like willow

blue willow weeping

in the wind of a low bank

the beckoning limbs

- arem

sky blue

the unbearable blue of cloudless skies
reflected in your dark glasses
but, today, the clouds

the spacewalk with no tether
free, at last, of safe gravity
but, today, the earth

the dream of flight, so close at hand
a pair of cranes leaves home
but, today, they return

- ralph murre

Passage from India!

Many of you younger readers won't remember this, but there was a time, shortly after the Beatles* left the side of Baba Ram Dass**, when he was visited by Bebe Rebozo***, who was in something of a quandary.

"Baba", said Bebe, "I have lost my way. I am clearly not a Beatle, but if I were, what advice would you have for me?"

"Bebe", said Baba, " I will tell you what I would tell you if you were not just you, but a Beatle, too: Bebe, you must simply BE Bebe!"

"But Baba," babbled Bebe, "I have forgotten how to just BE Bebe, and what's more, I don't know if I even want to be Bebe, Baba."

"To be Bebe, or not to be Bebe;" rebutted Baba,"that is the . . . (to be continued)

* Popular English Rock and Roll Quartet

** Garden Grown Guru

*** Friend and confidant of Richard Nixon

Decisions, August 9th

just past the fork

a moment's indecision

too late to go back?

- arem

Brothers

Suppose for a minute we are brothers, you and I. Suppose our mother has been attacked by a terrible disease. In the course of fighting the illness, our mother has become addicted to the drug which was prescribed to cure her. Now imagine that one of us feels that the medicine is doing her more harm than the disease and is struggling to get her off of the drug, while the other is convinced that she will surely die if she stops taking her medication, and fights to keep her taking it. Can we say that one of us loves his mother more?

- RM

Tobacco

On July 17th, I read some of my poetry to a small but wonderful group in Appleton, Wisconsin, and then began wending my way Northward on my faithful Harley-Davidson, Rozinante, a good little horse.

It has taken me a while to begin to understand my journey, and since it was not planned, I cannot say it did or did not meet my expectations. My route took me near the home of a friend I had not seen for over 40 years, and with some trepidation, I stopped to visit her. I don't know what I was worried about, since we had a good visit - talked very little of old times - but more about who we are now. Very interesting. I knew that her brothers, with whom I had been close, were buried somewhere nearby, in a Native American cemetery, and she gave me directions to it, so I could pay my respects on my way through. I bought some tobacco to sprinkle on their graves, which I did in my own not-so-knowledgeable but heartfelt ceremony.

Onward to True North, as best we in the Lower 48 can understand it, the Keweenaw peninsula of Michigan. The U.P. of the U.P. A good visit with friends Jikiwe, (potter extraordinaire, co-editor of the magnificent Cliffs "Soundings", and leader of the Vertin Gallery, one of the best I've seen anywhere, and to find it this far off the beat is simply amazing), and Splake, (Graybeard Cliffs Dancer, Chairman of the Bards, Editor-in-Chief, Angler-in-Chief, and poet's poet), lots of talk of spirits, good and evil, copper country history, then and now, mountain lions, tiger trout.

A visit to the fabled Cliffs - rocky spine of rock-ribbed peninsula, and site of the beginning of the Great Copper Boom of the Keweenaw, site of abandoned mining operations, site of spirits' homes, spirits pulled from Mother Earth and still at the surface. Spirits palpable to any but the inert. And, site of Splake's Poet-Tree, to which he guides kindred souls, and to which he attaches poems and other prayers for the winds and weathers to distribute as necessary.

I took the above picture of Splake at The Cliffs and had thought to take pictures of the poet-tree and other strange and wonderful stuff, but my camera ceased its workings, probably because of some electronic glitch, but possibly because of phenomena which would rather not be photographed. Without any pre-communication on the subject, Splake sprinkled tobacco around the tree before we left. Hmmm. Interesting, but not surprising.

Back at the gallery, I told Jikiwe of my intended, and arcane, plan to travel to Marquette via a little-known route of backroads and pack-trails. Well, he said, if you're going that way, I believe you should stop at a very old and traditional native cemetery that's almost right on the way. I did. Now, the purpose of my journey was coming a little more clear. A sandy knoll. A grove of ancient pines. Spirit houses on most of the graves. If you can go to this place and not be aware of spirits, you are deader than the inhabitants. Camera again refusing to try to record any of this, I leaned one hand on a towering pine, from the top of which, I SWEAR, a rattling noise and vibration emanated. I removed my hand, and the noise stopped. Put my hand back on the tree and the noise and vibration began again. I didn't lean on any more trees, but sprinkled tobacco on most of the graves, prayed to every deity I'm on speaking terms with, and pointed Rozinante up the trail.

My camera worked fine when I got to Marquette.

- Ralph Murre

Masonry

The mason of rainbow's arc and clouds' clash

must keep an eye on the sky, his brash

likeness painted in tons, before

the ones modeling there crash again

with lightning's hiss and float by

as if to wet another dry land, waken

another artist's hand, bands of color

inked in another clay, and leaden thunderheads

are mortared in another gray-scale day.

- Ralph Murre

another door

another closed door

and who'll ever know

if I peeked in

- arem

aweigh

Reading tonight at Appleton, then a-wandering via motorcycle, probably Northward. Will be off-line a few days.
Later,
- R.

Street Scene

how do such happiness

and such sadness

live on the same street?

- arem

So Long

So long, Lady Bird - thanks for the flowers.

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