Monday, July 31, 2017

blue Monday
you blast out from your sleep

on the diving  board
you strive

to swim and sail
like Ahab's whale

with the vim
of the grim reaper.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Saturday
when we are safe

from amplifying life
defying  the past

of a reality check
and compliance

in the fine arts
and science.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

writing Thursday
on a page

texting my life
to sum up my life

full of the creativity
of an age of strife

rolling over topics
when you lived  in the Tropics

with your destiny
in poetic storage.

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

trying to go on
with my disappointments

writing up
a storm at the river's edge

holding onto a neon
butterfly in the light

between a warm morning
and night.

Tuesday, July 25, 2017

what remains
of my life

like summer rains
which will mot last

yet brings back
all the artistic strife

of our caustic
past.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

A warm July
day on the hassock

waiting for a friend
to share

trying to be fearless
and not give into

a melancholic
or panic despair.

Monday, July 17, 2017

listening to Mozart
on an afternoon in July

mushrooms being found
outside the door

the cat is hard
to ignore.


with a heavy metal smile
the drummer plays

all night
inspiring an actor

to interpret
him in a play

he helps
to star in.


reacting to
diversity

of scene
here on the boardwalk

the many
university students

ask me to read
a gender fluid poem.
exit the river
which unites

the fragments
of an expressible life

fishing for salmon
here surpassing time

with an uneasy wish
to catch a haul

in a basket
for lunch.
A baroque clock
found in an auction

not far from Paris,
located in a bazaar

not far from the Seine
wishing it would keep

time for me on every road
in exile.
reading Lautreamont
in a Moldoror of horror

and a metaphor
of catastrophe

of poetic justice
erupting into loss

seized with humor
in a parenthesis of guilt

of amour
and racy obstacle

in a miracle
of apostrophe

in an orgy
of the deranged.





Saturday, July 15, 2017

living your time
with a stopwatch

for a poem
to emerge in the park

you stay still
with the cat

until it is green
and dark.
A bird
behind the Paris sky

we walk on the boulevard
until we reach the bicycle race

and join in at the end
on the main field

and come
in second.


the dawn
started out with ease

tennis is played
on the court

You looked for love
for support

after your
life was cut short.

Friday, July 14, 2017

the waves are nebulous
seaward over my boat

quoting Baudelaire's
poem on the albatross

watching tossing swimmers
on the diving board

a sailor stare at us
fishing for salmon.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

A living death
of breathless wind

on the home harbor
where we make our way

to fish for flounder or sole
lost in passages

of wind swept navigation
on a July morning.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

I personally call
on my Muse

by the river
of cherry trees

with a sunny column
to the skies

do not desert
this still cloud

for rain
is needed.



Tuesday, July 11, 2017

the lights
in your eyes scar

when the wounded
past of war hurts

no one knows
what dog tag

the soldier wore
but for us your witnesses

not ever be
forgotten.
no one answers
no one listens

only the words
of my meditation

gives me pause
not willing in poetry

to obey the  laws
but to speak from my soul.
A listless dawn
when only the cat

seems content
in the grey alley

in the air
that sleepwalks

and we munch
on mushrooms.
An innocence
of shrunken images

after a life long perusal
of poetic justice

with a sorrows of long era
of being multiplied in sound

with images, words, shadows
of underground banishment.

persecuted for
the game of life

against the windows
of a serenity of words

a pick pocket poet
deposits images

of shattered glass
from an exile.
A black and blue
shadow in syllables

and parables of my words
are sent out to the globe

hoping there will be
images of transience

will recall a memory
of more than faded love.


Monday, July 10, 2017

a dream
in creativeness

a bird quivers
on the bark of the tree

he spies me
getting him water

and quivers
on the hillside.

barefoot as the sparrows
in the mountain crevices

a face in stone
searching for water

a blue July sky day
moves us higher

in a collage
of sunshine.

Sunday, July 9, 2017

expecting to hear
the sparrows

at my windowsill
searching for water

and bread
you step out the door

to reinvent
the past for tomoroow.


Saturday, July 8, 2017

the ship passes by
with morning coffee

waiting for a homecoming
in the port of call

the tiny craft warnings
of a gale of winds

emerges
as we sail to the Coast.

Friday, July 7, 2017

like a gaggle
of geese

reading Demosthenes
outside the library

the students
are informal

having Swiss
cheese.


Sharing a salmon
and lone potato

we motion our lips
as I recite a poem

of the Apocalypse
and we examine this quarter

with a lemon on this ship
and sparkling water.



Politicians
claim to want peace

but in their arms
are an increase of armaments

with pen and ink
the government thinks

we know
they are not Christians.





we stare
at the trees

looking for nests
of conspiracies

and see the games
of birds

and suddenly
am at a loss of words.
we repeat the mirrors
of our cremated times

dated to the chance
of banishment

ascending each morning
like the birds

destined to wish
to be at the shore

to share our bread
and so much more.
the flowering seed
giving life at birth

the butterfly showing
off its new orange wings

the scraggy fish
off at the pier

the last wish
to live another hour.
For Jean Senac
(in memory)

the scary knock
on the door

the arbitrary bell
of military police

the trumped up
charges

against a poet
for his soul.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

the sea rings
her melody

dances on the shore

what better time
to ask for peace

not war.
Seeds of spring
 love twists

in the wind
planting a glance

above the garden
hoping to be forgiven

yet seeking a pardon
of a romance.

Monday, July 3, 2017

jazz on a june night
out over the esplanade

by the river
forgetting it is only

in poetry's memory
that we will remember.

Sunday, July 2, 2017

why do we endure
so much

for the rhythmic touch
of phrases  and words

in our
verses

when life reverses
in its poet's clutch.

Entangled in Vermont
in my aunt's maple tree

seeing the constancy
of nature's arbitrary leaves

the butterfly sears the dawn
near my open neck

and catches me
unaware of other stinging bugs.