The Cliff

I 'm not much of a mountain climber (or a social climber, but that's not today's story) although I imagine that from time to time, when scaling a steep cliff, you must trust your tenuous hold and lean back for a bit, to refocus your energies and to survey the way ahead.
Yesterday, I leaned back. I fed my loyal Rozinante eight gallons of the good oats for which she repaid me with 432 miles of the grand beauty of this state when it is ripe for harvest. And I found solitude. So many miles without words beyond answering in the affirmative to "would you like fries with that" and later, a "Sure. Thanks." to the fellow ferry passenger who asked if I'd like him to snap the photo above, while we crossed The Wisconsin at Merrimac.
It was a cool and glorious day of the road. I relaxed my grip and didn't fall from my place on the face of this cliff.

the spotted cows

teaching rumination

their great wisdom

- Ralph Murre

Moonrise Lake Michigan

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

- ralph murre

Snapshot

In this one,
there's a manicured village
where the tiny steam train arrives
on time
at the gingerbread station,
the mountain children greet the summer visitors,
the yellow dog wags his yellow tail,
and the kindly station master
looks up from his work
to see the retiring kindergarten mistress
picking alpine flowers.
In the valley below,
a young man finds work
at the Messerschmitt plant.
It's all just wonderful.

~ Ralph Murre

Happy to include a new link to the blog of one of my great favorites; Jackie Langetieg, at http://jackiella.wordpress.com/ .

Blood

family picnic

alike and so different

our bodies and blood

~ arem

Summer Sky

Since my writing seems to have gone totally to hell, I thought I'd show you what I've been drawing.

~ Ralph Murre

Boating in the Stream of Consciousness

I was photographing off Sherwood Point today, which of course got me to thinking about Sherwood Forest which of course got me to thinking about Robin Hood et al. Was there ever a boy who didn't identify with Old Rob, I wonder? Ever one who did identify with the Sheriff of Nottingham? Of course, both Mr. Hood and the Evil Fuzz lusted after Maid Marian, and though most of us were not fully aware of the nature of lust at the time we were reading these tales, we were pretty sure we wanted some . . . . But back to my premise about wanting to follow the lead of the merry bandit rather than the bad cop; if I'm right about the almost universal instinct of impressionable lads to side with the outlaw, (and American lore has its share of scofflaw heroes, too, including most of our founders and present-day leaders), then how do kids turn into cops? Or tax collectors? Even we tax & spend liberal pinkos hate tax collectors, although the collection of taxes made it possible to build the lighthouse that is so important to my photograph, which I made from across the bay, from a park and marina which was acquired and built with tax money. Even though I was able to be there because I'm receiving my social security, I still hate tax collectors. And the constabulary.

It's great to be able to say that my piece, "U.P. North", from a few posts back, now appears in the August issue of the excellent web mag, "Quill and Parchment", which is put together by Sharmagne Leland-St. John. You'll have to subscribe to get full access, but the magazine is well worth it. Take a (free) peek at the archives at http://quillandparchment.com/

Graffiti

On the walls of this cave,
my paintings of the hunt
for the perfect excuse,
umber on dolomite illustrations
of my near-conquest of the fear of success.
Close to the fire,
where we might have huddled
and invented language,
my drawings of the vision
I hoped to have,
and in the deepest recesses,
the undervalued reliefs
which I carved in your absence
to commemorate the time
we were almost together.

Sometimes still,
the sputter of a torch
where I sketch.
Sometimes still,
the possibility
of dreaming.

~ Ralph Murre

"Graffiti" appeared in Crude Red Boat from Cross+Roads Press

Another Side

The photo shows another side of the Keweenaw Peninsula, and has nothing whatsoever to do with another side of my writing, which I am proud to say appears at the excellent Haibun Today site, and to which this link may direct you >>> http://www.haibuntoday.com/ <<< (go there now)

~ RM

U.P. North

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car turns north

As we’ve done before, and I’ve done before that, we point toward the Keweenaw – once copper rich, now dirt poor – the Upper Peninsula of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. North of Green Bay and the Fox Valley’s fortunate, farmlands fall away quickly, and so does any evidence of recent prosperity. Forest and bog slide by a million trees at a time and we get into the big land of Tookaway. Took away iron. Copper. Silver. Took away first-growth timber and First Nation people. Took away everything of value. But the invaluable remains, flourishes. The rivers flow. The trees grow. A few people eke out a life.
In Houghton, browned men and yellow machines dig at the pavement. The dirt. The history.

an old man walking
as if bearing a great weight
his soul enormous
through a thin jacket
against the cold of summer

The railroad tracks have been removed from the lift bridge to Hancock; the taking away complete. Quincy smelter ruins of the past fight for the right to co-exist with condos and other ruins of the present. Wavelets of blue water make a chuckling sound as they nibble at foundations.
Climb the long hill to Calumet. Behold glory gone so quickly there was barely time to screw-up its old quarters. Barely money to re-muddle the red-on-red stone and brick of the place, now deemed unsuitable for Mom, Pop & The Oh-So-Average Kids, but not yet vacated by the denizens of depression; the drunks, the drifters, the drop-outs.

from a red stone stoop
in Sunday morning brightness
his unshaven stare

In a nation that’s just getting back to hard times, behold a place that’s harbored them for a couple generations since the mines have played out. Behold the look of uncommon wealth gone away. We may all get used to it. But look at the handsome buildings left behind; left for the taking. Look at the epitaph of The Good Life. Look at the good folks fixing up in spite of churches out of business along with their parishioners, dance halls along with dancers, milliners with mills.

in an empty street
as if something might happen
a cameraman

Even some of the taverns have closed, unlikely as that may sound. Even some of the best of them. Elegant emporiums of leaded glass and leather-backed booths, of mahogany and madness. A few remain.

the darkened windows
with their neon signs gone out
Sunday morning bars

In the vacuum, after the great sucking sound of the removal of resources has subsided, come the artists and poets and other marginalized people with imagination, drawn by the low rent and high ceilings of the place, drawn by the Big Sea Shining Water so close at hand, the Woods, the Cliffs. Drawn by the very fact that this is a place away. They fix things, some. They fix more. It starts to get pretty nice. They win a few. They lose a few. If they win too many, they lose it all, because property values go up to the point they can no longer afford to stay. They find a new town, I suppose, and make it safe for realtors and re-zoning. In the meantime, Calumet is just the mix of heaven and hell that I like to visit when I can.
May our friends, the fixer-uppers on the Keweenaw Peninsula, stay ahead of the forces of gravity, entropy, and the tearer-downers; but not so far ahead as have our friends on that over-priced peninsula of Wisconsin, which we call home.

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car returns

~ Ralph Murre

Like a Bridge

The thing about a bridge - The Golden Gate, The Mackinac, Brooklyn, London, Pont Neuf, or Monet's Garden - the thing about a bridge is that its utility is lost on no one; its symbolism is lost on no one. It is as pure and straightforward a thing as mankind has created. Is it in spite of, or because of that, I wonder, that there are so many designs, so many ways of solving what is, essentially, the same problem? Oh, I know any engineer would tell me, rightly, that each is a unique problem, but my point is that 100 engineers would design a hundred different bridges to get the same path across the same same stream. Vive la difference!
A bridge, a home, a lighthouse, a fireplace, an airplane - all utilitarian things that also have tremendous symbolism, and all have been designed in almost as many ways as have snowflakes or pebbles on a beach - alike, but not alike.
I suppose I'm writing not about bridges at all, but about the beauty of the human mind; about whatever is that instinct that makes us want to create, to BE, something different.
Perhaps we should celebrate our difference with each bridge we cross.
~ Ralph Murre

Spotty

detail of image from Como Park, St. Paul ~ don't know who the artist is

"See Spot run," they said, and I did, but noted that he couldn't change his spots. Could he spot six differences between the drawings, I wondered, could he find the G-spot, could he spot me a C-note, or at least a 10-spot? Was his high-C spot-on? Should he have been in the spotlight? Could he spot a stoplight? If he were bathed really well would he be Spotless, or would he still be seeing spots? My memory is a bit spotty on this point.

Independence

So you're telling Jolly Old England the affair is off. Good for you. Good for you. She's got kind of a lot invested in your little Wild West show, though. She's gonna fight y'for it and it could get kinda nasty. And she is family. In the end, you're still gonna love her, y'know. You're still gonna love her people, wierd as they are. You'll still want to help her out if she's in a scrape. But go ahead n'tell her, if that's what you've got to do. Go ahead n'tell her.

~ Ralph Murre

physics

the notion of gravity
gains credence
as you fall
the notion of levity
as you rise
again and again

~ RM

Remembering Arvin

Photograph probably by Laura Murre

he was a boxer

and a pacifist

a socialist

who married a republican

a tireless worker

taken by naps

a short man

who stood tall

a whistler of his own tune

a rider of the rails

and one-time cowboy

a distruster of words

and teller of stories

a speedskater

a carpenter

given to long walks

a counselor

given to short talks

he was just kid enough

to be my old man

~ Ralph Murre

Lines Are Open Now

Red Boots & A Grin

Mike Koehler, at the inaugural reading from his book, "Red Boots",(see my post from June 4th) was swarmed by some who were already shoe-ins for most-favored-woman status, but sought to enhance their position. Here, Sharon Auberle and Ellen Kort vie for Crimson Cowgirl honors. It appears that the three poets had a reasonably good time.

~ Ralph Murre

hey, barkeep

dat's sumkinda fish y'got dere

not s'big as da one I pert'near caught a coupla years ago

but dat's sumkinda fish

What's Up

" So what's up at Little Eagle Press?", you ask - or maybe you don't - but I'll tell you anyway:

We here at Little Eagle Press – no, truthfully – I here at Little Eagle Press, am wildly proud to announce publication of the first book to receive the press’ R. M. Arvinson Manuscript of the Year Award. The book is Michael Koehler’s RED BOOTS, a collection from one of Wisconsin’s finest, which leads the reader through a good bit of Koehler’s life - his longings, his triumphs, his blues. Women. Brothers. The road. The loss of a father and the finding of a poet.
Michael Koehler seems to find the poem wherever he looks, but takes it home and polishes it beautifully before putting it on display. Somehow, he does this without losing a feeling of immediacy, a sense of conversation. Here's the first poem in the book:

MEDICINE FOR A FRIEND
Let me give you this:
Tall prairie grass humming like old women
gathered to quilt their long memories into
a tan and green and dark brown field
where, underneath, small things can be warm as the sun on sumac.
Take this, too:
The sky a peerless blue,
high clouds rippled like the flesh of walleye.
And here, in my heart,my love, one leaf that never falls,
waving like an anthem,
keeping the bare tree rooted to the earth.

There are poems here that will stay with you; poems that I believe will become a part of you. The book contains a rather handsome 82 pages, including 17 of my own pen & ink drawings inspired by this manuscript.

You may order RED BOOTS, by Michael Koehler, for $12. plus $3. s&h from:
Little Eagle Press
P.O. Box 684
Baileys Harbor, WI, USA 54202
littleeaglepress@gmail.com
Personal checks cheerfully accepted, until I get stung.
Thank you,
~ Ralph Murre

Currently available from Little Eagle Press:
RED BOOTS by Michael Koehler ISBN: 978-0-9823419-4-0 $12 plus $3 s&h
CROW INK by Sharon Auberle ISBN: 978-0-9823419-3-3 $15 plus $3 s&h
A SLENDER THREAD (2nd ed.) anthology by the Nota Bene Group
ISBN: 978-0-9823419-2-6 $12 plus $3 s&h
BAR CODE anthology ISBN: 978-0-9823419-1-9 $15 plus $3 s&h
PSALMS by Ralph Murre ISBN: 978-0-9823419-0-3 $12 plus $3 s&h

BOOKSELLERS: Please inquire about wholesale rates.

And if you're not already following Mike's blog (http://onehandarmands.blogspot.com/) , wake up!

A first impression of Red Boots, this from t.k. splake, the Bard of the Keweenaw http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2009/06/03/t-kilgore-splake-life-death-poet-trees/
ralph,
read and enjoyed the murre – little eagle press – title RED BOOTS, and of course the ‘title poem’ was a literary given, helluva fine verse, but, for tommy (the splake-smith) I liked as well the koehler poem “road trip,” which may say something about my bardic personality, red trippin’ ohhhhhhhhhh and yes,
and, goddammit, and, goddammit, the murre artwork was a plus, just as fine, nay excellent as the michael writings, more more more in the future, I AM HOPING, noticed that you are a pilot pen man, precise v-5, well, I buy my pilot razor sharp ii pens by the dozen, eh, I have this thing about pilot ii’s,
sun shining birds singing did the CLIFFS at first dawn, sore piggies and all, and same tomorrow, if there is not a serious chance of precip, again kudos and congrats on RED BOOTS – poetry and drawings
best
cheers
t.

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