Monday, September 26, 2016

OCTOBER, THE FIRST

It was early October
on the Cape
a poet is playing sax riffs
on the sand dunes
until late afternoon
listening to the last echo
of the trembling wind
between the sea and sky
when a narrowing sunshine
is interrupted by songbirds
shading my Van Gogh eyes
discovering the purest
of images in the cool air
along the swells and motion
of my orange kayak oars
as a few branches
from a  weekend rainstorm
are spread over ocean waves
when time drifts by morning
in the heart of first light
for a half hour
over a loving hand
no longer in the darkness
or anchored by the shore's
admiring the Autumn dust
amid blazing wild flowers
as Evergreen leaves fall
my words shape our day
hearing children 's laughter
abstracted in  my water colors
as one reaches for shells
on the deserted island
amid the liquid silence.



Monday, September 19, 2016

SEPTEMBER'S SKY WRITING

September's sky writing
resemble sheets
of clouds whitening stars
as Nana Mendes makes
our breakfast treats
of puffed potato pancakes
heavily full of bulgur wheat
we children wish to eat
as she puts on sour cream
which she will swish
with a large spoon
over a covered Spanish dish
in ceramic jars
with tiny doubloons
of fallen angels on them,
as I wake from a dream
about Edgar Allen Poe
guiding me
through Purgatory
as Virgil did to Dante
to tell his Divine Comedy
skillfully through
the third heaven
shrouded in mystery
of Jesus' last seven words
when holy angel feet
glide by us in the history
from a Roman forum
of a poetry slam by Livy
in a marathon of dry runs
drunk by urns of ecstasy
as Poe's yearning spirit
greets us upon
lively golden Blakean streets
in this new Jerusalem,
the poet makes a U Turn
from a destiny of words
at a dawn's song time
of a flock of birds
from a morning port of call
he discovers as if
in a day dream
these luffing white sails
on a small naval Danish haul
of a fishing vessel
near humpbacked whales
as Hamlet's ghosts are prating
along the planks of the ship
holding up a cross and skull
and then are lost and vanish
over the somnambulist earth
as red Fall leaves rise
by the river bed winds
delivering a lost missing kite,
as nana grieves in Spanish
kissing a rosary
and yet remembering
all of man's regretted sins,
yet we trio of musicians
also look up and live
in our jazz solo
as cool cats jam with drums
and chops in all conditions
we who play on strings
the allegro with con brio
in stops, sharps and flats
hoping our memories
will lock us
into new riffs and concepts
to connect us
as lyrically spoken politicians
here at a breaking complex dawn
by tall oaks and ilex
as our sexy hosts
are waking up Derek Walcott
aboard this  starry island
of pirate ships to boycott,
other folks wave to us
at an early hour's opening air
over the high towers of Babel
as Repunzel with the long hair
watches the runaways
catching nets of butterflies
while playing at soccer
her parents play canasta
monopoly or scrabble
on the shore's sandy rocks
to shape their furtive days
while hearing sea voices
in a passing of nature's
from manifold fugitive sounds
among choice lodgings
on Common grounds
near branches of birch and ivy
as lively love scenes play out
by the Golden Bowl cafe
near All Saints monastery
by a small church home
as French tourists sit along
on public park benches
eating spinach croissants
as a breezy shade takes us
for a ride on our harbor boats
by these shipping docks
where tripping teen lovers
of misjudged affection
hang out for a last swim
on the season's afternoon
as Whitman's sons and daughters
are discovered in a poetic pose
swaying in the cooling waters,
others imagine a time soon
when snow wrapped gifts
are given outside
these burdock woods
as Evergreen Christmas trees
are lifted up for us in Vermont
and brought by river banks
we will reach out to decorate
being thrilled at the pine
and Evergreens
we want to give thanks
like the giving of a Magi's gifts
of frankincense,gold and myrrh
to celebrate a Child's birth
under a lens of enfolded stars
as a snow ski lifts
is ready for us
at the White Mountains
we are all wrapped up
amid a chamber of fir trees
hidden by a light in caverns
of a midnight bazaar grill
as white cupcakes are sold
by spouting fountains
we break bread
with cups and jars of wine
by Marian roses intertwined.

ADMIT IT

Admit it
when you played
the cello in June
a Beethoven sonata
in C major
at the charity gala
your poet mind opened
in its peculiar chemistry
of its own familiar
musical alchemy
then you decided for an encore
to search in my repertoire
for Hindemith's
viola lyrical sonata
then you searched to ask
for the church chorus
to sing a Bach cantata
who conclude with a tune
about a flirt
of Burt Bacharach.
MISTRAL'S BALCONY

On a Chilean balcony
in the Thursday dawn
of September
holding onto her verse
Mistral's memory returns
in her luminous reflection
of a numberless poetry
over the trackless lawn
she recites out loud
to a student fan
by full mangroves
who then settles down
to play etudes of Chopin
for her on the grand piano
at an early dawn in slumber
Mistral breaks into a lyric
as a black necked swan
appears in the river below
at the open window's
silk blinds
as the small alley cat purrs
yet eludes us
inside secret shadows
which unwind
from a night of darkness
searching for her milk
on the tall meadow grass.


Sunday, September 18, 2016

T.S. ELIOT'S FOOTFALLS

A boat off the north shore
drags by slowly
as Gloucester voyagers
leave the port of Boston
into a night visitor's horizon
through lyrical sounds
in mirrors of familiarity
all along the Atlantic
by ice fishing corridors
as a rowing luminous light
swells in the ocean
a young fisherman waves
to a few tourists sing
in Portuguese or Spanish
while hauling in salmon
for whom daylight opens
by scattered wet leaves
from Elm and Evergreen trees
recounting T.S. Eliot's
as slight footfalls vanish
on a half hour's walk
near the church steps
by a river's marina
as an auspicious breeze rises
far from any commotion
Eliot addressed the darkness
in rhythmic knots of prayer
from words of affirmation
and says to his Lord,"Yes,"






Saturday, September 17, 2016

ALBEE'S APPEARANCE
(in Memoriam)

"Zoo Story"
and Who's Afraid
of Virginia Woolf"
casts me into the writer
in lieu of my own plays
featured in one acts
in bz's Original Theater
at his company with jazz music
featuring sax riffs
and chants of Beat poetry
held at St. Peter's,
as this under cover professor
in a literary guided confession
critically reacts with patience
at his student audience
with the converted language
of his provided profession
about the classical arts
to lovers of the spoken Word
who gives a shout out
by offering a lively meeting
of literary analysis
for creative minds
during intermission
at this gig of participation,
for bz wishes everyone
to have the parts of an actor
(as written
in his proctor's thesis)
and isn't art partly
a oral discussion
to culturally celebrate,
as when Albee's language
discloses the sum of life's reality
or bz plays
a host of instruments
a musical drum ,violin
cello, piano, fife
and percussion,
emerging with a poet's
energy and imagery
as he lectures on Albee's
"The play about the Baby"
and "Breakfast at Tiffany's,
at this matinee
that made Albee
have fulfilling grades for me
and for all who participate
under a doctor's
critical discussion
of different resolutions,
as Edwin Albee still makes
his way of appearance today
even in his translated state
for a poet there is no death
in his or her cleverly riled lines
at a tragic comedy boast
reflecting a starry eyed host
of Oscar Wilde's past glory
in the keen, clever,
and campy on the stage
was to a sunny creative bliss
at an early age
even in Albee's designed abyss
now an everlasting playwright
who passed away on this date
we will always remember
and miss him on September 16
and be grateful he was alive
for his fine contributions
to our breathless language
on the living stage
and to survive the age.


Friday, September 16, 2016

THREE BEATS

Three Beats
put their feet
into the cold Charles river,
Kerouac, Rexroth and Creeley
and open their enfolded eye lids
as Evergreen trees yawn
near family garden plots
yet no one tells their secrets
or seeks anyone's pardon
over at Riley's
Cambridge jazz night spots
as dear John and Jane
love letters are composed
and sorted by city gossips
over dawn slips by
at the Mt. Auburn post office
by the dead letter file
under smiling Uncle Sam
by protest notes on Vietnam
in a time of Apocalypse,
yet we are not near
the Department of State
but at our zip code 02138,
here at Mt. Auburn cemetery
where Robert Creeley rests
at the back of Harvard yard
rests comfortably
as our guest and bard
yet we are also thinking
of Jack Kerouac's Boston-
Californian connection
as we few who demur
to find satisfaction
at his transfigured reaction
from Malibu or Big Sur,
we recognize what code
of honor echoed
from his surprised ode
receiving his literary prize
under a novel cover
of "On The Road,"
others would be surprised
by Beat feelings
for the bench and cloth
from  a Catholic Kerouac,
unlike Creeley and Rexroth
his brothers are worldly wise
often taxing one to another
and rise as the scholars
drying their shirts
darning socks
and cleaning collars
trying to relax
off the Pacific rocks,
each with arbitrary whims
or fragmentary ambitions
in folios, cantos, descants
by refrains and chants
against pro war politicians
into a arbitrary span
of burnished invoices
finding a JFK half dollar
within reach
of a  new politician's speech
sent from Widener library lines
out to UC Berkeley or UCLA
under the peace signs,
by the way stopping off
on the highway
playing black jack
at Reno's tables
someone else is ably winning
or losing with a priceless regret
from their dice games
spinning twice at roulette
while listening to the news
and  all wanting to go
to Vera Cruz.