psycho mom and me

figuring something out
is not easy
that's why it takes time
and why everyone hasn't done it at least once already
maybe no on has figured out anything yet
i suppose some are working on it

the tough thing is the question
what exactly are we supposed to be figuring out?
now i am speaking in vagaries here, not specifics
people do resolve minor problems
like how to fix something broken
or how to make a better toaster or hamburger cooker

but lets stay vague
vague is where we are, remember that
it's where we live when you take away
everything scheduled and programmed for us

now, life? course of action?
these sound like possibilities for specifics
that need resolution

years ago i wrote a few pages description of some answer
to resolve the question of
being in the present moment.
i typed it up and gave it to my mother
that was a hell of a stupid thing to do, i know,
but i had figured out life
and thought it'd be great to share it with my mom
so she'd have the answer and feel good too

i remember she just looked at what i gave her,
didn't care about or understand my explanation of what i
had written, and after she tried to read it
she had a questioning look on her face
i think she might have asked me if i was all right,
meaning, was i crazy

it is one thing to have a momentous transcendental thought
complete in your mind
and quite another to try to put it quickly into words on
paper for your mother, a woman who essentially didn't give
a shit
mom was not a thinker of what anyone would call heavy thoughts
she thought about what she was going to make Chester for dinner

at the time i was inspired by Ram Dass - aka Richard Alpert
and the stuff i gave her was about living in the present.
Be Here Now was his book and i had a recording of a lecture he gave
it was deep, he taught at Harvard and dropped a lot of acid
and smoked a lot of dope with Timothy Leary
my mom was a Canadian Club and water woman
and i know she had some fear of water, as in the lake
it all somehow relates to the way she thought,
how her mind processed material
"mow the yard"
that's how she thought
and that was a bit of a digression to this discussion
but, as mom would have done
i think i'll leave it at that

a penny from everyone

so what do you do with sixty million
do you go to the disco with paris hilton
wear your nice shoes and cool clothes
i mean, go where she goes
or, okay, maybe with her
yeah, then what do you do for an encore?

do you have eight wide, large-screen TVs all in a circle
and sit in the middle
spinning on a revolving chair
and eat popcorn
pulling it out'a your hair
and drink wine
watching all the time
with volumes all up to the max
until your ears ring?
hey, i'll drink to that, to all that stuff
until my ears ring too

i'm which chew, i am
chew, achew, ahchew
my God, i got the plague
how could that be
when i worked so hard for my money?
i'm dead

excuse me

excuse me, is this seat taken?
no, i mean this seat right here, is it taken?
wait are you joking or what?
well, why can't i see anyone sitting there?

to the restroom? how long ago?
what does she look like
i just wondered
say, did you report her missing?

well, maybe she's not coming back
did you think about that?
i am serious
the movie started and everyone's seated

did she drive, or does she have a friend?
now where are you going?
good luck . . . oh, since you;re leaving
can i have the rest of that popcorn?

in God's eye

in God's eye
in the universe
is the naked oneness of us each
me reflecting you
you reflecting me
playing life
from the center
up for love
down for fear
if you're alone
am i here?

what do you say

with all the pollen
and the breezes
what do you say
when somebody sneezes?

700 years ago
they said God bless you
to pray that person
didn't have the plague

if you move fast
you can keep out of the way
no one wants a blast
of that lousy spray

so when someone sneezes
why not just shout
hey, you
cut that shit out!

Okay, okay I made
a small error,
only one letter off
in the blog below,
but I'll leave it that way
ass a lesson to myself,
so let that be a lesson to you.

(i did that error for old time's sake)

hello Santiago

you did well to check her for galluses.
winter time - suspenders and i
go everywhere together

in warm weather i can do without
i can do without a lot of things in warm weather

this may be one of the top sites on the globe
in support of suspenders, braces or galluses
maybe
maybe not

a Captain

that man is a sailor
a Captain
there are very few like him, you know
he sits there now in his chair by the window
overlooking the sea, smoking his pipe
thinking about his days at sea
when waves tossed his ship about
and thrashed his crew against the rails
as rain and hurricane winds
fought to see who would be first
to dismember his ship

his eyes now smile in faint recollection
of Pacific ports
where natives gathered to look upon the face
that dared stand against the sea
and where young girls across a table listened
as he told tales of great adventures in unchartered waters
as together they sipped rough wines while slender
native fingers stroked his steal-gray beard

there were ports and storms
and brave men waiting his word
to set course for open waters
and other adventures

his face is firm as leather, yet kind
his hands, strong
her eyes, though old, yet speak with authority
and command the attention he has earned

he went to sea in his youth
and now, in old age, is satisfied to know
his dreams were fulfilled

that man is a sailor
a Captain
there are very few like him, you know

george wilson, artist

camel hair flowed under
wilson the captain
who, drinking contour
touched us all

a silver-tongued, lion hearted
could recall a mess of fish and clowns
whatever he painted
bare chested and sweating
lean, yet strong as a bronze whale
shared his good spirit
he did not know age was meant for man



for a fine artist and a friend from years ago

fourth of july

fourth of july i sat impatiently
on an eight foot skyrocket
while smoking a cigar
that i used to light my vehicle

i aimed for the moon and missed
just circled it twice
then bounced quickly in seattle
and landed under my couch

poetry blog

telling someone
i have a blog with poetry
is like saying i just bought a used
hearse from the funeral home
and i got it cheap cause it was in a wreck.

"oh, how nice. How many miles on it?
and are the seats always folded down?"

it's a conversation stopper
right to the bone
wanna go for a spin?

work

who can see work as beautiful?
those who have warmed to it
and love their profession

work well done is attached
to pride, satisfaction,
accomplishment and approval

it's doing what you do well
with comrades and acceptance
that is a pleasure life offers

how poets do

like accountants
poets work alone
grinding out word minutia
and are essentially worthless
except for what comfort they bring

they read a lot, enjoy the out of doors
often from a window
drink, smoke and unless someone cooks for them
eat lousy

are unaware of the time
yet, come early for appointments
choose to wear the same dull clothes and
sleep easily each night with untroubled minds

when at night i close my light
tuck myself in, covers to my chin
vivid dreams leap on me
and if the window is open
the wind will carry slow motion
under water blurry pictures directly into my head
that come alive in swirly drama

entertaining dream-rooted inventions of what could be
flash on an off as humming trucks roll on
through the night on distant blue highways
as heavy metal trains sound a mournful melting Doppler effected melody
calling hello to you, hello from me

awakened in the night
to listen for what is there
and what isn't
often getting up to write a line,
an idea to pursue before it evaporates,
then fall immediately back to deep sleep
like babies do, until morning

i admire other poets i have read
how they hop-thoughts on the pages
i know they do as i
for that is how it is done
alone in thought
one by one by one
for ages upon ages

let me slip-roll into sleep
for another jumbled, bumbled,
senseless journey
until i wake
but, not too early

sloop

a lengthy swift sloop at sail at sea
with half a breeze and half a sun as you man her
nowhere to go and no call to go
just time to set far back
look up to the tall sturdy mast
as nylon sails snap
to the occasional wind's lick

the ocean spits bits of spray
back and forth over the bow
with a gentle lift the shore is visible
then a recline and shore is gone
another lift and the long, low line of land is there again

no need for a shirt with warm air rushing over you
and your hair is twisted and thrown and dampened by spray
a red neck feels good and a tan face
makes it better to have lived this way
strong hands hold the ship to a meandering course
from nowhere
in particular
and back a gain

The Invisible Man

Does it happen to you or am I the only Invisible Man? Usually when it occurs I am next in line in a store and two or three other shoppers come in and the next thing I know they're in front of me getting waited on ahead of me. I must be invisible.

We went to Drug Mart and while she shopped I picked up an old car magazine, the big summer edition. On the way home I noticed the 5.98 price on the cover. Oh my, it wasn't a freebie!

I didn't really care about the magazine. I sat at home and looked at it, about fifty cents worth, and we went back to that mall for take-out Chinese food, so I took the magazine back to the store, put it on the shelf where I found it and left.

There were four employees nearby, not busy, not doing anything but talking, very close to that rack, but no one saw me either time. I have known it for many years but, still it is a strange feeling, for I am often invisible.

i can smell the ocean

i can smell the ocean from my chair
looking up, it isn't there
a peach ripens on the window sill
the clock's approaching quarter 'til

and as i pull the bag from my cup of tea
my mind takes me to places i'd like to be
here, magazines picture my vacation
while outside, birds make their migration

the mast will creak as my chair rocks,
i stir my tea as my ship docks,
with quill in hand, and love sublime,
i'll send this message out of time

corked and floating on ocean's crest
the letter drifts to islands west
at night, moonlight flashes the bottle glass
by day, the jumping dolphin pass

by sooner or later and seagulls
by lesses and greater in wind lulls
by storms and seasons
beyond all reasons

i put my feet up and think of beach
sip my tea, and eat my peach

the finger is the point

we zipped into the parking lot
she shut off the engine
cause she was doing the zipping

"did you see the cut on my finger?"

she extended her arm putting her
hand right in front of my face,
pointing at the large signs
out front of Meijer's Superstore
there were two of them
one read Why Pay More
and the other Photo Lab . . .

"look," she pointed harder
i was looking but i didn't know which one i should . . .

"the cut on my finger"

i looked where she was pointing but couldn't figure what
she was trying to tell me about her finger.
i glanced to see her finger had a little red mark like an
indentation but nothing that . . .

then she began talking about a new housing development
called The Preserve and she said if it was hers she'd call
it The Marmalade
that's when i got out of the car
still looking at the two signs and wondering

as she entered the store
i looked at my own finger
and held it up for her to see
if she'd only looked back

how can i best explain

how can i best explain
the trees and trails
the woods with clean water hills
that i knew in my youth

oh, somewhere there is a partial picture
that shows a wooded area
but it doesn't taste of seasons
it doesn't show the turtles in fall
the thin ice of winter
pollywogs in spring
or sassafras roots in summer

when we were ten we listened to the frogs
in the forgotten pond
we dug forts and swung on vines
walked over the creek on the trunk of fallen giants
our highway was an overgrown remnant of
the old street-car bed
we knew it well, re read it's signs
a garter snake, a portion of broken tie
the occasional bend

i may never mention it again
but hope some day to take you there

six feet deep and forty-nine years ago

funny how things work
forty-nine years ago
at the time i wrote my first poems
if i came to this spot
where this stage is now
in the amphitheater
i'd have been six feet deep
right under Main Street

back then i wrote
a booklet, thirty-three poems in three days
a rush job, i was a kid
beat poetry

words with rhyme
that go
sometime
or not
which is to be
of course
the other way

forty-nine years ago in the first freshman class
at the new high school
we were looking for the future
this was before the Beatles and the Rolling Stones

our house was over there next to the funeral home
and from standing in the middle of the street
i could see straight down to the light house

down by the track
that lone railroad building still standing
is where the telegrapher
Hiney Kensel worked
he always rode a bicycle

across from my house was the old town hall
with a small theater
opera stars and vaudeville teams performed there
1876, i saw that in stone every day

across the street was the post office, then the movie theater, The Ritz, McCormick's Insurance, Enderle's Foodliner
the bank where it is

the Eagles, the Reporter, the Edmar restaurant,
a used car lot, Dirk's Jewelers
Guenzenhauser's Department Store
old Anne Guenzenhauser drove that '35 model A coupe to work everyday

at 217 Main was the dairy
on special occasions i remember Carl Wechter
delivering milk with his old horse and wagon
right down Main Street

Duck Eggs, Hoppy, a lot of the locals with nick names
and Millicent Leib who led the cry
"Please don't tear down our town"

there was a poolhall across the street from Yaylie Lavoe's News Stand
an old timer told me
John Dillinger was in there playing pool
a few weeks before he was shot in Chicago

before the bypass and the turnpike
when vaudeville players like Jack Benny, George and Gracie and W.C. Fields
and baseball teams like the Red Sox with Ted Williams
and the Yankees with Mickey Mantle
drove from Detroit to Cleveland and beyond
they took this street right above us

the Knotty Pine Bar and the Three H Bar
there and there
and there, my dad's bar a block up from the church
they used to say we had more bars than churches

that same year - 1959
our town had it's sesquicentennial, that's a word we all learned
the 150th birthday of our town

Carl Kramp, the Chief of Police told Bill Swoppe
a happy-go-lucky fellow
that they kidded a lot
and who owned the bar next door to my dad's

"There is no place to keep the parading elephants,
so would you keep two small ones?"
they told him my dad would keep two of the larger ones
in his bar
so Swoppe said okay

they played it out a few days

then the Chief of Police was measuring Swoppe's door
and said they would have to cut part of the front wall
so the elephants would fit
Swoppe said, "no way"

the next day the Chief of Police
was measuring the doors of my dad's bar
and they said they'd have to cut the opening
for two large elephants to enter

Swoppe said, "Okay. If Chet is going to have elephants
you can cut my doors too. I'll keep elephants if he will."

in the end no doors were cut for elephants

we had our sesquicentennial parade
on a beautiful clear day

the big parade took three hours and fifteen minutes
with vintage vehicles, horses, wagons, fire trucks from all over
both our police cars, and both fire trucks- big red
and the old blue one
banners, marching bands, drill teams
and gaily costumed tap dancing
cadets, baton spinners
more fire trucks and police cars
plus honoraries, mayors and dignitaries from every village
and farm and orchard in Northern Ohio turning out,
several of the bands played John Philip Souza marches
and oh, how they marched
on and on they paraded,
yes, paraded, not rode,
but walking proudly
right down this street
into history

now from the start of my poetry
it's forty-nine years later
and six feet under
and here we all are
for better or worse
what's done is done
now let's move on to the future

so tell me
do times change
or don't they?

between here and there

between here and there on a lump
on a log, is a frog in a slump
in the dark, in a bog
waiting as the night goes by
holding his mouth open,
hoping for a fly

a little girl frog
sitting near, looking here
and there for a fly
for her friend,
crosses her knees,
smiles and winks at him

he sees her there and makes his noise
she laughs aloud, for she likes little boys,
he calls her near, she hops to him
they speak of ponds and bugs and mud
then she goes back again

back sitting, near, looking
here and there
for a fly for her friend
on a lump, in a bog,
waiting quietly, the happy pair,
just a little between here and there


The form on this one is a bit different as I wrote it for my kids entertainment exactly twenty years ago today, and that would really be an amazing coincidence, but it's not true. I don't know what day of the week or year I wrote it. I'm approximating, and hopefully entertaining. This all came about from Tomc's comment yesterday. I just talked with my daughter and she said it was more like thirty years ago I wrote that one.