for you, a little story

A dolphin calls the doctor's office; the nurse asks, "What is the purpose of your call?"

"Vy, I am the porpoise of my call," says the dolphin, "my vife, she is dead long ago from the nets, and all the little porpoises svim avay; they don't call. I am an old dolphin who can no longer sing."

"Can't carry a tune, huh?" says the nurse.

"Carry a tuna ?!! I tell you I am an old dolphin, I haf no more the strength to carry a tuna."

"Perhaps it's your diet," says the nurse, "have you felt like fish?"

"Gefilte fish ?!! Oy! Already three times a day vit the gefilte fish -- and you vant I should eat more?!!"

"Not so fast," says the nurse, "for best results, I must transcribe."

"Matzos - fast - then schmalts, you prescribe?" says the dolphin,

"Thank you."

"Good bye."


- Ralph Murre

*those wishing to do more research on related topics are advised to begin at the following site > > > http://www.cyber-kitchen.com/recipes/Gefilte_Fish_Story.htm

To the Dogs

for the last time

fetched up in the weeds

no bailing out

- arem

Newspaper

> > > > > http://www.bleidoorcountytimes.com/ < < < < <

So! Come see dis once, Edna.

See? Now dis here iss sumptin to look at, hey. Dis guy sounds like he might know Plum Bottom from a hole in da gound, aina? He sounds dam near like da kinda guy ain't got no real estate to sell. Don't live in no condom. By Gott, ya, hey! He sounds almost like da kinda guy I woot buy a beer. No, no, don't worry Edna . . . I sez he sounds ALMOST like dat kinda guy.

Now Hear This!

photo by Nancy Vaughn

Very excited to announce that five of my poems (well, four poems and a catchy little lyric to an old favorite tune) have come on line at the first-rate literary ezine, Word Riot. Their front page is at http://www.wordriot.org/ , and the direct link to my poems is, I believe, http://www.wordriot.org/template.php?ID=784 . Check it out.

The Elders

photo by Koerner

Of course, I know we didn't ALL have plaid woolen grampas with steel shovels (see previous post) ; some had plaid seersucker grampas with titanium golf clubs. And many had none.

I never really stopped to think how lucky I was to have known, however briefly, all four of my grandparents. I realize, now, how few of us have that opportunity. Families spread across oceans and continents; a generation here, a generation there. Some, wiped out by a war here, a famine there.

We have been, and to a large extent, still are, a nation of immigrants. As such, we always have a huge number of families among us whose elders aren't around. It leads me to wonder if this plays a part in the amount of unrest and, perhaps, elevated crime rates we see in some neighborhoods comprised mostly of recent immigrants. Don't misunderstand me, I'm not discounting the influence of low income, lousy housing, language barriers, or the prejudices of the not-so-recently landed. And I certainly don't think that current waves of recent arrivals are any more crime-prone than their predecessors.

I simply believe that knowing my grandparents had a steadying effect on my life, even though I didn't get to spend much time with them. I know that my sons benefitted from their grandparents' influence.

As the only surviving grandfather of my clan of little people (to borrow a phrase from a friend), I guess I'd better watch how I influence them. I do have a plaid woolen mackinaw, but I attack the snow with a PLASTIC #12 grain shovel.

- Ralph Murre

Snow!

Finally, finally, real snow like
when we were all kids and
had plaid, woolen grampas
with steel shovels, and they
talked about back when it
really snowed, and sometimes,
they smoked cigars and
carried small flasks in
their plaid, woolen pockets.


Back, now, from the morning walk with the dog, to visit Mother Lake. Air, choked with fine snow and a hatful of breeze, Nor'east, vis. on lake at about 100-150 yards, and what you can see -- not encouraging to an old sailor. Back in the warm, coffee mug in hand, my thoughts turn to those sailing the seas and those pointing their bows down the concrete trade routes -- have a care -- take a deep reef. Be safe.

- Ralph Murre

Ides of February

from a photo by Nancy Vaughn

Long have they skirmished;
this head, this heart.
He, with his education,
with his reasoning,
with his penthouse suite
with windows on everything
(but those offices below.)
He with his finger on the pulse.
And beneath,
he not of the expected constancy,
but of the hot blood;
he who races that pulse
without orders from above,
he who works double-time
in mid-February
while the CEO naps;
he who loves mergers.

- Ralph Murre

candlelight

The dark fabric of the night,
pulled up from the east and
tacked to the sky with stars,
has fallen to earth;
only this little candle
to burn a hole
where daylight may seep in.

- Ralph Murre

From time to time, of course, I go a-surfing on the net -- blithely hanging ten in the pipeline of blog after blog -- and I must say that there is a great deal of crud in the water. Darkness falling, in spite of this marvelous tool we've been given, this lamp to light the way. Every now and then, however, I see a little candle burning a hole in the dark. My links field -- yeah, over there on your right -- is filled with sources of light. One which is just being lit, and which I expect to burn very brightly, is Mimi's Golightly Cafe ( http://sharonauberle.blogspot.com ) by Sharon Auberle; poet, spirit of the page, of the woodland, and of the shore.

everywhere

even in death

on this frigid plain

some beauty

- arem

disorder

The words do not orderly and willingly queue up to walk single-file across a page, like some elder, hopeless, labor camp inmates, going to their rest; but are, instead, third graders at recess, pushing and shoving to get God knows where, in their primary colors and Oh! They haven't buttoned their jackets! and Oh! Come back here you wild, untamed phrases!

In the Shadows

Sleep well, you ground hogs, for tomorrow, your day will come. The fate of the world is in your furry, little paws; if you believe everything you hear. Better to trust you, I suppose, than politicians or other shady characters who come out into the light even more rarely than yourselves.

winter wood

her gown of white lace,

unruffled by shivering --

bold, boreal bride

- arem

icons

The Deer and the Antelope,
on Iconic Speech

White bread.

Apple pie.

Hot dog. “He was a real hot dog.” Well, surely he wasn’t a . . . hot . . . dog . . . and even if you figure out that it’s a suggestive sandwich with a sausage, that can’t be the real meaning either, can it? Rest assured, though, that a hot dog is not a cool cat.

Home run, pinch hit, touchdown, etc. etc. etc.

If I say ‘the deer’, it means the deer, if I say, ‘the antelope’, it means the antelope. But if I say ‘the deer and the antelope’, I’ve suddenly taken you onto the vast plains of the American West. Thundering herds of buffalo. (And forget that bison crap, we all know they’re buffalo). Under the starry sky above, Bill Cody sits by a lonely campfire.

If I say ‘cable car’, you can almost taste the sourdough bread, or at least the Rice-a-Roni. Tony Bennett is just around the corner. Fog rolls in. If I say clang, clang, clang; Rosemary Clooney, or somebody, is having her heartstrings zinged.

If I say ‘spotted owl’, a war breaks out between tough, grizzly types in hob-nailed boots and a group of elderly flower-children.

I say ‘flower-child’, and we’re right back in San Francisco, ca. 1968.

1968, and it’s Chicago and Mayor Daley is bustin’ heads. Milwaukee means beer. Detroit means cars; big ones, chrome-plated, and what’s good for G.M. is good for the country, and I’m back to Apple Pie. And Chevrolet.

Woodstock.

Watergate.

Chappaquiddick.

Three Mile Island and the Exxon Valdez.

Titanic.

Twin Towers.

Hiroshima. . . . Holocaust. . . .‘Nam.

“Yer yeller!” “He’s a red, but he’s singin’ the blues, ‘cause he’s still kinda green.”

Green beret.

Ever wonder what people said before “redneck”? How did we know what to think about a state before it became red or blue?

Osama. Lenin and Marx. Lennon and McCartney. Johnny Cash and Johnny Carson and Johnny B.Good and Michael Moore.

Bush and born again and abortion and beat and hip and hep.

AIDS.

Marilyn and Madonna and Martha and Madonna & Child and Oprah. Venus on the Half-Shell and the Sistine Chapel and the Eiffel Tower and the Tower of Pisa. Katrina. Tsunami. The Golden Gate.

I suppose every society has these shorthand references which convey volumes of information, whether it’s the plum blossom of haiku, the cartoon of Nixon’s “V”, or the sight of an SUV – still, I wonder what future generations will make of it all when they try to read some mouldering documents found in the ruins of our time. I’m assuming that someone, somewhere will be able to read. I’m assuming ruin.

- Ralph Murre

Save on Airfare!

Travels

There are these places I’ve never been
but know like the back of my mind
These Isla Negra’s
These Nebraska’s
These Walden’s
I can commute so freely
drink the wine of their vineyards
so cheaply
be engaged
by the spirits of the ocean’s roar
so fully
I need not shop
for airline tickets
to taste their salt
nor ride a bus
to touch the sandstone
of their schools
to wade in the cool mud with muskrats
to hear the cries of the gulls

- Ralph Murre

Walden. Okay.
Nebraska. Maybe.
Isla Negra. Hmm, I don't know about that.
The water spins the other way down there. Even the stars are different.
- that from a friend in response. Point is, with a Neruda or a Kooser or a Thoreau singing the song of a place, should I think that my senses will glean something more? Or, should I open my eyes, look about me, and write the song of where I am? I don't know. I look down to an earlier post (the sacred and the sold-out) , and I see that I'll have to sing the song of where I am without TELLING where I am.

Blameless?

I keep hoping that some of my old rants will become passe, but the wheels turn exceeding slow. Here's one from about a year ago :

Blame Less

It’s just too damned easy to blame George W. Bush for the war, too damned easy to blame him for all of our problems. What is he but the figurehead under the bowsprit of our capitalism, under the headsail of our greed?

It’s money that steers our ship and oil that floats it. The sea of oil is going dry and money doesn’t know where to turn. We have a hard time thinking how to save the sea, so we think in terms of carving a new figurehead.

It is not George W. Bush, or his pals in OPEC, forcing us to drive where we could walk, forcing me to ride my motorcycle where I could ride my bicycle; it is not Ford Motor Company forcing you to take your Expedition where you could take your Focus.

Will there be enough fuel left for the ambulance to haul my exercise-hating butt to the hospital?

Should I drive 40 miles to work out at the Y?

Easy, too, to lay blame for the difficulties on states whose people voted a couple per cent differently than our own; “What could those idiots be thinking?”. They must be fools, right, those people who believe in something other than men, something other than politicians? Why, some of them even suggest that there may be a (G)od. Simply inferior beings, those folks from other-colored states.

Easy to see there are no problems here in our blue-nosed, blue-blooded, blue-stockinged regions – well, none we can’t solve with money.

Sail on, Banker! Steady as she goes! Only the blameless aboard our stout vessel. Let us fly a blue flag from the main topmast, for guiltless are we, we men of the open sea! Look smart there, Sailor! Wipe that oil from your boot!

The lookout tells of dangerous shoals ahead – shall we listen, instead, to that sharply-chiseled face at the prow, the gilded wood we’ve elected?

Buffy Ste. Marie (about 40 years ago) said, “ Blame the Indians/ Blame the Fates/ Blame the Jews or your Sister Kate/ Teach your children who to hate/ and the big wheel goes around, ‘round.”

Sail on, oh Ship of State! We’re just the crew; here to take orders and eat our ration.

No one to blame here.

- Ralph Murre

tall

Spires


Topped
with crosses
or crescents
or crows
or crowned
with beacons
that blink
in the night;
they are the same.
We build
towers and totems
to find our way back
to ancestors
and faith
and safe harbor.
Like initials carved
in old beech trees,
they tell
where we’ve been,
who we’ve loved,
and where hearts
have found homes.
We take a walkabout
or a moonwalk;
paddle down streams
and sail across oceans,
testing our symbolism -
the lighthouse shining
after storms at sea,
the good mother welcoming
the child who’s been away,
the sturdy oak
sheltering the weeping willow.
The tower of strength,
never casting the shadow of a doubt.


- Ralph Murre

Silver Lining

Yes, I know -- global warming is a VERY BAD THING -- but I will confess to having thoroughly enjoyed a 25-mile motorcycle ride today. In Wisconsin. In January.
Did me more good than a pocketful of anti-depressants.

Angel Head 2.5

I'm proud to announce that some of my work has found on-line publication at ANGEL HEAD, a recently-begun, but rather classy, poetry ezine. It's editor is the Englishman, Bruce Hodder, formerly of the print journal "Blue Frederick" and capable writer of the blog "Suffolk Punch".
Suffolk Punch, it turns out, is the name of a breed of workhorse; an apt comparison to Hodder. As far as I can tell, he works a full-time job, blogs much of the day and night, writes a bunch of good poetry, and knocks out the odd novel in his spare time.
I know the sun's up about six hours earlier in England, but I still don't see that I should get so little done, by comparison.
Anyway -- go now to visit http://bkerouac.tripod.com/angelheadfebruary2006
and http://bluefredpress.blogspot.com

let there be light

pewter sky and sea

january's heirloom gifts

lie shattered by light

- arem

haiku basics

these are the first five

of seventeen syllables

and these are the last

- arem