April 18, 2017
Walking, mostly neat in clockwork close meter,
Warmer ghosts from my former features;
All the roles, All the resume’,
Falling in line, Just the crew to rescue me.
Faded as sad old soldiers, parted.
(Vain fantasies say old glories stay guarded)
Again, always, They had heaved it all in a heavy chest.
Again, always, they had heaved in their chest
Taking it to heart & head.
I’ll call it for you my own VFW
hall. I have my own tall tales to tell,
We’ll share lies, & libations.
I’ll wear my mightier pen.
I’ll share sham wisdom wide open.
But first, false memories in verse.
& what’s worst, I’ll con, & confide open.
“I’m ready to go anywhere/ I’m ready for to fade/ Into my own parade”
—————-Dylan (the troubadour one), from “Mr. Tambourine Man”
“Every hero becomes a bore, at last.” -Ralph Waldo Emerson
. (5 yrs back)
January 11, 2014
I got word from my brother,
A suggestion from one lover;
It’s a fine time to fill in those spaces,
I’ll take on cyber lawyers, to fill out a cyber will.
Cards splayed out on the table,
A gasp goes down ’round the drawn crowd,
As they turn to peak at my color
Already leaking from my face. They cannot wait.
And I turn up to seek her colour,
Already flushing her chest and cheek.
I can very hardly wait
She’ll start to try to speak…
And I’ll find and see
All in all, the riches mined & left shining
Are just filthy lucre
December 24, 2013
how Art thou? Do you drink from the deep sink of inspired creations at an art museum, gallery, or maybe a street art fair on a street near you?sometimes?
Do you have something on one of your walls that you could only fall for?
And, can’t help but stare?
It’s an important thing,dontcha think?
It has been from an early age for me.
I’m told that soon after I found my father who had killed himself (the Hemingway), while all the distraught adults who knew & loved him were off balance with emotional & practical adjustments (like selling the house and moving on)
a forgotten first son had got into several paint cans and expressed quite a colorful statement on the backside of the new house for sale.
I was perched high for me
in a pinepitchtree
and waited out what I did
as I watched our house’s back side
where I painted from all the paint cans
stacked out back. Though very new plans
made us move away from that life.
Daddy had died and left that life.
Somebody and something could only cover
a french girl with hair from the girl in Breathless
was our art teacher that visited
Miss Blue’s 3rd grade class,
and liked my painting so much
she asked if she could take it
for a contest, or a book she was working on.
The blurry greens and blacks,
browns and blues was a ship in a storm.
I never saw it again but
somebody and something could only recover
still, tie me to the mast.
I must get the next good grasp
still, the next limb up
to see some.
January 23, 2013
always, it was his alleys to town
then, streetlighted streets through and through town
then, Dawn’s alleys all the way, aways and up from downtown
call off yr search
It’s all been a hoax
I haven’t been far
I have only been barely fair
I’ve barely fought my fog-like fugue
It’s hugely due to pointless and errant
On turbulent, or at least
October 1, 2009
My memory and Ann Arbor holds dear to its temporary possession of this place in the 70’s, a way cool midwest college town version of one right as rain honky tonk joint in heaven, “Mr. Flood’s Party” it was called.
It was named after a poem. I need to dedicate the reading of this thing to the spirit of Jerry Jeff Walker, Gram Parsons,& Lucinda Williams. Here’s to ya then
MR. FLOOD’S PARTY -EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Old Eben Flood, climbing alone one night
Over the hill between the town below
And the forsaken upland hermitage
That held as much as he should ever know
On earth again of home, paused warily.
The road was his with not a native near;
And Eben, having leisure, said aloud,
For no man else in Tilbury Town to hear:
“Well, Mr. Flood, we have the harvest moon
Again, and we may not have many more;
The bird is on the wing, the poet says,
And you and I have said it here before:
Drink to the bird.” He raised up to the light
The jug that he had gone so far to fill,
And answered huskily: “Well, Mr. Flood,
Since you propose it, I believe I will.”
Alone, as if enduring to the end
A valiant armor of sacred hopes outworn,
He stood there in the middle of the road
Like Roland’s ghost winding a silent horn.
Below him, in the town among the trees,
Where friends of other days had honored him,
A phantom salutation of the dead
Rang thinly till old Eben’s eyes were dim.
Then, as a mother lays her sleeping child
Down tenderly, fearing it may awake,
He set the jug down slowly at his feet
With trembling care, knowing that most things break;
And only when assured that on firm earth
It stood, as the uncertain lives of men
Assuredly did not, he paced away,
And with his hand extended paused again:
“Well, Mr. Flood, we have not met like this
In a long time; and many a change has come
To both of us, I fear, since last it was
We had a drop together. Welcome home!”
Convivially returning with himself,
Again he raised the jug up to the light;
And with an acquiescent quaver said:
“Well, Mr. Flood, if you insist, I might.
“Only a very little, Mr. Flood—
For auld lang syne. No more, sir; that will do.”
So, for the time, apparently it did,
And Eben evidently thought so too;
For soon amid the silver loneliness
Of night he lifted up his voice and sang,
Secure, with only two moons listening,
Until the whole harmonious landscape rang—
“For auld lang syne.” The weary throat gave out,
The last word wavered; and the song being done,
He raised again the jug regretfully
And shook his head, and was again alone.
There was not much that was ahead of him,
And there was nothing in the town below—
Where strangers would have shut the many doors
That many friends had opened long ago.