EVERYWHERE IS RAIN

Everywhere is rain
in Vermont
even the Autumn wind
careened on my boat
anchored up here
or a winter's repast
near  a contested breeze
between the sky and earth
by the shore's tall dunes
playing my Spanish guitar
my aunt is still asleep
among our Evergreens
after gathering blueberries
as the silent dawn leaves us
makes a gesture for a poem
in a my walled in vacation spot
the Persian cat rumples
the rock garden
by whistling song birds
with my old camera
shooting my favorite Elm
I'm taking my bicycle
to drink the mineral water
by  the wells spring
near the Fall's
laugh- talking foliage
near the recently mowed grass
as I go for a morning run
into a half mile marathon
for a children's sports charity
and buy a fresh croissant.

JAMES DEAN'S PASSING
September 29. 1955


My voice cracked
as we deny your passing
the foliage lost another leaf
though there is no sound
again in the backyard
when we heard on the radio
word of your accident
yet still we may pause
at your fine acting
but the underground earth
has overturned in a moment
as your memory scatters ash
in a scent of last rose petals
invading the garden
by the Elm- tree trunks
your voice of hope sounds
from a line out of your film
"A Rebel Without A Cause"
the sun pardons you
by the river's warming mouth
we put your initials
on a tree beside mine
near the embracing ferryman
who sheds a tear
by the docks near me.

DAVID JONES' SHADOW

A shadow photo
of David Jones
reveals him
as an innovator
poet, painter
we hailed in our century,
missing him
readily as an original creator
with more than a momentary
confirmation as a philosopher
a fine literary commentator
we talked about the Aboriginals
of Australia where my brother
in law was born
and about Dylan Thomas'
Christmas in Wales
he offered me an invitation
for a reading
which never failed
our imagination
in a dawn's conflagration
of burning a candle's flame
scanning our language
of words and thought
in a matured vision of light
embracing the silent Name
in the self effacing midnight
for grace on his lips
from animated night
where we pray
for a sonorous dawn
in an age of dry bones
from the abyss
of a future apocalypse.

DAVID JONES' SHADOW

A shadow photo
of David Jones
reveals him
as an innovator
poet, painter
we hailed in our century,
missing him
readily as an original creator
with more than a momentary
confirmation as a philosopher
a fine literary commentator
we spoke of the Aboriginals
from my brother in law
and Dylan Thomas'
"Christmas in Wales"
he offered us an invitation
which never failed
our imagination
in a dawn's conflagration
of burning a candle's flame
scanning our language
of words and thought
in a matured vision of light
embracing the Name
in the self effacing midnight
for grace on his lips
from animated night
where we pray
for a sonorous dawn
in an age of dry bones
from the abyss
of a future apocalypse.

CONNECTION :MARLOWE-BASSANO

While reading Ovid's
love elegies
Christopher Marlowe
hid his manuscripts
above his alcove drawers
with his kept secrets
and friendship letters
poems and plays
to share his better days
with the beautifully black haired
Sephardic Amelia Bassano
the "The Dark Lady"
in the worshipful sonnets
attributed to Shakespeare
yet we did not know who read
their secret texts
some of which refer
to a forbidden sexuality,
as Chris was threatened
by the royal court
for being an enemy
and not loyal to the Queen
as an atheist of sorts
and urged not to consort
with this wonderful jewel
as he kissed Amelia Bassano
a thespian clever Marrano
yet brought up by conversos
and four lesbian moms
she who came hidden at his door
originally from Morocco,
behind her doubled masks,
yet you ask me for the secret
that she kept in her religious
sect forever
we ask if she was a Jewess,
Christian or a Moor
behind her mask
that history cannot
any longer ignore
yet she was an emerging
and wise poetess for sure,
for Christopher Marlowe
had so many troubles
like Amelia Bessano
being lured in and baited
by an evil nation- state
yet he waited at his age
to make a living
upon the Elizabethan stage
from his poet lore
hoping the London stage
would a least have an offering
for him him
or a yearly position
that he could deposit
his mind's dramatic greatness
upon the theater would fall
from his traumatic soul
worried that an inquisition
or investigation would ensue,
that his whole genius identity
would be lost or discovered
in the tempest tossed
medieval age
from his hours of procrastination
over the stage
at his fulfilled state of mind
which insured him a double life
yet he preferred
to have a kind benefactor
and to write plays and poetry
as a dramatic actor
to give out the wonderful lines
which will rhyme and reason
as a charismatic performer
in the theatrical season
yet others thought of him
only in connection with sin
in the dark visage of crime
from history's time bombs
yet it was he who reasoned
that he was in always danger
to be critically double -crossed
by his stranger assassin
at this  metamorphosis of time
Chris hiding in his hallways
to take away his life and liberty
by the powers that be.

PICASSO'S EARTH

Just to achieve
an experimental design
into enigmatic shapes
on the Fall thickest night
or to paint in images
before geometric mirrors
as an open air somnambulist
walks along night corridors
with insightful dreams
in an early aloof Autumn
leaving the Spanish starry air
in a revolutionary flight
vanishes as an underground exile
to draw near a light's canvas
by his four sound proof walls
listening to a guitar recital
in his Parisian studio.

OCTOBER, THE FIRST

It was early October
on the Cape
a poet is playing sax riffs
on the tall 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 the Van Gogh eyes
of a sand castle sculptor
within my reach
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.

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.

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,"

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.

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.

SEPT. 15

The day started off
with static on the radio
trying to hear music
of a Bach solo
trying to be nonchalant
yet the time turned
more dramatic
as an operatic choir
played a thrilling Fidelio
then a Bach cantata,
a Dutch friend in his kayak
phoned me who got
my air mail letter
to tell me to watch my back
if I go on the ocean
there is too much commotion
on this touch and go day
better exercise
on the treadmill
and not to practice
Tartini's frightful
Devil's trill sonata
in G minor,
as I stare lyrically
at a lonely geranium
on the window sill,
so I decided to ride
up to Vermont to relax
and snatched up
a cheese croissant
with a hot cup of java
and my tenor sax.

IN VENICE

Wondering what it's
all about,
it looks like the rain
took over the drought
this noon hour in June
perhaps here in Venice
there are many weddings
by a bevy of sailboats
which suddenly collapses
in a Whistler's fog,
wondering if this is an omen
on a dusky late afternoon
by traces of grey sky clouds
over crowded canals
and a shrouded lagoon
visiting my successful niece
and dramatic coloratura,
Lorraine,
looking like a portrait
by Matisse
originally from South Carolina
who lives her summers
in China, Maine
marries under the rose trellis
of a merchant's canopy
who carries one marigold
in her musical hands
over her dark tresses
reminding me
of a Fra Lippo Lippi
in my photo of her
in a soft Joie calliope dress
by her solid enfolded train
from an Italian designer
who sings to her
a lyrical wedding aria
of Verdi
from La Traviata's chorus
with a hired band
in the dark corridor
as I recite poetry by Verlaine
and play on my tenor sax
a tune of Tchaikovsky
from Francesca Da Rimini,
as this operatic actress's life
was on hold and gone
in a metamorphosis
to relax for one week
on this cloudy honeymoon
without the lofty loneliness
of her thirty year situation
when Opera News
with her often on the cover
as Terpsichore
was her only Muse and lover.

JOHN BRINNIN'S MEMORY
(Sept. 13 birthday)

Attended Brinnin's lectures
on poetry's modern sound
his open ended
talks on Dylan Thomas
Eliot, Auden and Pound
from the Norton anthology
of English and American
poetry with literature's attention
to Robert Browning's verses
and Rabbi Ezra's character
in his finest dramatic monologue
of a wishing lyrical adventure,
then after my string
and cello class
I played a Gypsy air's solo
of Sarasate's "Zigeuenerweisen"
for Dr. Brinnin
(as a dialogue observer, critic
and a proctor of the violin)
it was a partisan selection
in an East European folio
with musical perfection
though with a comic laughter
to at least get in
a Roma -Klezmer's skin.

EDITH SITWELL'S BIRTHDAY

Her birthday is September

on the seventh day,
we marvel at Creation
and at Edith Sitwell's
party invitation for u

in the wave of her hand
from musical vibrations
as she reads her lyrical verse
summed up in an evocative
universe of undulation,
Edith never landlocked

in rooms or hallways
for those who visit this poet
from a thousand realms
of brides and grooms

to a world which opens
for all of us in England

on the sands of the sea
(like John at Patmos
on an island
where he is sees
as a visionary
a woman clothed
by revelations in the sun
and the twelfth of stars
in charismatic velocity)
near the shore
are wellspring boxes
of blueberries
by river beds of roses

which outlast like phlox
in a garden of rocks
as a phoenix rises,
Edith walks by

mirrors, corridors
from an English garden
to deliver these roses

we recall her
in a choir of love

in a memoir of verse

still hearing her invocation

on musical sharps and harps

in contented long passages

which trill and thrill

with remarkable Sitwell quatrains

(for Edith you always amuse us
even being serious

as would good Jesus
who was not understood
asks us to love and rejoice
in wonder
from his cross of wood
at the final thunder
of his reign
your vocal parallels

that of the bishops
in gospel chapter and verse)

from tercet villanelle
we can tell of Sitwell

giving us pleasure

of channeling words
by wishing wells
in your parlor
as gentlemen and  ladies
are set free
from Hades and Hell
by saucer dinner settings
trading in old England's dishes
of Shakespeare and Chaucer

to vetting our interiors
from London to Boston
sounding from the underground
wishing your arbitrary phrases 

will always be soulfully alive
invented as Edith resets
her area of poetry
fixing our masks
on wrong
which will survive
in our leisure to pick out
her legendary words
from our living libraries
and to ask for an asterisk

as a prize prick song
measure to measure
at our own pleasure.

 CENDRARS BIRTHDAY

September first
is realized in a genius
whom we praise
on the calendar
from the stars as a conduit
with a vexing invitation
from Blaise Cendrars' pulpit
we join with him to celebrate
his poetry, film, and prose
quoting human cooperation
we remember as you disclose
your permanent trajectory
for peace and democracy
in literature and history
from the culture's wilderness
you leave us the politeness
of a rose in your memory
as your time of it is success
when fascism closes down
and war is obscene
as Roualt's clown
rewards you with a crown
now enveloping humanity.

AT THE BEACH

Returning from the outback
in my rented kayak
by the shoals
we could not fail to notice
a boy is having a tantrum
along the Australian beach
of Byron Bay
where surfers reach out
on giant waves today,
yet complete strangers
under the strong sun
with sharp faces
reach to tell Samuel off
because of the way
he behaves
not telling him
of God's love
nor singing
a grace of a hymn
with thoughts
from up above
but they only speak
with harsh criticism
of the Pharisee
bashing his reason
for even being here
on the sand at this season
out of school
while sharing a hand full
and slew
of wrathful
swearing out
proud phrases
making him
feel more lost
and on trial
in disgrace
on a foolish path
ending in
Hell and perdition,
these ignorant,
uncaring souls
not knowing
as Christians
the old gospel
is to be told anew
to every Gentile or Jew
while here
without ambition
watching Samuel's
lonely human condition
he is not well in the sand lot
has a cold and cough
and they are
making him feel
like he is on
 hot coals
or as an ant
to the slaughter
now spotted
with a torn shirt
without a button on
but skirted
in this place
he does not smile
but hurts
under this hot sun
with his pale
lemony kite
lost in a sack
of sky
the crowd
telling him
that he has
a muddied life
and going to die
with not of much
a vacation
held only
by family strife
and having
only one ration
from a rack
of mutton
looking quite
the sight,
yet through
an eye gate
of a school teacher
once an
itinerant preacher
with his daughter Kate
who is
a lyrical poet
has understood
Sam's circumstance
and feed
as a brother mate
tending to
his flesh
by the miracle
of spirit
offering him
fresh salmon
and a cup
of mineral water
as good
forgiving Samaritans.

SURREALIST MUSEUM

We witness
(as in a prism of my dream)
Georgio de Chirico
as in a surrealism view
of Yves Tanguy
and Valentine Hugo
on the museum wall
by Braque and Picasso
near where Dali dreams too
as we are enraptured
in the studio of Jean Mireau
we are now moving to rows
by the egos and id
hid and captured
in the sculpture
of Giacometti
and Italy's artistic
culture from Donati
as in this cherished rhyme
of asymmetries
in a metamorphosis
of enigmatic geometries
in memory of his friend
the bench master and mentor
surrealism's foremost critic
the French poet Andre Breton
and from the Swiss canton
of Meret Oppenheim
the three of whom met in Paris,
then we go toward the Japanese
whom we will not miss
those famous dada paintings
poetry and photography
in the marvelous eye
of the camera
at Yamamoto from Nagoya
now let's go the movies,
let's not be embarrassed
to retell the kissing scenes
from dramatic solidarity films
in the Spanish dialogue
we know so well
as critics speak
from Spain, Argentina
and socially from Mexico
in modernity's catalog
as art will not vanish
in a monologue's part
from the latent nostalgia
of Luis Bunuel,
Freida Kahlo
and Diego  Rivera.

ROBERT NYE'S PASSING
(1939-2016)

You in your summer bier
( borne in an English way)
always with
a heartening laugh
even as a July 's
funereal guest
and well bred gentleman
is passing away
as a life long death column
in a solemn obituary  is read
today at bookstore hallways
or at the library shelves
of London or Oxford
your good wishing fans
held out to reward
ourselves who read you
congratlate
your achievement
taking in a full breath
at your bereavement
after the hearse rode by
others were thinking
how you were
always interpreting
and cheering amid the curse
for Shakespeare's
sly Falstaff
as if you were his muse
or nurse,
we who wish
not to lose you
as if there was no parting
from your span
in what's best in life
for a man's man
with a muscular
ribald but often ghostly humor
but it was more than
what was called
an artsy softened pose
but mostly of a rumor
that more than hinted
before the war
you favored poetry
more than your novel ways
for your own personal metier,
even as T.S. Eliot
sought you out
in his didactic words
and taught to allay us
all our small arbitrary fears
and yet you sought fame
more as a poet
of pacifist estrangement
in your conduit's arrangement
at the tenure of your years
for serving an an objector
to the horror of war,
with proof of a poetry lover
(as you adored Beowulf
at the Welsh ,Scotch
and Celtic folio
which made you a poet
to discover
and a critic not aloof from us
from your accorded verse
in your wondrous libretto
from a universal literary career
which has stood up to time,
yet now you are rewarded
in my own rhyme
for your clever starring years
never to be undercover
but rather we drink
from your cup)
not forsaking
any didactic proof
that an enacted poet
is not aloof
for Robert Nye has wished
to be known and to express
that his cherished soul
will enlist
for a wise poet's goal
not as a dry boned novelist,
if the truth be told
(he is not gone
like a swan on a lake
nor anonymous any more)
but we awake today
to feed
over his vast collection
of literary notes and stories
though you had to leave us
in regret from quotes
with a famous pose
in all its glories
with your wonderful signature
making us to believe
that your critical prose
was definitely part
of our culture
for we will grieve
yet retrieve
your signature memory
from in a lonely paragraph
in the popular press
which unravels to confess
the inimical truth
of your bio
with a passing dissent
to know the clarity
and discover in your folio
your secret sentiment of words
and life long wish to be a poet
as heard in your libretto
was no laughing matter
for now we know it
as in a new demographic reported
in today's " Daily Telegraph"
that such an epitaph
was spotted
and printed for the public
to openly express
as they chatter.

OBLIGED
(In Memory
of W.H. Auden)

As a modern poet
Auden in his realization
that words are a conduit
of the spirit's creative love
obliged his readers to quit
expecting concepts
that we learn (as in Latin)
will fall into the same pattern
calling us
with avuncular recognition
to his verse's entertainment
often located in his brain
at his nerve endings
from a lexicon and dictionary
(which are his renderings)
we once read in the library
are merely from his train
of arbitrary remnant thoughts
(and not his pretending)
which suddenly move us
as we learn to soften
(our contrary beginnings
and endings)
and our out of the question tones
in our exemplary life
are not permanent
with its accents
of eloquent
muscular generalizations,
we must now own up
and adjust to grown up
taking the refrains
(in own rife history
of dry bones)
with its own variety of strife
(yet often we secretly know
as scribes within)
how in a vernacular society
we multiply
the spectacular answers
from postscripts
of a century ago
that once proposed
the pure sonority
of ballet dancers
in those bits
of music chits composed
from a melody once classified
in critical tablets
up the scale
side by side of another's ego
are really only our vertigo
which will not fail,
now as Beats we are far away
from the vibes
of a classical or lyrical time
into a subscribers jazz
without tribal images
of the past
but making
an all new grammar
which will outlast
(as a verbal conflict)
in our time to hammer out
any small redundant phrases
out of our philology
to connect
and to direct
a proud and roaring
yet coherent culture
to elect and sing out loud
with pleasure,
not to disdain
the old fashioned phases
but now to expect
an impassioned future
in a leisurely relaxed age
to subscribe, inspect and praise
(as heard in a tenor sax)
with an experimental language
of the reigning Word
from an elemental jazz skeptic
where statements and riffs
sound out to be
(open to our new relaxing voices)
and to be critically reset
in the Blues of wonder
taking up the secret refrains
from an underground thunder.

CHILLING OUT(1930)

Chilling out is to be content
Jacques Laurent knows
at the St. Denis event
there are troubles spent
at the Paris tennis courts
yet he is sufficiently buoyed
by his inefficient opponent's
support of his serve
letting everything of nerve
bounce off of him in sports
still in white shorts though dirty
of the boy he knows
from the old school of 1930
aware of a doubles match point
without a swear to pronounce
yet is not transfixed to annoy
or from any desire for trouble
but by the masked strength
in the business of catching fire
from his belly of obligation,
as his brother Guy the other guy
though snatching off
pain and disdain
though higher in height and length
by conserving humorous laughter
takes his running mate's invitation
knowing whom he is after
not with a desire to resent
but to repent as with an oblation
as a Christian gentleman
observing the court's rules
not by berating but by observing
and serving his obligation
as in his religion
escapes with the marvelous score
intact as in a war sport for skin
with someone is out after blood
the other opens an invitation to win
even in the mud
the brother does not choose
but to be contented in the sun
in his situation only to lose.

POEM IN MIND

You ask what is conditioned
in a kind of accuracy
when you meander
to know the wandering words
for a poem in mind
are hidden in your spirit
until then we unwind
we are forbidden masks
until we become legendary
as jazz poets of the legible
rising in my search for riffs
while critics for language
create their own corner
by receiving ideas
from Homer ,Pessoa or Basho
in aged library shadows,
on the church stained windows,
sunny basilica or porticoes,
or from our sound proof studios,
we are always eligible to write
in our own press alley's web
whether by first hallways light
writing binary notes in Vermont
or speaking to a Russian ballerina
or a sailor from Atlanta, Georgia
our history is not in question
whether we watch flashes
of cormorants on the water
or a future snow is envisaged
from my sunny back yard
or on the Atlantic ocean
in my once anchored kayak
on a smashing vacation up North
with my Melville-like travelogue
while my white island sailboat
crashes on the ocean floor
looking for salamanders
a bard hears the wonder of sounds
motioning us to more voices
of W.H. Auden
in an evocation of Iceland
or a play write of modern dialogue
we have a permanent island
of a kind of music underground.

SEPTEMBER BLUES

When the leaves turn
orange and red
as I discern the print
of Mondrian's sponged colors
which greets me this morning
with a spider
adorning on the wall
when I sprin
outside of my bed
by my windy curtains
at sunshine shadows
of the dawn
watching from my Bay windows
at the woodshed
Tom,a young runner
and Sylvia his bride
backed up
in a winding marathon
we know
that our wishing season
(for warmth, swim and garden)
has changed for certain
for a pardon
of September Blues
yet looking back
at the lined up fishing rods
near my own kayak
from a shadow of anchored
of home harbor boats
with many steady visitors
already lined up
as an ocean of tourists wave
to me
from rigs of the ship
some of whom heard me
read my verse at gigs
or jam on riffs
on my tenor sax
on those summer poetry days
relaxing over greensward grass
as these Cape Cod guests
and crowds make their way
for distant places
who pass by me
with luggage and pictures
dueling at gossip and news
of culture celebrities and icons
in their suitcases,
a memory returns to me
in the rays of sun
thinking of
Fort Sewall, Marblehead
with my Aunt Sarah
and Uncle Linwood
as we practiced violin
for Tanglewood,
as we go to the yacht races
speed boats move us along
with great commotion
from noise of loud motors
and vaporized carburetors
which float in the reeds
as fuel
in a lotion of mixtures
on the ocean
when giving us time
to petition for a renewal.