RS
Albatross hangs on
another’s neck, the
smallest significant font,
self-printed
magic poetry
eco-write
has going for it.
Brilliant oft’ elusive scribe,
your mix of father
and full time
librarian has
brought great books and strong
poems to our attention.
Your sons made
a movie that grows,
migrates to
one festival then
another. Your TV is
boxed up, allowed small
time, thus you
saved brains for
creative work that exposed
the huge gap
between rich and poor:
U.S.—Mexican
divide aired
from labor’s point of view. Your
own poems
are worthy of the
postage, let them fly.
DTM
Style, humor,
unexpected twists,
your type of poetic verve
is understated
yet lasts in
brains you haven’t yet
met. When the girl in pink socks,
platform shoes and done
face glances three times, to you
it is a story, to us
not noticed.
You’ve kept the Friday
Noon Poets going and the
service this provides
to aging
radicals and blessed
thinkers, those who listen and
those who write, makes our
town a better place. What of
cats, outer Cary, romance
of the kind
only California could
bring? Infused
nature sparks lines, but
your optimism
is what keeps
books sales as high as two or
three hundred:
the type of numbers
laureates deserve?
The Dream
I jumped in the car
with Leo, or was
it Bradley?
We motored I-Eighty One to
way west of Scranton to a
red fieldstone with
fancy peaked
entryway with arch,
keystone and
contrasting yellow
rocks scattered in. To
my surprise, we were
there to meet
Bob Dylan, played very well
by Dustin Hoffman. He was
put off by strangers,
protected
well by doting
younger blonde,
yet followed us to
jam with friends,
show us the surrounding hills
and mountains,
skip stones in flowing
Susquehanna, laugh
at our youths
and finally thank us for
stopping by
to spend time, eat, drink,
relive merry days.
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Above New ones, Below, Old Ones
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The Falls
Broken fender, twig in line
And light blue sky with trees.
Green on blue and mountain fine
With warmth upon my knees.
Summer sun at winter time,
Snow still on the ground.
The place is set for water-mime
So I listen for the sound.
The sound is one of Bash Bish Falls
And now I tend to stare.
Everflowing echo calls
Of water in the air.
It makes me think of trees gone by
And people never seen.
It shouldn’t, but it makes me cry
To think of where I’ve been.
Now I sit with tears on face,
Knowing all the glory.
Now I sit without a trace
Of how to tell the story.
Laguna Beach Bum
Late again for dinner and drinks,
Another embarrassing smile.
Going down to where it stinks,
Under the manure pile.
Never letting others know
About the feelings that make you go.
Brutally allowing forces to control
Eventually turned your heart to coal.
Always walking alone on the beach,
Casually being sucked by a leach.
Hosting depression within your soul.
Bartering life on a rotten deal,
Understanding you may never heal.
Muttering quietly, “How does it feel?”
Take A.I.M
Several times within the week
My heart begins to ache,
To the Seneca I speak,
No need here to fake.
Skaneatles, Canandaigua,
Wine surrounds the lakes.
Seneca and Keuka
Are missing native wakes.
No more red-skinned swimmers,
No more birch canoes.
Bare Hill is getting dimmer,
Iroquois are few.
Ganundua is still quite red,
But only once a year.
At other times the nation’s dead,
It always brings a tear.
Iroquois nation will return,
Just look into my eye.
The rage inside the nation burns
We will never die.
A.I.M. is the American Indian Movement, started in the 1960s.
