Saturday, June 25, 2016

Soviet Pilot Bing Loved

NOTE: It's been months since I visited my own blog. Parlty because of recovery from broken hip.  This poem fro my book, Sweeping The Sky.

    Soviet Pilet Being Loved

Didn't we ever lie back, our
arms, our legs outspread like wings
and rise to pleasure as some
comrade-lover-airman-officer was entering?
Of course we did — some of us — but
we began to feel
we should be flying, not
lying upside down
on the runway,
grounded again.

I found myself remembering
how I'd rolled to the right
and up under the bomber's belly,
my fighter's cannon and machine guns
pulsing. After he left
I borrowed a broom

and swept out the room.

(I still have a few copies on hand. The favorite of my own efforts.)

Saturday, January 9, 2016


  Happy Holidays

Time limps on between Christmas
and New Year, the news sharing 
daily retrospect and prediction so
luckily we hear less that's actually 
happening. I'm left remembering 
family meals as many others did.

Why no relatives of my parents 
at dinners like those so achingly 
described?  I start by remembering
all my grandparents dead. My father's
three sisters, married,  lived within
twenty miles. In my life I've met one.

Of my mother's relatives I've met 
only Anne, her older sister. I wonder
where all those aunts, uncles,.cousins 
were.  The temperature a record high,
I replant my living Christmas tree. 

I call out to the calm, unfrozen pond,
"Merry Christmas, Happy New Year

to everybody's Tiny Tim,  everywhere." 

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Being Up to Date

December 19th

Two days before solecist the south-east sun
first appears above the crest of Poland Spring
Hill, the image of the tall water storage tank a
clearly shows as if a mystic monument set
by some shaman of the industrial age to mark
the south-most annual migration go the sun in
its roughly one-hundred thirty degree seasonal
arc — the clock-time seven thirty-five as I
stand naked about to dress in the new light
I'm barely feeling — in ten minutes I am
dressed ("decent" some call it) and the sun's
full disk is clear above the ridge of the hill,
a ridge fringed by dark pine and leafless oaks.
Already I'm impatient waiting for the sun
to rise from directly east of where I'll stand,
as I do now, across the still unfrozen pond.
My christmas tree is stand-in for a sun-dial.

Saturday, November 28, 2015


      Graffiti Slouches Toward Salem

Commuter Rail rattles toward Chelsea, Lynn,
Swampscott. It was in Ipswitch, north of Salem, 
Lionel Chute and son James switched nations, 
emigrating from Dedham, County Essex, in 1634. 
Along the tracks houses turn their backs. We 
pass junk-packed yards and storage sheds. On 
the right, in a ragged marsh, beds of cat-tails 
stand stiff in their washed-out winter shades. 
The train ducks beneath an overpass, rises, 
passing boarded second story glass windows.
Taggers with their spray cans, like busy dogs, 
have had their say on blank walls with cryptic
abstract designs — on walls above shore wrack 
left by social tides for art abhors a vacuum. 

(Lionel's great grandson, Thomas  moved to Maine in 1735.)

Thursday, November 5, 2015

What Can Poems Be About?

           Universal-Rundle Aqua-Flush (3.8 Lpf *)

Many have said "Anything may be the subject
of a poem" — well — In the curved chrome polish 
of the urinal's universal valve my
reflected face is twisted to a fun-house grin. 
In the deepening pool a candy wrapper spins

reminding me of rats tested for memory 
in water made opaque with milk swimming,
seeking the small rest platform the rising flood 
concealed. The forgetful circle, scrabbling the slick 
stainless steel tub 'till a gloved hand comes down

to save them before they drown while the rats
that remember where the rest platform was
rest and wait until God, in his write lab coat,
shuts off the flow, drains the flood. Wet rats shake. 
The discarded candy wrapper relives it's fate. 

* 3.8 liters per flush

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Most Recent Poem

                 Milkweed Dreams

On a hill beside the lake milkweed pods 
split silently, taking days to create an improbable
cotton field caught in light of a low slung Maine 
late October sun. Growing to white gold before 
sunset, before a cold clear night when hunter's 
moon, a magic naked diver, hangs bewitched and bare
above the water. The bashful moon waits for 
a cloud to cover her. The night waits for the 
slightest breeze when milkweed seeds may drift off
unseen, as faces in a dream you know you
had but can't remember. Seedpods open as 
two small hands in supplication. Signal: Please,
let this breeze carry us to fertile ground, not lakes

or this dream is one from which we never wake.

        I did better in posting this time.With reference to the previous post: the sun was bright and warm before the picture window this morning at 6:13 AM. I carefully avoid adding any porn.

Compensation: On The Ides Of August

Compensation On The Ides Of August Six thirty AM: naked in the picture window, pleased by the rising sun — but soon I must drew the shades for you pay for the light with heat and by noon the room would be too hot. Nature, Emerson says, is not given free and like any pleasure payed for by protecting it or restraint or other compensation. Afternoon, reading on a bench by the pond an old oak substitutes for the shades. a tree which isn't mine in the sense of being me but I protect, care for, as I guard and care for my home. As for my pleasure in rising early to stand naked and dress in the morning sun, where is the payment, the compensation Emerson claims must be due to even this if it gives pleasure? It must be that I am here alone — I mean I should have been a sufficiently different me. to have brought thee,whoever you are, to be here with me in Nature's blessed light.