Friday, August 26, 2016


A black rain
on the windshield
by chrysanthemums
on the baseball field track
by resting places of twilight
paring my green apple
on my way to the museum
to view the pre-Raphaelites
and the abstract expressionists
who are on display
noticing a man thumbing
with a strong curving arm
on his way into Boston
I'm picking Paul up
tells me he is writing
poetry in the style of Eliot
wrote his thesis on Dickens
and came to one
of my seasonal readings
told me of his critic's analysis
of my verse
which he taught in his class
loves to sail in the ocean
his wife keeps kosher
because of health reasons
and they raise chickens
on their farm
has a son and daughter
living at the Berklee
school of music
studying jazz
and I agreed to read
at one of his classes
Paul had a great fluency
of language,
we enjoyed each other's
joined me at the museum
and the rain stopped.


A lure of TT, the dolphin
fallen into human nets
of strangled fishing lines
stranded in the waters,
help is only an e mail
or phone call away
as two Cape's scientists
and volunteers reaching out
from Wood Hole
try to sedate him in his back
T.T. dangles above the sea
puzzled about it all
knowing he is lumpy
swallowing the tiny fish
we feed him from a cup
a visiting nun says a prayer
making the sign
of the cross along the rocks
knowing he is hungry
near a teeming tourist beach
as  a bird's chorus wakes us up.


Here in Northampton
near Smith college
he still visits you
in the night,
after the sun sets
he pours over his assurances
that your poetry's voice
will be transforming
all you stop by
to savor words and phrases
now that he has been translated
to another foreign tongue
in a starstruck universe
from nature's landmarks green
he is glancing at us here
amid the chorus of blue birds
flying from sheets of rain
of an august sky.

Thursday, August 25, 2016


Daylight as birds in midair
cover the Seine's passages
here under a kayak in 1990
under an August blue sky
as some starlings in Paris
make me open my pale eyes
as I lecture on Paul Valery
who changed language forever
here in this slow danced eulogy
from my original passwords
of this literary critic's analysis
in a wing beat of abstraction,
as we enter a choice speed race
with the crowds on holiday
hesitant to move to the Riviera
we find our heart's camouflage
by escaping the city
facing my late summer readings
and my solo sax playing
as Valery fills your fans
with an eloquent voice.


Scratching your poetry kits
into life's media perspective
recalled as a poet
without a near miss
as a modernist language guy
in the bottleneck of art
who died and went
from the earth's grievance
to carve out your part
by a redwood tree
outnumbered by the spirit
in a two cent unworthy world
rising high in the reputation
of critics who matter
about your swan lake eloquence
to give words an oral
or printed chance
to scatter painted violets,
Pacific time
away from a safe house
of a runaway status quo
from an insomniac's sleep
upon a carved sunflower bridge
hearing tremors
from a speculation's ego
as you remember
a California earth quake struck
in a mordant atmosphere
from a fifth dimension
in the sun filled dawn
resonant from your love
of a verb's declension
from shrinks ad nauseum
which scatters your remains
from your reading lips
of a cabin fever's paranoia
we hear deep music
of the nightfall
running off the aftershocks
from my composure
of a cool telephone call
to me telling me
you are gone.


Living through
"As you Like It"
by changing channels
for the Shakespeare comedy
there is some static
like snow on the T.V.
as my room mate
of long ago
tells me
he/ she used to be an actor
leading a double life
puts on A.C.D.C.
and not wanting
any trouble for his id or ego
tell her/ him as a poet
I'll go along with it.

Wednesday, August 24, 2016


All those empty spaces
in a Vermont writer's colony
my surreal drawings
over the campus lobby
waiting for a pop artist
Andy from Manhattan
with his canvas
carrying under his arms
the charismatic patterns
for future happenings
as he engages us
in art ,music, plays, films
I'm in a love song to the folks
playing my acoustic guitar
we are glancing at the stage
moving our feet in dances
to the jazz riffs and rages
of Allen G.,a Beat poet
with his sitar and bong
in the Sixties language
with India's rhythm's in heat,
viewing those spaces we see
on the bird branches
a canary flying up
here by the White Mountains
who at day's first light
may want bread or my croissant
or to drink in a thirst
for mineral water
from the city fountain
as this canary escaped
from his cage to the Elm trees
by home folks who cannot
let the tiny bird share
any invitation to be free
for those like the canary
are held in captivity,
yet hearing her song's voice
wanting a choice to be free
we rejoice in her serenity
knowing we all seek peace
as flower children
and like the bird
want harmony.