The Greatest

While I live about 100 yards from a perfectly acceptable Great Lake, every now and then I take it in mind to go feel the cool breath of THE GREATEST. And the breath of Mother Superior was indeed cool this time. Set off yesterday on my mighty Rozinante at about 1:00 PM and rode ~ spent the night in Jim Harrison country ~ and was home by 3:30 PM today. Slew no dragons, didn't even see windmills. There were lighthouses. Derelict vessels. A really big lake. There was cold and rain, in tolerable doses. There was food and drink in tolerable doses.

a motorcycle

in the Michigan morning

of blossoms and rain

So why ride well over 500 miles to spend so little time with the object of my affection? The ride, my friends, the ride. It is a new season, and I rode to where it is even newer, backing up time just a little bit. That's enough for me.

~ RM

Things Alone

Things alone come to me.
The red dancing shoe I saw
alone in the winding roadway
of the Appalachian Gap.
The blue workman's glove
alone in a Calumet backalley.
A black-clad widow,
her chair in the street
of a Tarpon Springs afternoon.
Now this saxophone,
its voice in the night
of Hennepin Avenue,
one dollar and change
in the torn green lining
of the open case
at my feet.

~ Ralph Murre

night truck

the night truck

speeds in from the east coast

drops off morning

crosses the mississippi

early

- rm

To Laura, gone now

Aw jeez, Ma, I miss ya somethin' terrible.

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 goodbye?

Was there a portrait in her dark face?

- Ralph Murre

(appeared in Crude Red Boat, from Cross+Roads Press)

An Open Relationship

photo by Dana Tynan

I was just looking, with justified admiration, at the photo of Joan Baez on the cover of her great autobiography "And a Voice to Sing With", when I found I had to explain that Joan and I have been together for a long time. Since before the sixties turned into THE SIXTIES, in fact. Oh, we've had an open relationship, to be sure - I'm OK with the fact that she's had other lovers, and she's never said a word about my infidelities - but she's always been there when I've needed her, which has been pretty often. Those times when I needed somebody with some heart, some guts, some brains, and a voice to sing with.

Maintaining a long-lasting relationship is easier, I suppose, when one of the partners is totally unaware of the existence of the other, as she is unaware of me, but she's been true to the spirit of our romance, and I am happy. I can only ask what great love is without its little oddness ? Her book talks of the old days, and of her waiting in a dream for Marlon Brando to come along and swoop her up on his Wild-One Harley. About the same time, as it turns out, I was living in Northern Cal and was waiting in a dream for Joan to pick me up along Hwy. 101 in her Jaguar. I mean, what else did she have to do?

Years later, after demonstrating the courage to stand up to some of the nastiest offenders of all that is holy, she came to sing in the little auditorium of the barely one-horse Midwestern town where I live, so I went to hear her, and to be in the same room with one of the great heroes of my life. I sent flowers backstage, but lacked the courage to try to meet her. Our relationship is still unflawed by an actual introduction. I've heard that love knows no bounds, so I'm not sure what this is. But it's something like love.

~ Ralph Murre

Sex in the City

The Sam Laud Enters Green Bay

The great vessel

after giving signal

and receiving signal

nudges strong and gentle

and slow

so slow

into the draw

and up the dark flow

bellows

a long and two short

and deep moans

Colored light

shimmers

all around

~ Ralph Murre

cul-de-sac

Does the path end

before anyone

is out of the woods?

-arem

Dangerous Machinery

in remembrance . . .

A Brief History of Our Products

Admittedly,

there were times of dangerous machinery.

Inquire of a Native American.

Ask a Jew.

Maybe a Cambodian could fill you in.

A Tutsi, if you can find one,

might know a little about it.

And do ask around when you're in Dresden

or Hiroshima.

Things used to get out of hand.

But you can relax now,

the new model is vastly improved,

(Dozens of changes for 2009!)

and we do not expct anyn prbolems.

*^x^xxzzt

Jsuttt st. bacccck & rlx. ax.xxxzt***Lax

~ Ralph Murre

hol⋅o⋅caust 
–noun
1.
a great or complete devastation or destruction, esp. by fire.
2.
a sacrifice completely consumed by fire; burnt offering.
3.
(usually initial capital letter) the systematic mass slaughter of European Jews in Nazi concentration camps during World War II (usually prec. by the).
4.
any mass slaughter or reckless destruction of life.

sometimes no poem

Somedays, poems leak out of our pens, stain the unprotected pockets of our frayed poet shirts. We even come to expect it, and feel a little off when nothing comes. We try to make something of nothing, like trying to get a few more miles out of a car with an empty fuel tank. Here's some advice from one who may have had such days himself:

So, poets, rest awhile

& shut up:

Nothing ever came

of nothing.

~ Jack Kerouac 1960

blue circle

this day

the horizon's blue circle

this water

~ arem

More bragging from the helmsman: One of my pieces has been chosen to be featured on April 13th on the excellent "Haibun Today" site. Have a look. http://www.haibuntoday.com

Simply Genius

In my post for April First, I alluded to the fact that it is not so simple to be a fool. Several times in the past, I've written on a theme inspired by the line from the old Shaker hymn, "tis a gift to be simple," and here I go again. For anyone who actually reads all of this stuff, I hear your collective "oh no's!" and I sympathize, but it seems to me that there is so much contained in those few words that I can explore them for a long time. Come along on this leg of the journey if you like.

I've talked, in the past, about how we use the term "simple-minded" as a slur, and the term "gifted" as a compliment, ignoring the possibility that they may be one and the same, as the song suggests. Today I'm looking at the things we think of as works of genius, and the sheer simplicity that the best of them exhibit. Now, there's a certain brilliance, of course, to observing and borrowing from nature. Someone might observe the amazing strength-to-weight ratio of the shaft of a feather, and then develop a lightweight tubing to be used in, say, a bicycle frame. You might notice the way the hexes of granite crystals or cells of honeycomb fit together, making amazing use of space and structure, and you may adapt this as a core for some very stiff and light construction panel. This is good. It is smart. But genius, I think, goes a little beyond smart borrowing.

Think about the construction of the common soccer ball. How simple - how deceptively simple - until you think of the fact that some genius had to realize that you could take a flat pentagon shape, surround it with flat hexagon shapes, and by repeating the process, you could very nearly approximate a sphere. I don't know who first did this; that's not the point. What I think IS important is the fact that this is something which I do not believe is found in nature, yet is so apparently simple that we can look at it and say "of course". "Claro."

Those of us who read, and attempt to write, become aware after a while that the true geniuses of the word write poetry and even good prose that appears so simple that we read their work and say "of course; why didn't I write that?" And we try it. And we learn that writing simple is very difficult; GOOD haiku is perhaps the most difficult of all, because of the simplicity required. And we learn that we are NOT geniuses. And we learn that we are not simple, in the way that geniuses must be. And maybe we learn that even earning those MFA degrees to display proudly behind our names will not actually change our names to Basho or Niedecker or Kooser or Harrison. Yet, if we keep trying, and if we keep it simple, we may find some moment of passable brightness.

- Ralph Murre

P.S. This is just to say, rather proudly, nothing at all about cool plums - but rather to say that a pretty simple piece of mine is to be featured tomorrow on the Poets Who Blog website - and it is cool and sweet. ~ RM

It may not be poetry, but it rhymes . . .

Replacement

The Fool I’ve Been,
as he was stepping down,
met the Fool I’ll Be,
who was donning the crown.
“Not so fast,” said Been to Be,
“you look an ordinary clown to me.”

“This is no job for a Bar Mitzvah rental –
these are big shoes to fill.
Why, you must be mental!
You think that if you simply will
wear a wig or disguise like Yentl,
you can be a fool? All accidental?”

“The kind of fool that’s needed here,”
continued the very aged Been,
“was born before your tender year.
He must have had the chance to learn.
He must have had the chance to hear,
so it might slip out his other ear.”

“I’m young, it’s true,”
said the fool-to-be,
“but if you’ll give me half a chance,
I’ll be a bigger fool than thee.”
So he wears the crown, and hikes up his pants,
as he begins the first of his uninformed rants:

“It’s my turn now,”
says the Fool I’ll Be,
”and I’ll tell you a thing or three:
my head may not be amply thick,
but my delivery is pretty slick,
and I know something of tomfoolery.”

“I didn’t need to get elected,”
he said as he kneeled
before he genuflected,
“I’m just outstanding in my field.”
And then, as though he had reflected:
“Among most fools, I am respected.”

Now I could quote the youngster
nicely, word for word,
but here’s the summation:
as you’ve probably heard,
and I’m sure you must have learned in school,
there is no fool like an old fool.

- Ralph Murre

In late March

snow on branches

and what did I expect

branches blooming?

- arem

Thank the night

for showing you her full moon.

Thank the morning, the late afternoon,

for the long shadow

that makes you tall as your dreams.

Thank the schemes of twilight,

the novel and ancient ideas of streetlights

revealed in their glowing cones,

thank the bones of your ancestors

for the little you.

Thank the dewy flower,

the clock in the tower,

for not taking this moment.

Thank the sea for blue.

- Ralph Murre

to the equinox

and always

the great wheel turns

but slowly

- arem

Sunlight and Old Ice

What have I got to say about this image of the long-resting bay getting ready to cast off her heavy winter quilt, about the way the sun flirts with her, will gently kiss her moist body when she awakens? Nothing. Sometimes words, or at least, my abilities to use words, add nothing at all.

~ RM

DOWNSTREAM

On the Passed Time River

that winds through here,

near the point where it burbles

over Lost Day Rocks

and just before the Don't-Give-Up Falls;

the lazy floating,

the grayed head barely raised

to regard a west-slipping sun,

the faint cry from shore,

the rising mists of the maelstrom ahead,

the No-Going-Back Rapids,

the frail craft almost awash

in too late, too late.

The regrettable lack of a paddle.

- Ralph Murre

the view from here

these mornings of oatmeal and email
daunted in holy grail quests
for hit-counter highs on obscure sites
rites of passage recorded
benign to sordid faithfully writ
peep hole peeped from
wrists unslit
dim-lit rooms
yield to bright of climbing sun
things unstarted
things undone remain
but spring will come
spring will come
(refrain)

- ralph murre

Appreciation

without thorns

and tastier than a rose

this red cabbage

- arem

Again, With the Bird?

Ralph Murre

I'm continuing to explore the theme that I first showed you on my post of January 13th. This time, I carved in ice. The piece, which is shown horizontally here, is actually a vertical sculpture, about five feet tall.

~ RM

Loco Motion

get out onto the platform

you never know

there could be one more train

going your way

and you paid for your ticket

long ago

there could be

one more engine steaming

down the gleaming track

smoke curling

from its blackened stack

one more chance

for loco motion

one notion still waiting

to dawn in your silvered head

once more the quickened beating

of your golden heart

once more, a start

~ ralph murre

Bluebirds

The sky is full of bluebirds

but not everyone can see them

so they think it's just a blue sky

and at night, when it's all crows

well . . . you know.

And early and late

come the cardinals and flamingos

but don't try to explain that

to just anyone.

There are gray birds, too.

- Ralph Murre

I had the chance, last Friday night, to spend the evening with some of my favorite people, listening to one of my favorite bands (Big Mouth) playing some of my favorite music WHILE glazing the little pot you see above. All this was going on at the Hands On Studio as a whole bunch of other people were doing roughly the same thing. It all sounds a little too cozy and crafty to me, but I'll admit that I loved it. Never tried something quite like that before, but was fairly well pleased with the result, which is a design I came up with to accompany this little poem.

NEWS FLASH! The review I wrote of Sharon Auberle's Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball now appears within a larger and wonderful article by Norbert Blei on the website "Poetry Dispatch".

http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com

And by the way, if you're not already a follower of this exemplary site, WHY NOT ???

hornetzzzzzz

we grey-bearded men

telling our used-to-be stories

hornets in winter

~ arem

Inquire Within

Inquire Within

I'll sell some land

I'll sell some books

I'll sell fishing hooks and second-hand lures

I'll sell some tourists narrated tours

I'll sell some cherries

I'll sell the orchard

I'll sell some tortured antiquities

and try to sell the shining seas

I'll sell baseball diamonds

I'll sell football fields

I'll sell museums that sell the past

I'll sell the future whitefish yields

I'll sell plastic siding

and hide the profits

I'll sell fake stones and aluminum soffits

I'll sell some photos that show what it was

I'll sell the laborer and what he does

I'll sell the oak

I'll sell the birch

I'll sell the school

and the Lutheran church

I'll sell the lake and sell the bay

I'll sell the sizzle and move away

- Ralph Murre

appeared first in "Knock" magazine

Cool Fishin'

It's been cool hereabouts, in a seasonal sort of way, but hopped up into the twenties for a few days. When I took the photo above, however, it was well below zero (yes, that's Fahrenheit) and the little gill-net boat was working in some pretty good ice as she came home off of the big lake. There are still some tough hombres around, and you can count Great Lakes fishermen among them.

Here's a piece for cool sailing:

Frostbit

In this sea of dimlit winter
with its dark currents pulling
to the far-flung isles of madness
through the dozen shoals of sadness
where my spirit jibes awild
in a goosewing careless way

Here the rusted craft are travelin'
with their triple-reefs unravelin'
and their drunken sailors jigging
as the rigging is a-screamin'
with a demon wind a-running
in its cunning
in its cunning
in its howling down the bay

And the lonely are in danger
as the leeward rail goes under
in the thunder of their vices
as they slowly throw the dice
at what they may

And the stalwart lads are climbin'
far aloft above the seas
and a-low the rest are pleadin'
(although no one hears their pleas)
and their knees
they are a-bleedin'
from the kneelin'
from the kneelin'
and they're prayin' now for healin'
as the frigid night goes stealin'
toward another frigid day

- Ralph Murre

Red Letter Day

A few years ago, I wrote a piece of which I was, and still am, quite proud. The poem has appeared in various places in print and can be found on several sites on-line. Today, however, I am equally proud to retire this poem, and to once again salute the flag of MY country. Here, hopefully for the last time, is that poem:

and by the way,

I do not choose to pledge allegiance

to black divided from white,

red states from blues,

shades of brown divided in every town.

one nation, all too divisible.

baptist divided from catholic,

gentile from jew,

muslim from buddhist,

me from you,

one nation, under whose god ?

white collars washed

separately from blue collars

in an oh, so delicate cycle

while collarless slaves

dig their own graves

trying to get to the one nation, invisible.

once they’re here,

there’s plenty to fear -

some living large,

others quite small,

yeah

I’ll pledge allegiance

when there’s justice for all.

~ Ralph Murre

Another Perspective

~ Ralph Murre

Back When

back when it used to snow

and it was so white

wherever we looked

and we didn't look

where it wasn't

and we were so white

wherever we looked

and we didn't look

where we weren't

back then

we'd shovel

and we'd plow

and we'd look for answers

in the drifts of white

back when it used to snow

and it was so white

and we didn't know

~ Ralph Murre

Final Notice

now that I have jumped

there is news that they've cancelled

the swimming lesson

- arem

Starry Eve

on a new year's eve

always the same stars shining

and always

our search for more

- arem

A Toast

Simply brimming over with holiday spirit, so I propose this modest . . .

Toast

To the hackneyed heroes and the knock-kneed novices
(you know who you are),
to the youth carded at the front door
and the elders discarded at the back:
I raise my glass.

To the crap-shooters and the bull-shitters,
the card players and the played,
to the couple in the corner who are lookin’ to get laid:
here’s to ya’.

To the lonely,
to the lonely:
here’s to ya’.

To the one who’ll mop the bar-room floor
and the one who’ll clean the toilets:
salud.

To the blue-suited barristers from the blue-eyed ‘burbs
(there, but for the grace of God . . .),
to the cheerleaders and the cheerless,
to the peerless and the powerful
and the jury of your peers:
cheers.

To the ones who make the headlines,
to the ones who give them ink,
to the one who does the nursing
and the one who’ll fix the sink up:
drink up.

To the surgeons and sailors
and the ones who work high steel,
to the painters and the busboys
and the ones who beg a meal:
wind at your back.

To the one who lost a lover,
the one who lost some weight,
the one who got a boob job
so she could get a date:
here’s lookin’ atcha.

To the ones who take it easy
and the ones who never will,
to the ones who just can’t take it,
to the driver at the wheel,
to the driven, to the cattle,
the distiller at his still,
to the loser of the battle
and the miller at his mill:
may you find peace.

To the innocent:
may you find peace.

To the ones who’ll just get by,
to the bystanders and the glad-handers
and the terminally shy:
may you be blessed.

And to all the rest:
may you be blessed,
may you be blessed.

- Ralph Murre

. . . and to all a good night

Book Review

There's a new book on the shelf that I reserve for the fine work of my friends over at Cross + Roads Press. Not that I expect Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball to spend much time on the shelf. Far too much good material to set it aside for long.

Poet Sharon Auberle, on the surface, tells the story of her mother's last days on this earth; that of a woman who danced her way through an uneasy life. Anyone who's ever lost a parent, or ever will, can benefit from the reading. Just beneath the surface, the writer finds other tales about to finally break into daylight: the story of a father who left early, in a time when that was the exception; the subsequent effects on the lives and loves of the author and her mother; the perhaps too quickly passed judgements all around; all told in the voice of an accomplished artist of the written word, and through it all, there is the dance. In "Spring Came Late That Year", we read:

Maggie danced
the night Edward left
whirling
her baby girl
about the kitchen
their mingled tears
spinning out
bouncing off windows
like the freezing rain
falling that night

and later, in Legacy:

What my mother left me
was not dancing shoes
or diamond rings
or bad luck with men

it was the way she stood
so straight
barely reaching my shoulder
but tall
on days when life
bends most people low

and that quickstep of hers
forward always
to music only she could imagine

Sharon Auberle is storyteller enough to find and relate what is unique in her life. She is poet enough to show us what is universal. She has deftly tackled subject matter that in lesser hands could have been maudlin, even trite -- but has triumphed in a way that elevates us. Her luck in collaborating with editor/publisher Norbert Blei assured an elegant book to stand beside the thirty others from his press. Blei's decision to reproduce pages from the author's journal, written in the days immediately preceding her mother's demise, was a brilliant one, giving us a very palpable connection to the writer in a time of vulnerability juxtaposed with great strength.

The book is Saturday Nights at the Crystal Ball, by Sharon Auberle, ISBN 978-1-889460-21-5, $12 from Cross + Roads Press, P.O. Box 33, Ellison Bay, WI, USA, 54210 and don't forget to slide them a couple of bucks for the postman & the packaging.

- Ralph Murre

Before the Ice

pewter and gold sky

over this mercurial sea

metal on metal

- arem

Good Horse

Snow Devils, with their whirling, dance
Winter down from somewhere North,
dance Winter down from somewhere.
Ah, Little Horse, with your cocksure stance,
ready to bravely venture forth
and dance me down to somewhere,
this is where I must be,
where the wind and the sea
and the sky dance down.
Where the wind and the sea
and the sky dance down;
this somewhere.

- Ralph Murre

Chris Aaron Band

Leadman finding

silver threads

among the blue

Baseman, thin and wiry

as the neck

of his guitar

Drum man, solid

laying back

for now, just for now

And now

Wailingman

oh man

Wailingman

wail

And now

oh

Sallyride

Sally ride Sally ride

in that hot light

in that hot night

where all you want to do

is rock

Sallyrock

Sally

rock

~ RM

In Praise of Hairy Beasts

You know how
there are a lot of creepy things
with more than six legs,
like the Rockettes
and centipedes and committees
and some, like worms,
without any at all,
and the way four-legged things
are usually all furry and stable
and don't move about
in disgusting ways,
so are not really that creepy?
You know how your Uncle Al and Dick Cheney
and the guy that ran the drugstore
in your little hometown
each have two legs,
but are still creepy as all hell?
Creepier than morticians or
even dead guys?
You know how creepy
the clothes were
that you wore as a freshman,
both in high school and college?
You know how creepy you were
to people of the opposite sex, sure,
but to everyone, really?
You know how creepy
your Plymouth Valiant was?
You know how
there are a lot of creepy things
without hair, like salamanders
and your Uncle Al and bowling balls
and the way tennis balls
are kind of fuzzy so
they're not quite so damn creepy?
Think about chihuahuas.
You know how creepy
it is to look at somebody's ears?
No, really look.
And yours have hair
growing out of them now.
You know how some creepy things,
like pimples, have creepy names,
but zits don't sound so bad
and some things,
like human resources departments,
are really creepy,
but sound pretty good?
You know how a lot of creepy stuff,
like long shorts
and tattoos and pubic shaving
and Harley-Davidsons,
seem to be o.k. now?
And the way you figure
maybe someday you'll be acceptable
too?
Yeah, maybe . . .
but if you're still reading,
you're probably
still pretty creepy.

- ralph murre

Moonrise La Veta

a look toward home

from across these thousand miles

my pale friend rising

~ arem

Where I've Been

Sorry about the long absence. I've been doing a bit of wandering: bodily, mentally, spiritually. Back soon in all three dimensions, I think.

What I was doing, have done, is the editing and publishing of the little beauty of a book pictured above, Bar Code, the latest from my Little Eagle Press. Big piece of work. Good work, I think. Poetry, prose, photos and drawings from a terrific bunch of contributors, some very well known in small press circles and beyond, some just beginning to get work out there, all telling their stories of bars, saloons, and watering holes around several continents. The cover art you're looking at, incidentally, is by the master, Emmett Johns, to whom I am forever indebted.

More about this project and others in the days to come, but I hope you'll contact me me at littleeaglepress@gmail.com or write Little Eagle Press, P.O. Box 684, Baileys Harbor, WI, USA, 54202 to order. ($15 + $3 S&H - and I will take personal checks until I get burned.)

Hurrah!

Hurrah!
Hurrah!
Hurrah!

The Light, Again

look back once again

this light upon this water

the call of islands

- arem

The Light

the light this day
has every leaf of the forest
crying for its beauty
every ripple on this lake
outshining the next
a far crow
fearing
the loss of his darkness

- arem

Bragging Again

Just have to say that I've made another brief foray outside of the (very) small press world with two of my poems published in the current issue of Wisconsin People & Ideas, the journal of the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts & Letters, available in a few big box book stores and a few real book stores around these parts.

play of light

the playful light

in these still waters

the dark below

- arem

By Night

Flying by night,
stars floating in waves above us
like the prairie towns beneath our wings
and our captain, silent,
so we may hear the soft lapping
of years against the bright metal,
the distant voices crying
I knew you, I knew you;
the gods chuckling at our passage.
Silent, so we may think of depths
and the fragility of our craft.

So we may think of
the lives down there in the little towns,
the folding chairs of meeting rooms,
the all-night laundromats and
the lonely folding of blue shirts,
the folded hands of the faithful and
the flags folded in neat triangles,
the here's-to-ya last call toasting,
the dreams of newsboys;
their red bicycles under the stars.

- Ralph Murre

first appeared in Free Verse

cool

of dark and light

these days of days

growing short

of lengthening night

and northbound shadow

this last-resort aster's bloom

an evening chill

---

the cool room

the cool room

the unfamiliar room

---

these blue walls

-ralph murre

Paradise Post

a dog is barking

impressions of paradise

crow and jay agree

- arem

From My Window

A young girl half-runs down this street
without sidewalks.
She sobs as she goes, a dark cloud
belying the sunshine color
of her dress. She is gone
but the street is damp with tears.
An old man prays for daughters
he never fathered.
Night is coming with its accusations,
morning with its forgiveness
and street sweepers.

- Ralph Murre

" prose invents -- poetry discloses" - Jack Spicer

In Labor

In Labor

So they let you off for Labor Day,
like the 4th, like Memorial day,
and you have a coupla beers and
you char something on the Weber,
maybe listen to a ballgame,
your team still in the cellar.
Your cousin Bob comes over
with his face-lifted tit-lifted wife
and the Gameboy twins.
Nobody talks about labor except
that of delivering the twins
and there's some talk of her working
on her tan.
Your dad was in the strike of '52.
They drive a new Infiniti. It's gray.
Also the big one in '56. All summer.
You pick some tomatoes and corn
from the garden. Get salt and pepper.
They talk about the food
at Aquavit and Blu.
Your grampa rode the rails
in '35 and '36, stole chickens.
They have to go. Country Day School
starts tomorrow.
Your gramma was in labor
in the back of a Ford in '38.
There's a union man talking in the park
just a block away. Nobody listening.
A skateboard goes by.
The plant will close in 3 weeks.
You fall asleep in a plastic chair
from China, a little tomato juice
on your chin, a lazy fly circling.

- Ralph Murre

islands

in this gleaming cove

don't they appear quite certain

those two little islands?

- arem

sea story

funny, but
on the sunny
on the sunny
siding of the sea
you & me & jib &
gollywobbler set & filled
skimmy over skimmy
over wavy under-sea
a second story
and the roary wind
a blowin'
t'gallant ribbons
blue like prizes
all the sizes are assorted
on the foamy and the briney
and the tiny tiny ocean
'neath the keel.
a feelin' of a breeze
and of jesus on the seas
salts & tars awatchin' stars
and aprayin' on their knees
and the ladders to the pulpits
climbed by climby climby culprits
always gettin' closer to the top.
& the masthead's cuttin' slices
in the blue of skyward ices
and how nice is baggywrinkle
from the sternpost to the sprit?
the dark is darkly comin'
and the white foam is afoamin'
and the roamin' are ahummin'
of the comin' of a storm
in the early bleary bleary
and they're gettin kinda teary
in their warnings
in their warnings.
and the morning's comin' red
and the sailors in their dread
are eatin' weevily rations
and their passion's
are awaitin'
in the crusted shoreside bars
and the stars are twinkly twinkly
and the ink is flowin' wrinkly
on the tinkly tinkly page
as the sage is keepin' quiet
about the diet and the grog
and i watch it all a happenin'
in a puddle on the bog.

- ralph murre

far from home?

# 300

Here I am, posting to this blog for the three-hundredth time. Perhaps it is appropriate that this is a moment at which my life has taken a turn and I will be without my regular internet connection for a while. I will still try to post, when I can, from some other locale, but I'm afraid I won't be able to include any visual images for now. Maybe it will make a better writer of me. When I began this endeavor, I had no idea where I'd go with it, and still don't ~ but if you take a look back through the archives, I think you'll agree that we've come this far along an interesting path.

in the mail box

just a postcard

with no picture

- Ralph Murre