Saturday, October 31, 2009

some cloudy black moonless

some cloudy black moonless,
don’t be walking bumping
into trees or buildings,
wait, cities have streetlights

the electric companies
lay the wires, put up the poles, put in the bulbs
not 70 watts for illumination
1,000 watts every 200 feet, you pay for it

hey, they have a board of directors
and CEO’s and fine houses and servants and staff
and obligations and golden parachutes and
country clubs aren’t cheap, you know

even freeways toll booths are lit like a circus
forget that cars have headlights to find the way
there could be a crook walking around
hit one, go to jail and then get sued

someday they may light up the remaining forests
so bears don’t bump into trees
don’t worry, the complacent public will pay
anyway, more light gives confidence to drive faster

Friday, October 30, 2009

an explosion of color

an explosion of color
leaves to the ground
woke up this morning
that’s what I found

wet or dry red, yellow and orange
have your pick
this month only
take it quick

in farm Ohio
seasons explode
flowers, fruit and vegetables
patches loved, cared and hoed

and the sun goes round
makes light to dark
hear it, see it, taste it in nature’s park
so I’ve found

and I can read a book
eat a peaceful meal
sit back and praise existence
love is what I feel

Thursday, October 29, 2009

zipping

like a dog in a car
riding face first
hanging halfway out the window
what a highway we’re zipping

on a ball sailing through space
throttle to the floor
don’t need a pedigree
any mutt can do it

this is big fun
i wanna do it often
my cheeks are flapping
hey, is anybody steering?

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

the beginning

In response to a comment to my post/poem from a few days ago called “began writing poetry” I thought - and thought is always such a good beginning - I thought to say more. The aforementioned little poem alluded to my start of writing poetry. Contrary to what was said in the blogged poem, I was not taking notes while watching a movie. It sounds good, and that's what poetry is about.

I began writing poetry exactly fifty years ago. Incredible.
Boom, boom, time passes.

A half century ago at this time of year I wrote a little booklet of 33 poems that I scribbled into a one edition volume and folded and stapled together. It seems a grandiose delusion to name that bit of hard paper cover and folded typing paper a volume. My friend Roy saw it and liked it, probably encouraged me. I had better quit my reminiscence before I bind the volume in my head in deer hide and put a brand on it with an iron I forged myself in shop class.

The sole surviving poem in my volume is the opening verse that served as explanation and introduction.

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

That piece in the renown beat poetry style was the beginning from which I have not drifted too far, more or less.

worked in cleveland

two and a half years
worked in Cleveland on the lake
rode a gray commuter train
with season bundled sneezing strangers

looking out windows saw steeples
houses, factories or reading mostly
no one usually saw each other
or an overload of graffiti, i made notes

until train stopped under Macy’s
everyone crush-rushed bulb lit darkness
hung on, up the bouncing escalator
clamored into shopping central

passed the popcorn wagon, could smell it
waited a minute or two, snatches of conversation
caught a bus, the rapid, from the corner
got off on 30th, every day

big city
for this former small town guy
stone, steel, crowds and pretty
oh my

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

ufo

a researcher/author
approached an x- military man
who reportedly helped pick up ufo wreckage
at Roswell, New Mexico in 1947
the former officer wouldn’t talk

gave a tight-lipped grin
and shook his head
kept his mouth shut
he had taken an oath of secrecy

fifteen years later
when the former military man
was near death
he talked to the researcher

what he said
if taken to be true
exhibits how far ahead
the future may be

the man said find out how it flew
the crashed ufo
that they examined
had no moving parts

Monday, October 26, 2009

drive around

driving around late in the night
with nothing inside me
alone on the highway
headlights blind me

planning all the things i can do
with no one beside me
alone on the highway
the radio finds me

late at night i'm looking into space
with nothing inside
i still see your face
i cannot hide

as i ride around
in my worn out
beaten down
late model van

it was green and tan
i painted it blue
to match the sky
i don't know why
it reminds me of you

began writing poetry

at the local theater
when i was a kid
saw an old nineteen thirties movie
black and white, not great quality,
who knows where it was stored
an epic production, all so new then

filmed at dusk
the golden hour
with hundred of extras
and catering trucks

as the villagers, the Vandals
and an invading army
fought inside, over and along ancient castle walls
of course there were towers

no animals were hurt during the making of this
memory of when i began writing poetry
popcorn on the floor, i had fourteen years
before that i wasn’t at all serious

Sunday, October 25, 2009

googlebot me

the googlebot has my number
i can practically look out through the blinds and see ‘em
flashing lights, sirens, scweaching tires
that’s the worst kind of tires, incidentally

but they can mail order a fix for
your home computer, only twenty-nine
ninety-five, this week only
cod, member f.d.i.c., r.s.v.p.

but they’re too sophisticated for that . . .
blam, blam
scuse me, someone is beating down my front door
with what sounds like a telephone poll

“come out with your hands bup.” it roboticized
oh, pshaw, do get your google butt out’a here, i screamed,
learn to depend on your Spell Check,
was that me or the robot talking?

Bad Poetry

Writing bad poetry is good conditioning.
You wonder if I feel bad when my poetry is lousy, no way.

If Tiger Woods put the ball in the hole every time he took a shot
they wouldn’t let him play any more.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

leaves

a favorite page on the calendar is open
snaps, skips
clink trinkling down the street
see them skidding,

lifting, twisting, flying
hear changed colors run in ripples
an invisible toreador's cape brushes
bursting particles,

sound rushes golden on yellow
and reds,
green subdued or gone already
blue sky sunning, melting over

bursting particles
sticking in fences
sailors swept from the deck
rushing brushes like tossing seas

old tree witch silhouettes clawing to the clouds
shiver on winter’s cusp
cold cries warning
as October scatters on the wind

Friday, October 23, 2009

raking early

each year i plan the good plan
to wait until they all fall
let ‘em bleed red and orange,
rolling yellow and gold on the wind

it has only begun, any fool knows
there's more to come but i start early
clean every crackling thing
stay ahead of the game

until worn finished, sweating
then look back to see
every thing is a total mess
i scratch my chin

it’s a test, can’t let it be
the rake’s in my hand
the joke’s on me
i'll start again

Thursday, October 22, 2009

make you pay

here’s your punishment
for failing to get your car registration renewed
and driving with an expired license.
perhaps you will learn your lesson

we have you now, you’re going to jail
for three months, three meals a day,
we provide a uniform, everything you’ll need,
and there is a store that we run

thank the tax payers, they provide everything
we make them pay, so tell me
who is learning the lesson
and who is making the money?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

modern telephone

at my table in the living room in Ohio
amid marvels of the 21st Century
that are easily digested, taken for granted
when the computer sounded the old fashioned ring

it was Massimo in his car on a back road
calling on the Internet phone Skype
we chatted briefly, just for the lark
he had an appointment with his barber

and was using his cell phone
for a no cost call to Ohio
from his small village under the same shining sun
thirty miles north of Roma, Italy

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Cole Porter

a fine composer
come and gone
before our time
lasting beyond

if he were a painter
there could be a wall
to pass everyday
with an image

why not display
an audio fragment
of great works
in public places

to hear a phrase
be reminded of the gift
to all of us
everyday

every time we say
goodbye
i cry
a little

showcase
beloved artists
to light the way
for the world ahead

i’d rather my tax dollars
bought art
instead of
arms and prisons

Monday, October 19, 2009

Song o' Little Balloon Boy

oh, gather round for the song
o' Little Balloon Boy
that sailed a fantastic flight
in a basket

as the world watched
but he was really hiding at home in the attic
and i must have been
eating dinner at the time

didn’t pay attention
until it made a big fuss
on the Net i read some
course you knew about it

maybe watched
and prayed for him
oh, long live the ploy
o' Little Balloon Boy

neil armstrong

i heard Neil Armstrong
and someone didn’t hear it right
for a quarter century they said it wrong
that july in ’69 i was 23 at 137 D in Coronado,Ca.

on the floor in front of the TV
when the 1.7 seconds delayed broadcast
coming 400,000 km from the moon
resonated around the globe

glowed black and white
the only light in our room
a he wobble hopped a bit down the ladder
and i heard one small step for man

one giant leap for mankind
and they said “for a man”
for years they did
but he said “for man”

a more generous oration
that included everyone
and i wonder, you can too, how accurate
other particulars of our world’s history are reported

Sunday, October 18, 2009

monkey cap

my monkey cap
definitely the type
a chimp begging coins
along side an organ grinder
standing on the corner in 1930
or in the circus would wear

if he had a red cap on
and always did
with a string under the chin to hold it on
or if the animal was really clever
he’d pull it off, show his teeth and take a bow

not the sort of gear the stylish fellow’d wear
on a first date, an inauguration
or your wedding day
no one would be impressed
unless you weren’t totally in love and knew
it was heading for disaster anyway

but at home on cold mornings
with no points deducted for lack of charm
when insufficient warming sun rays come in the windows
a silly cap keeps my head warm while writing
and coincidently, i am ashamed to say,
sitting here eating peanuts

Saturday, October 17, 2009

the comforter

the worn comforter on my bed
my mom’s mother made
during blue winter nights
before flicking evening’s fire

on her lap it kept her warm
working patiently with grandpa there
rocking quietly next to her
in his favorite wooden rocking chair

an era when a glimpse
from outside on the back porch brought
stillness, star sparkle and shimmering brilliance
not yet dimmed by city lights

even radio was a novelty
funny voices, laughter, soft music and stories
for cold nights near the stove
with a capped kettle of warm drink atop

amber glow heated drifting vapors
sweet odors filled their home
and didn’t whistle, it wasn’t necessary
the kettle on the stove gave humidity

they were home in comfort, telling tales, wishing
recalling friends , family and holidays
at peace, and not going anywhere,
they knew they were already there


From a time when a comforter wasn't a forty-five
but could have been called a peacemaker.

Friday, October 16, 2009

words and music by jack s.

part decorative wood from Lincoln’s time
half recently constructed stone storage space
all overlooks the economically withering small town and an ugly
car wash across the street with a coke machine that lights up

i have obtained a three thousand square foot
industrial building to write and play in
i like obtained because that
is more gentile than bought

and i didn’t buy anything,
i have embraced this space
it’s mine in my head, without papers
by word of mouth, mine

cause i’ve been in it
have photos and dreams of being there
producing massive amounts of gems
piles horded and distributed to the urchins

that look like overweight immature vandals
short people not developed in any sense
running in wild packs, probably to and from
that elementary school around the block

and the legends will be created
by slouching legions carrying torches in the night
mobs of immigrants cutting vegetables for soup
blocks away from any used car dealership and

churches with a monument for the poor aborted fetuses
and the saints of another culture, generations ago
that are told in prayers and whispers about
salt on the wound, would you do that

to yourself or animals unless for cooking?
i can get a caldron
it sounds more dramatic than a big pot
i’ll have to check if open fires are legal

but they won’t stop me from
dreaming about it
for all the belching smoke and the stench
i can produce in my dream caldrathon