A Song for Our Times

I really don't care - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
we'll turn up the air - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
the climate has been - BEEN HOPING THE TEMPS WOULD DROP
so very nice - I'LL HOLD YOUR HANDS, I'LL PUT THEM ON ICE
Al Gore has started to worry - I'M PRAYING FOR A SNOW FLURRY
Ralph Nader is pacing the floor - LISTEN TO HILLARY ROAR
I'm gonna learn to like curry - THANK GOODNESS THAT YOU'RE NOT FURRY
well maybe just one gas tank more - CRAWL IN THE FRIDGE AND I'LL POUR

we won't go out there - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
we won't need underwear - BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE
I wish I knew how - THE SIDEWALK IS MELTING NOW
to break this spell - I'LL DRAW A BATH, YOU'RE STARTING TO SMELL
I oughta say no, no, no sir - WE WON'T EVEN NEED TO KEEP THE TOASTER
at least I won't drive fifty-five - WHAT'S THE POINT IN STAYING ALIVE
I really don't care - BABY DON'T BURN UP
OOOH, BUT IT'S HOT OUTSIDE

BABY IT'S HOT OUTSIDE!

-Ralph Murre

Reminder

All writing, art, and photography on this site are the work and property of Ralph Murre, unless otherwise noted. And yes, Arem Arvinson is just a figment of my imagination, so I think I can speak for him. Anyone using any of this work without our permission is gonna piss us off. We'll be flattered, sure, but mostly just pissed off.

- RM & arem

# 181

in this life

we dare not

but we do

in this dream

where anything goes

I can't find you

- arem

Blue Moon in June

sometimes, it's just a moon

sometimes, it's just beautiful

- arem

belief

as I question faith

a woman in the darkness

gives me her flashlight

- arem

eyeing it

because of my friend, john brzezinski,

i got to looking

at the word "eye" in english

and "oko" in polish

and "ojo" in spanish

and the winking word for "eye"

in several scandinavian languages

and found a little face in each.

john's eyes seem to work that way, too;

seeing what others miss.

- rm

last haiku of spring

quiet morning pond

even opening spring leaves

dare not make ripples

- arem

apologia (not a mountainous region)

My apologies to those who made the trip to Wautoma last Thursday to hear my reading. Due to the predictions (which proved to be correct) for tornadoes, hailstorms, and other beastly bits of meteorological mayhem, the gig was cancelled and we have decided to try again on August 2nd. Be there.

- RM

Other Voices

More than a little excited to have half a dozen of my poems chosen for a new anthology of the work of 22 emerging, if not young, artists, authors and poets. This not-so-little beauty, "Other Voices", promises to be a very engrossing series of reads, as packaged by no less than Editor Norbert Blei hisself. To many of you, that should be 'nuff said.

What we'll have here is 304 pages of essays and excerpts, poetry and photography, humor and pathos generated on both sides of the Atlantic by as interesting and interested a bunch of folks as I can think of. It's been my pleasure to meet about half of this tribe, and believe me when I say that I think we're in for a very good time.

But where can we get these wonderful books? - well, I thought you might ask, so I'll tell ya - to get "Other Voices", order direct from the publisher: Cross+Roads Press, P.O. Box 33, Ellison Bay, WI, (USA) 54210. The cost is $17.00 plus $3 shipping and handling, each.

cool

I have a new web page, courtesy of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets, to whom I am most grateful. You can find it (I hope) at http://www.wfop.org/poets/murreral.html . It will function, I guess, as a sort of Intro to the Fascinating World of Ralph, but I'll still be here, hiding behind the broad shoulders of Capt. Arvinson.

- RM

for C.L.

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Ashore
for C.L.

That lanky boat you sailed
forever and every day
came ashore without you
and we wondered what storm
you’d found that wouldn’t let go,
what pulled you to that deep place
where waking and sleeping and
the beyond and you, even you,
are the same color?
And we wondered what freedom
is that color, too, and what
voice she calls in
to bring landsmen to sea?

What voice allows letting go?
What song?

- Ralph Murre

Shall We Remember?

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In Memoriam

Shall we remember the believers
and forget their beliefs –
the isms and schisms and pledges
and pride, the presidents,
ayatollahs, and chiefs –
which can’t be denied?

Shall we honor only the fallen
and forget those who kneel,
praying to find some way to heal,
forget those who thought
“thou shalt not kill” was for real,
those who, unarmed, have also fought?

Shall we gather at tombs
of the heroic enlisted
as we stand on the graves
of the unsung, who resisted?
Shall we weep for the masters?
Shall we weep for the slaves?

Shall we weep for the meek
as we weep for the braves?

- Ralph Murre

tell me why

if you've never written

of soft things among the the rocks

oh please, tell me why

-arem

going

going sky sliding

airplane riding

may be back to look for you

may be hiding

where a stream runs through

- RM

ink and blood

Black River

This black river flow of nightmare night
like wartime ink and blood –
dark headlines and blind alleys
and allies blinded too –
in their >Yes, George< wet t-shirts
warm as death and prayers
like Now I lay me down
and if I should wake
oh please, if I should wake
let this have been my dream
and make the morning bright
a laughing mountain stream
and end this blackened char of night
where sacrificial lambs
lose sacrificial limbs
and they’re bleeding in the aisles
singing patriotic hymns
and they all are in the headlines
oh please, bring up the light
and stop
this black river flow of nightmare night.

- Ralph Murre

Call of Water

moonless river night

in its darkest murmured flow

one boat still at work

- arem

Laura

Was There a Poem

in her dark hands that milked cows and made lace,
hands that fixed tractors and wiped tears?
A poem in the dark hands
that built houses and kept them, that worked the earth
and folded to a heaven she was sure of ?
Hands that hammered out justice and
handed out calloused caresses;
those hands that labored at the piano,
but changed flat tires with ease?

Was there a song in her dark eyes
that laughed easy, but cried hard;
eyes that saw good wherever it hid?
Eyes that struggled in darkness
to read the verses and read them again
until she saw light in the words?
A song in the dark eyes that bid me welcome,
the colorless eyes that I bid good-bye?

Was there a portrait in her dark face?

- Ralph Murre

Crude Red Boat

Mighty pleased to say that my book of poetry, Crude Red Boat, just out from Cross + Roads Press, is now available. The 2 or 3 of you who regularly read this blog may be interested to know that only a couple of the poems in the book have appeared on the blog, so most will be new to you. I think you'll like the book.

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For ordering information, email me at littleeaglrpress@gmail.com

- Ralph Murre

So

So this white Anglo-Saxon protestant walks into a bar - and nothing funny happens.

RM

oh, please . . .

Won’t You

send us an image of peace, they say
send us some words of peace

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

tell us how the fighting will stop
tell us how a father can sleep
how the hawk and dove will fly in love
and how manna, not bombs, will drop

- but I really haven’t seen much

send us an image of peace today
send us some words of peace
surely you know to which gods to pray
to make all the craziness cease

- but I’m only 63 and haven’t seen much

except for the look in a child’s eye
and lovers on river banks in spring
and I think you could melt tanks for ploughshares
and you could teach someone to sing

- but I really haven’t seen much

I guess maybe you find it within
maybe you let the peace out and
maybe it spreads around that way
and you forget what fighting’s about

- but I’m a dreamer and haven’t seen much

- Ralph Murre

drive

There's a hole in the dark

big enough

to drive a dream through.

- arem

godfather of bluegrass

for Bill Jorgenson, gone now

Sing us another

from the bluegrass, Brother

or from the blue sky above

you sang it clearly

and I loved it dearly

when I asked for

"On the Wings of a Dove"

- Ralph Murre

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

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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