
wakened by the silvered calls of mourning doves,
softly, sweetly singing songs of daylight's resurrection...

another day, they sing, another sunrise
another chance for me and you

Poems this week are from my most recent collection, New Days and New Ways, poems from the section of the book titled "Passages." It is not my last book, which was a dystopian novel,  Peace in Our Time, written in the form of dispatches from a soldier (and ultimate last survivor) of a war against a global ecologically based attack by a enemy no one understands. The book, like all my eBooks, is available wherever eBooks are sold.

Here and Now
The Days Come as Always 


another day 
a long time coming 
a late-winter poem 
fog like a deep dark sea 
the best there is on offer 

Agi Mishol 

White Chicken 


another Sunday morning
crystal city 
I blame it on something I ate 
up at 4:30 
night lays in 
muffing-making and other activities of the long night 

Alma Luz Villanueva 



like soft hands 
her lip trembles 
dawn patrol

a long time coming

aching bones

a dark poem all the long night's making
forgotten now - black cloud cover
the rising sun dispersed
by the cold- spreading light

night to day,
a long time coming

a late-winter poem

I have the feeling 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 longer than it took
for 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 had anchored me to the future
has gone slack
and I feel jus another of the world's many forgettable
loose ends

fog like a deep, dark sea

school bus lurking,
yellow shadow in the fog

school children on corners,
waiting whirl-a-wisps in the murk,
prey to be gathered into the maw of the great
yellow whale


sleek shark in the night,
streaming past, eyes bright probe the dark


my bright cave at the bottom of the sea,
soft music to bind my ears tight against the carnage
of the flowing, hungry seas, storms of quiet desperation
shift deep sands, rock relics of earlier deaths

the best there is on offer

dark, morning rain, light, but steady,
the street an ebony mirror streaked red
like a lipstick message from a disappointed lover

a no-promises day...

take it as you find it,
it's the best there is on offer

This poem is by Agi Mishol, translated from Hebrew by Lisa Katz. The poem is from the Winter Solstice 2005 edition of  Runes, A Review of Poetry; Signals, published by Arctos Press.

Mishol is an Israeli poet consider by many in Israel to be it's most prominent and popular poet.

White Chicken

In the middle of
I stand like a chicken
on the forks of my legs

if at least
I had
a red
glazed with rain
I would whiten
beside it

but this way
in my situation
I effect
no change
rather I live,
not for my own sake,
with a cockscomb
on my head.

another Sunday morning

moon falling toward the west horizon,
slips behind a lacy morning cloud, hiding
the shadows of its ancient scars


grackles, on cue, fly from their nighttime nests,
cover the sky,
dark cape of the Phantom of the Morning


strong winds, warm and wet, blow smells
of the southern sea 
across the stark remains of northern winter


light seeps from a pinched eastern horizon,
the sky not ready to open to any new day


moon shadows fade as sun shadows grow
toward the retreating night


cat does her morning stretch -
doubles her length front to back,
legs reaching in both directions, belly on the ground,
little red anus like lantern light at the end of a train


dog stirs in her bed,
too old for morning calisthenics -
eyes lift up, then down, enough for now

crystal city

snow in San Antonio last night, sunshine this morning,
though the prism of crystal ice brightens the day
with cold intensity of light...

across the way, three deer cross a meadow...

the morning so quiet I imagine
I can hear the crunch of hooves breaking virgin snow

I blame it on something I ate

this queasy stomach and watery eyes,
like looking through a water-streaked shower curtain

that's the word for the way I feel right now,
what it's going to feel like when I die, assuming
I'm not going to die in some screaming, crushing,
meat-grinder of a car accident, which, I'm thinking,
would be associated with pain and the world
at it's most extreme, the opposite of disassociation...

I'm thinking of how it might be to die in my sleep,
one moment dreaming,
the next moment, becoming the dream
as self separates from it's carrier, like stockings
slipped smoothly from a shapely woman's legs

a fading,
then passage to the next form, 
a new pebble dropped into an old lake,
rising and falling with a slow and steady tide

and thinking of that end makes me feel better today

up at 4:30

sunsets are a spectacle here,
ranging from lemon yellow to searing red...

but I still prefer the sun as it rises,
less like a movie special effect, more sedate,
a gradual lighting of the sky before the sun
slips over the east horizon...

appropriate, I think, that as each day ends in a blaze of glory,
it begins as a tiptoe through the dark night,
like my own start in the morning, quietly, down the hall
to the bathroom, careful not step on the blind cat
who sometimes gets lost at night without me to guide her
and ends up on the throw rug outside my bedroom door...

I enjoy the day's beginning, 
the sights and sounds as seen and heard from my patio -
alone in the dark, then not alone as first light filters
through the trees, waking birds who begin their morning calls,
then the first pink of the sun, 
finally showing itself over my neighbor's fence,
then full light, the dogs stretch and bark at the train
passing several miles away, so quiet the morning until then
that the clatter of their wheels and wail of their whistle
sounds so close, like just across the creek and down the street,
right past the house where the policeman lives
with loud family fights and parties every Saturday night,
conjunto bass shimmering in the air, slipping through dancing
squeeze-box squeals...

sometimes wondering if I should call the police on the police,
remembering they all carry guns all the time...

but this morning, none of that, up at 4:30, 
just me and the gathering sun an the birds and dogs
and a train, like just right next door...

night lays in

night lays in with a sigh
like an old woman pulling bed covers up to her chin,
breeze rustles trees like feather dusters brushing the stars,
frogs come alive in the creek, 
nighthawks hunt...

on my patio, I strip down, lay back in my chair,
and join the frog symphony, imagining 
the fresh, cook mud between a catacomb of reeds
on the rain-freshened creek-side, imagine
the blood-tasty mosquito caught on my long green tongue,
settle, squish  into the singing night

muffin-making and other activities of the long night

it's a bright and sunny Sunday morning
and I'm thinking about sex...

I can tell some of you are surprised that I'm thinking about sex
on such a bright and sunny Sunday morning
and I don't know why...

I'm an old gent, after all,
a getting-on gent, a heading-for-the-last-round-up-gent,
a drawing-near-to-that-last-hill rise cowboy, and men
of my particular chronological condition think about a lot of things, 
the weather, dumb-ass politicians, uncomplicated bowl movements,
occasionally a poem, and sex...

mostly sex, cause even though we may not be getting much of it
anymore, sex is still the prime concern, at least to those
whose wilty whiskariser has yet to fall off, 
and since my whiskariser still abides, I spend a lot of my time
thinking about sex...

that's just the way it is...

just ask any whiskariser-intact old man and he will confirm 
if he is the least bit honest, sex beats weather and dumb-ass politician
to think about any old day...

in particular,
this bright and sunny Sunday morning I'm thinking about a particular
lady I once knew a long time back in the old days, 
back when Ike was still hitting par with Mami, a particular girl
I'm remembering who nipples were in constant confrontation...

the one always hard like a marble, proudly erect like a sweet dark cherry
on a cream-puff pie, the other lazy, always lying back, holding back,
small and unobtrusive...

her conflicted nipples like her conflicted nature, the one ever-erect
showing the wild part of her, that always ready for the next adventure,
the next sensation

     touch me, kiss me, play me
     lightly with  your teeth, she'd say,
     lick me like a triple-dip ice cream done 

and other such things she would say I'm much too shy
to repeat in a public forum...

but there was still the other side of her,, the 
Betty Crocker-in-a-white-frill-apron-muffin-maker-side,
the nipple so slow to rise, like reluctant muffins, 
so hard to arouse, the nipple of modesty, of consequence
and restraint, of look twice before you leap, 
the nipple of probably shouldn't leap at all, the nipple
of banked fires and still nights and clouds slow moving
against dark and starless skies...

but the fire was not out, just laid low,
waiting for the breeze of soft whispers to flame again,
to re-ignite the stars, to push the clouds and clear the sky,
the fire when it came as hot and bright as any other,
only slower to rise...

and it was in the conflagration that the two sides of her
joined in the end, confusing me, sometimes,
leaving me never knowing which of the two sides
would come with me through the long night till dawn...

but the truth is, while possibilities varied,
there were no bad nights when sooner or later
her secret identity was 

This poem is by Alma Luz Villanueva, taken from her book, Vida, published by by Wings Press of San Antonio in 2002.

Villanueva is the author of seven poetry collections, including Palnet, winner of the Latin American Writers Institute Award, and three novels, including The Ultraviolet Sky, American Book Award, and Naked Ladies, PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award.


I dreamt Wolf Woman
singing in her tent,

next to me, singing
from her tent flap.,

waking me up,
irritating me;

then I heard Bear
walking in her sleep,

moving by my tent,
so carefully, not

to disturb me,
to let me sleep

all night; andI
would have slept

all night, never waking
up if it hadn't

been for the Wolf
Woman singing with

all her longing, toward
the liquid stars,

so close, Bear
thinks she's walking

on the Milky Way,
that she will eat

all the food we've 
hidden away from

her. Bear loves the
woman singing to the

light; she begins
to dance the ancient

dance of the Milky 
Way. To the human 



I wonder;
Do the others hear

Wolf Woman singing
from her tent flap?

Do they hear her
longing rising to the

liquid stars of
Milky Way?

Do they see Bear
dancing in their dreams?

Do they know Bear
loves the sound of

the human voice?
Singing. to the 

Milky Way.
I wonder.


Without Wolf Woman
and Bear we are

lonely in this
Universe. We

forget the dance
of he Milky Way.

We hide our food
from Bear

and we are


Tonight: Listen 
tot Wolf Woman

singing (even if
she wakes you

up): Tonight:
Listen to the Bear as

she hunts your
dreams so quietly.

She is hungry for 
your voice. Tonight.

     Tuolumne, Yosemite
     (Uzumati: grizzly bear),
     June 1996

like soft hands

soft hands

summer breezes

midnight lover



the sun

the river glows
orange and

as dragonflies

her lip trembles

her lip trembles
and I love her for her courage


her day begins in yellow light, 
like lantern light, before the sun,
like an old woman rising from her dark bed,
crests the eastern mountain ridges...

the basin will be dark before the sun falls
through the western notch, 
the desert floor a blaze of reds and yellow and orange...

she stands before the colors far below,
arms stretched wide, embracing the failing light...

this is the way she wants it to end,
in a glory afire with completion, not soft and unsure,
the way the day began 

dawn patrol

dawn's early light

soft sun rising;
moon shadows falling

deer drift in morning quiet
through winter-bared trees
to pasture in the meadow

soft morning unfolds
in dawn's early light

to the west

to the west midnight black 
slips up the chromatic scale to dark,
smoky blue, fading lighter a I watch

the sun,
though it has not yet broached the eastern horizon,
casts its radiance straight and true,
past the natural curvature of the earth,
lighting the cold sky above me,
bringing color to the sky 
before it paints the earth below


fog sets in
and the sky above is quickly
hidden by its misty curtain,
leaving he day to begin under yellow streetlight tint,
the sun, finally risen, 
unable to penetrate with its full luminant force,
is reduced in it fiery charisma
to the morning's afterthought

it is winter, 
four days before Christmas

GOOD NEWS - the "comment"  function is working again after several years when it did not.

I'd love to have feedback from readers, about the blog, about the poems or pictures, favorite recipes from your old dearly departed Aunt Herminia, or anything else on your mind.

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, iBook store, Sony, 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


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


Sonyador - The Dreamer


  Peace in Our Time

the wns


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