listen

listen to the stream

talking in woodland whispers

to the roaring sea

-arem

SIGN FROM GOD?

"God Has A Big Eraser"

said the sign at the Baptist church,

which surprised me a little,

since I didn't think a Big G

Baptist God would make many mistakes

but o.k., I figured

there might be some,

like if the Big G

really did create the Big W,

that might have been a mistake

you'd want to erase,

and AIDS probably wasn't

such a great idea,

and I wonder if

the level of desire

left in old men

was a miscalculation.

- Ralph Murre

tiger, tiger - yearning - bite!

the drawing was inspired by an entry on the wonderful blog of t.k. splake

http://www.vertinpress.com/index.php?p=blog&id=BLOG

Kurt Vonnegut 1922-2007

cover art, kurt vonnegut

"WE ARE HERE

ON EARTH

TO FART AROUND.

DON'T LET

ANYBODY

TELL YOU

ANY DIFFERENT."

- kurt vonnegut

orange

now this wide highway

where crane danced and turtle slept

orange schneider trucks

- arem

A Celebration of Flight

Crow Ink by Sharon Auberle, 2007

You may be forgiven if you haven’t read Sharon Auberle’s first three books of poetry, (A Green Absolution, Sanctuary, and A Necklace of Birds) because you may not have known what a writer she is, may not even have known of the books’ existence. If, however, you fail to get your hands on a copy of Crow Ink, don’t say you weren’t informed.

Auberle is a poet who divides her time between a green peninsula of Wisconsin and the arid mountains of Arizona, between the teen-ager in her heart and the somewhat more mature body she inhabits, and between having her feet on the ground and taking to her wings, which only the most blind among us cannot see. In all this, she shows us the connectedness we share with the natural world (and, possibly, the supernatural), she floats comfortably in this foggy patch between past and future, and records her heart’s journey in an unashamedly romantic way.

In “Heron In Winter”, we can sense a little of Lucinda Williams’ sentiment as Auberle tells of a great bird stepping out onto thin ice, “. . .

. . .a connection in the season
when bird and woman
must leave safe ground, . . .

. . . it’s what we have to do
sometimes, to survive.
The sky is a mirror

beneath our long legs
but oh, beautiful sister,
where will you sleep tonight?

I mentioned, earlier, that she shows us our connection to nature and time, but it goes far beyond that for Sharon, who appears to be at the very center of it. For instance, in “Today On The Rocks” . . .

. . . listen:

one day you’ll be part of all this
and what binds you now
who makes you weep
will not even be a memory.
What will remain is this:

a flash of déjà vu, perhaps,
between strangers
a vague yearning in them for water
their joy in a river of stars
a rock pattern, the light on a wing
they stop to watch, translucent
as it catches the morning sun.

If you have grown weary of poetry that takes concerted deciphering only to learn that it means nothing at all, I must heartily recommend that you make the switch; go over to Crow Ink. To get your copy, contact Sharon Auberle at sea_poet@msn.com . (that’s sea underdash poet.)

“But, wait a minute,” I hear you saying, “isn’t that YOUR art work on the cover of the book?” Why, yes it is, thank you. “And isn’t Sharon Auberle a friend of yours?” Why, yes she is. “Well then why . . .” I see – why should you believe what I say about the merits of this book? – because it happens to be true.

- Ralph Murre

Another Good Thing

I'm proud to announce that some of my work now appears on-line at Passport Journal, a pretty classy site, if I do say it myself. Go check it out at www.passportjournal.org

and some may

Oh, Beautiful Yesterday

What’s become of them, I wonder;
the soothsayers and blacksmiths,
the coopers and lamplighters,
cart wrights and caulkers.
And what’s become of sidekicks?
Pat Butram -
Andy Devine -
Ed McMahon -
the jesters for justice
and the American way;
where are they now?
Jay Silverheels doesn’t count,
since he was smarter than the boss:
against the silent code of sidekicks,
against the law of buffoonery.
Sidekickin’ didn’t seem like a bad gig,
except for being shot at some
and never getting the girl.
I suppose they were on-call a lot
and did their share of sleeping on the ground,
but they seemed pretty happy.
I believe young people should
look into being sidekicks,
check with tech schools,
learn to ride.

- Ralph Murre

* *

Post 150, Faith

faithful as bulbs

waiting in cold soil

or nuns at their prayers

the calendar pages

of spring

- arem

Gone Blind

* * *

Justice! they cry
save me from it, sez I
or I and my kind
would swing in the breeze
and a lonely trumpet play
and the thingies would
tug at our flesh
‘til sometime late in the day
if anyone knew
that we weren’t on our knees
begging spirits in the sky
begging please
let us try
one more time
for courage, for courage

Let us try
one more time
for courage

For I and my kind
by choice have gone blind
and our names
are signed to the checks
and our names are in the desert
of oil and blood
and our spirits
are dragged through the mud
as Old Glory waves
and we salute the ones
who send children
salute, and dig graves
for our children
Let us try
one more time
for courage

* * *

- Ralph Murre

Sky Writing

15 March 1852

. . . I must hie to the Great Meadows. The air is full of bluebirds. The ground almost entirely bare . . .

- Thoreau

Guest Author

....................................."Ralph Borrows the Flyer" photo by Nancy Vaughn

Flexible Flyer Rides Again

This story is dedicated to all parents in the winters of the 1950's who told their kids to go out and play. And when the reply was, "…but it's too cold." The answer was of course, "Then put on some warm clothes!" And we did. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

A few weeks ago, we celebrated Makena's fourth birthday. It was the first really nice snowy winter day we had all winter. Makena wanted to go sledding. Great choice, the infamous Hill 17 at Peninsula State Park. When we arrived, I was surprised and a little disappointed. Not because the hill wasn't big enough or the conditions weren't perfect, but all the sledders were dragging such poor excuses for sleds. I felt very sorry for all of them. Don't these people know how to go sledding, I thought to myself?! Most of them were carrying inflated pieces of crap, stuffed under an arm, as they trudged up the hill. They call those sleds?! First of all, a real sled has to be heavy enough so when it careens out of control and hits someone, it really hurts. That's part of the deal. Secondly, you pull a sled up a hill for Christ's sake. And you pull it with a rope. And not by another piece of bright yellow plastic, instead of a rope, but a real honest to God piece of hemp. The rope. It has to be worn. The more worn, the cooler it is. And if the rope looks like it just came off someone's horse or John Deere, all the cooler.

As we got out of the car, I proudly reached into the back seat to retrieve my trusty sled. I will show these people, what a sled is. This is not some poor excuse for a sled, nor is it plastic. Nor was this a 'retro sled' manufactured in the 21st century to look like the real thing that we used back in the 1950's. This was the real McCoy from our childhood. THEE FLEXIBLE FLYER from our childhood. (Not to be confused with our beautiful red, dented, metal flying saucer.) But what I reached for was the "nothins' - too - good - for - the - Vaughns" Flexible Flyer from our childhood. I thought it was about time to dust off the sled, which I shamefully admit has been stored in an attic or used for nothing but a Christmas decoration for the past 39 years. It was in the parking lot, at the foot of the hill, when I realized that it was probably a good thing that Makena is still too young to know how to be embarrassed by a grandparent (Ralph and I only have about 1 or 2 more years of that "not-yet-embarrassed of my Grandpa and Nana" window). All heads on the hill turned to see this old-fashioned wooden sled, with real steel blades flash down the hill! I could just imagine the words being exchanged ... "who’s the nut on that thing? Are they trying to kill us with that hunk of wood and steel?! Oh my god, that thing really can go, can't it? It actually steers and everything. " Needless to say we had tons of fun. I was so proud of my Flexible Flyer, that when people who were old enough to know, commented on the Flexi Flyer, I of course told them that it was my actual childhood sled. I was admired by all. I felt like a celebrity.
But, of course Ralph couldn't be outdone.

Ralph reached into the back of the car and pulled out his 'emergency #12 scoop shovel.' The kind you carry in case you get stuck in a blizzard. Unlike Makena, I actually thought about getting embarrassed, but quickly reminded myself that, don't worry Nanc, you knew before you married him, that there would be times like this. People's heads turned, once again, not to gawk at Makena's weird grandpa, or in admiration of the Flexi Flyer, but more of a quizzical look like, "Why is this guy carrying a shovel to the top of the hill?" Without saying a word, Ralph mounted the scoop shovel, gave himself a push and zoomed down the hill with a trail of snow shooting up from behind him, where his heels were digging into the snow from high speed. Yes, Ralph is now known as the guy who rode a shovel down Hill 17. On the 4th ride down, I heard a loud crack from the bottom of the hill and knew I should fear for Ralph. I didn't know if I should be afraid for his ass, his crotch, his legs or his life. But he made it and the shovel was the only one to suffer any damages. The plastic scoop shovel finally cracked down the middle, after it's 5th trip down Hill 17. After all, it's plastic, what can I say?!

- Nancy Vaughn

rushing by the boys

cold steel below the surface

a girl and her sled

- arem

B & W

In Black and White

Like keys of ebony above the ivory’s glow
in the bright of a single spot, and
like the raven who scratches morning’s snow,
I play a somber tune.

Like wartime headlines screaming loss
in 48-point bold atop the page, and
like the black-dressed widow darning socks,
her chair and basket the only props;
this white-washed street the stage
where a leading man once stood,
I play a somber tune.

Sunlight and time may bleach the notes
and fade them from the page,
but ‘til there’s light in this dark mood,
I play a somber tune.

- Ralph Murre

Scofflaws at Best

Well, I heard it again. Someone on the radio pontificating that we are "a nation of laws" !

I guess that may be the direction they're hoping we'll take, but I don't think it's true now, and I don't know that it ever was. Seems like our sympathy has always been with the outlaw. Screw the crooning dufus in the white hat. Screw the guy behind the tin badge. And if you're not driving at least 5 or 10 miles over the limit, screw you. Who do you know that's completely honest with the tax man? Seems like every really good piece of American writing I can bring to mind has a hero who's doing something vaguely illegal.

I guess a declaration of independence will do that to a people. Kinda goes to their heads. So you get guys like Thoreau who inspire guys like Gandhi who inspire guys like King. Seems like the only hero we could stomach out of English tradition was Robin Hood, tights 'n' all. Sheriff of Nottingham, Sheriff of Dodge, they're all the same. They're all after Robin and Tuck and Huck and Jim to stop 'em before they become Henry and Mohandas and Martin. Then they might have a nation of justice rather than a nation of laws, and that might be scary for the badged and the badgers. (ain't it odd that the non-violent heroes of real life don't seem to live very long?)

Most of us, even the fairly well educated, and especially our lawmakers, have a pretty shaky knowledge of our constitution, but you can walk into any corner bar in the blue-collared U.S. of A. and get a pretty good description of what's in the Bill of Rights, the laws which tell what we CAN do, instead of what we can't. So, I think it may be accurate to call us a nation of rights - try taking one away and see - but a nation of laws? Not yet.

Again, with the moon?

I am the one who would never start a poem with I am the one
because it would sound as though I was comfortable,
somehow,
with introspection and as though I had, in fact,
taken a good look and was ready to tell you all
what I had found.
I am the one who will probably always walk in the dark.
I am the one who would rather trip over what may
be hiding
than to never take a step into the unknown and
I am the one who may not be the one at all, I suppose,
but I am the one looking at another full moon
and wondering if another one sees it
and is the one who would end a poem with I am the one.

- Ralph Murre

Algoma, ca. 1970

Night at The Rustic

The aroma was Prince Albert
and Pine-Sol and Stale Ale
as she served slices of black-
skinned radish
on little plates of vinegar and salt
and the conversation was
of cabbages and caraway and
taverns like this one,
of Czechs and cheeses and church.
Machinists and millwrights
manned the stools, smoked, smelled
of sausages and sweat, made small talk
in the small hours
and faded away into country night,
coughing and laughing and
looking back at lives lived
out of limelight.
17-inch ball games
on a black and white Zenith,
17-cent raises after
17-week strikes.
Little plates of vinegar and salt
left on the bar.


- Ralph Murre

Post # 142

three times, at this time

the age of majority

playing minor roles

--:--

Three times legal now,

I drink just one-third as much.

Strange arithmetic.

--:--

three times 21 -

it's an awkward age, I guess -

budget for good wine

- arem

short stories

tracks in morning snow

writers going to breakfast

telling short stories

- arem

Not Always

Not always,
the merry heart of scarlet,
but cobalt, too,
indigo blue and
un-named colors.
Un-named moods
require other hues,
not always red,
not always red, I said,
but valentine blues.
Some hearts sing
valentine blues.

- Ralph Murre

An Anti-Valentine?

From this morning’s reading of Bill Holm’s Playing the Black Piano, in which he quotes from Walt Whitman’s “Poem on the Proposition of Nakedness”:

Let men and women be mock’d with bodies and mock’d with Souls!
Let the love that waits in them, wait!
let it die, or pass still-born to other spheres!
Let the people sprawl with yearning, aimless hands!
let their tongues be broken!
let their eyes be discouraged!
let none descend into their hearts
with the fresh lusciousness of love!

I suppose that’s enough from the black piano for today.
Why I came to it on the day before Valentine’s, is the question.
-RM

once more, from the top

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I wonder why we climb
jungle gyms and Everest’s,
Eiffel’s and maples.
So the gods can get
a better look at us, I suppose –
remember us when it matters.
Maybe smile at us and
think fondly of that time
when we surveyed, together,
the world sprawled at our feet.

- Ralph Murre

well and truly winter

how cold I had been

until I saw them swimming

swans in ice water

- arem

Falling

bronze by Thomas Gerhardt Smith

Like the woman
who fell from the sky
through the roof
of the Popcorn Tavern,
you might be surprised.
Like the people dancing
when the balcony collapsed
in Kansas City or
when the stock market
collapsed in New York City,
you might be surprised.
Like the little girl
who fell in the well in Texas
or the home-run hitter
who fell from grace,
or, like Custer, falling
on that day in Montana, or,
like a couple who fell in love,
you might be surprised.
But don't let that stop you.
You might be surprised.

- Ralph Murre

Molly Ivins 1944-2007

painting by Robert Shetterly
from his book Americans Who Tell the Truth

"The best way to get the sons of bitches is to make people laugh at them."

- Molly Ivins

http://www.freepress.org/columns/display/1

On Bikers, Birders, and Bush's

On optimism: As any successful off-road motorcycle or bicycle racer is likely to tell you, to move quickly down a boulder-strewn mountainside, you must focus on the path you want to take between the obstacles. If you focus on the rocks themselves, you are almost certain to hit them.

On pessimism: As any good conservationist will tell you, the damned cyclists will ruin the fragile ecosystem of the mountain and the world will collapse. Besides, it is our mountain, because we are good people and read books.

What do I think? Having played for both teams in the above-mentioned combat, I have to conclude that we all go through life making constant risk/benefit analyses, not without some selfishness, and we move on as we see fit. The way the scales tip for each of us may well be genetically influenced. Take the Bush family: No real personal risk to us, so let's send other people's kids racing down this mountainside. I don't think there'll be rocks. And what's a ee-co-system?

- Ralph Murre

oh no; a sonnet

photographer unknown

Where is the dreamer and where is the poet,
the shaded cottage, the girl in the boat?
Replaced by the schemer in real estate,
the big operator behind armored plate.
Are there roses in gardens by the six-laned road?
And where do the children play?
Through the bullet-proof glass of a long limousine,
I saw hope in a young bride today
and wished her luck, as the car left the curb,
bound, I am sure, for a greener suburb.
May her counters be granite with accents of gold,
may she circle the planet on cruises,
and if, it turns out, her groom's heart is cold,
may the best of fashion hide her bruises.

- Ralph Murre

Happy Birthday, Mr. Burns

For Robert

O, you told us o' the red, red rose
And sang in praise o' haggis.
In quiet Ayrshire countryside,
You raised up quite a rackus.

And fair you wrote, in bonnie burr,
And fair you wrote, my baird.
We must gae thanks for your sweet pen
As we kneel to pray the Laird.

Till a’ ink wells gang dry, Dear Rob,
And a’ the nibs lie rusty,
We will luve thee still, Dear Rob,
And quote your words, sae lusty.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
On this January night?
Nae, we’ll sing o' thee again, Dear Rob,
And o' Barleycorn tonight.

- Ralph Murre

Cone Flowers

Summer gone, Winter

cannot stop their budding:

January blooms.

- arem

At the Salon

I was honored to read some of my stuff last night, in the company of some very good poets from the area. We shared humor, pathos, and some real comaraderie with a large group of visual artists gathered for the annual salon at the Peninsula Arts School.

It occurred to me that among the many traits shared by poets and the other artists, is the sense of that need for us always to work toward that horizon which poses the question, "What is poetry?", or "What is art?" Our work, it seems to me, when it does not break new ground, no matter how well we replant and cultivate the old fields, cannot be called art; cannot be called poetry.

In light of that argument, I am still very uncomfortable thinking of myself as POET, but on good days, I strive for that far horizon.

- Ralph Murre

finally, snow - finally, cold

what spirits circle

the altars of sleeping bears?

what birds have not flown?

- arem

Forgive Us, Fathers

Martin, like Mohandas,
led multitudes to the threshold
of a new life.
Martin, like Mohandas,
was shot down
with one foot in the doorway
of peace.
Of them I sing.
Peace be with them,
and with us.

- Ralph Murre

and then, you

and you
and you have these places
I want to be
these bright and
dark places soft
and you keep them well
hidden
keep them well for me
dark places soft
and bright
keep them for me
soft and well
keep well, love
keep well
the soft bright dark
and you

- Ralph Murre

this winter, 'til now

only a groan of wind

speaks of winter

in this warm weather snowless season

wind and the child's heart

beneath these old ribs

- arem

citrus moon

fruit on a dark cloth

just beyond my fingertips

orange moon rising

- arem

No Pretty Picture

There'll be no pretty picture accompanying this last post of 2006, just the plea that you go over and read the Friday, December 29th entry at "Baghdad Burning", http://riverbendblog.blogspot.com/ .

I would love to see us all have a Happy New Year, but that will be impossible for so many. Do I think that is all the fault of us Americans or the Damned W. ? No, of course it is not that simple, but we have played a giant's part in making things what they are today, whether by design or staggering ignorance, or both. We ALL KNOW that the real reason for this war was that George Sr. had unfinished business with Saddam, who was quite certainly an evil man. "W" had to protect the family's honor. Now that Saddam has left us, Texas-style, can we find a way to mend broken eggs? Can we at least begin healing in 2007? Blessed are the peace makers, as it is written; let us deserve that blessing.

- Ralph Murre

Off the Bus

photo by Laura Murre

Though I was not born in the backseat of a Greyhound Bus, nor even in the back of the Model "A" Ford panel truck which served as the family transport in those days, I do enjoy a bit of ramblin' from time to time. Just back now from a most pleasant journey which included some holiday visiting with family and friends, some glum weather, some food and drink, some solitary wandering on a frozen lake. Memorable conversation. Unforgettable smiles.

And the joy of the road. Oh, not the faceless fourlane that made up a lot of the trip, due to the need to get along across the state and a bit of the next, but the little, broken-backed winders that I love to jog off to when I can. The roads that lead slowly past the tumbledown farms, all their possessions out in the air, like books with their covers torn off. Stories right out in plain sight. The two '66 Chev pick-ups, one with its hood open, cannibalizing the other, which lies on its side in defeat. Both near-overgrown with burdock and nettle. The ancient manure spreader, its chain apron broken in mid-field, still half-loaded and with ten year old brush growing in it. Dead tractors and the rusted implements they once pulled, their uses now all but forgotten. The tidy and simple house next door without electrical wiring, its neat outbuildings, the Amish buggy in the yard.

And the collections. A row of Massey-Harris tractors. A lot full of Pontiac Firebirds. Steam threshing engines. Sheds covered with antlers and hubcaps. And, if you're very, very lucky, there may still be a little cafe with walls of grease and calendars, tended by two old women, one permanently hunched over the grill, the other, plump and cheerful in spite of being the last of her kind, serving good pie and weak coffee and allowing that it feels like snow's a-comin'. Order the mincemeat, strike up a talk - this could be your last chance. Ask about the abandoned one-room schoolhouse down the road, the abandoned cheese factory across the street. The abandoned dreams she once dreamed. Tip her well and consider yourself fortunate.

You will be richer upon your return.

- Ralph Murre

Noel

phoenix sculpture by Adrian Murre

and angels will sweep 'round
their great wings holding light
and a radiance gather on earth
and copper brothers and golden sisters
and alabaster and ebony join
and the fox will walk with the hen
and fur-wrapped arctic women
dance with naked south-sea men
and you with me, and you with me

and three kings will ride out
to visit a new star
and renounce all unearned monarchy
and ship's carpenters and guitar players
and native princes and nurse's aides sing
and the hawk will fly with the dove
some may forget their injury
and a few may learn to love
and the drowning will be kissed by the sea

and icons will be painted
with halos of gold leaf
and most saints won't be sainted
most gods will beg belief

- Ralph Murre

snowless at solstice

the winter enters

with its dark coat unbuttoned

walking through these pines

- arem

Crazy

I hold you so closely and long
and tell you that you are not old
and tell you that after the dance
we will sneak off to the orchard
and lie together
beneath the blossoms
beneath the stars
and that sliver of moon
will make us crazy
for each other
and we will be very, very young

- Ralph Murre

beside my self

photos by Eddee Daniel, I believe

I got to thinking, this morning, about that phrase, "I was beside myself - with joy, anxiety, fear, etc." Nobody, it seems to me, talks about being beside himself with schizophrenia. I seem to remember that Lara was beside herself when she learned that Zhivago was in town. Anyway, I wondered a little about where the phrase came from and how it might have been originally used. I went to Google, that sum of all human knowledge, and learned this:

"Beside" was formerly (15th through 19th centuries) used in phrases to mean "out of a mental state or condition, as 'beside one's patience, one's gravity, one's wits'" (Oxford Engl. Dict.), and that use survives only in "'beside oneself': out of one's wits, out of one's senses."

"Beside himself. Why do we describe a distraught person as being 'beside himself'? Because the ancients believed that soul and body could part and that under great emotional stress the soul would actually leave the body. When this happened a person was 'beside himself.' This same thought is to be found in 'out of his mind'; and in 'ecstasy' too. 'Ecstasy' is from the Greek and literally means 'to stand out of.'" From "Dictionary of Word Origins" by Jordan Almond (Carol Publishing Group, Secaucus, N.J., 1998)

Well, there you have it, direct from Secaucus, N.J. - one of my favorite place names, right behind Hohocus, N.J. and Knob Lick, Mo. (But the mind wanders.)

Anyway, I thought that I've been feeling rather beside myself lately, in a multiple personality disorder sort of way. That is, all those different people that I've been, seem to be banging into each other in a rather annoying fashion. Little Eagle kicking Arem Arvinson in the shins. Van Ro and Skinny drunk and disorderly at Ralphie's Bar & Grille. It used to be easier to keep them all in their little compartments, their time frames, but now that I'm getting a bit older, everyone is just running willy-nilly. (Not a place name so far as I know, but it would be good.)

It used to be easier, too, to keep in compartments the Indian scout/farm boy, the art student/boilermaker, the boatbuider/land surveyor, the house carpenter/motorcycle racer, the glass blower/architect, the mariner/poet/dreamer, the husband/lover, the father/grandfather/doddering fool. But it's getting tougher all the time and the writer doesn't seem to care. The writer likes being beside all of these selves. And today, the writer is in ecstasy.

- Ralph Murre

Profitable?

You tell me you want to be a prophet
and I'll admit it sounds glamorous,
but I'm not so sure they're hiring.
Let's look in the classifieds, I say,
and when there are no ads,
There will be, you tell me.
Your first prophecy, maybe,
except that you were wrong
about what time you'd be home last night.

You tell me you want to be a prophet
and I want to be supportive,
but even when prophecy was all the rage
I wonder how well they were paid
and did they have full dental coverage?
And I'm sure New Year's Eve is busy
and you could pick up some pocket change
at birthdays and bar mitzvahs, but
you can't raise a family on that.

You tell me you want to be a prophet
and I say O.K., but what about schooling?
And you say there's a place in California
and they'll open one soon in Vermont
and not to worry, Dad, I'll find work
on Wall Street, probably, or
in a wedding chapel somewhere in Reno,
and I can see you've thought this through.
If you foresee Derby winners, let me know.

- Ralph Murre

Comments?

It has been kindly brought to my attention that people have been unable to leave comments for postings on this blog. I don't know how it happened, but I think I found the problem and have corrected it. Comment away! You'll still have to type in a group of letters which will appear in wierd print near the end, before you'll be able to post a comment. Sorry. If all else fails, or if you'd rather not have my millions (or at least tens, I think) of fans read your comment, email me at caparem(at)charter.net . Of course, you know you'll have to replace the (at) with the cool little @ symbol.

Fossil

elegant writing

an autobiography

in this time-worn stone

- arem

The Season

Like gondoliers on rooftops, we have to wonder from time to time, just what we're doing here. And I'm talking about the first world, know-where-our-next-meal's-comin'-from we. Hungry third-world types are off the hook. And I have no idea who's in the second world, or where to find it. No, I'm talking to myself, and those like me, with two cars and a garage to put 'em in, motorcycles and boats and vcr's and dvd's and ira's and nbc's. I'm talking about renting storage units to keep our STUFF. I'm talkin' about running huge diesel tractors to grow sunflower seeds to feed the birds so we can feel good about our ecological awareness.

What the hell are WE doing on this earth? I write this after looking at ad's for things I want, but have no need for, for several hours. Yachtworld.com, stuff like that. I look at competing species, and find that the pack rat is running in such a distant second place that he should withdraw. Oh, he's mildly acquisitive, but please - he likes a bit of shiny stuff, but has never enslaved anyone to mine diamonds for him. He has no snowmobile or 4x4. Not only doesn't he use fossil fuels, he doesn't use ANY, aside from what he eats. No, I think the planet would be doing just fine if pack rats and rattlesnakes were its big problems.

We, on the other hand, seem impossible to satisfy. And when we can't find what we think we need, we see therapists who drive Mercedes'. Preachers in Armani. Bankrupcy lawyers in Gold Coast suites. Spend a few hundred thou to educate the kids we never had time for. Sit at computers ranting on our blogs about the sorry state of the world today. Plan a trip to the mountains, the seashore, the mall. Of course, we can't go dressed like THIS, can we?

Do I have a point here? Well, that IS my point, of course - but I have to suppose that it's not by coincidence that I'm writing this as we enter the most sacred season of consumerism. Yes, I will be shopping for those near and dear, in the vague hope that yet more stuff will draw us closer, that I'll see that little glint in your eye one more time, that we'll be HAPPY. But if you don't shop for me, I think I'll be alright. Maybe we'll share a meal, or a drink, or a thought.

- Ralph Murre

with the same eyes

with the same eyes
through the same glass
the same moon
full again, but
never so full as
when you were in its light
never that color
we couldn't name
illuminating our embrace
and all of me
singing
all of you

- arem

silence

even this snowfall

sifted on my bamboo chime

cannot hide the loss

- arem

other places

a little journey to somewhere else
a look into the sky, a stranger's eye
another spider's imperfect web --
a weary road beneath the tires
a hard worn air beneath the wing
another experienced motel bed --
and home, the sheltering gable
and home, the well-laid table
a familiar hue, a look into the heart
overhanging pine and a familiar sky
though gray, my own gray geese fly

- ralph murre

Bowlful

Eat, drink and whisper a prayer of thanks. It's o.k. if you don't believe that anyone hears prayers. And it's o.k. to be merry.

- Arem

Arvinson Anniversary

Detail of a photo by Nancy Vaughn

Tomorrow will mark the first anniversary of this blog, and I look through the archives wondering what it is, just as I wondered what it might be on the day of its inception. It has become a part of me, I suppose, and like the rest of me, must seem a little peculiar to a new acquaintance.

Who is this Arem Arvinson, for instance? I first met him a few years ago and found that we had some things in common, including this body and this skull we share. Even his name, Arem, is pronounced like my initials: R.M., and my dad was named Arvin. Just where he came from is uncertain, but he seeks to counsel the neophyte writer in me - and to influence me in other areas - for which I must be on my guard.

Arem is the sort of guy who buys motorcycles instead of life insurance, has a bar tab instead of a savings account, would take a lover instead of a wife, believes in everything, worships nothing, has salt water and hot blood in his veins, and writes better haiku in a few seconds than I ever will in a lifetime. He's more at ease on a tops'l yard in a gale than he is at a dinner party and while I fear him, I also envy him.

When I can get him to talk, this blog will be about his voyage; when he's silent, I'll keep filling in with bits from my own mundane journey.

- Ralph Murre

A few notes: Photos and art (?) not otherwise credited are by the author. Clicking on photos will enlarge them. Many more entries can be found in the archives (it could be a long winter). Visit some of the sites in my links area, over there on your right. Comments may be left by clicking "comments" at the end of each entry, but can only be accepted if you type in a code of letters which will appear in wierd print just above the box where you'll type them. This is to beat the Evil Spammers. You can also email me at caparem(at)charter.net, but you must substitute the "@" symbol for "(at)". This, too, is to beat the Evil Spammers, who should all die.

tortured

with sky in its arms

the tortured gold tamarack

holds a blue lover

- arem

The Dark

po

As the dark tea of November

pours from a tarnished silver pot

life is slowly sipped

bitter dinner of winter dreaded

brief sweet of holidays anticipated

and daylight, oh God

the last shred of daylight

must be chewed from the bare bone

and savored.

- Ralph Murre

Rose

She carried a single rose
to this ceremony,
as they all did,
but she knew its value,
carried it close,
shared its beauty with few.

Of the windblown meadow
and tangled wood, this flower,
of the salt sea and earth.
And into his unsteady hand
she placed this rose,
trusted the touch of the gardener,
the trembling jaws of the wolf.

And the wind blew the grass
and sang of love to the pines,
just as though this was the way
the world had always been.

- Ralph Murre

Introspect

Eleven, Eleven

When serious November strikes deep scars
into chicken soup can Warhol souls
and limping veterans of endless wars
fire salutes to motherhood and political goals,
look within.

When the last of Summer’s fleecy clouds have past
and the gray ground freezes over graves,
when slaves are dreaming “Free at Last”,
and when the chief fails to mourn his fallen braves,
look within.

When you hear “don’t raise your sons to be cowboys”,
or “don’t take your guns to town”,
or when the crying won’t drown the noise
of another soldier stumbling down,
look within.

- Ralph Murre

New Light

there is a new light

in the tangled wood today

the wolf hesitates

- arem