Friday, July 31, 2015


Dog days
with man and beast in heat
denuded for the sea
reaches out for waves
breathing in humid air
on the aquatic beach
as swimmers dive from caves
hearing the small gull squalls
with all of us floating
in the Atlantic or Pacific
desiring the ocean's breeze
as birdsong from wings
shadow us when no one behaves
under the leafy Evergreen trees
now clearly heard by florists
delivering their summer flowers
with a dawn's sugary breeze
French bakers deliver baguettes
to the restaurants and cafes
under brilliant lanterns
by tourists taking their turns
drinking their green tea or lattes
having eggs and lemon omelettes
watching out of French windows
herons and egrets fluttering by
away from the city's dust
living assiduously
with memory and mementoes
in the last hour of July
amid the shade shore's enclosure
on a bench are painters
etching for a dream sky
as birds awake on the ground
seeking nourishment
making unfair body sounds
amid the scent of hyacinth
cruising by a labyrinth of boats
sailors and captains
making their assent and rounds
everyone stretching out their parts
as they dive under hot sun
from a raised head to feet
life is deluded and charms
needing art and jazz
craves to disarm the clock
when August will be a reminder
of a constant hot calendar of rest
soon or on a spot on afternoon
tourists will line the boardwalk
on the last July day
pouring out of the arcades
while a poet on a hammock
in the morning chants
to divine and sing
the loving praise of psalms.

Thursday, July 30, 2015



Amherst has lost
another creative soul
passing in consolation
by the tiny tree
of wispy songbirds
dawn finally
impresses your time,
we spoke of language
moving as endlessly
as July sparkles
on my elegy
knowing the absurdity
as a loving universe moves on
metaphor and words,
on this poet's stark revelation
yes, from your flame
walking with me
in darkness by the college
at the edge of a river
hearing fire crackers
hearing over Heavy Metal
go off at the knowledge
of your name
planting flowers
on Emily's grave
one petal for you
over a honey bees hiss
and save a few hours
for James Tate
now translated himself
to a reading metamorphosis.

Wednesday, July 29, 2015

(August )

On such August days
by the winds revelation
cast on my orange kayak
under the sun's rays
sponged on my naked back
burning fulgently
as we lunged on the salty sea
four urchins laughingly play
amid the shore's white sand
they build a castle
like vassals in middle ages
not knowing it won't last long
even after high tide by afternoon
as we swim under dunes
of egrets and songbird
and our trek to the shore
reluctantly in a breathless malaise
from a parental storm
waiting for the dusk to inspire
and insure our hiking ways
trying to be a friend
who collapses on a warm blanket
tired after her run
speaking of fulcrums of love
near the gazebo's gust of wind
staring at the emptiness
without an hour's weight
putting down an anchor
amid the thunder's hiss
near a pillar of fireflies
on the barbeque's grill
where we have a repast
with a hearty review
of fresh salad and other foods
from our cart's satchel
with roasted meat and veggies
underneath a wild rose bush
amid the green shrubbery
shadows step near us
with nearby voices
offering  us a cup of vanilla coffee
taking photos with my camera
of herons on low branches
digging for an eye of waters
and here is this poet
writing an elegy in mind
on these dog days
murmuring like the crickets
doing cross words
under an Evergreen tree of birds
wishing for a prayer and praise.

This July
sitting off the edge
of the Cape
eating pomegranates
the seeds of which make
which makes this poem
as our sighing memento
on leagues of winged egrets
making me love Evergreen
hearing the once tourist boat
have time to move on
the silence of the waves
flashing with divers
charred with ashen smiles
having found treasure
from stolen decades
in old pirate cargo ships
that went down on the rocks
discovered with history's dust
of dreaming conquest.

Tuesday, July 28, 2015


A green heron on Elm branches
in memory of winding leaves
softly sings in the dawn
with a soaring voice
her long feet by high shadows
over the ocean's ledge
as sail boats from Wellfleet
on a morning race motion
with the rising waves
on the edge's elbow
of Cape Cod
indifferent to the East wind
from the sunlight chimeras
the first sighted crew
washes over a silhouette rainbow
quickly moving by us.


We will stare
at the tall grass
outside the prison
your bones
by the workers' strength
as the Bosporus waves
are risen on the sea
there is a mercenary wind
on our assailed backs
from years of long suffering
but the iced wounds become
saplings after winter
in exile's hinterlands
there is no shame in justice
when scales fall
from motioning scales
and your offspring appear
in a black bearded chimera
of a warm greeting.
Birthday July 19

The landscape feels lifeless
when you are not here
in Athens at the spas
after day dreaming
drinking ouzo
from an an ancient jug
of amphora
curved in the neck
of a lover
as wild birds from the deck
call out  "Miltos, Miltos
from a woman's caress
red lips open
on daughters lament
in a metamorphosis of words
from an apocalypse
on the Isle of Patmos' waters.


Every field
moves to another layer
curved by particles
of atoms,words,drawing out
the flavor and favor
in math's added verse
of a clotted Prussian blue color
in a river of life
we are all exiled
as a sponge of time overtakes
our space in a personal prow
on the ship's capsule we hide
our landing in disguised orange
watching through Jupiter
on a ruby-like Mondrian telescope
in the geyser mistaken
by memory or formula
singing Whitman
in the first out of space opera
of an inscrutable pop star.

Remember the child
under the barbed wire,
the one with that laugh
which will never disappear
on the face of the earth,
remember her
hurting your conscience
in the silence of winter
and the great wind
when the snow shatters
your mariner journey
over distant land and sea
now meeting again that refugee
on the hospital ship
in the rain
bundled up in fake fur
who is now a painter and sculptor
as you are drawing or writing
or just thinking about her
on the day's calendar
when quarter blood moons
are on your cut knee
as you watch a tiny bird
fall from the Evergreen tree
and you catch her
or when you encounter
others in the grief
of city street darkness,
when your red eye
closes on the day
when love leaves
like an after shadow
and death belongs
to forgetfulness
in the world of words
no and yes,
remember her.

Monday, July 27, 2015


Only the first violin
which had just played
the Thais Meditation
of Massenet's opera
was forgotten
in the concert hall
as France was occupied
invaded and her identity
taken away
and the violinist knew
his time was over
but no location
opened or closed
in any nation
for his application
to join an orchestra
and a prayer
was his only option
so he began an elegy
of his own music
in the form of a sonata
with his own composition
covered with cadenza's notes
under his sunglasses
as the violin was taken away
by an opera patron
and sold to a pawnbroker
and lost in the dark night
as the violinist hid himself
in the attic of a writer
his pianist accompanist
who saved him from trouble
until she found
the lonely violin
and paid the undersold
from his gold watch
after the war in Berlin
writing a critical book
on his music themed hymn
in a holocaust opera in German
that only his love saved her
during the war
for nothing is ever lost
even the words of a poet
between day, sun and sky
in memory's exhaustion
from a searchlight
of a boundless spirit
to being double crossed.



Banished by decree
neighbors vanish with sorrows
crushed by every degree
that Germany rushed through
with its loud slogans and guns
for fascism's blighted cause
in its law's emergency
as proud guards are swaggering
outside on crystal night
passing out their stars
laughing at other citizens
long suffering,
by a lost cat
a few children
on their parent's laboring knees
praying for any mercy
to live out this day or tomorrow,
few speak for democracy
at the coming winter's freeze.

Sunday, July 26, 2015

(1863- 1944)

A color of suffering that breaks
out of lingering sadness
moving with astonished eyes
opening our ears
ringing of anguished admittance
to a passing shadow of silence
as in a window of snowflakes
brushing back death
in its wake of distance.

Having known to love
by his wife's star of David
suffering on His altar
like the double cross
of any troubled artist's life
in the hidden remnant
of a last moment
we had a glimpse
when Weimar falls
and lashed on crystal night
you were called on for this
holding up a tiny light
above your Isenheim altar
when we could not cope
to the unfolding metamorphosis,
to so much long suffering
Ah, Matthias Grunewald
when there was no hope.


Lighter than the sounds
of your voice, Walt
gentler than the soldier's face
in the Civil War
propped up for a last breath
rising from the pollen dust
of a warring brother's death
doing his rounds
on the salty marshes
in tones of thirsty love notes
your eyelashes flash
in shadows of cities singing
rivers, plains ,small towns
your manly kisses shine over
this child, a genocide survivor
who has initialed the notes
of "Leaves of Grass"
when no one is watching
over his wide tattooed arms
with the cheek of a young poet
reprieved by your outlawed words
on a thousand brass rings
though no one would know it.


When language is eaten up
in swirls of a world's
totalitarian night
and oranges and cake murdered
who hears the screams
in a lovely child's dreams
under a lanterns learning light
closing a newspaper's cup of ink
just think when informers
or reformers are taken away,
another day is arising
with a new state of mind
performed with political mime
for the sleepwalkers
and the blind go on,
go on
yet on wall writing
people live.


After the brown shirts
there is little culture
a spittle from the hurts
of a teacher
featured in the comics
of a thousand years
missing the sad brilliant eyes
of unexpected laughter,
our memory will live after
when our children are gone
the disappeared once passed away
by the blackboard
in the silent snow
like swans on the Rhine
their papers withdrawn
drawings, dispatches,star letters,
hidden in cold cellars
forbidden to inquire
with Heine, Einstein
or Eisenstein
even with a comment
without becoming bloodied
among the remnant
who remain
as old slogans and salutes
are presented
in grey business suits
others play toy soldier
or boys grow bolder
with patches
from grandfather's shoulder,
happiness overstated
their art overrated
jaded by war's madness
snatches of book burning
has been recreated
from the matches
of learning
in the film school archives
there is the silence of fools
in the last dives
along Weimar's streets
one voice survives.


Railings of thought scratch
the grafitti on city walls
trains outside the subway
wake new sparks of rain
on your umbrella
in the gutter of shadows
a child too hungry to dance
presses your over sized coat
for a wide mouthed dollar.

From an blood moon eclipse
sorrows export your wounds
of your every word and gesture
punctuating, and parachuting
as tomorrows on the Arbat
through pulse of this space time
on planets of human flesh
sound out a semblance
on a sleeping weekend
knowing memory is never over
in the body of proverbs
by your lips on napkins
on warmth of prospects
in syllables of celebration
metaphors of associations
dead love letters become alive
aching in Gogol's winter coat
through a cold mirror
when night falls on the Neva
you become alive
determined to survive
and not to quit
as an inheritor
of a Russian poetry
in time of great suffering
even in time of world war.

Saturday, July 25, 2015


Walt Whitman returns on rodeo rosebuds
Lorca is made mad from a Manhattan
Nathaniel West coughs up anonymously
Night robs Man Ray of lipstick drawings
By the daughters, we kept Virgil
Hockney posters the Harlem Heaven
Spies scout for every murdered soul
on the grass at Central Park
Stuart Davis hears jazz in red quarter notes
Langston Hughes wears all neon nets
finding butterflies from Nabokov
as Ellis island returns to the exiles
who jet plane through night falls of
its whiplash, the sea lilac,indigo blues
hearing Billie Holiday's tunes
gone away from Tiresies's singing
over the headlined fizz for Mary Woronov
outside there are few brides in Babylon
under the old canopy
Andy Warhol hangs pop art posters
on Brooklyn's subterranean subway
in ultra violet 's underground
as white and black sails
cry out for Hart Crane.


Rob was not allowed
to celebrate Christmas
so all year,
especially in July
would beg,borrow, lie, steal
for he had his own holiday
to star on the calendar
coming so near his birthday
made it his clear business
of his career as a major poet
was always in charge here
in Manchester by the sea
that he was his own rooster
with his heavy metal band
named Chanticleer,
he would cheer on proudly
and play as a professional oboist
a solo at the county fair.

Friday, July 24, 2015


A blue volume
asleep on the arms
of a used bookstore
sold at noon
at an outside corner
for a quarter,dime and pennies,
you might shadow the voice
of the departing poet's
spirit to be in the hands
of a young soul
now hiding behind
a closed door
in a drawing room
circling ink dream words
on paper mache,
we hear of armies
of the night
and blasphemies
day and night
in shadows hidden
from forbidden worlds
of a war's wound
where white handkerchiefs
offer peace and relief
but we do not doubt
in any platoon
at the memory and echo
of instant death in life
to enliven or divine when belief
under the blood moon crosses
over Rimbaud's prayer wheels
which turn on attic windows
concealing the snow,
we imagine your exiled time
from a Paris and Morocco book
when embarrassing smiles
questions your sacrificial look
passing liquors and hashish
by mirrors as you despair
is answered by more fine critics
of your literary companions
Villon ,Verlaine and Reverdy
translated by even these hands
moving on the sacrosanct lines
on your created horizon
as earth, sun, fire, stars,isles
are above this writer's bench
from French and African leafs
taken out by fresh desires
in soul,spirit, body
from a metamorporphosis
of your own love triangles
with its own griefs.

Wednesday, July 22, 2015


To balance art
by sand and stone
here on a sea coast
of the Rhone
far from his home
we notice
a willing expressionist
thrilled at a boat race
as shore winds motion
to him at parting
over lost whale bones
sailing over
the roaring violet waves
brushing the ocean floor
until the crew race is over
as Klee, Swiss painter
drawing colors by the water
will soon disappear
like the faint tones of herons
at the waters edge
by blushing wild roses
of late summer
on the edge of the shore
his footsteps wander
with an artistic chance
now chills out
down by the hedges
to roll over on blankets
by a tall dune space
near a lone egret
on the far field's horizon
wakened by chafing breeze
in a triangular trace
on the painter's stone
dozing off in the sunset
under the trees all alone
Klee laughing at this bird
also alone like the heron
in nature's metamorphosis
wandering in paces like him
this July afternoon.


Warhol steps into the void
while hidden as Adam
among the first trees
while in his gallery
he is king of the market
with a business sale
on his salary,
walking the Factory
like Lord Malory
putting up his posters
in his gallery
his heart fears
like a blistered thistle artichoke
a still life ill at ease
even in the unforbidden Sixties
amid the Big Apple
feeling cursed as he awoke
with that crocodile smile
he will not even handshake
this Eve,
for everything
makes him annoyed
his genius not even spent
on unpaid rent
buoys him up
for the future deposit of salary
with good- natured poet actors
who are unemployed
filled up
in Andy's lifetime glitterati
filled with Freudian slips
afloat for literary resistance
always with the boldest chip
on his shoulder
to spiral us with his insistence
that he was always alright,
without balance as a vulture
making underground waves
who cares how he behaves
clutching to grapple shadows
making the midnight round up
for society's super stars
in film,words, pop art
as his own camera lens
focuses for glamorized variety
playing out a part of Chelsea Girls
to make a clamor of sounds
of life in his hotel mart,
Warhol not mistaking
any ardent chances
to keep up rumors
of selfish games
always for his fame
yet sleep walking as a ghost
or taking insomnia walks
along hallways of Andy's
hammered world
on a curious enamored night
of a chance attempted murder
he is curled up now in an ambulance
amid the trance of the Factory
with his insight's fantasy
on an undisclosed diary
always furiously moving on
like Cinderella's fairy godmother
hearing as if a daily trance
listening to gossip on the intercom
to maddening sob stories
from his actor's workshop
by runaways dropping in
with the bar raised up
on any crazed phantasm
however outrageous,
not ever robbing the deadlines
in his own clever cup of ink
with that courageous insight
of his wink
yet blowing everyone off,
not knowing
he is assured and hard up
in his ordering and control
yet selfish and double minded
that nothing or no one
could console his headlines
without his parting glance
at arrogantly forging a goal
without any forgiven romance
Andy Warhol by living freely
in his avant- garde tapestry
high on his balcony
yet so troubled
in his Polish soul.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015


Like Hockney's guys
watching a sunny horizon
waves are clear
in the front of our eyes
no one behaves
in the sunrise of fresh air
doing exercises of I Ching
by the painting of changed faces
in a spate of curses
with a fearless palette
with the sign, beware!
in a space curling Venice Beach
circling and brushing by
a school of dazzling pairs
within a menacing life guard's reach
of a narcissistic swimming pool
waiting to celebrate
the end of school with a picnic
as a shimmering day passes
reaching from the shore
with all the business strife
of part sketching
and stretching for.


Discover me
in Idaho
reading Propertius
or in Perth,Australia
giving birth,
speaking glossolalia
or laughing to a joke
making out
after steak and vanilla
in Manila
playing a Bach solo
after a chorus
of St. Mathew's passion
in Soho
whether in lower depths
or highest mountain
taking bread with birds
in Assisi
drinking wine
from your fountain,
uncover me by the rocks
of the Aegean sea
or by an archaeological dig
by the Mediterranean,
writing a  subterranean poem
on the shores at Bali,
with oboe and jazz violin
at a smooth jazz gig
over in Jerusalem,
discover me.

Monday, July 20, 2015


In the lusterless darkness
of the tense orchestra pit
you played first violin
in the Barber of Seville
that hot summer
you crashed on a four poster bed
with a four walled tiny space
as Sunday bells were heard
and the running of the bulls
blocked the dusty roads
moved Dali's print
in the thickest hour of morning
when exile deserted you
in a burnt lamplight halo
by the student courtyard
in downpours of rain
through a mindful mirror's
eye over the soprano voice
rehearsing the subtle parts
for the next day opening
under the heavy black sky
of the black caped moon.

Astonishment of travelogues
from living friends
seeing shepherds and warriors
in dream locations
beside mountains and the sea
at evensong in a sunlight of July
from visionary lamps
late at insomnia's midnights
we have not forgotten
the last waiting oars
on the trembling river dawns
along the mermen shore of ships
when siren's pass by
in the emptiness of searching
for love in the shadowy cry
in her red lips under lanterns
on a burning apocalypse of oils
by wonders of chiming glances
under an Athenian eyelid window
watching the sparrows windy sky
whose city vice and voice
sweeps by closed doorways
of the long leaves
as a sailor on the Aegean
by a Eucalyptus balm
eyeing the living bees
undisclosed by roses
against the fearless heat
in the heart of the trees garden.


Those who seek a refuge
by Cavafy's ashes
several stolen studies
of reassured students
report that he passed
in evening darkness
gave way to lamp lights
by a night cafe couch
near tiny rose- hued small tables
had one less place setting
by the napkin and silverware
near his favorite divan
all friends slip away
in the hallways or alleys
up to vexing adventures
less their memory recoiled
in persistent rumors
of a soon saluted poet's passing
who yearned for his words
with a carnation he once wore
before baroque mirrors
hearing a favorite song
only now on undisclosed mouths
of burnt love letters
reported to say a quick "Yes"
to check on his small place
clothed under the burning lanterns
in a phantasm open to ink dreams
from a sight read manuscript
in funereal carelessness.

Sunday, July 19, 2015

JULY 28, 1927

Chants of birdsong
on your Manhattan window
a corner of bookends
crushed by inclemency
of the hot July wind
over Manhattan's sky line's
tabled words,
rants of love in jazz
heard outside mirrors of wine
to devour fabled rhythms
for animated responses
along the rim of city's dust
in unexplored weights
of wisdom's revelation
from animated regards
in a poet's moonlit mirage
of freedom's sensibility
here to celebrate my visit
on your birthday.


Before a baroque mirror
a draw of love letters
and invitations on the floor
clocked by disappointments
a Paris novelist unbowed
in a rhythm of recurred phrases
of his recalcitrant time
in a stop watch
by the desire for language
to lull his memory back
affixed to ivory walls
his insomnia
essaying any absence
of embarrassment.


Born for exile
far from the mountains
for dreaming of the Aegean
of another icicle mirror
the colonels shut the door
with their firearm petronel
held to his subterranean night's soul
Yannis picks up a stone
by the Greek fountains
for a metaphor's revolution
by four horsemen's passing by
the hunger of the Athenians
after a marathon's passing
in a torturing bone
there is no surprise
being put on trial to atone
like offended Socrates
no bend of the knees for him
or hymn on a hymenopteran of flies
or crocodile smile of lies
from his countrymen
nor sneak peeks from any jury
with bloody wounds and injury
from ignorant salons on a poet
who was wise in a dispersion
of his itinerant words
sung from the light and earth
of turning the other cheek
toward the red sunset sky
in sickles of metamorphosis
desperate for a brother
or sister to seize in the ruddy winds,
around you the labors of Hercules
in a killing field of birds
hearing the river Styx
dying as a bard you rise
among hard petrous -like stone
as a Phoenix with living words
among your shimmering shade
and avant- garde shadows
of interweaving bones.


Ted Reznick
at sixteen
waited on tables
in the Poconos
at the Borscht belt scene
always saved some
beets or spinach soup
for his mother Irene,
always wished to do
stand up
and did what he had to
with the girls
or itchy guys for tips
and filled his rubber gloves up
to play ball and catch
was always a wise guy
for himself
in any coffee klatch,
never wanted any trouble
with a double condom
put on a Trojan
under the table
to save him from any
publicity explosion,
got a capable agent
also on the cutting edge
politically correct but stable
with a middle class college degree
was Mr. Rolfe Viega
who became such a Dutch uncle
for Teddy
with a knowledge of comedy
always saved his demitasse
until he was wasted
on his own liquor or gas
taking a message in a parlor
drinking a lacquer
when Ted was told
with a cold shoulder
being a bachelor
was not called for
even in this pro queer era,
so Ted married into the "in"
religion and race
put on any color face
to save his own skin
in radical times
he was anti war
in conservative ones
he played caddie in golf
for the right charity
involved with presidents
got peace awards and to stay
at his House residence
he was first in the rope line
and admired for holding court
of rags to riches
judged the dog contests
stayed away from bitches,
and because he was short
was compared
to a flying mouse,
or to the English poet Pope
without any restoration
he still was divine
though did not drink
the communion wine
but dined alone
giving in to his shitzu
Laddie his last bone,
some called Ted Reznick
a brilliant sick comedian
or someone so slick
and witty as a beatnik
everyone wanted to bring
Ted home
others saw in his humor
only a repetitive schtick
then he told the shrink
he was heart sick
even in his lotus position
began to despair and think
he was on the brink
but Hollywood rewarded him
with its the last comedy award
Ted turned to the distaff
for his last laugh as well
with the chaff for the ladies
wound up in his own Hell
eating marijuana mushrooms
in the hallways
yet retired meditating
with his cronies in Hades
in his own Miami hotel rooms.

Thursday, July 16, 2015


With an assumption
of finding an invocation
in exquisite strands
of her mind's clarity
in the mystery of love
unveiled in charity
by the swaying souls
on the oak pews
of tribulation and trial
as good news is spoken
from Gentiles and Jews
in a refuge from exile
when wars have broken out
when there is disparity
or hunger in neighborhoods
among the very poor
Simone Weil sits hidden
on a back chair
in her confessional altar
with a blessing to share
as fans sway in the warm air
hearing the chanting chorus
amid more Pentecostal shouts
in the choir's sung words
not doubting miracles
above the rung of Jacob's ladders
in the diaspora for all of us.


After hours of work
in the ossuary
he offered to her life
a water lily a day
though being a romantic
he preferred the impressionistic
Claude Monet
this Beat assured
this flower child
of San Francisco
named Lily
that he loved her
even though carnation,
rose, orchid was hid
in his suit pocket
he gave only to Lily
a worthy picture of her
engraved in her locket,
when sent to the military
he acted contrary
without a rod for war
not wanting to offend God
he remembered Lily's soul
more than her body
and sent her from overseas
more flowers and rich teas
and cried on his knees
at the clod planted earth
on Frisco's grave cemetery
chanted prayers for his Lily
hourly in her memory.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015


He painted daylong
in the ash can school
flicking his dotty cigarettes
by the yard
where we play bocce
in the fresh air
kicking the ball
and he not being cynical
to children at all
but cool when I was at ten
one afternoon
he was doing a red pattern
with geometric shapes
of Manhattan
on his spread out canvas
listening to jazz songs
from his radio in the sun
the principal wondering
if he were alcoholic
what a teacher called "sick"
one day
we were told to stay away
yet he was draped
in his drip dry cape
and friendly to me
in every way
learned later the fact he was
the abstract expressionist
Jackson Pollock
who soon became famous
here in Greenwich Village
in my own bailiwick.

July 20 1304-July 19 1374

I'ts dark in a San Francisco bakery
and Italian words of Petrach
in his sonnet welcomes me
to this city in July
on a day you are born and die
that miracle spark in Arezzo
in the birth from your betters
you would rediscover
Cicero's letters
and change poetry
for a universal Renaissance
in a valiant verse and history.

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

July 21 birthday

Staring like a flock of starlings
at the white high towers
by the Atlantic's waterfront dock
under the luminous sun
in lustral Babylon's buildings
you watch with uncertainty
wanting to prophecy
by flashing waters of the sea
an ecstasy of poetry
in a new world's frequency
over the clock's sky scrapers
your red verse deflowered
and now outlined
by the marginal cry in beds
of gulls from washed white foam
in a wave swarming towards you
with the literary gift
of impalpable power
you write by a trapped door
on a day's old newspaper
wrapped from the fish market
in Brooklyn's Crown Heights
with a jazz melody in your soul
an uprooted exile lands
in the Big Apple
Hart recruited through time
rolls up on a pink birthday cake
he found outside a bakery
dotted with thirty candles
wishing for a nocturnal embrace
from a parachuted card
in an echo of wishing you
a city miracle of myth
that your words may sparkle
in the Keys' expanse
when you hunted yourself down
there may be sheaf
of your moving poems
hearing a chorister of angels
among songsters on the bridge
granting on this July 21 a belief
in the miracle of creation
knowing that in a canon
as you write all this down
there is a circular harmony
thinking in a music's motion
and a cerulean ocean's chance
a Muse to offer you an epiphany
as you drown in ink
with the metamorphosis
of an earth-wise crown.

Birthday July 19

Your handsome voice
on the platform of one
above the crowd
in the Moscow rainstorm
swaying your hips
to a Russian polka
by undelivered love letters
on the saliva of  big kisses
and near missed opportunities
seeking doors of words
from red lipstick mirrors
of abolished insomnia
and sleep housed myth
returning to wish you
on arboreal ballads of secrets
a peace offering
from my three cornered hat.

Birthday July 15

What cupidity
in your glance
from an eye of your soul
transforming color
whitewashed by the sea
in a white crystal  of dawn
from the solitude
of forgiving primordial words
in a subterranean light
of all existence
in the blameless sunshine
of the Aegean
lashed by the winds
embraced by the waves
and all rushing elements
on such a day and wellspring
to have joy coming at you
in a spirit to be alive
and sing among mermen
by the sirens of an apocalypse
of the soaring flight of gulls
at these oarlock moments
out of Attic breaths
in the home sail harbor
of the Mediterranean ships
a poet in foaming blue waters
sings at the sight of birds
after a blazing voyage
returning to the music
of his memory
in a thousand words.

July 24, 1934

Waiting for the scales
on an eye of justice
to open an unblemished time
for a miracle in Lagos
from your prisoner's sigh
perhaps a kindly word
to save the earth
when day and night splits
from the scroll in logos
to transfix a risen line
of staring into love
by an outstretched pulse of hand
running like anointed oil
over Aaron's fairly long beard
as someone hides a letter
from a fellow poet
trembling an inscribed wish
in your crumbs of bread
escaping no notice
at the dove at your window
by the trees time span
invading the small space
at your marvel of life
in the gradual light
from the perfumed rainbow
out of your pocket poetry
we casually picked up
after a reading
at the used bookstore
in Harvard Square.

Birthday July 12

By a Chilean minefield
an earth shoveled
by blossoming labor
in the quivers of sweat
under a suspended sun
in a spiral let down of hours
knowing how you think
in replicas of seasons
of hurried toil
in crushed years
yet able to love
without doubt
in dirt roads of the poor
by murmurs of rumors
of a strike upon your soul
we bring you red flowers
from the street vendor
who still sings your words
of a thousand friendships
who listen for your reply
in the July heat's suffocation
by the furrow's horizon's wind
along the rivers of a copper sun.

July 10 birthday

Your art, a poem sculptured
in occluded sunshine of color
forms a world of balances
rises from landscaped surprises
from iconic fragments
in pastel figures eluded
from recumbent flights
of moving clouds of sources
deep in the eyelids in the tempo
of asymmetrical wrappings
in historical forms
of geometric dedication
abandoned colorful flashes
in occurrences never aging
known only to devotions
from moored figures
of open imagination.


In the clearing
a breath of summer
on the sand castle
by a sleep house to rest
bonded on living hands
in blankets of prayers
by a shivering eventide
away from the boardwalk
near a landscaped watering hole
listening to the gulls cry
searching for bread
in the high tide surfaces
of wandering souls
near a hospital ship
docking for a rescue at shore
asking for wisdom
without complaint
as unhooked runaways
cruise waves like blue fish
expecting a twice lived time
of a surfer's endearing love
amid the shadowy sea
between deck chairs
on the vagrant gazebo
and a still caressed sky
full of songbirds
by fragrant sunlight days
as a poet dives in between
the docks of passing boats
with good sound approaches
and weighed from memory
from jazz notes floating
in scales and in these words.

Monday, July 13, 2015


Reaching out on my pad
when everyone is sleeping
hearing a few birds
in the alley way
of my old Manhattan building
it's July's restless fleeing
of star dust out to the suburbs
in a whistled pace of time
chance handing me
an Indian summer shirt,
towel and snorkel
as an angel neighbor,Gertrude
puts me in a better mood
lets me borrow Stan's telescope
questioned in an all night hope
of a Beat poet
heading for the gazebo
to hear the steamships dock
on trained ears Staten island gulls
circling over rocking waves
flying by tree branches
in the humming bird morning
my pea jacket shadow leans
over an uncertain kayak
in the silhouetted wind
embracing dawn's flight
of open city grackles
trail me in the waters bush
near the outback rivers
to sway to smooth jazz
playing as my collected words
always return alive
in these hallways
from a rush to my memory.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015


Hearing a  mourning dove call
by the gecko who lands
over this sandy coast
on a day of pure air
the bird with its tone's echo
going and then coming away
to take a wash along the beach
by bright tourist ships
in the home harbor
as my dusky eyes rose up early
with the flying dove over my head
is now a warm memory
to all who recall her
by the dunes and redwood
reaching for the waters
in the bluest sea
of illumined words
when first light enfolds
my hand of sunflower seeds
from a breathing wind
in the neighborhood
as daughters and sons
of the wellspring wind
wakes up those who are lost
from motioning shadows
whom fate double crossed
on ocean journeys
those troubled yet survive
double minded in the eventide
searching for the shore
where we long for
more of your love.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015


Verse can happen
in unexpected times
from an arrival of summer
by trekking on back roads
watching birds on frenzied wings
or hearing a cardinal sing
over ladders of seasonal silences
when herons climb upon Evergreens
near a poet's buried footsteps
amid secret silences
on a nostalgic hammock
folding over two paper roses
creativity may occur
watching egrets
by the home harbor shore
for an early swim,
words can wash over you
from wayward third parties
who send waves to you
on the seas's dark coolness
covering a white desert sand
with a butterfly net
or at the freshly painted gazebo
by the lighthouse's luminosity
or listening to the tremor
of an oboe or cornet
from the brass or woodwinds
playing a set from a jazz sax
over nuanced quarter notes
in a Newport quintet
by a quilt of sunshine
from your peace arm band.


We glance for a part
to review
as we met you
by your red sports car,
eager for a chance
for a role in a new short play
acting in "Venus in L.A."
you had a loneliness of sorts
yet wishing to become a star
or win a handsome Oscar
no matter who stands in the pit
or on a poster of worship
with wit as an actor dressed up
in your fitting room
with no lines of censorship
as you came to Hollywood
from Vegas as a family guest
dining on Sunset and Vine
eating a waffle
with the ice,
blood or coal of a poet
on your frozen lips
ready to sign a contract
with a thousand chips
in your targeted shadows
racked by so much glitter
no matter at thirty
you became a bitter soul
yet goodness prevailed
from your smothered desire
no one understood
you found a higher dare
than screen or T.V. fare
in a deeper scaled fire
than in any goal at rehearsal
with more angels you care
to admit you to your premiere
than any of the best movies
you made in the past year.

Monday, July 6, 2015


On the same page
at the same time
in the sheltered mirror
with invisible doors
open for an actor's stage
in the limelight
your words
entered in
the night your were
an understudy.

The  evening's slow curtain
still sees you faithful in joy
in a surprised amazement
at the opening revival
in the theater corridors,
what an actor on the highest stage
you were in our buds of regret
not holding onto your wounds
from the vision of pillar fire
the moving clouds pass
you by as a silent star
as the late doors close
you held onto our secret.


Today's bird -shadow
has the sun in two hands
by a twin wood kayak
under a speechless branch
in the middle of Walden Pond
what thoughtful laughter
in duality on seamless water
where Thoreau wrote
by beams curved in Concord
that one wishes this memory too
will live after us
from the outback foliage
of our shining language
in the fragrance of wellsprings
next to sounding warblers.


On the island's floating tree log
the cape winds wraps me
in her last shade of nature
at dusk playing a flute,
the sea ditch water smudges
on my bathing suit
striving to escape wild geese
near the wisteria covered road
with an empty monastery's silence
far from yesterday's
crowded energy
on the fast motioning trains
of shouting
in the city's hysteria
today choosing annunciation
to rest with fruit and fauna
enfolded in surrendered peace.


You had returned
from the flesh worlds
screen lines and voices
of Bunuel's "Tristana"
and the Dali paintings
at the museum
no evil eye
could penetrate or guide
your mind's memory
of sound and paint
or addressed
the sleep's angels
who waited for you
covered with casting light
of printed shadows.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

(in memory Dorothy Day)

In his nightmare
words become alive
and he is in morning light
they give him ammunition
and basic training
but he resists
in the cross road position
not needing a cross of honor
so he does crosswords
on the field
puzzled by his young life
does he need a cross of honor,
he decides to cross the line
crosses himself,
and enlists for peace.


Everywhere in our horizon
the new wave of '68
plays jazz a on a grand piano
shares a weight of half notes
playing my experimental solo
with anointed laughter
which lines my set expectations
and began with smiles and similes
in the movie theater
to grapple with cinema's reality
at command in our portfolios
from Prague to Paris
to San Francisco and Big Apple
art enters an enigma's voice
by reeling in our parts
of once cabin fevered words
which were an embarrassment
covering our shore lines
or suspends us from our actor's
past expectations
venting in our old suits or boots
we poets dive from airy parachutes
exchanging space and time
for imagination's rhyme
on our planet's weightless voyages
we survive as exiles
by wings and myriads
chanting for understanding
as cool paintings on a canvas,
soon after two decades
environmental art like Christo's
will be gladly released
life once took us as being lost
and only temperamental
in our new school of Cage
editors now engage us in rants
of an intelligent renaissance
from a Beat's estrangement,
whatever our last wages or rent
is due to a past government
yet to feel urgently alive
from any past irritant or duel
with humor and irony
leaving a universal legacy
on every believer's tongue
our venue is being upstaged
for reading in a new century
any elegant parts arrangement
of a new language transparency
free of jury or injury.

Saturday, July 4, 2015


The smooth jazz plays
above the windowsill
grackles sing furiously
by wellsprings like this
near shadows of geraniums
it seems a curious day
in the season's weather
for the winds, rain, shower
or to hum a childhood hymn
when warm words emerge
like a light feather's secret
on a blackbird's wing
yet the urge for creativity
has reason in its metamorphosis
for a temperamental poet
discovering nature's outback
to be hovering
over red flowers, bees, Evergreen
in our neighborhood
or by the river bed
here on Spectacle island
at the perfect morning hour
for her to deliver a day dream
for any emerging refugee
hiding in the woodland
or in exile from parental storms
reaching out for a miracle
on the sandy beach.

Friday, July 3, 2015


Morning as an open door
of a post office of red eyes
in a poem's acceptance
like a love letter
embracing the sounds
of an all night taxi
with the driver
reciting my Beat poem
traversing a dead end street
consoled by day dreams
in the pulse of the neon city
wishing to walk with butterflies
under the Japanese lanterns
by the Frog Pond
eating almonds
near a quiet peace garden
hearing the smooth notes
sounding out its alto sax jazz
of my once owned whistled tunes
sharing my spinach croissant
on the park bench
with a mourning dove
awaiting a good wash of rain.


When vast clouds waver
before the raindrops
and the wind moves the sea
you realize a day's velocity
crashes when your city's shrouds
its sudden thunder to move you
by the gazebo's bandstand
to a magnetic memory
of the mountain's path
and every bird is a turtledove
in the giant sky
when the landscape painting
of Van Gogh is nebulous
yet visible in a flick of daylight
only seen on an absent canvas
remembering the last reading
you gave on the stage
was Hamlet in a foreign tongue
words rise between worlds
like your Pyrrhic victory in chess
before the last act
behind the curtains
only weighed you down
as a theatrical pawn,
recalling you played Bach
in a smooth jazz version
wholly from despair
shivering between shadows
impressed in the cathedral
by raising up
your middle finger
to catch the grasshopper
who appears on the keyboard.

Thursday, July 2, 2015


The scales of ambushed notes
wails from a lost blown horn
higher than any shout outs
augmented on celestial memory
after a night dream of the planets
as a poet sleeps on blue grass
by adolescent arms
on nameless hands
now under a leafy Evergreen
wishing for jazz music
from his burning sax
beside the park bench
in the windy countryside
suddenly a rain shower drops
on his weathered horizon
in a presence of lightening
reflected by shoots of flowers
the storm's shadows rise
underneath a sunrise
near a musician's notes
the dawn enlightens us
with a presence of thunder
heard above the clover.


Justice is the call
in our last plea
of those wounded
by the close breath
of enemies
real or imagined
from your daily path
in the madness
of recalled memory
in the news
at the death
of Sylvia Plath.

Here at the north shore
the ultimate wild rosebush
embraces dark blue waters
as a jazz musician's rave
spills out a voice of phrases
near the white sand
covered by a sea wind
spraying us on our blanket
with brooding waves
welcomed on our bodies
with a greeting to sister sun
between summertime friendships
and the splashing gulls
morning waits
for the young poet
on the coast to dive
from a solitary dock
on the home harbor
waiting for his kayak
to take him on a voyage
settled in his last word.

When all life stops
you recollect a life
of saving children
from a vast furnace
at the entrance of camps
of the third Reich
when a finger stamps you
on your right hand
like the skinny girl
with the red eye
in silence
even now
before our faces
now when time
is at a standstill
we honor your
long memorable destiny.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015


Keyboard whispers
a smooth jazz
bewilders and reminisces
on a string of roses
over riffs of fever petals
in language of desert flowers
rising again on funerals
of celebrating a poet's birth
on morning glories of doves
in the crowns of Evergreens
by silent memory of sixty wounds
crucified in two hours of torture
on a long round table
of a child who was different
than the others
and lived for clumsy art
silk pastels and made up comedy
yet we still hear four cathedral bells
struck by the lights of city square
waiting for someone to match
its eternal saving candles
now gone out on empty ravines
of the wounded and wandered
in the hunger of the desert
when the night wind gathers
up prayers of unknown incense
on a deserted astonishing grave
where wild roses suddenly grow
as handfuls of ash are scattered
over unwavering sand.