Meeting the Catcher

For J.D. Salinger,

who taught us to read
then
a star refusing stardom
chose eclipse
I don't know why him
it's a greater wonder
that so many
remain in the sky
after growing dim

~ R.M.

Vicious Cycle

photo by Sharon Auberle, I think

This loss of fitness bears witness to fine sauce and to Guiness, but is thin-ness the litmus by which we are judged? If so, I am somewhere high on the hit list, or at least, I may be witlessly grudged.

Age, That Sneaky Bastard

Is there anything that can bring you up short quite like seeing an old acquaintance or an old love after the passage of a number of years? Recently, on a drive that crossed Milwaukee's Kinnickinnic River Bridge, on South First Street, I glanced down river and was surprised to see just such an old acquaintance -- The ex U.S.E.P.A. "Roger R. Simons", ex U.S.C.G. "Maple" -- as I live and breathe, partially hidden around a bend, painted as I'd never seen her, ill-kempt, if kempt at all, but unmistakeably HER. (I know how odd it is to think of anything named "Roger" as her, but that's not today's discussion.)

When I sailed the Simons in 1976, just after receiving my sea card, she was already old, having been retired from Coast Guard service and having been pressed into use by the U.S Environmental Protection Agency, for which we worked, indirectly, doing a series of research projects on Lake Michigan. We brought the little ship up to a sparkling, if dated, appearance when the company for which I worked lost their government contract due to some fluke in the language of bid-letting. I left her with great reluctance.

I saw the ship a few times after that, once when she was being refit in Sturgeon Bay, and later, up in Superior, where she was a display at the Barker's Island maritime museum for some time. Then she disappeared from that port and I assumed she'd been ignominiously treated, probably by men with cutting torches. Imagine my shock then, to see her still afloat, but bearing no name, no recent paint, her many ports covered with plywood, and generally ratty, but still with what I have always considered to be a sort of peasant-girl's beauty.

I was taken aback to see how she'd aged, until I looked in a mirror.

~ Ralph Murre
Yours truly, with deck-hand Dave Hagen, if I remember correctly; in a photo probably snapped by the mate, Larry Van Deusen. 1976.

Man of Letters

Man of Letters

K is a great one, my favorite, I suppose.
You know where you stand with K most of the time,
though there are those awkward moments of silence.

Has C ever had an original thought? C could be a politician:
if the crowd wants K, he’s all K; if the mood seems to favor S,
why, S is his Patron Saint.

V seems to be doing very well since people have stopped
confusing her with U, the little slut. I mean, is Q blind?
You never see Q out with anyone else,

but U will hop into bed with anything. Once a vowel,
always a vowel, I guess; though Y seems to be
having an identity crisis.

GH? Please! What a couple! Either standing around with
nothing to say, or quoting F, of all things! ( I think G’s the
slug; at least H does some good committee work. In fact,
her consultations with letters as diverse as S and T have
produced results that border on brilliance.)

I is a selfish bastard.

Why Z is consistently listed in last place, I’ll never know.
Good old, reliable Z. No confusion in his mind. He thinks Z
and he says Z. Even S sometimes tries to sound like Z.

Roman numerals? Just letters gone bad.
Didn’t exactly set the math world on fire, either.

- Ralph Murre

An old piece, first published in the Peninsula Pulse, and still popular in some quarters.

From the Willows

The child
confident and un-mousy
in the costume
of a caroling field mouse
advances to the stage
hits her mark
plays a small part
visiting Mole’s home
The Wind in the Willows
blowing her way

An old man
seated half-way back
in a crowded theater
wipes his eyes

The father of the father
of the child
from his seat back there
looks all the way forward
to the woman
wind blowing her way still
and the boat he
messes about in
so quickly
across the wide sea

~ Ralph Murre

just now

just now

as the planet still spins

with its endearing little wobble

and you

with that smile

and an air of possibility

just now

I think I'd like to live

to be very old

~ r.m.

shade of blue

Blue moon near the dark of the year; blues in its light. All the talk at the coffee shop of the fear of flight, fear of flyers, fear of the night, fear of failure, fear of success, sellers and buyers, smart fellers under duress. Guarded cheer of Happy New Year's, blue as the sight of bar light reflected in tears. But blue, too, is the color of dawn; something new, something to go on.

~ RM

blue moon tonight, 31 Dec. '09
last blue moon: 30 June '07
next blue moon: 31 Aug. '12

Flashback

Ya. Good morning. Merry Christmas.

Get up now.

Your ma's milking cows

since before five.

Ya. Since she put presents

under the tree.

We'll go in the truck

and haul silage from the other place

before church.

Ya, it's cold.

Ya, just a couple minutes then.

Eat quick.

We gotta go.

You know she's gonna sing

in the choir today.

Ya. Good morning. Merry Christmas.

Get up now.

The cows gotta eat.

We'll clean the barn later.

Get up now.

~ Ralph Murre

old drawing;

new poem

Truck

Truck

Brown trucks and white, with red and blue;
trucks of indeterminate hue carrying, cross-continental,
and to Tupelo and Wichita,
mountains, monumental, of stuff: mundane,
sentimental stuff bearing the urgent message,
I have not forgotten -
that you’re hungry, that you love, that you ordered,
that I owe, that I love, that our love bordered on a need,
not greed, so I am sending, from a catalog from Texas,
some smoked meats to Vermont, sweets,
from San Francisco to Duluth, floor mats, taupe,
for a Lexus, vermouth from someplace to someplace else,
hoping, against hope, that your order is filled,
your stomach is filled, your wishes fulfilled,
you’ll love me still, for a while, and hoping, too,
for something in return; things not returned, spurned,
things not carried by truck: a good thought, luck,
oh-you-shouldn’t-have but, really, you must send hope
on wings of a dream, or a joke, a smile
on wisps of blue smoke; make it worthwhile.
I have not forgotten -
too much; not forgotten you . . . your style.

~Ralph Murre

old poem;

new drawing

Solution!

I have, at long last, found a solution to the problem posed by the ocean of debt which engulfs our nation. Thanks for waiting. It turns out, according to numerous emails which I receive every day, that I have won a great many lotteries and have vast sums of money ready to be deposited to my account from people around the world who are just looking for ways to send funds to the U.S. ! By my cursory calculations, I believe that I, alone, am due several billions of dollars and/or pounds sterling. Am I alone in my willingness to give a good bit of this to the good old U.S.A.? I'll bet not. I'll bet there are many Righteous Americans, like myself, who would gladly receive all those funds which have been promised us, much of which seems to come from Africa (?), and give, perhaps as much as 50% to our government to help get us through this national crisis.
What do you say? How much of your spam money is simply lying there, mouldering in some foreign account, because you haven't been able to think how you might use the extra cash? Do your bit for your country, my fellow Americans! By the way, if you have trouble figuring out exactly how to direct these funds, due to the complexities of our vast government, just send them here and I will certainly assist.

A Drive to Algoma

just this tonight

a steeple in moonlight

townspeople asleep

~ arem

perhaps . . .

perhaps just our luck

that brought us this one condor

beyond its season

~ arem

November / December

In this grey season and latitude, any reason will suffice to find some nice bit of color. Duller days yet may follow, but I'll allow some piece of brighter hue to bring a lighter side of me to you. And next time, I'll try to do without the crime of some childish rhyme or platitude. ~ RM

. . . a word from our sponsor . . .

Take a look, if you've the time and inclination, at the (finally) operable web site of Little Eagle Press; try a few of the links to learn about the books we're publishing. Who knows, you may even like to own one! (That exclamation point was to show how savvy I am in the world of marketing. Can you feel the excitement?) click http://littleeaglepress.blogspot.com/

All de Live-Long Day (and night)

Tata tump
Tata tump
Tata tump

Train cars
Cross a switch
In the dun
Of Montana autumn
As the sun
Of Montana autumn
Sets
Behind purple cloud
Shrouding mountains

On a train called Empire Builder
Engine pawing ground
Toward Puget Sound
Contemplate empire
Note
As you travel
Thousands of idle
Rail cars, semis
Containers
Full of nothing
Consider
The short lives
Of empires

Whether Roman
Or rail

~ Ralph Murre

To the Wolves

To the Wolves

It’s always been a problem, this name; usually taken as a verb –
to Ralph, synonymous with “to hurl”. Not good to be named
for an act of regurgitation no matter how liberal your outlook.

But I’ve learned that Ralph also means “wolf counsel”,
according to the people who keep track of silver-lining meanings
in cloud-black names given to innocent children,

and “wolf counsel” is something I might have worked with
if I’d known – I might have taken a few wolves aside, for instance,
might have mentioned their ill-deserved reputation for eating people,

might have said, look – it’s against my counseling ethic to TELL
you to eat people, you understand,
but why have the name if you can’t play the game?

And then I might have named a few people they could start on,
which, of course, wouldn’t have been very professional of me,
but there are so many people and so few wolves

and some of the people eat Little Red Riding Hoods for breakfast,
and brown ones, and black ones, while wolves make do with mice.
And if I had known that Ralph means wolf counsel

I might have said, hey – the sheep’s clothing just isn’t you,
because I would have taken this counseling business very seriously
and I would have advised on fashion, as well as diet.

And I might have counseled against the use of the word “pack”,
because it has bad connotations, and I might have warned them
not to always be “at the door”, because that’s so cliché.

Sometimes, I think, they might want to be “at the window”.
And I might have mentioned that we can spot them from quite a distance,
even when they’re disguised as grandmothers.

And I would have done all of my wolf counseling pro bono,
because I like the sound of that, even if it doesn’t pay well,
and because I think they’d be impressed by my use of Latin,

even if my name is Ralph.

- Ralph Murre

That's another old one, which appeared in my first book, "Crude Red Boat", from Cross+Roads Press.

Where does the wind come from?

So that grandchildren will not have their heads filled (by their parents) with crazy ideas about the source of the wind . . .

Trees listen very, very carefully.
They hear the things which we can barely dream.
And sometimes they hear music.
Only trees and tall grass and water
can hear these tunes.
And the music is so good,
that the trees can’t help but dance!
An oak or cedar or birch,
its feet deep in the earth,
does not dance in the same way
as a whale or dog or person,
but it can sway its mighty body and shoulders
to the rhythm.
Not much happens when tall grass dances,
but when whole forests of trees
begin to dance,
they stir up great winds.
These winds carry the quiet music
to other forests of trees and prairies of grass
and oceans of water.
Soon, they are all dancing
to the music
which even whales and dogs and people
cannot hear.

We must be very quiet near trees
and tall grass and water,
so they can hear the music.

- Ralph Murre

O.K., that's an old one, but maybe as good as anything I'm writing these days . . .

Reminder

Hey, Poet –
You get beyond my ken
you understand
and then, my care.
I wonder still
whose ear or will
or command
it is you seek
when you speak and look at me.
Who the hell do you see
swimming upstream
in your river of five-dollar phrases
whose praises
are the ones you’d kill for?
Tell them your dream
in that language known by so few
and spoken by none

but, Poet –
send them the bill for
your rhyme-less scheme
and send it first-class, too
as soon as it’s done.
You get beyond my ken
you understand
and
------ I gotta run.

~ Ralph Murre

Here's a reminder -- we'll be reading at the New Harmony Coffee House in Appleton, Wisconsin, on Monday, November 2nd, at 6:30, I think. We promise not to get beyond your ken.

Twilight

late afternoon

late autumn

a shade of blue

~ arem

I'm proud to say that another of my pieces has been published at the excellent ezine "Haibun Today". Have a look at http://www.haibuntoday.com/ ~RM

Bringin' Up Bud

" . . . an' da two a' dem so young an' whadda dey know about da world an' now already dey gotta toddler an' what kinda Ad-Van-Tage kin dey ever give dat kid? No kind dat's what. But I tell ya, what's it matter, aina, Marge? What's it matter? I mean lookit what we did for our kids, huh? I mean lookit how dey turnt out ennaway. Ya do what watcha kin, Marge, but it's a crapshoot I'm tellin' ya, it's a crapshoot . . ."

~ RM