The Old Man

photographer unknown, probably Laura Murre

He'd have been 100 years old today, 29 September 2007, this prize-fighter/pacifist cowboy/carpenter. He was a good father. He was a good man. He's in a good place.

Perhaps fittingly, his death in 1999 gave birth to the writing portion of my life, when, the night before his funeral, I wrote this eulogy and spoke it at the service the next day:

A Short Eulogy For Arvin Murre

There's an old Shaker hymn that says " 'tis a gift to be simple, 'tis a gift to be free, 'tis a gift to come down where you ought to be..." I don't know if Dad ever heard that song, but it could have been written about him, because he was richly blessed with those three gifts.

To be simple: We've turned that idea around so it almost sounds like an insult. But Dad was wonderfully simple. He never wanted for more than he had; more stuff, more clutter. He showed us that it was a gift to have simple desires.

To be free: Anyone who ever heard Dad walking across the farmyard at five in the morning, whistling a tune of his own, knew that he was as free as the birds, who whistle their own tunes.

To come down where you ought to be... What do you think that means? I think, for Dad, it meant coming down next to Mom; next to Laura, the love of his life. He's with her now...free again and at home with the one he loves.

Dad never put much stock in words... "Words are but a breeze"...he told us. So what can we learn from a man who never said much? Let's think of what we never heard him say... We never heard him say " I hate so and so, or that group of people, or that race of people...or that religion." So maybe we can learn something about tolerance; maybe even love.

We never heard him brag. Although he was a great craftsman, and we know he was proud of his work, he never bragged about anything; just let his work speak for itself. So maybe we can learn something about humility.

We never heard him say "Oh, I couldn't do that” or “You can't do that."... He always found a way to do what needed to be done. So maybe we can learn something about self-confidence.

But, his greatest lesson can only be learned by following his example... and I'm speaking now to the men...he taught us what it means to be a father...and what it means to be a man. So, Thank You, Dad... for the things you said...and for the things you never had to say. Thank You for your Life.

-Ralph Murre

Dry

after summer's end

the waterless lilies wait

ah, today's gray sky

- arem

Phenomenon

with neck craned

and wide-open eye

watch

- arem

hearing voices

voices on my walk

gold leaf veneer of this day

the bright-bloused women

- arem

Post 200

home again from the fabled up north

appointed rounds

in all kindsa weather

like masochistic mailmen

selling more books than we bought

which has never happened

and may never again

and two motorcycles faithful

and she who rode

one, too

these five days

still speaking to me

and bringing me tea, just now

- ralph murre

Burt the Dog

Burt The Dog, born 25 December, 1994 at Mindoro, Wisconsin, died today, 11 September, 2007 at Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin.

He loved the water and rolling in dead fish.

Burt leaves his long-time companions, Nancy Vaughn and Ralph Murre, along with numerous friends.

Memorial contributions on behalf of Burt the Dog may be made to:

All Creatures

PO Box 155

Baileys Harbor, WI 54202

Harvest

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When the golden kernels are in

and the purple fruit, too,

and the words are gathered;

save for me a heel of bread

and the dregs of wine,

save for me a throwaway line.

And the orchestra gets weary

and the barmen tire, too,

and the lovers leave;

save for me a melody

and a barefoot dance,

save for me a whispering chance.

And if it grow cold and it be a mile,

and if I grow old; stay with me a while.

- Ralph Murre

Arrive Derci, Luciano

There is a little less sunshine in Italy today.

the summer's gone

and all the roses falling

and all the crumbs of lunch

and all the papers crumpled

and the Rosalita's sweeping

and all the plumbing clogged

and all the overflowing

and all the windows fogged

and all the Carlos's plunging

and all the paint is peeling

and all the roofs are leaking

and the gardens all need weeding

and all the Ivan's scraping

and all the Juan's are raking

and the Marina's are all mopping

and all the dishes -

someone's doing all the dishes

someone's washing the hotel sheets

you made love on

someone's patching holes

in the roads

someone's patching holes

in someone's jeans

and the Jeremy's are assistant managers

and the Brittney's have syndromes

and all the Rose's falling

in the under-insured night

- Ralph Murre

of pigs

Picking Straw

All of these years blown away
like calendar pages in a black and white
movie I saw once when I was little,
kind of hokey, I mean –
the years and blowing around like that –
and me in the wind all the time
and my fragile shelter leaning to leeward
and me leaning with it like a strawhouse pig
with The Tabernacle Choir of Wolves huffing
at the door, an empty fridge,
and thinking, sticks, I could have built with sticks,
been a nine to five pig with a long commute,
gone to a straw house for a 2 wk. smmr. rntl.,
been a regular boar, dreaming of brick.

- Ralph Murre

for a spin

"little wheel spin and spin"

Buffy Sainte Marie told us,

"and the big wheel turns around . . ."

and the wheels still turn

and the world goes 'round

and a little gets lost

for everything found

and the clouds still spin

through the sky, through the sky

and I thought I saw you

floating by

and the dark horse goes up

as the white one comes down

and the music plays on

as the children go 'round

and the song seems to be

you and I, you and I

smile at me as you go

spinning by

- Ralph Murre

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.