A Prayer Under the Blue Moon

A Prayer under the Blue Moon

Lone Guardian of the blue moon, protect me
from myself in this New Year: instruct me
to be calm in turbulent seas: support
my creative efforts:friendship and writing.

Do not abandon me in the throes of despair;
allow me peace daily, delicately direct my dreams,
temper my intolerance with a gentle air,
a jaundiced eye against despair.

Extend me periodically the charity of your hand.
When every pore bleeds in pain, take away the crutches.
Open your heart to my plea.
Let me walk unafraid in the shadow of death.

Foul-tempered I am sometimes with friends:
insult their souls with rage: Forgive me Lord.
harmonize my fractured spirit,
Lone Guardian of this blue New Year's Eve moon.

Words Rendered en Plein Aire

Words Rendered en Plein Aire


Shapes and colors, presidential suite
In a copper canyon
Sun's rays atop Big Chief Sleep EZ

White Mormon steeple, lonely desert spire
Calls to church all good people
Over midden of ancient Piute fires

Artifacts and bones of native hunts-
The mulch of modern man
A blending of cultures

Virginal sacrifices on the Virgin River
Spirit on spirit- piling on of eons
A divine power emanates from the earth

Shaping nature's clay, guiding the painter's
Brushes, unspoken freedom- flourishes
fully in the December desert.

A Homeless Iraq Veteran Explains

A Homeless Iraq Veteran Explains

The homeless are familiar with the street.
They trudge in winter snow and ice,
find themselves without shelter or heat,

are acquainted with every form of vice,
common as the air they breathe;
common as a scalp filled with lice.

The homeless have no luxury to grieve,
preoccupied with looking for a meal,
a bed, a drink, a simple reprieve,

a respite or a sanctuary to heal
from the heartless wounds of war-
a place of love, an even keel.

The homeless are like you and me,
one break away from being free.

Snowbird Christmas

Snowbird Christmas

Cranky as the trailer's space heater,
I groan and grumble in pre-dawn chill,
wait for the coffee pot to finish playing
reveille to my numb mind.

Shuffling around the RV Park,
elderly snowbirds make mischief,
cackling like contented
chickens under the Arizona sun.

A grateful respite from grueling
gray cold fronts of Great Falls,
Saskatchewan, and Denver.
A time of celebration and decoration.

Christmas lights, ornaments, nativity
scenes, Wal-Mart Santas and reindeer,
a plastic Jesus or two adorn motorhomes,
trailers , old converted greyhounds.

Christmas Eve, wrinkled faces gather
in the clubhouse by the artificial tree,
reminiscing of Christmases past,
speaking of children in childish voices.

Christmas in Summit Park

Christmas in Summit Park

Christmas day I got up before the dawn,
put on my thermal clothes in the frigid air,
then with old bones that ached
from age and sub-zero weather, shoveled
deep snow under the driveway floodlight.

The house still slept as I fed madrone logs
into the fireplace, made coffee, warmed-up
the cars. No one noticed. When everything
was cozy, I'd awaken them.

They spoke sparingly to me, me
who had heated up the dawn,
and scraped their windshields as well.
What did they know, what did they know
of a dad's loneliness and love?

Massacre at the Kabul Bazaar

Massacre at the Kabul Bazaar

It was quiet except for the birds
They wouldn’t speak or want again
After a massacre there are no words
It was quiet except for the birds
It’s a theater of the absurd
Like the silence after rain
It was quiet except for the birds
They wouldn’t speak or want again

Short of Breath

Short of Breath

The scent of sublime
wafts in the air
at nighttime
the scent of sublime
permeates the mind
and the fragrance of her hair
the scent of sublime
wafts in the air

Alzheimer Days

Alzheimer Days

We remain in limbo but
We do not notice
How can we notice?
We don't remember
Yesterday

We've lost our history
And found ourselves
Adrift on a solo raft
And who remembers now
The stories we heard as children?

We are accustomed to solitude
We hardly detect
Our emptiness
For most of us
There is no solace here
No comfort

Not even a memory
To stir the ghosts
that haunt us

Humanity
You have abandoned us.

Black Friday

Black Friday

Like Ramadan pilgrims they converge on
Walmart, Black Friday Mecca
flagellating themselves in early dawn
before the Golden Calf of bargains.

Lines form, encircling the mosques,
faint unintelligible chants waft in the breeze
of the behemoth's parking lot to the lull
of broadcast elevator muzak.

Doors open, a rush and crush like locusts
descending on Mormon grain fields,
they push, pull, scratch, bite-fight
to the death for toasters, TVs and trinkets.

Letters From Around the World

Letters From Around the World

Epistolary friendships -
pen pals worldwide
bring the globe to a single
heart, combining cultures

into a delicious dessert-
a tasty pastry, delectable
to tongue and thought,
sweetness and light.

The letters we write
broach abysmal bigotry,
remake the matrix of
universal understanding.

Artifacts

Artifacts

Stowed away in the attic
in old trunks
family secrets reside
like forgotten diamonds
In safety deposit boxes.

Love letters from the war,
old newspaper clippings
of a suicide, a love-triangle
murder, a drowning, a
Pulitzer Prize. More shades

than we ever knew, color
the existence of our very drab
lives. Buried beneath the ballast
of genealogy , our history
sleeps under a pile of old clothes.

Make Your Own Days

Make your Own Days

At a certain point, you must be self-reliant,
making your own days.
You must
find the magic thread,
leading you away from the labyrinth alone.

Who can resist independence?
To color your own sky, write your own song,
while the world weeps in quiet desperation.
.

What Can a Poet Say?

What Can a Poet Say?

You cannot write about moonbeams
When the world teems
With war and strife
Impoverished life
You cannot sing of daffodils
On bloody hills
Among the dead
Where soldiers bled
You cannot dance a joyful jig
While mourners dig
A child's grave
Among the brave.

Calmve Gladio Fortier

Calamve Gladio Fortior

The tools of war won't move a mountain
Or justify the ways of God to man
As a powerful pen pushing forth a fountain
Of well- wrought thoughtful words can

The novelist, poet, paper-back writer
Slays more dragons than a fearsome fighter
Sways more kings than an army of Huns
Evokes more passion than a battery of guns

Millions are roused by the words they wail
Like Chief Joseph's "I'll Fight no More Forever",
Abe's "Emancipation Proclamation" endeavor
Or Martin's "Letter from the Birmingham Jail"

Indeed, the pen is mightier than the sword.
Lay down your arms, embrace the word!

Ever Nineteen

Ever Nineteen

Just below the surface
Sits an ageless boy of 19
Who ignores my aging being

Resides in careless, carefree crowds
Drinking, dancing, drowning out
The din of responsibility

With a carpe diem consciousness
Que sera sera, what will be will be
Embraces the clichés of youth :

Lets the chips fall where they may
Stokes the fire of the imagination
Resuscitates an old man's dreams

Back From Near-Extinction

Back From Near-Extinction

Now stealthily, quietly creeping through the trees
beside the still lake under the cloudy shroud
of the dark night, the alpha-male wolves come drifting
near to the shoreline, loping across open plain
where prairie-dog mounds, jutting through snow
in the dead of winter, and at the end of a pasture,
suddenly bare their fangs, snarling,
and leap, jaws open, downing the terrified lamb.

A Minute About a Minute

A Minute About a Minute

Do not try to live forever.
Being clever,
will not succeed.
A finite breed,
into the good night we all go.
On with the show!
Strike up the band!
You understand?
This moment is your greatest chance.
Discover romance.
Wear yourself out.
Jump up and shout!

When the Children Have No Time for You

When the Children Have No Time for You

Entertain yourself in old age.
It is your stage.
Be the actor,
the star factor.
Don't rely on your busy brood,
for your soul food.
Nurture the time,
create some rhyme.
So much depends on the attitude.
Show some gratitude
for your good health.
Living well is wealth.

An Open Letter to Americans, the President, the Congress

Why should senior citizens have government-sponsored health care (Medicare) while the rest of the population has to get their health care from an employer-sponsored plan or in the case of the unemployed, buy it themselves or go without? It is evident to me that a Medicare for all citizens in a single payer system best serves the health needs of the country. It would cut out the middle man (Insurance companies) who have not served the health care needs of this nation for a very long time. They have reaped exorbitant profits, denied insurance and care to the needy, and made it virtually impossible for the average family to have health care.

The pending health care reform with its weakened public option is a joke. In fact, less than 10% of the population will benefit. It will be a huge windfall for insurance companies, and the politicians who are on the take (Most of them) will tout this as a huge success. It is nothing more than a ginormous government spending bill put forth by a gutless congress who is and has been out of touch with you and me and every other red-blooded working class American since World War One. This new health care reform should be abandoned. It will not do what it has been touted to do.It is a ghetto policy that throws a bone to a dying dog.
We need medical reform for all, not just the very poor or the very rich. We don't need triggers, delays, exchanges or any other nonsensical tactic to deny the care we deserve.

We have a Democrat president, a Democrat House, a Democrat Congress- a clear mandate from the voters to accomplish two things: Health care for all and end the war. It looks like when the cards are on the table, that neither will be accomplished because too many elected officials will capitulate to the special interest lobbies of the wealthy 1%.

It is criminal, the promises made by the President and the Congress. All the flowery speeches in the world will not deceive most Americans who are much smarter than most politicians and understand very well what is happening. Methinks, this sorry government has gone too far with obfuscation and the people will rise up in anger and take back what they've lost to the dishonesty of the financial and political system. Shame on you. You have sold out 300,000,000 people for your own minuscule slice of a very large pie. I, like Mrs. Obama don't have many reasons to be proud of my country right now. Perhaps Rev. Wright isn't as crazy as the naysayers made him out to be. Sometimes every American must feel like "God Damn America" is the correct feeling for the idiocy that streams across the nightly news.

I know as I write these words, that my children and grandchildren are facing a much bleaker future than I've had. The gap between the haves and have nots will widen, personal wealth will decrease, debt will increase, Afghanistan and Iraq will be an un-winnable quagmire and the nation's health, accept for the privileged will decline. It is my fervent prayer that I'm wrong, but I don't think I am. In closing, I implore Mr. Obama and the United States Congress to do an integrity check and do the right thing, before it is too late.

Keith B
October 28, 2009

If Only You Understood

If Only You Understood

I have a trigger, like a loaded gun
Incites my anger, changes my mood
Makes me ugly, not much fun
I have a trigger, like a loaded gun
Bad humor as the setting sun
My intent is never rude
I have a trigger, like a loaded gun
Incites my anger, changes my mood

Homeowner's Association

Homeowner's Association


Take down that flag, we have our rules
No plastic pools
Pink flamingos
Foreign lingoes
Not allowed-cars in the driveway
Do it our way
Or we'll sue
Don't paint blue
You must use brown, like all the rest
We know what's best
We keep it neat
A perfect street

Choice

Choice

He chose her
He said he loved her
of course, but choice

the thing, choosing
the chosen, the will
at work, free cruising

down independence highway
for better or for worse
he did it my way

like Frank Sinatra
crooning under the moon
singing his mantra

proud and able,
a spirit free
a genuine American Fable

Paddling Through Wheat Fields

Paddling through Wheat fields

After the flood of 1957
I found up in the pasture one spring
day a new canoe, with everything perfect
as it lay upright, swaying gently
in the mild breeze. I was twelve.

I loved all its mahogany finish, the
intricate curves, the exotic logo
etched on its bow; I sat in it quietly
among wheat stalks and paddled away
down the river of my mind. I was twelve.

Awakened, back nearer to myself, I heard
a pickup, just driving up, and I jolted upright
from my journey. It had a bed rack, for boats-
I helped the man load his canoe. He lovingly caressed it,
gave me five dollars, and sped off.

I wept. I was twelve.

She Wanted to Own Her Last Breath

She Wanted to Own Her Last Breath

Aunt Ethel spoke of being ill
Making a will
To share her voice
And make a choice

For final days of self- respect
To disconnect
The life support
To have a snort-

A farewell drink to bid adieu
To all she knew
A warm goodbye
Like apple pie.

Close Your Pie Hole Daddy

Close Your Pie Hole Daddy

I opened my mouth
inserted my foot
and then it went south
and I was kaput

what came over me
I’ll never know
I floated out to sea
and stubbed my toe

Sometimes we win
sometimes we lose,
and then again
sometimes we snooze.

Today it’s clear-
I was dead wrong.
I hold you dear,
like a favorite song.

I hope this isn’t the end,
and we can go from here.
You are my love, my best friend,
and today I shed a tear.

I misspoke, caused this pain,
wish I’d eaten my words.
If I could do it over again
I’d chew on giant horse turds.

Chemical Bond

Chemical Bond

Like Leonard and Virginia Woolf
we seem a natural fit.
My neurosis, your psychosis-
true symbiosis carrying on, two
separate organisms chewing on
on the same leaf.

Funny how we met through the
hazy biosphere of the asphalt
parking lot, amidst yellow school
buses, and my old camper- two
bees buzzing among the belligerence
of noisy schoolchildren.

Older now, our interdependency, like
the sun and the grass flourishes,
a photosynthesis of radiant energy,
a green going of goodness-our natures
melding, forming love and friendship
for all time.

Seeking Paradise in America

"There are always greater fish than you have caught, always the lure of greater task and achievement, always the inspiration to seek, to endure, to find." - Zane Gray


Seeking Paradise in America

He built his retirement dream
a cabin by a stream,
a place to live forever.
Before the roof was on,

he sold it for a song,
thinking he was clever.
He moved to way out west,
where living seemed the best.

Just a little slice of paradise
With green fields of clover,
then left before winter was over-
he couldn’t stand the snow and ice.

He took up a new profession,
Christmas trees his new obsession,
but when they grew to sprouts
he rented out the whole lot,

it wasn’t what he thought.
His head was filled with doubts,
so he headed south to old Mexico,
married a senorita in Calexico,

Left her there, headed for Alaska.
Now he’s home in Nebraska
on the homestead of his birth,
waiting to return to mother earth

P.O.W.

P.O.W.

I see her everyday from my cell,
remember days she was by my side
before my life became a living hell,
and the flame inside me died.

Is this how life was meant to turn,
decaying in a prison to yearn
for freedom before I die,
in a dark cage under a Baghdad sky?

In my dreams, she smiles, holds my hand
and gives me hope to stay alive,
reminds me of our future plans,
provides me reason to survive.

When she crawls up inside my brain,
for just a moment, I forget the pain

Dear Senator

Dear Senator

A clean bill of health requires
A clean Health Bill-
No attachments for new tires
Accoutrements to decorate the Hill

Parasitic riders for bridges to nowhere
Or studies for synthetic aeries
Or high altitude habitations of bears
Or birds of prey or dental caries

One bill, one purpose, a simple duty
A nation's wellbeing the ultimate goal
No muss or fuss, a thing of beauty
A struggle for America's soul.

Death by Cell Phone

Death by Cell Phone

They text
From sun to moon
Erudite messages
Wandering busy city roadways
Bridging the boundaries of common sense
Irrational writers in cars
Teenagers seeing stars
Dangerously dense
They text

Drooling Dreams of a Septuagenarian

Drooling Dreams of a Septuagenarian

The edgy uneasiness of growing old
saps the strength from daily life, which must
ease from habit to routine to a slow trust
in tomorrow and embrace a greater need,
and hold in tender arms a new deed.
Vacating employment a decade ago,
unsure which way the winds would blow,
like a sprig, a newly planted seed-

my path turned thoughtful, meditative.
I thought of careless days gone by,
of nights living a glorious high,
and the carnage strewn everywhere;
then I fell asleep in my old, worn chair,
dreaming of warm milk in my underwear.

Chernobyl Ant

Chernobyl Ant

A bit of oval buoyant foam
Some soft coxcomb
Four rubber legs
A skein of eggs
Tied with red thread in a vise
Wound around twice
To keep it real
A buggy feel
Meant to fool a crafty swimmer
As light grows dimmer
The quiet mood
Becomes trout food

The Homestead

The Homestead

Heat waves and tobacco-spitting
grasshoppers in late summer arrive.
She sways in her rocker, pearling, knitting,
Mormon crickets swirl and dive.

Grasshoppers in late summer arrive,
and threshers level the winter wheat.
Mormon crickets swirl and dive,
she knits and pearls in radiant heat

And threshers level the winter wheat.
The old man counts his chickens.
She knits and pearls in radiant heat.
Dust in the air from a combine thickens,

and the old man counts his chickens,
like gold nuggets in a miner's pouch.
Dust in the air from a combine thickens-
She says "Smile Papa, Don't be a grouch!"

Like gold nuggets in a miner's pouch,
his gold teeth flash with a crooked smile.
He ambles to the porch in a tired slouch,
and she pleads with him to sit a while

His gold teeth flash to where she's sitting.
She always makes him feel alive.
Heat waves and tobacco-spitting
grasshoppers in late summer, still thrive

The Gospel According to Lil Abner

The Gospel According to Lil Abner

If I had my druthers
I’d druther have my druthers
Than anything else I know…Bobby Darin

I’d druther be a pair of ragged claws
And etc. than live without my druthers

I’d druther be born in Arkansas
Then live with a woman who smothers

My druthers, keeps me locked inside a cage
Hates the fact all men are brothers

I’d druther be my sorry self
Than a stagnant wimp upon a shelf

I’d druther live as a spirit free
And choose the way I wanna be

So dear you’d better find another,
I’ll never give up until my dying druther

The Longest Day of the Year

The Longest day of the Year

Fly fisherman imagine that the rivers
are running only for them, there where the spring
from the high lakes form with a trickle
of snow-melt. Yawning in the spring run-off of sleep,
flow memories of flora and fauna, children, labor,
family and comedy and tragedy, the quiet thoughts
of loss, and the odor of love and the pulse
of the heart that is beating now, at this moment,
where the fish are rising in each of us, and no-one else.

Not So Plain Bill

Not So Plain Bill

Today another Billy passed
Billies are vast
Twas Billy May
Billy the kid, another day
dead on Boot Hill
Buffalo Bill
Then William Tell, another Bill fell
Where archers dwell
Billy Carter and Billy Bob
Joined the mob
It's been a thrill
We'll see ya Bill!

When the River Sang

When the River Sang

I followed the verdant forest path,
Because magic was near the brook,
And strung and dressed my line,
And attached a mayfly to a hook;
And when the fly was in the air,
And the sun's rays were peaking through,
I saw the trout rise in the pool,
And softly mouthed a small prayer.

When I lifted it to the bank,
And almost had it in the net,
It flipped off and my heart sank,
But I wasn't ready to quit yet.
To my surprise, I heard a song
rising from the rivers flow,
A sacred song, a song of love,
Serenading me from below.

Although I'm slowly fading,
And my flies seem old and tattered,
The mermaid's song will lure me on
Until my ashes lie scattered,
And float among the fish and fowl,
Drifting in the stream until I'm done,
And sing and dance to the Osprey's cry,
And warm my soul in the setting sun.

Plecoptera

Plecoptera

An ugly bug the stonefly
A brief time to live and die
Prized by trout and fisherman
An ugly bug the stonefly

One to imitate and tie
To put fresh fish in the pan
An ugly bug the stonefly
A brief time to live and die

Enough Said

Enough Said About Lovely Hills and Dales

I can’t make a fuss about the clouds
They get enough attention as it is

To explore the least among us, the
Downtrodden forgotten souls,

dreams crushed, hungry for love
in cold cities, remote farms,

dank dungeons and empty nests
yield enough material

for a tome the size of a chocolate
cake, big enough to feed a million-

man march celebrating in a frenzy
as the sun erratically spews gases

whimsically rearranging the climate
of the world with its perilous rays.

Poet's Corner Perspective

Poet’s Corner Perspective

Lush, verdant, a small spot tucked
away in the woods, The Poet’s
Corner a hidden gem amongst
the ordinary plethora of words-
forgotten, unappreciated in a world
of commerce, befuddlement, baseball.
A nugget concealed deep in the veins
of a dark mineshaft awaiting discovery.
A poem, supple as a mother’s breast
to nurture the child within.

Come Along With Me

Come Along with Me

I want to take you home
Where we can make love like
Howling wolves under big sky
And hear the blue heron’s song
From the mighty Missouri

I want to take you home
And eat huckleberry pie
In the Bitterroot Valley
Or explore the trail of Lewis
And Clark; inhale fresh pine

I want to take you home
To visit places of my youth-
Emerson school, Sun River,
Augusta ranch, the white church,
Gibson Park- my beginnings

I want to take you to home
Where the buffalo roam
And the skies are not cloudy
All day- home on the range-
The treasure state; Montana-
My treasure

Vanishing Act

Vanishing Act

I have always lamented the slaughter
of the great bison. Massive herds
like raisins on white cake once
dotted The Great Plains.

I have never understood the paltry
salmon runs that once filled Rivers
as gnarled traffic in LA at commute-
time.

I fail to fathom diminishing rain forests,
which once covered massive portions of the earth
like thick hairs on the head of civilization,
filtering impurities, sustaining life

I cannot conceive of a world without
flora and fauna, trees and animals
speaking in mysterious tongues,
whispering my name.

Montana Guy

Montana Guy

Drinking two six-packs a day,
counts as almost abstinence,
in Montana, the cowpokes say,
(Although that’s utter nonsense),

but it’s true they like to chew
and brag about their favorite stew,
and hunt deer in deepest snow,
and ride broncos in the rodeo

and they’re rarely heard to whine
(Even in the dead of winter)
or when crippled from a splinter
or hung-over from cheap red wine),

Hard to pigeonhole a Montana guy
who lives his life under the Big Sky.

Patsy's Surprise at Thirteen

Patsy's Surprise at Thirteen

Girls steeped in blackberry winters
like decorous snow women smiling
from frozen firs

Proper girls, obedient, asexual
groomed from girlhood for
matrimony; docile and compliant

populate Our Lady of Lourdes
school yard amongst the sisters-
stern-faced penguin women,

pallid creatures of the cloth,
doling discipline and dogma,
mathematics and music.

"Where are the boys?" Patsy asks
on enrollment day. "It's an all-
girls school dear", Pop said.

"OMG, I think I'm gonna die!!"

Dim (A Sonnenizio)

Dim (A Sonnenizio)

“But how shall I improve the
swiftly-dimming hour”…George Johnston

Headlights grow dim in waning hours.
Dying dimwits dull bright senses.
Wilted lettuce dries dim-gray decisively.
Our dimmer moments fade with despair,
diminished we clutch and grasp old truths
in the dim light as we deteriorate amid
bucolic dreams with dimming memories,
gather in our fate, dimly seeking respite,
grateful to be lucky during dimmest days,
knowing what we now know, diminutive
our significance in a grand dimpled scheme.
Our world now spins on a dime,
less inclined to rage against dimming light,
contented, one-dimensional without much fight.

Bloomsday in Dublin

Bloomsday in Dublin

Irish dance a jig on Bloomsday
Joke of doomsday
Speak Ulysses
Over kisses
Swig sweet Red Breast Irish whiskey
Act too frisky
Ape Leopold Bloom
Sixteenth of June
Honor great Joyce
Sharing his words with brogue-bound voice
And lilting tongue
Beloved native son

Seventieth Birthday Appreciation

Seventieth Birthday Appreciation


Your selfless gift is unsurpassed
I’m left aghast
My place is clean
It is a dream
I could not ask for any more
Kisses galore
And a big hug
A heartfelt tug
My gratitude
Because of you my attitude
Smiles like a boy
Filled with joy

Impulse to Silence

Impulse to Silence

Rendered mute by what he saw-
a tongue frozen by the trauma,
nerves honed, sensitive, raw-
muddling through his inner drama.

The soldier's life becomes surreal,
an un kept promise, a broken deal.
Images of death, destruction, pain-
a steady playback in his brain.

Memories of blood and gore,
lapses into a world of silence,
shuns questions asked of war,
an inner voice suppresses violence.

It's "post traumatic stress" they say.
He wishes the voices would go away.

Summer Run

Summer Run

Early June, and somewhere the first
of the silver salmon
have returned from the sea.

The moon tugs the tide ashore,

What lies ahead? Rivers, deep riffles
and osprey, close to the mind.
A school struck by waves.

They exist as they are, I exist
as I am-content, and that is
enough.

Impact

Impact

Young and drunk
I didn’t have time to care.
I wanted to play.

When Norman the neighbor
boy was killed by Walt,
another neighbor boy

accidentally while hunting
rabbits at The Goat Lady’s
place in the sand hills,

I shrugged it off and
never thought about
it again until now-

sixty years later,
waking from my dream
in a cold sweat.

A Letter After the Rain

A Letter After the Rain


I have tried many times
To tell you some things
and have failed:

How
life can be like a child-simple
and uncomplicated.

How
with its wounds, it
scales mountain after mountain
on slick ice.

How
the warm evening, gray
like a breeze, has persuaded
our old tired bodies
to protect each other.

How
when we try to believe everything
the believing muscles
of our minds soon tire,

and make us weak and we
don't believe the simplest
of truths then.
Simplicity is our survival.

I made coffee this morning,
and it rained last night. Today
along the palm-lined street
a southwest roadrunner-
wet-feathered
but intent on its prey
scurried along the asphalt
like a frantic tourist
in a frenzy
without a road map.

What Am I Worth? You Ask

What Am I Worth? You Ask

You are as in the soil a brilliant gem
At twilight, when all the rays descend
Upon the earth, a rainbow blend
Of golden colors, a seamless hem

Hidden beneath a haze of anthracite
Just below the surface, dull bright,
Your luster longing to be mined,
Released from earthly ties that bind,

Unearthed, polished to a high patina,
Displayed proudly in God's arena
Basking under earth's brightest star-
A precious stone without a mar

Your value well beyond some measure,
A best kept secret, a hidden treasure

Grandma's Photography

Grandma’s Photography

You see yourself in the viewfinder
as you were half a century ago.
The ties that bind you and bind her
are ties of bloodline and love that glow.

A small clone of you this tiny girl.
Her radiant smile, red hair, wavy curl-
the silly grin upon her face,
her beauty that nothing can replace.

You are her, she is you, but merely
through the camera’s focused eye
can you capture your lives clearly-
and look upon her with a sigh

and say “Smile for the birdie,
Ah! My darling, you’re so pretty!”

El Puerco, the Mexican Flu

El Puerco, the Mexican flu

It arrived late in the afternoon
On the porch with the evening news
Without fanfare or a warning tune
Silently, on tiptoe in ballet shoes

a tragic villain, plotting chaos
In the corridors of useless dross
Floating into space an undetected
Virus soon to be resurrected

Assaulted my large intestine
Leaving me prostrate and very ill
The doctor came, prescribed a pill
Left me ravaged without question

Pallid, washed out, an old rag
I'm still alive, but I'll not brag.

The Question: To Tell or Not To Tell

The Question: To Tell or Not To Tell?

Hidden in the crevices
often clichéd as skeletons
In the closet, our dark

secrets, cling like parasites,
chewing away at the fabric
of our freedom. The world

is too much against us. Grief,
like a stealthy ninja
waits inside us for a door

to open, for a hand to release
the caged bird of suppression,
for a “Let freedom ring” moment.

Confession like porous petrified
wood yields only to moments
of sadness, or madness.

Runaway Bride

Runaway Bride

Her lie waits within her for a chance to escape
Her lie is impatient as a rabid bat.
Her lie is a rabbit pulled from a hat.
Her lie is that innocent, sweet child
Building sandcastles on the Jersey
Seashore. In her younger years
She would dance and sing. She was virtuous.
She was kind of “naïve,” they all said.
It was June, a time for brides and weddings.
She’s been out of my thoughts for a long time.
Lies take everything and leave us naked.

Travel Advisory

Travel Advisory

A warning to all travelers on vacation!
Avoid crowds, kissing, hugging friends.
A virus has invalidated your vaccination.
A swine flu in México has pandemic trends,
Fear has paralyzed the entire nation.
Don’t take the plane, the bus or train.
Avoid museums, markets, public transportation,
Petting zoos, public parks, walks in the rain.
Cancel school field trips to the local pig farm.
Wear a mask and always wash your hands,
Follow health rules to escape great harm.
For the Ballet Folklórico change your plans,
Or throw caution to the winds, say “What the Hell,
If the bug don’t kill me, I’ll get well! ¨

A Wake Up Call

A Wake Up Call

It’s that blurred feeling of fear
That creeps into you
Waking up in bed alone
At dawn, thinking, this is unreal
Living by myself, surrounded by
Neighbors in the sleepy first-light
Of morning, that must be

Someone else in a catatonic
Fog trying to focus his eyes,
Stretching his stiff aching body
Over the bed, thinking, this
Can’t be real, waking to the birds
With the other neighbors, slowly levatating
To percolate coffee with the hardiest
Early morning risers, yearning

To be somewhere else, wishing
That I was anywhere else but here,
An old man looking in on himself, as if
From another planet,
Flipping the switch on the pot, smelling
The coffee, waiting for the early news

Feeling himself sliding downhill
In a sluggish stupor, looking past
Years wired in the memory’s hard drive
Years which seem hauntingly blank
And odd,
and abruptly thinking
With a new rush of queasiness
This isn’t real, waking in this place
Feeling as if I were about to decompose

In the desert heat, that must be
Someone else, staring out

At his elderly neighbors, on a normal day,
Which begins like every other day
With a man waking in an empty bed,
Feeling himself alone and trying
Not to fade away

On the final leg of the journey
When the fruit and the sweet-red wine
Seem to ripen under a pale moon
And the heart fills up with delight

Mesquite Days 2009

Mesquite Days 2009

The faces of the town have changed
Remnants and names remain.

Progeny recapitulates phylogeny
Hughes, Jensen, Leavitt, Adams,

Bowler, Woods-pioneer names,
Founder names, Mormon names

Sprinkled among new immigrants-
Jones, Browns and Dragesoviches,

Refugees from cold climates
Seeking the warmth of tradition

The security of small town life,
A friendlier place to live and die

Strangers, changing the face of history,
Won by the hard fight of pioneers

Who carved a future from a hostile
Desert with sweat, blood, tears

Fulfilled a prophet’s dream
Broke new ground

And left the children a legacy-
A niche in small town America

The faces of the town have changed
Remnants and names remain.

From My Rooftop Patio

From My Rooftop Patio in Ajijic, Before the Fiesta Begins

Trucks loaded with children dance together
After the music begins.
Engines vibrate between Mariachi bands.
The old women- las viejas, spread flowers
Over the carretera.
A brown burro, it’s soft liquid eyes
Glassy with lagrimas, brays in Spanish
And invites pairs of señores y señoritas
To dance on rough cobblestones.

Temporary Insanity

Temporary Insanity (I think)

A small spot of loneliness
resides in every mind.
A dark spot, unexplainable
like an incomplete sentence
lacking sense of connection
to meaningful context,
on its own, floating freely
like debris in a tornado.
Helter-skelter and random,
rising and falling willy-nilly,
hither and yon, settling down
when it takes a mind to.
Today my dark spot, my
loneliness, settles on me
like dust on the rooftop.

In My Dream

In My Dream

My somber heart seeks you always
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice.
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure
like the wheat field, the sun, the poppy, and the water.

Your savage hair blows wild today
Over the meadow of my dreams
Standing in a field of yellow sunflowers
My somber heart seeks you always

The nectar of my soul’s sweet blossom
Simple syrup for a lovable life
Your presence fills the days with joy
I love your happy body, your rich, soft voice

Soothing, reassuring in troubled times
I love your happy face, your glad, warm smile
Flitting here, there and everywhere
Dusky butterfly, sweet and sure

Covering days of sadness with flight
Masking sorrow in the sun’s bright light
Natural, thoughtful, at ease with me
Like the wheat field, the sun, the poppy and the water.

What Remains, Remains

What Remains, Remains

The sign in the road screams
“Dead people’s things for sale”

No “Estate Sale” euphemism
For these good old southern folks.

After all Grandpa Fred can’t
Hear the cuckoo of his old Black

Forest clock from his grave.
Might as well sell his shit,

Pick his bones clean, and recycle
Some of the love he displayed

Fawning over his collection
Of thingamabobs, doodads,

Gold watches, old books,
Bronzed baby shoes, and

Aztec funeral urns Acquired
from yard sales in Mexico.

So Much Rides on a Healthy Breakfast

So Much Rides on a Healthy Breakfast

The neighbor at the house across from mine
is complaining again. Her voice, pursuing
the heels of her husband, screeches loudly
each time he opens his mouth. Life

and the world with all its vagaries
might experience apocalypse as foretold
by Nostradamus, but what about
this woman chasing this man

in the middle of the morning,
Sweet Jesus he caused no harm
to anyone, and while he was eating breakfast
only wanted a banana on his Cheerios.

Semana Santa

Semana Santa

The parade
Of saints waves from narrow streets
Celebrates the suffering
Holy tears of Our Lady de Guadalupe
Flow like fresh lava

The children
Of Ajijic ape ancient rituals
A blanket of white robes mounted in
A pageant of adorned brown asses
Clopping on cobblestones

The nerves
Of Mexico crawl up her spine
Indifferent to the elements
A mantle of bougainvillea scarlet spreads
Over her gnarled hands

The dirt
From her garden, like Wednesday's ashes
Nourishes the heart
A blessing of Pascua Florida
Renews lost hope

Paradoxical Sleep

Paradoxical Sleep

I have been wakeful at night
And words have come to me
Out of their deep caves
Needing to be remembered…Wendell Berry

The noesis of my learning
Follows me everywhere,
Overrules the depths of sleep,
I have been wakeful at night.

I toss about in a sea of knowledge,
Pitched in a tumultuous storm
Neurons flashing like lightning,
And words have come to me

Images of the perfect poem
Fly around like rabid bats
Chasing air- breathing arthropods
Out of their deep caves

Syntax and substance are drowsy,
Yawning in these early morning hours.
I jot notes, lest I forget half-asleep, words
Needing to be remembered.

In Praise of the Short-Lived

In Praise of the Short-Lived


Exotic, romantic- life in a foreign land
like a poem or a song, brief and ephemeral.
Solitary women dream of Latin lovers
serenading, crooning “Cielto Lindo”
among fireflies and bougainvilleas.
We praise the transitoriness that impresses
possibility and gives joy to dreamers.

The Dog Park

The Dog Park

They parade their dogs upon the grass
In finery fit for Easter Sunday
Showing off their royal class
They parade their dogs upon the grass
Poodles and schnauzers full of sass
Out for a stroll, a canine fun day
They parade their dogs upon the grass
In finery fit for Easter Sunday

War Sings Only One Tune

War Sings Only One Tune

“You cannot sit on bayonets
Nor can you eat among the dead
When all are killed, you are alone,
A vacuum comes where hate is fed”
…Delmore Schwartz


You cannot sit on bayonets
Leisurely smoking cigarettes
While making faces at the moon
Or bowing cellos in string quartets
The seat of war sings only one tune
You cannot sit on bayonets

Nor can you eat among the dead
Converse with souls who have fled
Or stroll along brick parapets
Where the soldier’s blood flows red
Cursing the guards in high minarets
Nor can you eat among the dead

When all are killed you are alone
With the silent desert, far from home
Pensive, reclusive, without a plan
In the shadow of a mosque’s bright dome
Iridescent in the wilderness sand
When all are killed you are alone

A vacuum comes where hate is fed
Devoid of matter, an empty bed
A time when a soul is forced to choose
Between the living and the dead
Finding the heart to win or lose
A vacuum comes where hate is fed.

You cannot sit on bayonets.

Before Sunrise

Before Sunrise

The loud songs
of the doves
of spring
disturb my sleep
with mating calls
of passion.

Withdrawal

Withdrawal

The things we care about
are suddenly disappearing
and we don't get it.

We've been too busy
writing blogs, searching
Google, indulging fantasies.

Lately have you noticed
how talks are one syllable grunts?
An uh-huh and a yup!

In and out of our lives
friends disappear, reappear,
disappear like spring blossoms

no time to inhale fragrances,
or nurture with chit-chat
lost in the clamor of cyberspace

mesmerized by the screen's glare
our world shrinks as we stare
into our own narrow gap.

The Bells

The Bells (Las Campanas de la Iglesia)

On every roadway, two paths-
One follows darkness, one light
Usually we choose neither.

Usually we wake up to the alarm,
roll over and re-close our eyes,
drift back into dreamland.

But the church bells----a wedding ? a funeral?
Or did you think it the sounds
of another Mexican fiesta
beatifying a new virgin towards sainthood?

In Memory of My neighbor's Son

In Memory of My Neighbor's Son

In the bright, conscious sunrise of the day
a loving voice-the voice of one wide awake-
calls to me from the gate, where near the stake-

the wooden marker divides the land our way.
Here on this spot we always commune, have our say.
Always through friendliness as neighbors we make

country chit-chat, of cows and sheep and the lake
where her young son drowned a year ago May.
There is a headstone in the distant grove

that, grief-defying, on its solemn hill
reveals a song of joy upon its face.
Such a song composed of a mother's love,

a season's test of passing strength and will,
a melody that neither time nor memory can erase.

Dance of the Micro Brew

Dance of the Micro Brew

Gold-colored beer
Wheat-colored beer

beer with velvet hands
or beer with warm eyes
beer,
blessed hops
of earth,
beer, mellow
as an aging love child,
warm
as a lustful wench,
beer, Olympus-honored
and filled with power,
ardent,
earthy;
never has one stein limited you,
one dance, one woman,
you are festive, extroverted,
at bare minimum , you must be praised.
Some days
you feast on immortal
longings;
your wind transports us
from near to far,
travel agent of bawdy voyagers,
and we laugh
raucous chuckles;
your
marvelous
summer ale
unparalleled,
blood pulses through the veins,
tremors excite the skin,
nothing challenges
your indisputable soul.
Beer
blesses the days, happiness
shoots to the surface
like a dolphin
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as more beer is born .

The Waist Manager

The Waist Manager

Waist management was her main job,
handling the garbage of daily life,
avoiding excess, becoming a blob.
Waist management her main job.
She’s no civil service snob,
determined to become a super-wife.
Waist management her main job,
handling the garbage of daily life.

La Cantina

La Cantina

“Para todo mal, mescal; para todo bien también”…anónimos dicho de México

Raúl slakes his thirst when he is sad or happy.
El gusano (the worm) in the bottle ignores
the mood of the day- is indiscriminate.
Pure agáve azul jump starts Raúl´s heart,
soothes his soul like native aloe balm.
Sunup to sundown Mescal modulates the
two poles of his bipolar existence,
one high, one low, both stupefied.

The Poet Laureate

The Poet Laureate

Mesquite should have a poet laureate
to laud the town, praise its name,
speak at the high school's baccalaureate,
spread the word about its fame.

Mesquite's poet should have vision,
a sense of a history, a love of song,
a man or a woman with little derision
to extol the city's virtues, loud and strong.

A poet who discovers life's possibilities
in the tiniest branch or the greatest tree,
A person with finely tuned sensibilities.
A poet who is identical to me!

Forsaken

Forsaken

When you are jilted
You take up bungee-jumping
from high bridge towers.

You ride Brahma bulls
at the State fair.
You wrestle live alligators.

During Valentine’s Day
you speed down the highway
erasing the memories.

The Bicycle Tourer

The Bicycle Tourer

Oblivious, the motorized world whizzes
by, senses numbed behind the glass,
smell deadened to the lilac breezes
high above the windy mountain pass.

My bike and I ascend long hills, steep
and slow we make our way,
inhale the clover, talk to the sheep,
wave to the farmer baling new hay.

We flex our muscles, stretch our sinews,
test our bodies in eclectic terrain;
slowly focus on the distant hues,
cycling through wind, snow and rain.

All our senses fill with splendor.
Separateness diminishes with each mile.
We’re free to fly like the great condor,
my bike- Rocinante and I, travel in style.

Day in Court

Day in Court

The stern judge looks downward
Two glaring eyes
Burning holes in my resolve

My wife spins yarns like a weaver
Slick as black ice in the driveway
Eager to provide a fatal skid

Truth and Justice finally prevail
Turn Hell to sweet, warm Nirvana
And I can breathe again

Poker Face

Poker Face

The smile you give is weak and bland,
it doesn’t feel like a friend to me.
I thought you’d try to understand.

It isn’t kindness or a helping hand,
it feels like a meek plea-
the smile you give is weak and bland.

Where’s the old you, my one-man band?
What happened to my loyal tree?
Are you taking some kind of stand?

My feet are shifting in the sand.
They have no comfort, no idea, no key;
the smile you give is weak and bland,

You carefully avoid discussing plans,
you seem too ready to dismiss me,
I’ve really tried to comprehend,

but now it’s clear, I’ve been banned.
I watch your face, your eyes as we
chat, your smile so weak and bland,
I thought you'd try to understand.

Kóan

Kóan

Truth a noble intention
One can clearly use-
Fabrication also useful
with varied colors and hues

Shut In

Shut In

Like an insect he carries in his heart
the dreariness of winter; turns inward
and exists on small pleasures.

He ignores a splendid law of natural
rewards: he who gives receives, he who
only cultivates avaricious appetites,

afraid to share with others, loses his
humanity, dries up in the sunshine,
becomes loneliness itself.

My Timid Mother

My Timid Mother

She speaks too much of danger,
afraid of life’s natural, healthy risks.

Don’t be afraid I tell her,
poison ivy grows outside the door,

The snake coils under the porch
and the eagle’s talons cling to the roof

but the sun goes on, lighting the sky
and our lives tread upon the earth unscathed.

Candy kisses

Candy Kisses

Oh your smile is like a sweet, sweet kiss
That truly tastes like love
Oh your smile is like a small bird’s coos
Perhaps a morning dove

And sweet you are my lovely girl
To yield your precious lips
And I will want you still my love
When you’re old and the scale tips

Till the scale tips, my love,
And the moon falls from the sky
And I will want you still my love
Until the day I die

So keep the trust my dearest girl
there’s nothing that’s amiss
your suspicions are unfounded
and your smile a sweet, sweet kiss.

Help Wanted

Help Wanted

I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd.
Playing golf with demented friends is just great.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words

My application for work is not really absurd:
High salary, long vacations, perks and medical.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd

Want a quiet setting, away from loud herds
and indiscriminate, biased co-workers.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words

I like a boss who doesn’t give damn, a civil service bird.
I have gray hair, poor eyesight, a bulging paunch.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd

I’m sixty-nine, white, retired. Salary diminished by thirds.
Searching for work, any type, anywhere, ideally suited.
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words.

No Scams! (Some offers have been absurd).
I hang out on a bench, near the library.
I’m literate, shy, but no way a nerd
I’m looking for a new job, something to do with words.

Inauguration 2009

Inauguration 2009

My Mexican friends coined a new verb
for the inauguration. Obamanos (Let's Obama)!

Passing the baton, a delicate moment
in a relay, adroitly transitioning,

balancing two acts simultaneously,
racing and handing off, separating

winners or losers, successes or failures,
victories or defeats. It is poetry-the rhymes

and meters of the will synchronizing
to the music of the human spirit.

Obamanos!

Chanticleer's Domicile

Chanticleer's Domicile

This old rooster thinks connections
between his cock-a-doodle-doo
and the sunrise.

Awakes the sleeping flock,
this cock-of-the-walk squawking
his cacophonous reveille.

King of the barnyard, fair fowl
most magnificent of them all
irascibly proud, standing tall,

an impressive regal resident
whom, if ever runs for office
would surely become the President!

Aw It Ain't So Cute!

Aw It Ain't So Cute!

Dog walkers stop on my grass
they 're sneaky it's early morning
they hold small bags they're looking
over their shoulders they don't want to be
caught they hate
picking it up
sometimes these walkers don't care why
are they so arrogant the old men's
jaws get squared they give you looks
which are often angry looks
made for enemies in the
heat of battle

Sometimes I step outside
the yappy mutts
get excited become territorial
and snarl like their owners
I gently remind to take
the waste post haste to
be kind to the little beast
of burden to be careful
what you ask for it might
just drag you all over the
neighborhood before breakfast
before lunch before dinner
before anything

January Voices

January Voices

January, and the voice of the winter storm
howls over the pallid passes
before dawn. The Douglas fir, the pine,
the Engelmann spruce snore
at the first soft clues of morning.
A frozen day,
I think, yet it will arrive
amazingly, daylight
ascends from the arms of boughs, streams
silently from the hearts
of pink clouds.
The Great Horned Owl screeches
from its branch, shivers,
and flies away. The grizzly,
asleep for winter, growls in his dreams
and swats salmon in the river. My head
races in the memory of a trillion fallen snowflakes.

I hunker by the fire waiting for a warm chinook wind.

War Work

War Work

Three long rows of instruments
arraigned meticulously on a mayo stand,
ligatures speaking the language of silence.
Under the light, I in my ghostly mask
suturing the fragmented intestine,
as big around as the thick casing
of a Polish sausage. “Right here
is the critical part, saving
this soldier’s life.” We work in shifts,
morning, noon, night. First bright
sun’s rays enter the tent, I
pause after the last suture
to take in the new day reaching
outside and beyond. Daylight
bathes the standing and moving
rows of armored tanks; fresh gusts
of desert wind blowing, battered
buildings, fallen palaces of Saadam
and sons. As far as the mind sees
a rolling cloud of locusts as dark
as death brings the wounded in.

Coin Flip

Coin Flip

Sometimes I hate this place
Sometimes I hate the winter
Sometimes I love this place
Sometimes I love the winter
Sometimes I hate the summer
Sometimes I love the summer
Sometimes I am loved,
Sometimes I am hated
Sometimes I am over
Or under-rated.

Louis S. Cohn Inc.

Louis S. Cohn Cigar Inc.

Ever since my childhood,
the wooden Indian has protected the smoke shop
from his porch-front perch.
Inside carries all his wampum:
small cylindrical beads, polished shells,
peace pipes, Prince Albert tobacco tins,
aromatic cigars from Castro’s Cuba ,
carved Meerschaum bowls
seasoned to perfection.,
jawbreakers in a glass fishbowl,.
snuff tins, Bugle Boy papers,
imported stogies, climate controlled
in the walk-in humidor,
Phillies Cheroots 2/$.50,
The old warrior grimaces and stares
over his reservation, over and over
beneath the blue Montana sky.
He is old and cranky.
Please do not bother him.

The Short Happy Life of Things

The Short Happy Life of Things

Purging the old, seeking the new;
curbs lined with treasures headed
for the local landfill.

A microwave here, a stained sofa there,
some Dr. Seuss books across the way
accompanied by an ironing board.

Down the street a bicycle, wheel missing
in action nervously awaiting the crushing
compactor blades of the trash truck.

Every curb contains midden, disposables,
impermanent goods of lives disinterested
thrown away to make room for new clutter.

Gleefully I lift my treasure from the heap;
a black forest cuckoo minus the pendulum.
I imagine bird songs in my sleep.