Monday, March 31, 2014


Some live
for the piano
a violin partita
or a Bach aria's solo,

Others help
the rank and file
sisters and brothers
who feed saints
of those on trial
with a good deed
of support
like the misunderstood
who have a need
in court,

Some rage
at the stock exchange
locked in for mammon
for others it is games
of chess or sport
playing monopoly
or backgammon,

Some page the press
or express with words
still life's for another
will paint sky birds.

Today be cool
is the answer
to the questions
of every school

Whether it be science
jazz or math
on records
with lines of graph

Yet a hot ballet dancer
from every step will ache
after she has been taught-
no laughter at her Swan Lake.


has a mate
in silence
for she is innate

Those suffering
for a human right
need us as justice maps
our day and night

wherever we may be
for those who are quiet
shout as Byron for freedom,
as the nations rose to riot.

Opinion rises
like an onion
or potato
in a famine

When scarcity
in the bin
we strive
for felicity

with voices
sometimes feckless
with faceless words
featureless choices

by the curious
in a comic page
or at editorial ease
with facile sincerity,

Yet the ageless free
even have hope
when Cain is at table
with Abel slain at rope

Not to the fainthearted
as an impoverished promise
a saint taught impartiality
like doubting Thomas.


The human condition
was his concern
souls on earth's perdition
heaven for the unlearned

Pessimism took a turn
in each character's life
without any belief
for man or wife

Yet love holds out
its only reaction to hope
Hardy in brilliant novels
wants our satisfaction to cope.


Reading the desert mystics
about their hiding retreat
one hurts as they cried out
by the washing of their feet

As a choice daughter bride
reaches for wells of peace
pure prayers water a cloister
inside shells oysters increase.

Sunday, March 30, 2014


Beyond the back shade
scenting our sea's sand
in this certain place
dunes grace this land

Invented trees so great
to tell in a few lines
a poem in my hand
creates a lilac shine.


The last of the snow
on our roofs
has blown away

shoots of seedlings
will soon take root
as shadows now aloof
fill the saplings' garden

and an April fool's wind
will give us proof
of the spring's pardon.

The piano keys
shiver in the studio
touching Bach
and Mozart,

Forgetting a lyrical snow
tomorrow is spring
when the jonquils quiver
to play her musical part.

(for Emily Dickinson)

Thinking of a poet
is not always wise
drinking in the spirit
a muse offers
her own surprise,
here at Amherst Common
there is a peace sign
under a larger than life tree
we will drink red wine.
(for Emily Dickinson)

Choosing this day
with your permission
closing all doors
to any division,

Multiplying up good
on the calendar wall
adding my submission
to be understood.

(for Emily Dickinson)

In psychology
three crisis back
as Isaac's ancestor's story,

Of course the devil robs life
to take away glory for harm
Jacob's breath is eternal
Israel to fulfill and calm.

Suspecting a lost love
to return any time
like a Picasso dove
released on stone,

What fails in the sun
returns as night's peace
the snow has about gone
no swan expects to atone.


The young sun is out
over the Hrazdan river
you climb up dream ladders
unfolding a Yerevan light

Any child's excuse to be late
with so many dates around
gold glasses are still raised
a lamb plate is also found.

Friday, March 28, 2014


Your poets speak from you,
the Russian Pushkin
America's Whitman
forget diplomatic abuse
let loose your verse
without any karmas
standing in the way
no armor but amour
choose understanding
without any weakened
enigmatic curse of war.


After the last rains
scattered the birds
nestled in trees
under cirrus skies
writing with my arm
between mirrors
of two barefoot seasons
childhood returned
in one of those moments
and a mood of elegy
opens a nameless day
as if these floating winds
and a downpour of cloud
swirls over my bicycle
and not a sardonic care
when time slips by.


A mourning dove
passes over wintry trees
in the sunshine
never a bother to pause
along rows of berries
by an earth-wise stalker
who lives homeless
in the fields
hoping for a harvest
of flora and fauna
as harbingers
of a revived greenhouse
under a shade of trees,
now nesting bird feathers
rise in the March air
as once exiled clouds
surpassed my horizon.


A blushing noon day
on this deserted shore
at the edge of the rocks
off Cape Cod
in spite of silence
even from the gulls,
a still life believes
these drawings
of shore birds
will assemble to sunrise
over my blanket landscape
in this solitary dawn
one tiny grackle
by the cool waters
who resembles his portrait
even drinks in the spring
with me.


Jonquils inside
our gardens foliage
new heraldic awe
in the floating breeze
leaves only the sun
as backdrop to spring
carrying off the wind,
my footsteps break in
through country lanes
only the day sky
unites us.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

(for Emily Dickinson
in memory)

Far from city chaos
by these Amherst woods
a guest wishes near a birch
to rescue a song bird

What a loss it may be
if she is tree nesting
in this deserted county
who could hear my request.


Today our headline words
must command powers
to light lamps for truth,
demand that state
and press to stamp out
deadlines for justice
and for the youth to listen
to more thoughtful times,

Now we wait for hours
to air our grievance
and bureaucracy
drives us crazy,

Today government unites
with the plutocracy
in every land
we ask chance to fight
much more
for peace and democracy,

Our task is enlightenment
for our emotional security
in a furious harassment
not to be sent to war.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014


Four corners
of the earth
project as a world
of images from press
circles as a mandala
should be,
yet you Mandela
honored in South Africa
needing no words
from the earth or sky
in a far country,
a poet's mouth lives on
like shooting stars
which like fireflies
or comet's eye
watch for history's
final chapter time.


Suffering from fascism
two named Levi
exiled and tried
idealists who died

Afflicted by prisms
of the world without eyes
sustained by words
which always surprise

Still life is a breath
waking spirit and heart
the mighty try to break
souls of its poet and art.

Monday, March 24, 2014

(for Emily Dickinson)

Soundbites of birds
on bare trees
making a round
in spare words

Here at Amherst 
at your grave
not cursed by rights
but saved in a breeze.

Why go back miles
from the Kremlin
to the Crimea
like Catherine
to a village area
called Potemkin,
nor smile as a gremlin
with the twins
of Lenin or Stalin
an age full of crimes
and show trials,
return to a musical
Romantic time
the stage of Checkov
the lyrical Pushkin
and Tyutchev,
here you will live
knowing all your friends
and need not make
historical amends.


On your love stool
you perpetually kneel
in a philosophical realm
now perhaps above
near a heavenly Marvel
and Simone Weil
under a poet's
wondrous helm
by your metaphysical seal.

With metaphysical wit
and his own conceit
his loyalty changes
while he on his feet

Kneeling with regret
kept in bitter secrets,
claiming he changes none
of the church's holy writ,

Yet as Royalty exchanges
in his search for the Lord
some may say the poet
Donne was estranged,

Between challenged tares
wheat ,sun or chaff
one wonders the reward
for the Doctor's last laugh.

Blake accented over sex
awakes religion's helms
tormented on his own text
of heaven and hellish realms,

Erratic wishes in his manias
to search for the unknown,
poetic in his own church
lost on his visionary throne.

Sunday, March 23, 2014


Authorities of the asylum
cart away a mystic for insanity
with his holy merciful rants
Smart left without amenities,

Yet his shouting madness
in deft prophetic psalms
blesses all poetic eccentrics
as only cryptic words calm.

hack politicians
real estate
lost and found
without a trace
but not my type.


Sheltering a minor bird
in the call of war
he slowly paces
by the mountains
under a branch
the sun silences
a distant woods echo
among the ruins
for the combatants.

You asked for a freedom
poem when the earth
moved on alien grounds
where a radiant expectancy
installed its brightest sun
the result was hidden
in the interpretation.


Tranquil as your sea
of new born language
in the Seine's air

night falls as gulls
sheltering waves
in a dream sleep

under recollected
chaos of clouds
beyond the sills

of alluring wind

Thinking of his own feast
of bread and drinking wine
Dionysus in Greece,
deadly madness and divine

Holderlin sleepless
at his withdrawn sin
in elegies and visions
of his chorus gods' within
Pantheons of lyrical voices
in a musical realm
descend as choice friends
at own companions helm,

No eulogy, hymn or oratorio
with a classical poet's tone
nor clergy invited to hear
from your Patmos folio

For Romantic language
of nature forms its sounds
the attic age will reshape
to integrate all art's bounds.

Monday, March 10, 2014


The age of Joyce
has the hidden mention

of once forbidden speech
in a new voiced declension

an expose of language
in a new dimension

a power of choice
everything shattered

in a first hour
within our reach.


Not yet with memorized
poetry in a silver age
by adoring crowds
he is a back alley- wise
Russian genius
yet stays away
from proud groupies
hovering by him in his city
those neither clever or boring
like Jesus among Sadducees
sings solo in his own chorus,
yet for us who arn't
Phillistines or Pharisees
raps from his own page,
never picks up his friends
along super highway 66
yet favors the lost of Styx
rarely among the Squares
tossed like gum wrappers
in winking asides
without airs,
nor falling for the lies
of any poetic school
even from his darkest muse,
poor Mayakovsky
has his own golden rule,
with only one life to lose
not following Pushkin
with his Orphic law
he is in a Sapphic awe
as a new created Beat,
pretending a tiny smile
to be in exile on the street
like hairy unbowed Esau
or among now Jacobin Jews
he is always thinking
his way out of every
sink hole of darkness
sent down his solo way,
a man with tired feet
answering nyet with yes
you may even have met
him on the Arbat
or in Manhattan today.


Sleeping with my Muse
in her classical pose
makes a lyrical hour
pass in a musical repose

She revels and reveals
deep lively secrets of art
concealed in life's regrets
here to fulfill a poet's part.

Saturday, March 8, 2014


Kites over the skies
above Singing Beach
not believing my eyes
it is a festival within reach

So many busy hands
to sky write upon heaven
above the ocean sands
motioning to delight on.

Why boast any more
it makes only noise
like most children
in a store of toys

Better be a good host
reasoning who is greater
and be quietly understood
pleasing the poet creator.

Friday, March 7, 2014


Poems in each dynasty
like white bone china
as fine shells echo
reach purely creative tone

Hidden as in a monastery
forbidden out of sight
poets compose like china
on beaten stone as light.


How did a lyrical poet
emerge at the silver age
in a musical voice 
to appear on the stage,

I studied Pushkin's phrase
and the Russian Masters
then Byron and Whitman
in margins of a vase's alabaster.

Thursday, March 6, 2014


Wishing for an adventure
sailing the pale blue ocean
Melville shadows the whale
words become his emotion,

With captain Ahab around
he cannot sleep on port
only on his paper and pen
will he keep on life's support.


Time's affinity
uncovers an invitation
trampled in the grass
white with a lily

A wedding not far
by this elm tree
to pass its r.s.v.p..


No trace of night
as the Thracian Orthodox
has his phone in sight
by his own clocks

Devoted to Greek prayers
most of the day
time is not switched off
nor is he in the way.


All through the Occupation
sister kept your postcard
while others bought and sold
you in an auctions' backyard

Others harassed for money
and betrayed you in francs
in Paris and in the country
at war,no mercy or thanks,

as the Frankish tanks left
we embraced once more
few were embarrassed
what took place before,

Spring at Cannes '44
finding the Cezanne card
at an old bookstore
sister was no more.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014


Shostakovich's song cycle
of Romances for Blok
creates in lyrical form
a great Russian poet
of the "Twelve"
creating a musical storm
in a silver age,
we remember Bely
a rival for his lover Lyuba
" The Beautiful Lady,
as lyrical verses glow
in "Fabrika" and "Faina"
and the "Mask of Snow,"
your poems resemble to me
a Russian musical ballet
enhanced by nature
in Pushkin's memory
fulfilled by Solovyov's
matured philosophy
as Akhmatova,
BZ Niditch and others
will soon discover.
(for Emily Dickinson)

A hawthorn being created
near my friend's vine
a spring love is awaited
bends to be reborn on time,

Sweetbriar covers the edge
of the forest and wood
over eglantine's wonder
nature rests as understood.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

(for Emily Dickinson)

Leaves fall in the snow
giving the earth her attire
keeping nature in the Fall
in red and orange fire,

Believing the call
from a skylark
as spring clothes
the trees from the dark,

We desire rebirth
from a winter demon
on a sleepless swing
from the sparkling sun.

Monday, March 3, 2014

(for Emily Dickinson)

The sun is already gone
out to the Bay
Leda, the swan
clears the water's free play,
one look at the spring
on rills and brooks
the ice disappears
in the dawn's sea reeds,
a leafless tree of heaven
still blossoming far away.

Sunday, March 2, 2014


Hollywood's slick awards
given out in quick express
as understood achievements
with enchanted graciousness,
here are the stars of today
each clever face newly uplifted,
no one ever guesses
what's granted in the show
more than a moment's pose
for a brief bereavement
in a commercial pause
with a musical close
from the Oscar's most gifted.


In the American South
you confess in solitude
from your character's mouths
the corrupted and crude,

Lessening past resentment
when any grumbling tribe
survives the last chapter
as only Faulkner describes her.


Taking a French course
one summer
in Mauriac 's novel form
I would sit on a bench
under trees in the park
and slowly read him
until it got dark

as he warmly exposed
the two faced fervor
in every character
with grace
who was Catholic.

Prokofiev's Fiery Angel
awakes to touch my dream
as Diaghilev's wishes
inspire the Ballet Russes
for this boy who memorizes
every distinguished melody,

Sitting in the balcony
hearing bells of winter
in his small ears
the timpani exchanges
from what it seems
as augmented notes range
from opera, ballet, and a story
of invented passion, possession
unloosing my own spirit
for his Muse's glory
as a future poet,

Later as a critic to discover
Bryusov's symbolist tale
from a dramatic libretto
in all literary,musical scales
of demonic expression
in a novel of sorrow,

Among the costumes
on diamonds and pearl
as thunderous male dancers
to fulfill their orgies,
picking up impressionism's
shyest girl.

Saturday, March 1, 2014


You listen to the voice
from the fascist invasion
in human distress
there is no evasion
who has fully sacrificed,
yet in dicey politics
the Devil kisses twice
and with ringing memory
in kept notes on this earth
Dmitri, you in your music
will presage passages
of a still Russian thaw
to awaken spring's rebirth.

(for Elizabeth Bishop
in Memoriam)

A deserted beach
parting in the sand
as we reach the shore
astonished to understand
the shell has an echo
from the sea floor
as I'm closing my hand.

No longer the sound
by dunes off the sea
in the home harbor
than my gesture
of love's ardor in words
over bluffs and cliffs
covering the last snow
in echo of blackbirds.


Not intimated
I borrow your viola
to play "Harold in Italy"
but am visited
by a poem
in a love chord
more delicate
than the presence
nourishing memory
of Daphne by springs
baring a laurel
off her ancient tree.