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!