NO MORE WAR(A BEAT POEM)

No more war,
we called out for an end
to their mad machines
in the Sixties
at the screaming yellow press
that their fellow tabloids back
to depress and oppress,
and feed their populace
in a thousand words
with popular Kultur
a paper made for the birds
with news of infighting
for we choose to be open
in the quiet light
of the people's dreams
as I'm quietly reading
about the Kurds
in the newspaper, Freiheit.

DREAMS

Seems

that there is

a stranger

in these dreams

which turns over

in blankets

of a manger

or a stage manager

who hears me,

directs 

and closely listens

near the light

around the Evergreens.

THE LINES

The shopping lines
telephone lines
waiting lines
voting lines
party lines
secret lines
headlines
deadlines
we face so many
every day.

A SWEDISH HERO

Today we know
Wallenberg is dead
my hands breathe
in the blood of snows
Raul you helped to save
Jewish souls
that would have been lost
to Hitler's Holocaust
we honor you,
small children
scientists,
artists,
so many on the lists
of fascists.

A BEAT POET

A Beat poet
in a frenzy blinding
of a ragged edge
in 1950's jazz
at intervals of riffs
troubling our vision
as a city lights up
in language
at a San Francisco club
and drops slam words
in primordial space
from verses opening
in a kind of perpetual
motion,
here in the abyss
from time bombs
and a metamorphosis
flashing out
at an unexpected traveler
by storming out
at life's wrongs
at this podium
in a sentence at our humanity
from a one sided
condition with echoes
of a sentient transparency
alive with Picasso paintings
of impulsive colors
from a visionary
in a surrealism of songs.

TOWARDS NOON

Guessing the last day
of October
will admit the horseflies
up here at the barn
in Vermont,
of course
we want our skis
to go cross country
near the farm
they are harvesting apples
and ginseng Chinese tea
as my aunt bakes
spinach and cheese croissants
when she cooks very early
and continually
with a hurting arm
reminding me
of nana Mendes
with her hurting arm
in her Spanish country kitchen
of steak, pancakes and eggs
by her open corridors
doing her priorities
her food tasting like manna
from a fed heaven
for the small multitude
hung out
with her early priorities
as she vanishes toward noon
by her bed and breakfast nook
as my city companions awake
I'm consuming a memory
of my translated poetry
in a book
now in seven tongues
with a savant's attitude,
and then on my knees
as an in -door servant
reciting the beatitudes.

CLIO

My memory
opens up to Clio
in the mythology
at a scene of history
a Muse
across the waters,
a daughter
of Mnemosyne
who is in antiquities.