I am not a god fearing man,
unless he punishes stupidity.

be creative

for the future of mankind,
for the children,
no need to bust a gut to be the utmost

but, when you bake a dozen cookies
squinch one or two up a bit
take a tiny chance, add a dash of color,
a nick against redundancy

from your heart
you can feel the way,
we don't have to be
so tight in a line

Noah built a whole damn ark
you can do a little something
everyday,
it's for the world

Running Dog

my dog that ran away knew what he was doing
that’s why i didn’t go after him.
the cats that stay know where the handouts are
and the birds sing, and the postman comes around.
Neighbor kids cross the front lawn to and
from school. small airplanes make noise
when they pass over. my yard is dry, needs rain
the house is quiet, and neat, with little in it
i have a plant room for quiet meditation
and a typewriter for verbal contemplation
the piano awaits my next touch.
no tv, and the radio isn’t used much.
the shelves are not stocked, i have running water,
a washer and dryer that work once a week,
and my garden that reluctantly surrenders vegetables.
some outdoor flowers, strawberries and a small lemon tree
wind chimes on the patio, empty chairs, space to be
and i’ll moan into yesterdays or tomorrow
i’ll tip wine sublime, and smoke in sorrow
my heart will leap, my head will spin
the phone will ring, again and again
i’ll read some of the letters but won’t write back
perhaps tomorrow, for now, let them stack
three shirts, three pants, some boots and shoes
the rest are rags, no good to use
i go out for work, and the money comes in
i’ve lost some weight, but still not thin

and the laughing brown dog knew what he was doing
he set out to be the best dog around
he left to clean the clock of every cat in town
he could jump the fence, bark the bird and lick the dish
four legs to run, ears to flap, eyes to see, tail to wag
and he chased his tail
right out the front door
right up the street
running for all he can get
running for his life

and i may type by an open window
but i never looked up for him again
not once did i wait
before he left he let me know what was up for him
and i let him know he could run
and i’ll wait inside typing, outside working
back and forth with cups of unsweetened tea
another shower, a song from the piano
something to hum and a searching, walking mantra
about “let’s see, let’s see” and i look for it
while this goes on, i hang out with it
i drink what’s going on, eating today, singing now
pulling it up, and laying it out there
putting it down into words, cleaning it up
tightening it up, cutting it short and letting it run
working it over, taking it in, seeing what goes on
then playing the rinky-tink roll on the pi-ano
hit it. let it flow and go and blow

and the faster i go, the slower it is
and the slower i am the more that gets here
and it keeps on coming out
more from the mailman, more on the phone
more at work and with friends
it keeps on and on a coming in the window
rising with the sun
setting on the end of my bed
playing with my head
and i stand up to fight with it
and we roll on the floor
i grab my chest and gasp last breath
then rise to heaven where saint peter
takes a swing at me and i knock him on his ass
and he tries to tell me to go to hell
so i push my way in and when god sees me
he isn’t pissed at all
we sit down over pizza and tell dirty jokes
mine are better than his, and he knows it!
he introduces me to his old lady
she’s ten million years old but still foxy
and she wants to ball me, but i’m chicken
god and i shake hands and i split
back to my window to see if he can make it rain

i don’t hold my breath
i make a sandwich and drink some wine

a lifetime forever

to live a lifetime forever
on a mountain under eternal noon sun
with sweet wine touching lips that touch mine

where the omnipresent fragrance of soft flowers
and gentle green
caress thoughts
and cradle in your mind mellow notions

the only sound being
two hearts playing
the softest lullaby in creation

self portraits

As you may know, if you click on my “profile” on this blog it will lead you to my art blog.

The purpose of this note is to clarify why artists do self portraits and so many of them. Artists do self portraits because a model in the mirror has more clarity, depth, and is a more life-like subject than working from a still photo. Photos, digitally, mechanically or chemically reproduced are essentially flat. While live models have true color and subtle light qualities, and even movement that make subtle gradations of shade and hue apparent, and there is the visible space around the model. The space around a subject sends signals to the artist. The background is not black, void of color, but a combination of grays that can be rendered to give depth.

There are great photos of people, and that is a wonderful art in itself, but for an artist who paints or draws, a live model is working from life itself, providing a wider range of opportunity for interpretation. Technically, mirrors have a slight cast of green or bluish-green color from the reflection in glass, but it is close enough for the artist to practice. And, a self portrait is, overall, practice.

The mirror is the quickest way for an artist to find a model when he’s ready to work, any hour, any time.

frogs got the change

a mild weather variance
on drifting wafts of breeze
stirring heavy warm air
like a long wooden paddle
in a cauldron of soup
enough so you notice

our frogs got the change
felt it before i did and took action
altered their habits
maybe one is gone
i'm still figuring it out
it could be the result of
the beginning of August

not sitting out like before
no croak when we come by
they're lying low,
we know,
but not why

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Nobel Prize-winning writer
has died at age 89. I enjoyed his book about life in a lousy, cold Soviet gulag - One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. Friends had asked how I could possibly enjoy that story of misery and harsh deprivation. I replied that when I felt down I could always reread this book and remember how really sweet my life is.

A Change

don't know when
can't say how soon
signs are in the clouds
the cards, my dreams,
the wind

there's a taste
in the toast, the soup, the tea
it's coming
tell me, don't you feel it?
can you see?

prepare however you can
straighten the shelves
wash and iron your clothes
tidy up
secure your things

hug those you love
keep your head down
be aware, behave
for good or bad, for sure
a change is on the way

Pavarotti

It is a pleasure when life has its nearly magical moments, like a record setting sports event. I want to share this video with you. Luciano Pavarotti in New York, 1980. He's young, in form and everyone knows that this time he nails it.

Click on his name and watch the video.

the hundred facets

the hundred facets of us each
some we take and some we teach

all the talents, all the joys
all the girls and all the boys

are represented by just one
the hundred facets are the sum

and every jewel in every place
is seen in only partial face

and so we have our multi selves
changing always where one dwells

forming different combination
never reaching destination

and many of the gems we see
are, a little bit, like you and me

ike and amy

ike and amy
lived in the white house
next door

ike was a fair golfer
and amy kept her hair in curlers
until saturday night

when they played cards
at our house, then they
both would get inaugurated