Tuesday, January 31, 2017


Running from a dismal time
under the sun
of human crime
from alleys, hallways
even in galleries
in a daily execution den
when persecution had begun
hearing about it in Sweden
from row upon rows
in a full furnace
life goes in a nation
without a pardon
from hanging gardens
of disgrace.

(for Andrei Voznesensky

Because you have
the desire for love
to give pleasure
and awake instead
from your sleepy words,
Andrei Voznesensky
as your hands and voice
are raised as Robert Lowell
has praised you
in a said commentary
that you were one
of the greatest
living poets of choice
knowing that from Moscow
we are your surrendered guest
as you rebel and inspire
to rouse or quiet
the January storm
by the Vermont
fir Christmas trees
for we just want
to keep warm.


Words scurry to hide
my warm body
in a tableaux of poetry
from coifs of images
here in the sun
wearing a red scarf
nearby river bed birds
hearing sparrows
from snowy Elm trees
this last day in January
with sorry sightings
intact in a safe space
giving my out my language
of verse by a lorry
from shadows of duck boats
out to a narrow gallery
from the Boston Common park
covers the windy faces
in which by first light
my Russian translator
Dimitri as an orator
by history's landmarks
over the meadow
sight reads to the audience
of poetry lovers.


No Walt,
the life of a poet
is not buried
in the salt marshes
or in the beds
of soldiers
in a time in strife
of Civil War
or from the vaults
of treasure
at the gold rushes
in California
but in a Nereid
who rises in a clever mystery
in books of knowledge
with lilacs on the cold sea
found here on a day
unfolding here in January
at Boston's home harbor
among the fleeing song birds
near the Golden Dome
still celebrating
while we are greeting
Edgar Allen Poe's
birthday whose memory
like yours, Walt
never drowned
from the faults, wrongs, hurts
in a throng of poets
like Emily Dickinson
of Amherst
who also deposit their words
at the edges of mythology.

It is the last trading day
of a cold January
by Boston's home harbor
sunlight moves
its inner silence
of shade and shadows
by a poet's passing insight
as sparrows rise before me
over Elm tree shadows
catching its branches
on small patches of snow
covering Frog Pond
a Salvation Army tambourine
and bells are heard
above the bird calls
guessing it's grackles
as the dawn
overflows the marine waters
catching its ice flow
I'm devouring a green tea
with a half dozen
almond crackers
and Danish cheese croissants
never wanting to leave
these boyhood scenes
of laughter and wintry tears
with my aunt from Vermont
visiting me for an hour
with a memory ever after.

(Barnett Newman
Jan. 29,1905-1970)

The door opens
of the museum's desk
by the corridor
of a sculptor and artist
at artistic risk
near the spoken landscape
of color field paintings
from Barnett Newman
like ''Broken Obelisk"
in shape from an ochre span
you awaken and escape
as it were another dimension
of an admirer in a mirror
from the large shielding shade
of linear and vertical
lines of his "Zips"
one can hear Jesus's voice
from his own lips
''Why have you forsaken me''
in his "Stations of the Cross''
when everything seems new
in the promise and premise
of ''Who is afraid
of Red, Yellow, Blue."

Monday, January 30, 2017


In your hope you share
sums up with us
from a vast arena
twisted from the political
of pro and antifascist era
of Pier Paolo Pasolini
from a past spectrum
in film, novella
letters and poetry
as an actor and director
from a kaleidoscope
of modernist speculation
with lines of language
from the cast in location
of "Mamma Roma"
Boccacio's "Decameron,
and "Salo."

(for Derek Walcott)

Most likely on January 23
on your birthday
Derek Walcott
in our imaginary
earthy conversation
we touched on topics
that we reviewed
about the Tropics
and Trinidad
in a memorable body
of a glad day
of your teaching
and reaching out
for your words
in my memory.


Across the depths
of the sea
a snorkel
above bubbles of air
small birds appear
when nothing much
is seen here
along the Atlantic
it is not to fear
with our gear intact
and my Dutch uncle
wearing pre-war clothing
in a time of Jacob troubles
he reacts to his last letter
in  frantic tiny printed words
with a curse of loathing
as a German prisoner
knowing life,
is for better or worse.


Between you and the sun
at Crane's Beach
enclosed on a tight blanket
from the white sand
looking up to an azure sky
it starts to rain
in a do and die day dream
by a ship called "Friendship"
sailing toward us
we're searching to reach
ocean shells to deposit
a hiding silent snail
in a pocket,
hearing church bells
whose sound
cannot be denied
to a poet of the underground.


Walking on rocks
at the open port city
as night wears away
without vibrations
of grandfather clocks
back home in Cambridge
planning a home visit
to Robert Lowell
languishing  in Boston
hearing about
his never ending
history of rejection
by the Golden Dome
on Beacon Hill
after your stop
and out of breath
from Logan Airport,
Elizabeth Bishop
returning from your lover
in Brazil
waiting under cover
in a new cleverly labyrinth
of a still life
designed picture
for your ninth poetry collection.


What about you
always shines
along your mirror
near the Renoir
that kept you free
near the pink boudoir
by my thinking in memory
of your memoir
or catching you
by chance all night
enthralled by reading Sartre
and Simone de Beavoir's
until first light.


You step out of the river bank
in your red high heels
looking like a character
in a Almodovar film
growing thinner
your lipstick fading
and bleeds disguising
a starry all night venture
along Boston's Fenway
by the river bed bridge
chuckling your change
by your ravaged pocket
you lose a  bracelet
and a locket
in one full picture
by the highway
under the Golden Dome
hearing a police bull horn
reminding yourself
of your new born back home
knowing a first light sun
is not far away.


You filled in the blank
of camp
never turning back
to thank your clever world
without regrets
whom you stamped
by rumor
in the inviolate
drawing room hallways
your time always to set
or snag by humor
in stag movies
with Ivy-Compton Burnett
or Susan Sontag.


Your clever novel language
never ran out,
Fielding Dawson
as a Beat
in an awesome time
at the Black Mountain school
from today we drink
by your fountain
to shout out "You rule."

(In memory of Mark Rothko

It is cold outside
but flames flicker
in the wood stove
and suddenly
from these ashes
we remember the names
of those who fought
the totalitarian nights
of shame
we open the blinds
and snag the same curtain
to those hands
which guided us
to our freedom
they have not disappeared
from the days
we feared
would never end
in shadows of a dark time
marked by images
of crimes against life
they remain
as a good lofty witness
from Dachau to the Gulag,
blessing the ordinary
and the extraordinary
when the spring trees
we discover are reborn
with a sun out in the valley
from his Houston sanctuary
of his neighborhood
by a soft bed of zinnias,
dahlias and gentians
from orange and red flowers
and when finally under covers
of what is sight read
we realize how love is taught
from a lunge at generations
and always largely wrought
what saves us
we recognize against power
as once galley slaves
sought to survive the nations
with a faithful shield
from high principalities,
here we are today
in the museum
at this art gallery
to visit a poet like Rothko
who continually
draws us into day dream
at his abstract color field.

Sunday, January 29, 2017


Your boudoir
and memoir
of dada
in a monster
love of cars
after the war stationed
for the Occupation
you had your exemplary
shameful laughter off to Hitler
in an offering on the condition
on your own lasting scars
in a mural and moral of perdition.

A beat poet
on the sidewalks
reads to a crowd
shining in a breath
of a windy breeze
there remains
on the graffiti walls
his words
cry out for justice
our eyes watching out
discovering the icicles
in a rain silently
as we hear the trees
speaking on his shadow
of a quickened first light.


Time drifts
to my own sax riffs
by the melting ice
as hours darken
relaxing to jazz
as I do my blog
longing to be here
by Frog Pond
as nomads
taking a break
search for smelts.


Ice fishing
with rolled up sleeves
in China Lake, Maine
near a desolate beach
of a winter thing
after a four hours drive
we wake up at the Coast
by churlish campers
safely on shore
as two teams
one from Sioux Falls
along the South Dakota plain
explode with cat calls
over the white sand
a guy with a buzz cut
suddenly plays a nose flute
others fold post cards
a Gemini palm reader
feeds the birds
and one is drunk
on Rimbaud.


Turning green
at Buzzards Bay
there's a stop
moving at red
for everyone else,
with an objective look
along the Cape Cod
river beds
as sunshine floods
its liquid glare
blinding dizzy traffic
from taxis which part
even at a dead end
as two smart cars collide
amid heated chatter
as dawn pins
its latest scattered casualty
in a briefing reaction
to its enigmatic fatality
for the five O'clock news
my faint heart backpedals
by abandoned landscapes
in the back seat of my car
and near my inner mirror
under blankets that I draw
from my geometric
color field art
gives me renewed satisfaction
entering my paintings
in a summer competition
as an amateur
of the underground war
as artistic recognition
I'm left alone to relax
doing a concrete poem
sounding my alto sax
in a disclosed space
away from city rage
of surrounding trade
with my correspondence
to ageless students
of another language
as a lone beachcomber
named Dave from Texas
without soap
and bandages for a cut
and insect bites
from his car accident
and a couple of fights
directed from the last lane
promises me a jam session
as he plays chops
when notices my sax
and with stolen moments
of reconciliation
accepts my invitation
for brunch
tells me I'm a poet
as his hunch
we watch soccer practice
our hour is already buried
searching for sea nymphs
from the river beds
submerged in high tide
along the deserted beach
as a mermaid waves
to reach over to us
from a hidden Nereid.


A humpbacked whale
jumped out at the Atlantic
as a waves mirage
of a blinding sun
by my once abandoned boat
sailing toward the Cape
transferring to my kayak
as I'm completing this poetry
gulls seen singing
by Plymouth rock
as the green winds
make us shiver
along the Coast
suddenly eyeing
the ghost of Melville
over sandstone streams
shaking our mean time
in these scattering shoals
on a fishing expedition
as a day's disappearance
on shadows of first light
catching a neon butterfly
as it starts to briefly rain
under a  bean red sky.


Our grandparents
if my memory holds up
went to see Clark Gable
and Ava Gardner
in "Mogambo"
at this local theater
on a tense weekend night
today we have cable T.V.
with twenty four hour
into its vocal language
from dark or light vocal movies
with our own impersonator
in this same vicinity
going out locally
on a January snowing
weekend of pretense
enjoying its city wonder
but getting lost in a taxi.


In transit
on back roads
with meadows
of mushrooms and toads
over pale shadows
a poet passes by
lost minefields
as your slippery schitsu
moves gingerly
on other laps
as it starts to snow
it's another crazy January
from icy directions
on this full moon night
as a madcap comedian
does a vetted routine
on the pushcart street
yet overhears rumors
of an incoming tornado.

Saturday, January 28, 2017


To ask
for a peek
at the spring's melting
of a river
sweeping in sunshine
or to be closer
to deliver a geranium
on kitchen windows,
or play a Basque guitar
with a psalm's echo
by the back of a bell tower,
to ask for a sunflower
over a rock garden
in a luminous Elm tree
surprises to ease
the shadows of our pardon
from the helm of snow.


Light from an eye socket
over orphaned steps
a hidden outsider
carries his grocery greens
through Parisian streets
lighting a candle
muttering prayers
in the church
dusk falls
sweeping on your shadows
by an animate mystery
of holy water
picked up by the Gestapo
the lines on your face
from the gutters
of limpid snow.


Days grow slender
in a lapse of mimicry
from a recurrent relapse
on open windows
of an opaque past
after your insomnia unwinds
with a pencil drawing
stenciled from Delacroix
behind Persian blinds
swiping your wintry lips
on day bed blankets
with undelivered kisses
but it's only childhood
answering in the dark
you light a candle
in the shadowy breeze
dismissing the regretted
languished words
you have vetted
as your language wakes
you up in sparks for a poet
by birds chirping
on the bark of trees.


In thawing days
of not forgetting
your voice not embarrassed
from playing a notable part
in your choice French poetry
or about art's dauntless
cabaret at this Paris bench
here in the dawn dialogue
about the history shaping art
for the public
as you leapfrog
from my geometric memory
in a metamorphosis of escape.


Winds dance
noise vibrates
in the contrary copper sun
ripening from cactus
as you ask us, one by one
not to wait a long century
in a hazy dusk
from a revolutionary music
as you celebrate
in your life span's cul de sac
from a spontaneity in traffic
at our liberty's back.


We sat there, Emmanuelle
at L'Amour
and Hiroshima Mon Amour
asking to remove
our masks
at our memory's
as you change our
of social reality.


Even the ancient stones
with Jesus
at the Via Dolorossa
winds cry out and stones
from a wistful echoes maze
listening to jazz riffs
on my  alto sax
we're playing chess
doing puzzles
in the pleasure of Jerusalem
as a neon butterfly
does not escape
the covering of eucalyptus
nor my awakening
in the disquieted dawn
as doves at first light
efface the dazzling azure sky
brushing away secrets
from centuries
of facing lovers in a city's
blind oblivion.


When "A" became
and B plus
in an alembic alphabet
full of dressed down
misty language for us
in an anarchic note
of bandied solos,
in a one in a century
chorus of one
yet on a cello
playing Bach for us
know of Louis Zukovsky's dream
in a poet's aloof underground
on day full of snow
your alphabet language
admits us from
your musical shadow
to our sound proof studio.


Mark Schorr
this January passes away
who crossed many verse's line
with ties to Robert Frost
wired all the long way back
to roots in Hungary
wrote "Bridges to Kerouac"
moved to Lawrence Mass.
desired to arrange readings here
at the Cafe Azteca
with his "Poetry Hoots"
writing "Song of my Selfies,"
amid the hurting business
of his universe's memoir.


At this open hour
hearing plainsong
an echo of memory carries
my music inside me
as I play Chopin's etudes
after a rude barefoot
awakening us from dreams
after fixing the grandfather clock
above our Governor Winthrop
desk recording a disc
upon the cold piano keys
hearing the gulls off shore
sharing a plate
of jelly, humus and honey
on a croissant
with a cup of java
dropping everything
for the summer solstice
we dovetail to the beach dunes
at windows of a home harbor
near once radiant sunflowers
of summer shadows
in Hull by the infinite streams
until we reach Plymouth rock
for hours of a marathon run.


Eagerly bicycling
along familiar pathways
to be home early
by the Cape's gazebo
and beach harbor
from the waves surrender
at waters opposing
her dawn mirages
my visions multiply
between two greenish shores
and then to sail by a jetty
wishing to borrow a kayak
with a pale catch of fish
of the day break sun
near brackish marshes
not abandoned in shadows
by sea bird voices
on narrow Portuguese rows
of sailors all in white
offering me a filet sole
as they throw stones
by the puzzled echo of foam
in the late morning brightness
on Thursday
amid a dazzling first light
reaching in the library
early in my adolescence
to sight read the prose
and poems of D.H.Lawrence
who shaped an era
and spying a few birds
and a cardinal
eaten by sunshine
on the tops of trees
taking bread
and wine
to disclose the mystery
of our own communion
over the porch's daybreak
as rays glisten
to my bare footsteps
at the door
with Vera, the Persian cat
as I leave for school.

Friday, January 27, 2017


Actor of my consciousness
clear of the future I need
innovator to secure
the equilibrium of space,
spectator in a spectrum
in time of loss emerging
from an actor's of absence
as a fidelity the convenience
of transparency's continuum
that my shadows merge
with the artistic sounds
of my language reactor
from the Big Apple Village
in the wonder of a Beat poet's
time in the underground.


A dazzling sun
drives souls mad
tiptoeing on Beacon Hill
in a conspicuous shadow
greetings of a snowfall
along marble hallways
on Marlborough Street
running into Robert Lowell
lost in a winter fever
of creativity
with a tentative sadness
carrying off
his shouldered sensitivity
in chromatic monologues.


On a fevered
feather bed
of Spanish obscurity
in signs
you wander,
Ruben Garcia Dario
by voyages
seeking in revelations
from the pain of solace
covering poetic languages
scattering a medusa
in unexplored maps
laced by grief
scattering winds of words
of revolutionary belief
on graffiti walls.


Sitting around
the parlor table
with its crystal bowls
of unveiled fruit
looking like a Cezanne
as sunlight slips away
from Commonwealth Ave.
by an effaced portraits
of Whistler and Proust
at the open window
of passing strips of sky
daubed with pink
watching a shadow of ships
in Boston harbor
among a frozen January
afternoon, disclosing
catching the striking voice
of Grandpa Mendes,
"Life is not poetry
but prose."


Leaving my great aunt
in Vermont
for a soiree with my family
the Scrivens
who came to America
from the Mayflower
now here off Tremont Street
in Yankee Boston
wearing their Jamesian fashion
in a stylish tweed suit
you hid Remy de Gourmont
in our yellow book
while playing twin cremonas
releasing my power of Bach's
double violin concerto
as Mrs. Gardiner
with the Berenson guy
who entertained us
with his Jewish sense of humor
in a passion for our betters
on the Venetian rug
you carrying letters
from Virginia Woolf
and Leonard
having four O'Clock tea
with spinach croissants
cucumber sandwiches,
and crumpets
along the bric-a brac walls
on a hard flowered chair
discussing Whistler
and a script of Wilde
this January
where I sight read
from "Child Harold"
in Byronic company
as Bernie Berenson
returns back home
as iconic connoisseurs
with paintings and statues
and lost art by Vermeer
well oiled by memory
filling our limpid eyes
with an intensity
from Greece and Rome.


Waves on the S.S. Pushkin
over the bubbles
of the Caspian Sea
catching a crepe suzette
on my palette
with new passengers,
thinking of Dostoyevsky
by covering "A Raw Youth"
and hearing bullets
of Russian roulette
while betting on a table
reassured with another ruble
betting on black or red
able by getting past our trouble
knowing everyone has
a double here instead.


It is showering
in San Francisco
that tongues still
whisper your name
by clothes washed
in laundries
of dry run linen
as a sad Achilles
from hot blankets
has rinsed out the past
even the guy
visiting from Bath
who slips out
from the labyrinths
of Thom Gunn's memory
who told us
as a lost Ulysses
we can control
our dreams
for we are all exiles
without an address
it seems.


We wish
all originals
of ballads
from the mad visions
of Robbie Burns
let the drum rolls
of Scottish orations
the recoveries
and recreations
of some words
from Dumfries
over new states
on old streets,
names for nations
which we learn
from birds under stars,
with signs,
in our desk
of lost love letters
from our betters
it is time for peace
increasing prayer
and unknown oblations
with our reunions
at Edinburgh
in a bold language
to delay in courage
in our daily communions
with good news,
Robbie cleverly still sings
of Auld Lang Syne
for our good wishes
on his birthday
with your language
of inventions,
we put up
in new locations,
and the wonder
of open devotions
and the lamentations
by a country
off the Coast
of grey oceans
in perpetual motion
and laughter to boast
you are with us
ever after.


On these grounds
74 years to the day
there is liberation
at Auschwitz
here people
have eaten
bitter herbs
passing over faces
after years of desperation
moments when life
did not matter
that lice
was on a new baby head
just delivered
from a hurting womb
when smoke is seen
scattered from a furnace
of the dust's affliction
as a crow
jumps on the barbed wire
you cannot sign
postcards of silence
with no address
without woolen sheets
of unmade beds
hearing sharp piano
notes of Beethoven
and interwoven Schubert
these exiled days
are gone
yet we know
this morning
there is first light
hearing prayers
recited in a requiem
for the dead.

Thursday, January 26, 2017


It could be another dawn
following history's
misunderstood ghosts
when a soul desires
to understand his pain
as headstones are now silent
along European roads
at rainy ramps with wire
and rope now covering
over dozens of camps
for what has happened
not too long ago
as this man whose past life
was buried in Germany
tries to recollect
his body of thoughts
yawning into a stolen sleep
as wide as a dream's mirage
of his language's span
enfolding his metamorphosis
still hearing in his pall a cry
of human crimes on earth
which belied a hidden story
of fascism's mass murder
as his mysterious words
in this brief careless span
of grief from his time
now sealed in blood
and stone without flowers
upon silent graves on earth
turning back the black hours
yet now violently
boast at the back over him
Celan is still starry-eyed
yet blessed in his way
that he can write a memoir
in a deeply clear verse
of voice through his neck
and ribs of woolen garments
are rent now in sackcloth
and ashes from rumors
circulating fairly far and wide
from a memory which crashes
is now retold in our day
from an exhausted yet cruelly
snow driven universe
shattered beyond lament
what still cannot be fully told
even from Paul Celan's night
about willing crimes
committed a few years ago
when his government sinned
he is a still life beside himself
by his daybed's first light
staring at a painting of Heine
from his own vertigo
he vets the Shoah crimes
with regrets of life
shaped by the dead
in a personal breath of poetry
from unforgettable sentences
catching the first light
of the sun's open window
watching small birds
below the sea's Nereid of wind
on these fifty weary road years
which with holds repentance
near children playing
over snowfalls of this city,
outside his tiny chamber room
with gas in the air
Celan is under covers
moving blankets
over the last nightmare
along doomed electric wires
covering his profound mind
to reveal a pity so deep
in a time of burnt out gloom
for those names read out
in a human kind with pity
where we have learnt
recently that a poet is alive
by his reading lamp
on his sheets where his life's
secrets that cannot yet be
fully explained
yet his words survive even
in the back end of being alive
sight reading at human shame
as his German words stains
with the pretended names
turn into numbers
of XY678999
as Celan slumbers
when elements manifest
and sounds survive
from  gentle nature fields
it still rains on those children
fallen underground
by nests of hungry winter hawks
yet he knows the meaning
of being tempest-tossed
that even in the Black Forest
no body has not been revealed
or complained of its concealed
gloomy mushrooms
resting on a valley of toads
hearing an eerie laughter behind
the glasses on Chrystal Night
Celan is trying to nap
as he hears attic drinkers
with goblets under the moon
on a harvest
on late afternoon fields
hearing others behind
a hidden S.S.army shield
asking for another glass
of beer or schnapps
outside his cold windows
Celan is thinking about
his unwritten manifesto
after the shadows pass him
by a carpet wall
shielding shadows
over the rafters
where another snowstorm
masks to fall
at sunset at Octoberfest
Paul wishes to be warm.

Wednesday, January 25, 2017


As we stand
by your shadows
we remember the painting
of a jazz theme
in the "Three Musicians"
gazing on walls
at your ceramics,
sculpture, collages
discovering ourselves
in your strategy
of a smart language
watching for the drippings
from a dynamic brushing
on your thick canvas
a magician's wand and shield
as if I were on fir branches
of birdsong resting
over a burdock
of nature's
quick sharp spaces
upon momentous
scales of art
branching out on parts
of gorgeous
contrapuntal notes
we are as passenger guests
with you Pablo Picasso
nesting for a season
upon abstract fields of color
as an prolific critic
awakening from my word plays
of reasoned Socratic dialogue
into an international culture
presaging my own acting parts
from a wardrobe chest
in my responsibility
of sensitive ironic acts
of drama in a closet
staring for hours
as an intelligent adolescent
pouring over
my favorite drawings
creating my own tone
of global consciousness
on this January day
it is time to honor you
in my own critical passages
at a vital time
after sight reading in a catalog
being also in laughter
at my window's opening
collating my own literature's era
discovering to deposit
my own comic dream worlds
for my major words of theater
in a collective discovering
of my lively continual reading
from a fine arts bench
at a museum catalog
it was always for me
a daily learning experience
hopping out in these galleries
that when we curious children
always sought
to turn off sideways
as the French lecturer
speaks by a podium
at a first light spectrum
from a sunny sanctuary
in a hallway
we stop off as my tutor
and teacher taught me
in my imaginative attention
to review
your lively wonderful drawing
of "The Poet."

Tuesday, January 24, 2017


Gawking at the waves
in Hull by Nantasket
a child is collecting shells
in a river bed straw basket
trying in his Sunday
best to behave
and obey the law
as two gulls and hawks
reach for the sand
with an encounter
for bread on the waters.


It is sunny after the rain
as the Northeaster concludes
this morning on January 24th
with an equilibrium of mood
expediting my silence
from windy nerves in shreds
in a metamorphosis
of eagles and beagles
are delighted on the beaches
as shadows of umbrellas
are sighted
and a poet is being
interviewed by the T.V.media.


Knowing only Braque
will transform your day
you wish to take
your orange kayak
from its roped anchors
to Boston's museum
but twice thinking it may
be dangerous to slide
through the Bay State's canals
along the Charles River
into a January twenty third
blizzard of rain
I'm waiting until the storm
is over to be back
on the greensward grass
and hover under sunshine,
this bard is already
feeling warmer
by nursing my reminiscence
from my body of solitude
on days of adolescence
of having an even mood
in my pea jacket and scarf
watching Harvard students
recover from their weekend
stint in a laughter of bacchanals
you decide to go ice fishing
this early morning
by locating a hole and mirror
that I earnestly cling to
on my trek to the Fenway
thinking of anticipating
the enigmatic joy of Braque
with his cool geometric design
as the doors open
to the Fine Art's cultural patrons
here among my favorite rooms
of his drawings and paintings
in Fauvism and Cubism
as an innovator of prints
and progenitor of sculpture
recalling he was once apprenticed
to an interior decorator
of design
I'm viewing his lithographs
with monochromatic color
of the Normandy sea coast
shaping a landscape of Estaque
remembering your etchings
of the "Order of Birds''
from St. John Perse
stretching out on this bench
quoting his French words
and phrases from memory
and remembering Braque's
"Violin and Candlestick."

Monday, January 23, 2017


Never frozen
but lost in the sunshine
by the shade of windows
upon this earth's midwinter
in your crossing lines
of finely veiled frost
in Winslow Homer's time
a landscape painter
across hidden country scenes
by this poet born in Boston
and studying at Cambridge
as we both walk
in the spirit on back streets
amid many Christmas fir trees
now talking by first light
about your drawings
in your art museum rooms
not in posturing
but by mirrors of shadows
yet chosen to be unwilling
to acquiesce
in my stubborn adolescence
to leave these resting pictures
that houses his water colors
we breeze by illustrations
on a January twentieth day
believing as we watch by
these forlorn
rain washing docks
crashing when huge waves
splash secret barges
and life catches us ice fishing
at these hinterland banks,
your pictures are actually
shaping and shouting to me
in this twice born illustration
here on this plain
with the Northeast wind gusts
covering over the harbor
of  clipper ships
with nature boasting of its
powerful whip-lashing us
and I'm alone giving thanks
for this hour in a season
as we secretly lock in
and twice connect
I'm begin to reason
as a teenage art critic
wishing to feature scenes
of your marine paintings
from the Maine Coast
at Prouts's Neck.

Sunday, January 22, 2017


A turn of the century clocks
in the flux of sidereal time
of the spark
upon the vernal equinox
signs into a surreal return,
return, return
and in an annual spring out
from a miracle birthmark
over a thousand dark crimes
against the personal chain
of the unorthodox novelist
Rene Crevel
his twisted memory
whose love  for knowledge
will remain,
on our necklace and wrist
as time regains in Proust,
we have all cut loose
over a short life
of the courageous Jean Helion
covering all painters
and elevated and celebrated
poets whom the fascists
cannot capture
for we resist
in the spirit for art's sake
which may be fashionable,
but once it captures you
fascism cannot break us
into an idolatry without hope
from Prussia to Russia
Europe and the Americas'
you too are honorably graced
forever enraptured
covering a world of rebellion
as in the 1968 resistance
a live and die- hard chance
of a quick toast to Lamartine
we are bards with red wine
a day away
from the Paris crowds
with Rimbaud in the Commune
along highways burning
with fires of dissolution
in the shroud of a rainbow
always leaving early
at the miracle of revolution
of its poet's avant- guard
Rene Crevel also owes
his convolution
and sure conviction
for all time
cleverly learning well
in a prediction
to survive with power
from his narrative
to keep us alive
yearning with predictions
of a vanguard desire
to be sharing your fiction
and soon icon bashing
in a mature sunshine
at an activist hour
by a rock garden
of the Tuileries
to deflower laughter
in the afternoon
and pardon with mine
under the half moon.

Saturday, January 21, 2017


Granting us a spring day
in Paris
for those of us
not embarrassed to say
we who revere a glass stained
miracle in a new Mosiac
back from his bay
window out to the sky
or searching in the shadows
for Manessier's art
in a cape at the Nord church
are in part in a catholic
language all our own
as a forerunner of pop art
who was influenced
in nature's part
there stopping by
fjord by juniper trees
with dying hyacinth
near birch branches
watching birds mount
up to a an early winter
congenial sky
as a beggar in the breeze
listens intently
to my riffs
of American jazz
he stars to yawn
in a swift nick of time
before a January sunset
when he quietly
picks off a variety
of menial fruits
boasting in his contrary mind
as if waiting for the stars
he starts to freeze
catching cold by night
in a casual storm off
the coastal Seine
by an outside tent
under light rain and snow
others share warm nights
enfolding us at ease.

DUBUFFET 1901-1985

Your five star portraits
in oil paints
of your poet friends
Michaux, Ponge, Matisse,
and Jean Paulhan,
who was also literary critic
waiting on his library bench
who translated the poetry
of Madagascar into French
draws on ordinary life
or low art in our culture
took his risk and chance
in a fascist time
of crime and insanity
was in the Resistance,
picked up new skill
traveled to Brazil and Italy
juxtaposing thick oils
soiled with passing sand
passing cement,straw
sticks,pebbles and gravel
and glass in hand
in his art show
as in parts of an antipasto
for his raw art.

(LEGER 1881-1955)

Not afraid to believe
in your patches
in a field of primary
colors or photos
in your movie sets
or painting snatches
us a forerunner
of pop art
painting in the dawn
"The Smokers'
influenced by Cezanne
in his salon
passing his new focus
touring us in a landscape
shaping him at Montparnasse
or in the new cubism
as in "Three Musicians''
a "Tree in the Ladder"
from a new progenitor
in polychrome
in a miracle of stained glass
from a dome
set in costume and design
of murals drawn at home.


In the snow
at a Paris bench
I read an art catalog
in shadows of reflection
as an illustrator
in the shadows
for my play's dialogue
of a poet and painter.


Inside a revolutionary
Michael Leiris,novelist
in an antifascist philosophy
and a contrary surreal poetry
we learned from you
as you were at the Sorbonne
in a surrealist time.


When we heard the words
in William Blake's "Songs
of Innocence and Experience"
you translated into the French
Phillip Soupalt,
dated for the next year
authored a monograph of text
we read at the Paris library
from the vault and bench
of this English genius for us
a pioneer for our surrealism
and when I your hundred verse
as you fled
the Vichy collaborators
to Algiers and imprisoned
by the fascism of the Nazis
for your patriotism
in your occupied country
our surface of memory
will not be buried by default
for an hour's service
among the sky birds
along the Seine
not for one era
fought in the underground
but rising into a morphing
into new glad day word
from poetry's quatrain to keep
and to sound again
by your supplanted flowers
as others may sleep.


With the war clouds fallen
in Andre's Breton's time
extending a vulnerable shroud
over his passing
still shadows us
to be willing as always
offering his less than still life
to the Resistance
with surrealistic manifestos
in his willing oratory
by the Seine jogging
along Paris's hallways
comparable to themes
of Freud we came to know
with his psychiatric medicine
and devotee of Alfred Jarry
who traffics as a poet
and absurdist  play write
in a surrealistic discipline
meeting the father of dada
in the verse of Tristan Tzara
to those workers unemployed
shackled by capital's sin
in exhaustible prodding
weighing each one
reaching for peace
by dissecting fascistic bullying
herded into your infighting
upon a political tightrope
with your reputation
plodding on one thing
to another as it if
only is to increase
a love language as a poet
which gave us hope
during those dark years,
and know its critical process
into the sunset shade
on an awakening mural
from a universal dream
in honoring you
by holding up
a cup and a shield
of creative miracles
as a pioneer
from an abstract color field.

Friday, January 20, 2017


An amiable inventor
of monumental bronze
and semi-abstract stone,
progenitor in sculpture
we remember your photos
encrypted by the dead
of those who are alive
and survive the Nazi
onslaught in the blitz
you entered our lives
in London and Europe
as we atone in hope
to forgive
the blood feuds of the past
from the snakes of crime
awakes from your architecture
to unmasks the sum
in our consistent armor
of transparency
at a time's continuum
to realize the gift
of cultural clarity
imbued with your pictures
which slips into humanity
as to lift up with charity
in an artistic appearance
by your artifacts
from the dust
in our mirrors in history
from justice of human figures
which may rust
or are iced in part
yet it is to Henry Moore
from his art of sacrifice
in an oeuvre and subject
as a starring object d' art
amid a convenience
of an abject critical time
between war and peace
that we feel your absence
in the trust of your pupils
over the windowsills
from our nerves and eye
as our whisperer fulfills
in the drawing curves
that we in awe in art
spans your many year
momentum of your elan
to impart as we watch
you serve and imbibe.

Thursday, January 19, 2017

January 19, 2017

like water drops
awake without thrills
as bodies fall
like rocking shadows
in a cold chill gravity
feeling as if by chance
the heavy weight
of the world
cannot stop
the avalanche
unlike anything on
the earth as it is sliding
from high hills
as in a soccer ball.


Your "Enigmas" of light
taught you
how close to tears
we are as shooting stars
as art supplants
each faint flame in desire
of reaching out to inscribe
those metaphors of love
from your red ink signatures
meeting Tristan Tsara
the father of Dada
indoors signing your name
by design on the canvas
over January sheets
near a day bed,
strengthening a paper weight
with atoms of snow
on these vulnerable years
by catching the memory
of a violin player's notes
from outside your art balcony
at your opening windows
crashing any day dreams
yet abiding in quotes
from your bride, Raissa
the Russian ballerina
with upturned eyelashes
when you know
it's your destiny
to go past
the Tuscany screen
as you desired to paint
 "The Uncertainty
of a Poet", 1913.


Sleep houses
of death walls
amid the grey smoke
it is another day
when stones
under your feet
do not gesture
as you awoke
to thunder
with tired arms 673416
as rains from the gutter
cannot shatter
secret messages sent
now delivered
from the underground
praying that life does matter
widening your
dry bones of two brothers
in a hidden game
of absent children
playing every morning
when a cry goes up
to answer from a breath
of forbidden words
by a ram's horn
with a series
of bleating sounds
on a shameful rampart
as dolls scatter
and shatter in a pile
by a girl at first light
carrying her lamb
and a boy out of breath
steps by step from his sisters
from closed doors
as night splits from dawn
a bird sings.

Wednesday, January 18, 2017


You taught us
that no poem is ever lost
or even abandoned
that words will connect
and continue
as the snow in the sky
watches the birds on my roof
for though you are absent
we still are catching
your gentleness of time
we have sought
your memory in words
which today
crossed my mind
for Paul Valery
you are more than a shadow
into a transition of rhyme.

(In Memory of Helen Frankenthaler

A pendulum swings along
its January indifference
on my grandfather clock
as bird wings fly on birches
intertwined with the hum
upon the wind of snow
at a time of absence for poets
in words of reminiscence,
as aspiring sailors by the dock
help with rope and string
to anchor my kayak
wading into the sea;
out of doors the dawn masks
a field of color
landscape shadows us
shadows of dawn
by home harbor's mirrors
asking in hope for the arbors
to shape the trees shade
as in a Helen Frankenthaler
painting for an early spring.


The day has discovered
a bookmark on your verse
the dawn is tepid
as if under a curse
outside it rains
and you think
you need a nurse right away
or at least your mother
to look out for you
at first light
but in the wonder of life
the storm vanishes
and with it your nerves
it's only from a fright
of feeling like an outsider,
damn it all,
just lay on your back,
and write a line of poetry
forget the pain in your sacroiliac
from the heat of the morning
it's only your body of thought
as in September on the train
you had another attack;
it is to words you serve,
Paul Verlaine,
remember it was only
the nightmare
of a small bird you caught
on the tram
as you slowly recover.

Tuesday, January 17, 2017

(In Memory Anna Akhmatova

The trees breathe
on us
under shooting stars
the moon illumined
by your mirrored eyelashes
witnessing Kingfisher birds
along the Neva
with wounds
of a hundred silent scars
she notices
outside a bridal path
as a cat slips out
of a flower garden
and street lights are dim
inside a bride stamps
her passport
as Anna sings to Mandelstam
a quiet Russian hymn
on his birthday
with Nadezhda on his side.

Yehuda Amichai 1924-2000)

A wind of mountain breath
from an Olive tree leaf
at the time of sunset
we keep our invisible belief
our garments were rent
in consolable grief
from an honorable
of an undecipherable name
once held in secret
since the genesis story
in creation of His glory
and at the dawn of your death
releasing birds drinking from
nature's changing metamorphosis
is still seasonable
and comprehensible
from a river words from songs
until oblivion reaches
on angel wings of birds
over the Tel Aviv beach
we poets will cover you
with a shawl
deliver and deposit your
memory by the wall,
from the desert fountain
you linger,Yehuda
in your sleep
shepherds are still heard
by a call of the ram's horn
reciting David's psalms
spinning in your dreams
we hold onto a lamb
among villages
in our contemplation
fulfilling in the shalom
of an ancient language
from "I AM"who ''I AM"
since we are all born
from Abraham
to believe and assuage
our daughters and sons
of Mount Zion
from our grief we keep.


Dear Wolfgang,
in this letter
"I abjure you
to clear the plank for now
and please,
and don't be at ease
but be blank
or you will lose
your conceited goal
in life you said at four
as a boy with blocks
on the clean kitchen floor
to have no strife
remember grandma
who darned your socks
and immaculately cleaned
the grandfather clock
every day
who was half Scandanavian
yet declared by the Gestapo
after her testimony recalled
to her in 1939 to be all Aryan,
at that needed practical time
as your always faithful guardian
when she sang a hymn
to you before kindergarten
and told you in Stuttgart
that your brother
was a willing goalie
being a jock at hockey
never defeated
that he has been possessed
by a Kierkegaardian grace
on an icy time of trouble,
so Wolfgang don't be
blind-sided by the Devil
or double-minded
nor two faced,
but get better that your soul
may not be in peril
beyond a pigsty for a sow,
always say danke shein
and a mighty thank you
from a Protestant truther
like Martin Luther
now turn on the gas
at this car maker shop
on the gang plank
for this new year
be like Peter Pan,
you may repeat a chant
grandma taught you
or give your friend, Hans
a message
relax with him in the sun
or send out a love message
listen again to some jazz
with those riffs by
the big black man
in a silk sarong
with his shadowy jlong
who sang along the bar
that Romantic love song
arrayed along the bar stool
with his thong showing
in a sing along
played on guitar strings
(from a Weimarian time)
blowing on his long saxophone
(it was enlarged)
by almost two feet
with his meat cleaver
showing as he cleverly
charged at us
by the never never
midnight hour
as he would devour
his Uncle Sam chowder
from the double ration can
of the Occupation
and largely eating a la carte
with his package in tact
then in fact showering
with a buddy
sprayed with the foam
of his milky powder
appearance in a thong
at the dance hall
as the rock music played
rolling on his recording
as it got louder and louder
as the midnight clock chimed
sounding with wonder
from the Berlin underground
and he was rewarded
for his large star power
in bone chilling performance
as the theater critics said,
expanding with his silky bong
which opened to merge
to an underhanded
like a large flower arrangement
of Genet
and really turned us on
romantically that day
after he became so drunk
so gay laughing
on a swanky liquor bottle
the secret police sent him
without much regret
for his information
as his valise was empty
after your own milk money
he was throttled
in the show car
and shouting about
ran to the Black Forest
resting home
where he was suddenly taken
for a battery of tests
including allergy
as he was summarily mistaken
for one of the doctors on call
as member of the clergy
or a monk
after they saw him naked
as a scurrying skunk
on the outside swings
trying to perform
a third of his circus acts
for us
in one of the rings
with the energy of a pal
he just picked up as a scalpel
even in the dull surgical
adjusting the bed
in the operating room
when he nearly
broke her Dutch skull
of the mean spirited
cleaning lady behind the wall
who could not believe his size
as she walked her broom
wanting to be his bride
as he her groom
already on the aisle
and in her bedroom
when he was out of doors
for a while (in an aside)
and caught
watching as an informant
for the Stasi
important spies in Berlin
telling Grimm tales
as was his style
as a minor Fassbender star
who had a restless smile
and often dressed up
as a woman in waiting
after a series of light beers
confessing his faults
baiting us in a foul language
to open up our bank vaults
to endear and cheer us up
in the gay West Berlin club
boasting as you are
drinking his draughts
of a magic raw drink
until he was caught
by the law putting up
with a new girl or boy
filling up their cups
as their tragic foremost guest
the actress Heidi giving her
a whirl down town
for a good half hour
boasting in a laughing jest
toasting his theater career
doing his acting best
dressed to act like a clown
with a rub a dub dub
in the sauna
and five star gay bar
rubbing in the Dead Sea salts
at the sauna baths
at the Kosmonaut
as he cleaned off the snow
from his red vest and pants
wanting be a man
on the go
now that the war is over
he acts as if almost retired
and tired all slogan of rants
from the city park
and coldly sparkling weapons
now already
put away as shadows
in the dark bed of a trunk
and you have recovered
a lucky Weimar clover
to play with under the stars
remember,Wolfgang, be clear
as these cars are revealed
on this display as created by
by an all German engineer
from the Ruhr
in a valley of iron and steel
you have the small spare key
to turn on before
you fix the car wheel
whose father once built a tank
all spic'n span
for the Russian front,
forget all the fangs and funk
of the former fuhrer
or discredited Red union leader
you can still use this
metamorphosis of junk
in your love trunk reunion
from a van or even a sedan
or as a taxi,
who cares
who sits in the front seat
but the fancy man from Leipsig
who was a war criminal
or from the Stasi
once an ex Nazi
you have the pot luck
of war's ammo
spotted in the spotlight
from Singapore,
just play your part, Wolfgang
for us in the people's car
or use it for a taxi
you may have little time
to adjust for a spittle of justice
this last time
in the truck
you always made
with luck
for a final sale on the dresser
with your huge stick shift
raised as you have learnt it
and earned it
with Lieutenant  Maxi's
ardent praise
at your fingered largesse
of your body of work
like any poet of mime
without any justice
for the jerky laws
in your big perks
as you just lift up
your big prick
and pecker on the desk
for a little fuck
with her obelisk
of a divine cunt
who was just sold to Esau
for a party of nine in Mecca
as she was bought
on the way in Budapest
for a little bottle of red wine
designed in Paris, France
with a feathered hat
you are given
and her three decker home
with a golden dome
on the Rhine
and a blue pendant
from Pope Pious
and new hope chest
with a blue marble crest
of the Teutonic night
as you wore high tights
and Mathias had
a black banking vest
intact for the rainy
Rhine weather
with a liquor or wine
for that fine college girl
with so much knowledge
as a sour national
socialist and racist
with a scientific bias
from Stuttgart
you had in a quick whirl
with her as you alter to fix
the spare tire parts
for you realized, Wolfgang
that civilized life
desired (after Hitler)
is only to make a joke
it's all the show business
of laughter
to fill the rafters
as you remember
when the Prussian spoke
others always listened
in the privileged hallways
at our dead end way
on the Autobahn
so why pretend,old man
if we can survive
a Russian winter
as in 1943
so act that
we are glad to be
alive after Stalingrad
we have the facts
and artifacts
in the archive back draws
to survive another  day
so do smile,Wolfgang
don't be dismayed
there's no more
war crime trials
life is worth more
than shouting out
for an hour on a soccer team
or giving out red flower
with a banner on May Day
of a hammer and sickle
a dime or a nickel
with all going to Hell
you will still sell new cars
under the stars
to a Muslim, Hindu
to Israel
or to the American Jew
this is 1952
when Stalin died
and the Red Army cried
everything before
is only a memory
of good and bad
so why be mad
it's soon Victory Day
in January 1953
at the few refugees
at Checkpoint Charlie
or at handsome Vlad
you don't mind the K.G.B.
or C.I.A.
you have anti-freeze
if you are cold
undersold or freeze
some day
you may have to pay
now you are free to play
with the red star brigade
and fool around
for the next parade
no judge is found
only remember
the murderer
Hans Globke
at Nuremberg
is part of the golden
rule of law
don't be a fool,Wolfie
or try hide
your  German identity
you will soon
be shown on American T.V.
on war criminals
please decide
to ask your brother to pray
as you take him
away to boarding school.

Monday, January 16, 2017


Your language years
are becoming clearer
as an illustrator
painter and sculptor
meeting Malraux,
living in 1939
on the eve of the war
in Bordeaux
arrested by the Gestapo
he found refuge
in Chatenay-Malabry
writing his "Hostages"
about victims
of fascism
worked on "Illuminations"
by Rimbaud
and on Dante's "Inferno."

(for T.S. Eliot 1888-1965)

Here in Rockport
down by the spice corner
buying a chocolate candy
now I'm ice fishing
in the early dawn
the sun contributing
to the shade
playing my alto sax
by my orange kayak
trying to relax
lunging along the rocks
at Halibut Point
when watching clowning
children making
fifty cent lemonade
I'm back at the sea docks
with a net of butterflies
my back to the wind
thinking of the poet
T.S. Eliot who visits here
looking at the church clocks
wishing he has not sinned.
( in memory of Kenneth Rexroth

Who understands
a blank page
on canvas or cloth
when that moment
has not stylistically
Kenneth Rexroth
running on riffs
of renewed energy
pushing out to jam
on the boundaries
to take out all the spam
in free stops
and span of notes
on sharps and flats
of a Renaissance man
in a shout to survive
at my soprano sax
amid the Beat cats
of expanding
San Francisco's art
in the shield of demands
from playing your part
in the vanguard
of a relaxed actor
and artistic director
connecting or conducting
the avant-garde scene
in devoting your attention
by shielding all your stress
and noting down tension
to your satisfaction
as if drawing out
a color field painting
in a coating of abstraction
waiting and guessing
until the process
will begin.


Something filed way
as dada could be rare
like tokens in poetry
of Apollinaire
or feeling verboten
wanting bitters
or you were hurt
on a barrier
do not linger
turn around
before you have found
Kurt Schwitters,
so why question
complain or carp
dada had given you
the sculpture of a singer
in the pleasure
of Jean Arp,
with fine art's continuum
from a spectrum's span
in an outlined metamorphosis
from a measure
of color and design
in Juan Gris,
by passing his shadow
desiring peace
you know the Guernica
in the Kultur of Picasso.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

(In Memory of Yannis Ritsos
1909- 1990)

In residence
of permanent exile
and resistance
of a memorable body
in the poetic vein
he is removed
not as a savant in vain
but in the regiment
of those who escaped
to the isles
from the fascist noose
as a servant who cut loose
barely escaping in a century
without many answers
of subterranean reason
in the penury laugh
of petulant glances
from the colonel's smile
of the general staff
as Yannis Ritsos
had barely written ''Liberty"
on their bloody epitaph
when at a spring landscape
he leaves his initials
by a Mediterranean rainbow
near a garden Evergreen tree
shaped by a geometric design
of an abstract clever Picasso.

(January 15)

Solitude is my strength
into a body of poetry
not forgetful in its length
for a poet sent
to the slag heaps
suffering the ragged wind
upon a heavily
covering snowy earth
we are remembering
how once Josef Stalin bluntly
ordered the Crimean Tartars
to slip out and go there
Mandelstam still keeps
in our memory
from a distant Russian Gulag
but  any Osip do not despair
in a mood of gentleness
for another generation,
we will not weep
for we have your old portfolio
carried from the 14th station
of your Messianic cross
for those who suffer
handling the Word
as nations are troubling us
by coldly double crossing
the nations
and to take away your rations
for the blackbirds
rising over the cloudy sky
yet are still basking
in funereal torment
is what we are learning
as we comment on
to bless you
celebrating what occurred
one hundred twenty five
years ago
with candles burning
like stars above a shroud
asking for
a dramatic language
in a shout out
from our memory
sending a didactic greeting
and message of love
on your birthday.


Visited your mortuary
this December
in the snow
viewing poets of our era
your awesome sculpture
of poets as we view
Rimbaud and O'Hara
Berryman, Whitman
and Thoreau
not only in stone
but also of the philosopher
and Christian martyr
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
as we go back far
of those armed by culture
unwillingly scarred by war
or exiled by State
by unsavory politicians
still to be known
in history
whom fate rarely smiled
yet in memory
or glory of a few
who still smile on
Alexander the Great
or Oscar Wilde.

(in memory of Luis Marsans

Luis Marsans
it was only one year ago
we lost then recovered you
in review of your paintings
exploring with you
Proust's "Rembrance
of Things Past"
it was snowing also
your last January day
and it caused me
to pause in a pall
that kept your memory
as I was going to visit you
in a museum art catalog
and speak quietly
to you as a poet
who could make a memory
of a coke can or Bik pen
resuming my play
of dialogue
about your exiled Catalan fate
how you traveled to Mexico
rebelled with the surreal artists
who came before you
set loose with adventure
always striving for clarity
spanning your honorable
cultural elan,
you will live again
Luis Marsans
in this fine art's quatrain
as in "Varia" (1983)
a one in a century time
which kept your viable
invisible soul on a shield
from my ramparts to tell
in the trial of a language
on a color field
from your departing breath
in the area of long passages
hearing a village's evensong
that discovers how to assuage
an image of humanity
we who have wept for you
in the last toll of a bell
that presages death.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


Their footprints
now in the snow
chafed my pea jacket
as wise guys
on the corner
play bocce
feeling abandoned
by the every step
turning on my headlines
the windows froze
as a brown bear's shadow
appears in the woods
probing out of nowhere
though I'm playing my sax
trying to ignore him
in the forest corridor
and relax.


No free ride
on the Aspen slopes
in tricky conditions
snow boarding
for the winter games
when riding over hills
from the hinterland
in rough shadows
of a sled
in a slumbering white
picture as the sunshine
as you won
now sitting by
the day bed
drinking red wine
at the fiery logs
reaching for a chapter
of my new play's
dialogue ready for
on off off Broadway.

Exchanged faces
by the pale gallery walls
as I played Scriabin's
etudes and preludes
in the art museum
when my piano recital
was sharply scaled down
after my last night dream
waking to a Pushkin halo
of a Russian sunset
now my notes
are as twin stars
as a family body
of kin arpeggios
from a distant
memory of notes
offering up an appearance
brushing into my allegro
with an illusion
at my solo performance
with a congenial memory
of the "Inferno"
being in the ninth labyrinth
of Dante's hellish shadow
exploring a stirring echo
of the audience
in a launch
of grinning applause
which would not stop
with stomping feet
my mind enfolds
as if in heavenly rainbows
as I play scriabin
my sleeves rolled up
turning away my mind
from all encores
in a churning oblivion
from many hours
into exercises of learning
as a woman
with a flowered
peasant dress
presents an icon
to me at the end
of my performance
taking my leave
quickly departing
as an iconic pilgrim.

Playing my guitar
of Mozart Variations
by Fernando Sor
wondering why
we are set loose
on a banana boat
starting out
under the stars
by Vera Cruz
in Mexico
meeting a prisoner
who unwinding speaks
to me freely
in Spanish
under the Thursday sun
and as a brother
tells me and Banna
he was set free
by my essays and poetry
who quotes a witty line
of mine about justice
and suddenly vanishes
not knowing what
he will be in for
going behind
one of the bars.


Behind the butterfly screen
after waking from a dream
on my daybed
after a novella reading
Melville's "Pierre"
and laughing at the humor
at Nabokov's "Lolita"
after an indoor garden visit
stirring my glass of tea
Russian style
by the lamp's neck and arm
I peruse the Dutch poet
David Muidernan
and put Jacques Prevert
in my pea jacket's
back poet
who always calms me
when I read him
then cut loose
on my motorcycle
clenching a gloved hand
from my urn into a ball
hearing the church chimes
from my corridor hallway
twelve times at noon
suddenly everything
turns surreal
for this poet's solemn funeral
on January fourteenth
with all of nature's chameleons
under the rays of the sun
thinking of an epitaph
of Anais Nin said,
"We are going to the moon
that is not far,man has much
farther to go within himself"
as I pay tribute to one
of the dead.


A bard woke early
in a sound proof studio
at his keyboard
to play a piano solo
of Ravel's tribute
to Couperin
he had stored
in his memory
then a bolero
which spoke to him
after he spoke
by long distance
to a  doctor
and friend from Mali
in a dissonant
phone conversation
who had a strange dream
of being at a leper colony.


Normally here in Paris
they congratulate me
by throwing themselves
into the conversation
at this bookstore cafe
even at this late date
as I collapse
from exhaustion
embarrassed at my attempts
after this poetry reading
to get my bearings
one woman
in a flowery orange dress
devouring a croissant
even putting aside
her breast feeding
laughing incessantly
at my many variations
of finding paper and pen
I am thinking philosophically
(in silence to myself)
at my green tea bench
if the French translation
of Baudelaire
was ready to share
with the audience
after there is applause
at my book signing
with one informed child
named Jean Pierre
about nine years old
(in my recollection)
taking my collection
off the shelf
when are the others
were sold.


The young city landlord
Sam who was a photographer
from Amsterdam
had a sideline career
with a weird humoresque
of a mustache, beard
and sideburns
which hung near his
long hair and pony tail
which was the style
I was about to learn,
who kept down the rent
at the first of the year
when he saw me
crash on the day bed
preparing my play
at the "Original Theater''
stayed awhile
and quickly became
my cashier
and publicity agent
who kept in touch
slept on occasion
nursed over me
over a hard cot
on a stormy night
without much persuasion
as we debated
about the Sephardic bard
Isaac D'acosta
until the Dutch first light.


As a January snow storm
is beneath our train
a drift sinks its teeth
in the vanishing rain
thinking of the day
when I was emerging
for my first urban reading
and ran into Allen Ginsberg
at the Manhattan station
(yet pardon,me)
looking like Cinderella
with an Eastern turban
who quietly kissed me
on my head
who came to hear me
carrying his sitar
matching to accompany us
in the downpour.


A last Dear John letter
by an empty wine bottle
in the middle of a storm
with fallen telephone wires
shattering the traffic signs
past the dawn
as you are saying farewell
in the windy underground
yet somehow feeling better
as my tenor sax
jazzes me up
in the nature
of love's constant riddle
in the middle of Hell.


The snow on headlights
on the woodsy road
in the darkness
from winding shadows
with rain vanishing
from the windowpane
when she says,"Yes."

Friday, January 13, 2017

(1900- 1955)

Rushing towards
the museum
stopping at
the painting
that always
inspired me
with his hallucinatory
dream history
of psyche
and psychology
from Brittany,
at Yves Tanguy art
in picture episodes
of psychology
as in"Mama, Papa
is wounded!"
with an unconscious
war and soldier drama
in an arty army
doing you part
not withdrawing
from honor codes
when shielding the molten
dripping surfaces
within a visionary canvas
reaching with precision
of playful execution
in each pictorial variation
with a color field solution.

A bard in Sioux City
Iowa had a manly mind
of a glad day encyclopedia
from a hundred generations
with a book of knowledge
always on hand
with a brush or brush off
from the dark hallways
in his expanding mass media
when he thundered words
of romance from his Empire
about his taking chances
by doing mad cap seances
out in the country
shouting out his business
of his advertising desire
to be a stand up comedian
pop, soap and opera star
from an ad agency medium
of the avant- garde.

Out of doors
at the wishing well
hearing a melody of birdsong
with her own predictions
in this poet's metamorphosis,
how we long to view
on a Friday of predictions
below a corridor of mirrors
a few jelly fish are swelling
in the tank as eons of time
with contradictions in the sun
telling us their future thanks
of wishing to be contented
as true starry-eyed chameleons.

At the Deli counter
there was an encounter
with a Beat poet
who sat down
in shirtsleeves
all in heat
and hid under his menu
silently reading a BZ poem
of the Seventies
having a salami
as his first course
the waiter asked him
for a contribution
to the winter Olympics
from his earlier memory
of his Norse named
son Arvid
who did not survive
a rugby game at Harvard
for which he replied
and complied
of course.


My pupils were singing
like the blackbirds
in a commotion
here in the back country
in Vermont
and I was ready
for my cheese croissant
at my day bed
from this morning's
at the wings
of these galleries
being personally painted
at the Green Mountain
art colonies
waiting to take my kayak
now anchored for winter
out to the ocean
on my car
down to the Cape
from this snowy hinterland
and to play jazz riffs
on my tenor sax
motioning to the captain
for a New England
land map to the sea
in protocol to corridors
at this journey.


History looks at me
from the academic greenery
of a solid red brick library
reading a commentary book
as a critic of my poetry
is not disappointed
as in a deafening hacking
nor wavering in my abstract
combining a modern sculpture
with a shield of painting
covering the cloth
in a faint color field
of Auden and Eliot
I'm working on.


Have we not learnt
from Abraham and Isaac
from the ram
on the thicket
we are a burnt offering
from his only son
to shield us
with all the promises
as we weep for Sarah
from Hebron
as a living multiplying seed
as it says in Genesis
all nations shall serve Him
with the Lamb
in His deed of the cave
upon the fields of Ephron
to save us in Jesus.


Here we are in 1944
on picnic grounds
picking up
blue Stars of Bethlehem
as poet drinking
by the fountains
making my bicycle stops
with secret code drops
to aid the Allies
on a city garden
somewhere in Prague
holding onto a dog
watching returning
soldiers jamming
with chops as drums
filling some of their mouths
with left-over pomegranates
on earth between mountains
with a sea of postcards
eyeing a crow's nest
a flock of trained birds
and a hawk as our guest
who exchange messages
in every dust up
to win the war and guard
us by a cave's shade
in our sun glassed vision
near the whitened birches
with Chopin still
playing in Warsaw
and the last little
Yiddish paper
unsold even
for a half a zlota
in the last ghetto
reserved for torture
and for the slaughter,
you had a zero hour
to leave
your hospital ship
of wounded soldiers
yet you hold onto shells
with once deadly information
in a loss for Germany
the merciless fascist enemy
stationed by the ocean
in a prison camp
tattooed by curved
Spanish roses
and butterflies disclosed
once in motioning the parade
of the Abe Lincoln brigade
and a sailor's brush stroke
from a Jewish refugee
tailor from the old country
with snowflakes seen
on his Polish gabardine coat
of many colors now faded
on his sleeves
who soundly labored
in the coal mines
of a Southern Siberia bog
searching without Pravda
for the truth
with a case of diphtheria
and an ear infection
who quotes from Gogol
and " Notes
from the Underground"
takes his late leave
with a single suitcase
walking by dogwood
and hyacinth
in the ninth labyrinth
harried on exiled days
wanting to dance
a hora
hosting a strange person
an informer
in the form a Golem
trying to ignore the horror
of the war
like a dolphin spy
making its way
trying to keep warm
from the past night snow
seeking an open sky light
draping himself in sackcloth
and ashes in a sandstorm
over the Mediterranean
going to Jerusalem.


It was the time
of the Blitzkrieg
and you wrote
in your diary
how you played
Grieg's violin sonata
in C minor
by the broken mirror
that life would proceed
from a great memory
as the night slips by
and water drips
from the ceiling
all over
yet even in the silent traffic
of demonic U boats
covering the Atlantic
there is still hope
to be glad and rejoice
from the charismatic
in the rumbling voices
from the Warsaw ghetto
by the snows of Stalingrad,
from a dramatic span
of America's stance,
shadows arise
in the distance
of exiled days
with patriots on trial
soldiers hospitalized
Desnos imprisoned
Walter Benjamin dies
there is a good chance
for victory.
over the enemy.

Thursday, January 12, 2017


in a frenzied light
from Rothko
flashing to me
as a pattern
in a taxi
on my way to
play riffs and jam
on my soprano sax
to play jazz at midnight
in Manhattan
near the Schubert Alley
of the Broadway area
as we crash
yet no one is hurt
near my club
yet your performance art
shines in my memory
of a spiritual
divine credibility
from the Houston
Rothko chapel
as the snow drift rises
on our window
we invite
Sam the driver
to go out with us
and he discusses
from the car's silence
his own experience
with Jesus
as he is a survivor
of a ski accident
in Laconia, New Hampshire
as he sings to us
with his Basque guitar
by the river bed
from a Bach cantata
we were trying to relax
after his tenor solo
and the canned music
from the T.V's dubbed
laughter at the club
then we are fed
with a bird's bread
and drink a fine wine
as my poetry words
are read under the stars
until sunrise.


On a Sabbath day
passing into a footpath
on Cambridge Common
meeting Sylvia Plath
with Ted Hughes
by the tall rough grass
in the early sunny dawn
having to choose my way
as a somnambulist jogger
later I wrote about you
returning from a dig
in Jerusalem
as a distant runner
and poetry blogger.


Promise me
on Christmas Eve
in Wales
that in my dream
of Dylan Thomas
in a wind riddled nightfall
of memory,
my kayak
sails by the Atlantic
as you devour glasses
by drinking
fountains of Irish whiskey
at your third visit
to the bar
to devour words
of your quatrain
with all hyperbole
slowly walking by
the Black Mountains
needing a year
of swaggering pain
and thrashed out complaints
you quickly crashed
near a moldy basket
stuffed with a career
on white sheets
of buttoned up words
in a disillusioned lexicon
you are red eyed
in a gloomy mood
in your one room
between a shadow
by a lampshade
of your sentences
stamped by cadences
and sudden blackouts
on molehills of sleep
drunk with solitude.


A mystical dreamer
of our age
you summon me
with your fingers
it seems
in a philosophy
heavenly room
as Kazanstakis gestures
and lingers to me
puts me cavalcade
and plethora
then he parades me
between a taffeta bed
and backgammon tables
of joker playing cards
in an avant-guard of humanity
from your angel vanguard tract
of a bardic language
kissing me from an infinity
and in a grammar spoke
against mammon
in a love of alpha to omega.

(for David Gascoyne
1916-2001 in memoriam)

In a a flood of ravines
a scream was heard
from Spain
as the mean violence
of disciplined fascism
waged war on us
up to the Ukraine
in those black days
of 14 stationed
cross and skulls
from soil and blood
and broken limbs
by a monastery silence
crossing in a lull in Europe
by a few of the righteous
hiding of the Jews
whom God sent
are known from the flesh
and abiding
in the spirit of Jesus
with widening wounds
and scars
waiting for the good news
from the third heaven
for a new generation
of children,
consider David Gascoyne
real yet a very surreal poet
as the critics know
is called clever,
never superficial or didactic
sits Isle of Wight window
and shadow
with the sad widower
by the snow storm
knitting a winter
warm sweater by his side
decides to pray to give
out the Word
of the Gospel
as we have reported
and heard
that gloomy Europe is dying
in a background of sin
and  prism of antisemitism
from their state
of second rate politicians
who collaborated
and corroborate
(you can tell us now)
what the stars forecast
even from an underground
will appear from afar
not despairing
but awaiting
their boiling punishment
by the Son of man
who will be put in Hell,
as a new generation
of shut -ins may repent
from their lonely sins
as only a few awaken
from their graves
with smiling hymns
not forsaken but saved
out of being gloom
on their faces
by a few remnant
of Christians
with special graces
from the new heaven
rooms in the mansion
with golden floors
of the new Jerusalem
on open new doors
with the Blakean sons
of Shem in freedom
and rebirth on earth
for a bride and groom
of all races
but knowing full well
the open Revelation
beyond the letter
in the spirit of judgment
from John of the "Revelation"
upon his poetic lips
in exile on Patmos
telling of the Apocalypse
on these Gentile governments
of the nations.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017


A marvelous Greek actress
and opera singer
Maria Callas
a voice heard
once in a century
whom we met on stage
before her Paris obituary
after her Medea performance
full of the presses rage
with tension and stress
in a beautiful white dress
overwhelmed by
the Onassis scandal
she apparently
was too embarrassed
she could not hardly handle.


Banna putting on mascara
on her grey eyes
as you clear your face
for your clients
when men glance
and swoon
in your woolen sweater
including those of science
and nifty fine arts
who composed
for me love letters
about your viscera surprise
whom you should have
known a bit better
between night and noon
then moans breathlessly
when the now infamous legend
of dead men bones
from your new groom
is disclosed
in a curtained seance
which now arises in London
behind the curtains
slowly in a worst wonder
between night and first light
shuddering in the blonde sun
with their rag tag combs
offering a ring of love to her
in the living archives
as actors far from their homes
among the leering abstracts
cross haired artifacts
and Party hacks
awakening from nuanced
your sound bites
in the troubled underground
by the day bed's mirror
out of doubled doors
hiding a fake stolen Vermeer
under your arms
in a spying C.I.A. dossier
now running away
from last Sunday's
wedding day
having an Indian pudding
as an appetizer
reaching out
with a hand and finger ring
in her sandy feathered hat
sighting Catty Potter
on Brighton beach
with a purple umbrella
in the weathered rain
with several clothes bloggers
running over red flagstones.

Banna from Britannia
near Hadrian's wall
whispered to me
in her dressing room
that she was loveless
as a baby doll
until she met me
yet she knew I was
a revolutionary bard
wishing to play a part
in my avant-garde
comic play
on the Cavalier poet
Richard Lovelace
then she became
in her emerging career
as a difficult Hollywood actress
in the cult of Venus
not contrary at the mirror
at her spoken difficulties
of language barrier hurdles
soon finding an Adonis
by losing a girdle
choosing a winding bra
for her intriguing
swishing wedding dress
she is horny by book shelf
shows me collections
looking at
BZ's poetry and prose
who poses for the camera
without shame
as her agent put her
in the adult movies business
and mass media
and gave her guilders,
money and gelt
in Dutch and German
and much American wealth.


We stop in London
for Richard Smith's exhibit
who has now departed
after Dick created
a pioneer slick shield
of abstract designs
between pop and high art
with a pure color field part
as a vibrant pioneer
of abstract designs
in his passionate career
from the cultural Sixties
as a canvasser
of "High Fashion"
"Purple,Red and Green"
and "Big Number."