crumbs a lot...for pleasure

i like two pieces

of toast in the afternoon.

at 18:07 i ate a sandwich m made.

will keep me looking out the window,

working or reading, wondering why
i can't put together another 

best poem. ingredients must be

here. rye toast. now, that got me

thinking. butter on top,

what it is, soulful surrender.

i misread seafood sensation.

thought before i read.

empty all pockets before

throwing pants in the wash.

man, i miss those maple trees.

grow overly large; however, do make a mess.

ok, i'm thinking about the above. it takes time to gel.

Sure red

there is color around,
fall sound cracking,
Practically out of dream,
all you wish to hear.

yeah to the cities
to the mountain streams west,

while here in the midwest
we take our fall dry
and consider it best.

may as well because
color is the coat we're wearing.

early evening

reading the news, occasionally 

glancing through the widow

to see the sun progress down,

thinking it comfortable,

convenient not having

to go out in public for work.

a renown sitar player performed

at a concert hall nearby,
i chose not to go.

supper was a tortillia with

chicken and cheese. quick and easy.

thanks, Meri.

i had a glass of red wine,

the first in a month,

now i am sitting quietly.

sometimes poems contain
no explosions.

bali

island jungle music
the islanders in waves of exploitation.
rapid rhythm gongs,
never heard music like it before
Oberlin college opens another gate
this is the strangest concert i've ever attended,
and i enjoyed it. i'mglad it ended when it did,
i can only take so much strange and bell sounds.
---
An 18-member ensemble weaves layers of intricate sound: the punctuation of deep great bronze gongs; charismatic leadership from the drums; stunning interlocking percussion from the bronze gangsa; and finely elaborated delicacy of voice and flute.
---
we go in the auditorium,
she wants to sit farther back this time.
i pick seats in the seccond half, middle.
the musician people come in and play.
it happens that fast.
strange music.  little gongs mostly.
some slapping and knuckle knocking on wooden drums.
indescrible. it goes on.

---

Internationally hailed as one of Bali’s most forward thinking music and dance ensembles, Çudamani is known for their exceptional creativity and superb artistry and also their unflagging love for the classical treasures of Balinese tradition. Nurtured and trained in the village of Pengosekan, the group is among Bali’s most respected and accomplished.

One of their many singular features is that many of their artists are multidisciplinary, mastering gamelan, dance, voice, and visual art resulting in artistically unified presentations.


The ensemble touches the soul with a program that spans the spectrum of human emotion, from sublime to fearless, from reverent to unapologetically playful. Çudamani intrigues the mind and heart and a radiant flash of their eyes invites you into the transcendent experience of Balinese gamelan and dance.

Gamelan Çudamani

rain september

fall rain is the best;
or i'm just saying
because it's so firm now,
happening, tapping
itself out like a song.
you're smiling.
  

thorn

returning from the mailbox didn't linger,

walking up the back steps...

i slipped...crabbed for the hand rail.

caught a large rose thorn with my finger.

told meri when she got back from the store,

she said to ask the troll people for help,

it's four o'clock and she has a game to watch.

my finger is blood smeared, i didn't yelp.

plain day

cherry pie and vanilla ice cream,
what's what i remember of lunch.
coffee too, that's it. that additional thing;
black coffee, no cream no sugar.

dry september

half-hour drive into the sun rise,

light traffic on the road.

found our slot in the lot behind the restaurant.

a breath of wind, calm autumn.

took a table along the back side.

place full up, yet easy going.

course we started with coffee.

slid into wednesday morning.

pancakes and eggs over,

rye toast and butter.

she did the driving,

picked up eggs at Planktown.

the way of rain

we're in a gap, a dry spell.
comes as a surprise, not thinking about it,
it's pouring or not.
then we simply forget and it dries up, hot.

i'd rather walk or drive in the country.
i know it'll be wet again soon.
that was yesterday, this morning i woke to wet all over,
light, clean, cool, it's raining.

make a line

if you have a parking lot
park all the yellow cars together,
see who notices and asks you why.
if we worked hard we could put together a load of ideas.

stack cars on top of others.
based on heaven knows what,
meaning: i can't figure how to do it.
one hand can hold your hair back.

start there, think what you like.
get a menu, you can pick and chose.
i'm looking around to see
what can be found.

there is one thing to say,
shake it out, dust it off.
next, we're on the border-line.
don't want to keep you waiting.

someone said  kind words about this writing
i'm grateful. i'll sit a while without a sound
taking time, it appears i'm thinking.
you're looking fine.  is that a distraction?

drag on

ok, so, for all who support me,
can you make toast, eh?

falling leaves in colors orange to red.
is that the order? does it matter?
this morning the sun is sparkling in my eye,
feeling good, warming. festive, practically.

and sipping coffee, thinking toast...
how about you...how you doing?
good morning...always a good start on the day.
what do you say, going my way?

i read some poems and was fascinated
by the thinking, or the ways i'm led
by what is said by word thinkers - writers.

some putting poems in their heads,
reciting to others...crash poems.
a bag full. i can only imagine, or listen
or read them.  a speed zone full.

hey, with sun in my eye i prefer
a slow hill climb, to the top,
taking it easy, geting my fill that a way.
taking time to think about it.

mr. safety town

mr. safety town i am.
but, let her drive anyway;
put my arm out for extra signal.
it 's fun riding with bare feet on the dash.

noise void

nothing hardly,

windows open,
no sounds in utter quiet.

old house to us blank empty,
barely anything,

sleep on mats,

clean echoes, zero to hear.

two street lamps across the street

shine all night on us
in our cottage in the woods.
why the lights?

apple cake

Thursday, September 03, 2009

apple cake

from a peg on the wall she took up
her worn canvas bag by the shoulder strap
said come on, we’re going to pick apples
near the corner across the street in the empty lot

there’s a neglected, half dragging to the ground,
poorly shaped, unremarkable old tree
not worth a glance,
and loaded with apples

we ate one to sample
half red, half yellow, a little strange to look at
but fresh off the tree
it was some old variety

forgotten, unattended and delicious apples
she filled the sack with a dozen or so
when she said she had enough,
we walked home

late that afternoon, after other tasks
by September sun streaming into the kitchen
she made an apple upside down cake
augmenting a vintage recipe found on the Internet

an hour after dinner
we each had a piece
of the best apple cake
i ever had tasted in my life




It would be too easy for M. and I to eat the whole thing, so I took the rest to my brother’s family. For us, there is always tomorrow.

at Thursday, September 03, 2009 2 comments Links to this post

the heights

Monday, September 21, 2009

to the heights

to the Heights, a country small town
nearby, yet aloof from modern ways
where farmers and country survive
and some of their kids go away to school in the cities
take jobs, live afar and return now and then
for holidays, alternate years

their folks stay on
in touch with the soil
clean, neat and country casual for a Sunday
standing tall as they can
walking leaning, a bit slower

these remaining have been small town friendly for years
know the families, names from long ago
and can recall some of the faces
now under the headstones
on the treed lofty knoll

there is a chicken barbeque today
at this conservation club
no telling what they are conserving
kindness and good will for sure

the building is set back on a large area in an otherwise field
the road in waggers as if the guys who dragged it out
changed their minds two or three times before
they settled on how to get from here to there

and the twenty or thirty cars already there
were parked in the field over a few acres
like dominoes thrown out of a box
and where they landed is where they sat
independent parkers they are

this yearly event we’ve been waiting for
three hundred tickets were sold they say
the money raised will keep the group going
about thirty folks there at the start when we were
maybe fifty
half again that number just neighborly helping out
i didn't try to count, they were spread out nicely

rear double doors were open to the beginning
of the green and rust colored stick crackling woods
in mild temperatures and near idle breeze
on the cusp of another change
summer to fall

had covered long tables, sturdy folding chairs
set with plenty space between to walk
and clean silverware, no plastic for
these folk of dirt, cast iron, seed and steel

the building’s maintained in good repair
someday they’ll pave straighten that winding road in
or sell the whole damn chuck to a developer, if and when

barbequed chicken was the draw today
and these hens were as large as small dogs
and twicet as tasty as you could ever imagine

spoke with old Reece, one of the volunteers
heard he deeded his downtown brick building
the decorative grey century one on Main
resplendent with curiosities and used books
to the local historical society

our common friend dick, who visited us in Rome
will be coming soon, here’s where he was raised
with a smile on his face and mud in his toes

today's group was quiet well mannered
stayed on the business of eating
and getting to the desert table
in no rush orderly fashion

i had a slice of crispy near warm apple pie
made from experience by Aldean
as she stood alone by her kitchen window
taking care and good intentions
thinking of her family while using well hewn skill
that would’a made her mother proud

after we did the deed on the chicken
during which time we made new acquaintances
and refreshed old ones
we waved goodbyes and moved on
out the door and beyond
into our own tomorrow

i am Wicks, i'll be your server tonight

Thursday, September 24, 2009

i am Wicks, i'll be your server tonight

well, Wicks, hi, i’d shake hands but
obviously, you’re moving too fast
i’m jack, but i’d prefer you call me grandpa
no one else does

well they do once in a while
but they live a half a planet away
grandpa jack is what they say, but
plain grandpa is more enduring don’t you think

my grandparents lived thirty minutes away
but people didn’t drive as much back then
a half century ago, one i’d see one once a year
the other i’d see Christmas and Easter

anyway, doesn’t matter to anyone now does it.
say, my sister Nita taught me to drive
when i was eleven in her old Oldsmobile on Rye Beach Road
i’ll have to ask her if she was married then

parts of the story are unraveling
and half the cast have gone away
i’ll look into that, gone away stuff,
someday, won’t we all

listen, Wax, you don’t mind if
i keep talking to you, do you?
not out loud, in my head, think talk like
blink if you can hear me

at Thursday, September 24, 2009 4 comments Links to this post

all to say

mom, your baby boy is old and crippled.
sitting on the porch when the mailman came,
heard the lid on the box close;
said hi but no reply,

talk too softly usually.

i told m, she got the mail from the box on the gate.
that's my poem for today,
full up, emptied out, all i had to say.

fred's in sausalito

how many do you want?
we knew the system.
the waitress drew on the order pad.
one circle for each pancake ordered.

weekends they came a long way
to order circles.
we walked a short distance
to order our circles.

sun over all

average starting day.
a nothing special time of the week.
a period of hours from
sun to sun, of this i speak.
pressure added, atypical.
look. there is sun.
warming. totally wonderful.
sun full of wonder.
oh, yes.
all you do is look around.

a trip

so soon it seems
to be back again,
it is called a trip
to the dentist.
hear me now: the guy is smooth.

August 1

First day thinking cold.
The season has rolled over.

calm

turning to fall, calm and grey.
a quiet day.

raining

it's raining drops heavy as rocks,

solid drum beats on the roof,
haven't heard tapping like that for a while;

rain enough to slow traffic.
the bubbling puddles come alive.

new post

don't know what day it is,
not the date or day of the week.
i can guess, and miss by a mile.
it's not important to me.
this is all good news.
now i can get paint out
and capture what i see in color.
sounds good, but won't happen.
here is where i will note the day,
in thought and words...okay.
they say it may thunder,
i hope it does; that's the kind of scary interruption i like.

song writer

seeing a song written out, music and words, is like seeing handwriting:
no matter how you feel about the song, when written down
you can gather a feeling for the writer.

paul mcartney, ned washington, paul simon, you and me.

water be

you know there's
waterbe fallin', wet all over.
greets me first thing in the morning
when looking out the window.

wet all over.
so that's the kind of day it is,
i'll get used to it.

mmmmn sweet corn

corn is golden
though color is secondary
when cob roasted...then
served with butter on,
and salt.

poems on the run/roast

at times i write them
want to hold them tight
not turn grey mice poems loose
out of the sock drawer

snap go now puppies on the run
out on their own
beyond my control
out of reach, out of sight

crossing the street
against the light
a lone drifter may find them
some blue dark still night

perhaps, and take comfort
then i guess it’s alright
the preceding has been noble, thus,
considering the source, largely untrue

so there goes nobility shit out the window
chasing my poems
what is left pass around
to you and you and you

it’s okay, Descartes wrote:
i think therefore i am
okay, i think i can
go along with that.

an some sonofapup drifter is liable
to catch my poems
cook them, debone 'em
or eat 'em alive

steps

needed front steps, not wood,
in our town it’s normal to call a cement contractor
that’s a guy who has a truck and pours cement
no problem, i’d call a guy, then another and another
the job to pour three steps was too small to be bothered with
they had big jobs, long driveways and whatever
that kept them from my three tiny steps

so i thought and thought - and thought of stone
okay, they wouldn’t come to pour cement,
our house was built in 1838, i’d get vintage stone steps

at the quarry the nice folks said they could do it,
cut Indiana Blue Sandstone that i selected, and deliver it,
set the stone down one , two, three, all i had to do
was provide the dimensions for three blocks i wanted, that was it

i had to prepare the ground, no one else would do it,
so i raked, then measured the first block,
the second had to fit back under the wood of the door,
the third had to be even with the inside floor.
one, two, three

for three weeks i planned. the first time I measured I thought I had it
a few days later i checked my figures and they were wrong, so i did it again
how simple, three blocks, one, two, three on top of each other, that’s it
it was many days to get it right.

on and on i figured stone dimensions, and finally i had it right.
the bottom block was largest,
the second and third were equally smaller.
it all would fit, everything was right.
the day they delivered the stone in a large truck with a crane,
they had one block cut wrong by two inches on one side.

i recalculated and told them how to put them down. one, two, three
in a half hour there were down and perfect,
you can’t see a cutting error.
now we have our three stone steps
the bottom, the second recessed under the Georgian doorway
the third level with the inside wood floor

come back in two hundred years
the house may be gone,
but the steps will be there

jet lag

rushed out of the airport
jumped in a cab
went seventy-five feet
the guy slammed on the brakes

wasn’t a taxi, picked up his mother
made me get out
i know mama liked me
as he squealed off, she waved goodbye