northeast

a pasture of horses

like weather vanes this morning

all looking downwind

presenting round rumps

to the cold northeast

~ rm

Buoyancy

Yes, I'm aware that it's nowhere near "Thanksgiving", the day that is, with the capitol T, but it feels like a good time to offer a few words of appreciation anyway, to those that have given me the much needed buoyancy which got me through the winter, that dark season that tries to sink me. My friends, and you know who you are, both close at hand and far removed, have pulled me up time and again, and so has this peninsula, the home of my heart, the home of my bones. I give thanks daily for this place - its woods, its shores, a Great Lake, eagles, swans, coyotes, and crows - yet my thanks don't seem enough. We who live here pay a price, to be certain, in diminished earning potential, in high-priced goods, and in distances traveled to obtain certain bits of what we feel we need, but we reap a harvest of riches, too; dividends that feed the soul in a way very few places can, I think, and dividends that most people in cities not so far away are willing to pay dearly to try to grab a share of.

I can think of nothing better to say than simply, thank you, once again, to my friends and to my watery little corner of Earth, for getting me through to another Spring.

~ RM

among bricks

among bricks

i sense beats beaten senseless, this immenseness
holding mere echoes of former cells, wisps of smoke
of former hells and, lately, scents of latex, spandex,
nomex, romex, and tex-mex. ex-lovers and ex-pats
eating corn-chex, this immenseness not near the size
it used to be, when it just held two or three of us
reading cross-word puzzle morning news, tea leaves,
nazis killing jews, nancy into sluggo, adams into eves.
just when i think the beat can’t go on, another regains
his feet, chases protons across the sub - urban lawn,
loses jesus and brain cells, drinks cribari ‘til dawn,
fawns a dew-covered lover, sees the dark ascending.

i sense beats beaten, poison meats eaten. i repeat,
seize the dark if they’ve taken all the light, why
fight ‘em if they could be slightly right, but you can
take what they don’t use, poor excuse for cities
left behind, these towns could have some style,
maybe painters and their models, heavy drinkers,
thinkers for a while ahead of the wrecking-ball.
then they’ll build some condos for nine-to-fivers,
some parking for the barking-dog audi drivers,
some galleries to show the artists driven out,
the rout complete, waiters on buses, three-piece
realtors selling the bricks right out of the street.

i sense beats beaten senseless, defenseless against
bankers & wankers & painted women with mba’s.
i sense the dark of nights and a lonely trumpet plays,
a lonely pen scratches through light of live-long days.

- ralph murre

O.K., O.K., the poem's a rerun; having appeared on this site before, and originally in the excellent but now defunct Cliffs Soundings, but the drawing is new!

As a Clam

What is it,
don't you sometimes wonder,
that keeps clams so happy?
The ocean view?
Quiet neighbors?
Or is clamming-up
its own reward, lost on poets?
A friend clammed-up
some years ago,
or got clammed-up by A.L.S.,
that condition of Gehrig and Hawking,
that robber of muscle control,
that creator of clams.
Maybe the happiness of clams
comes from silent acceptance
of what the sea brings,
but that's hard for humans.
Wordless so long,
our friend climbed from his clamshell
the other day, and flew.
Here on the bottom,
we'll look to the sky
and watch for him,
finally soaring.

~ RM

In memory of Jeff Kaufman, who clammed-up only vocally, but continued to speak by whatever means available. Please learn just a little about this quiet hero at:
http://www.jsonline.com/news/obituaries/87541862.html

details

detail - louis sullivan

i forget now

dont you

if its the devil

or the divine

that dwells in details

they look a lot alike

hiding in history

sweating small stuff

- r m

Just a note to say ( or brag) that my poem, "The Way the Light Shines", appears on Poetry Dispatch, in an article honoring Linda Aschbrenner and her 100 (!) issues of Free Verse, and Sarah Busse and Wendy Vardaman, who have taken up the reins of its reincarnation, Verse Wisconsin. Have a look at http://poetrydispatch.wordpress.com/2010/03/09/linda-aschbrenner-verse-wisconsin-issue-101-winter-2010/

Seeds

(c) Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds

all these people

over the road

but in this garden

just one

with his thoughts

~ arem

All Right

I can take you to houses of housebreakers
and homes of homewreckers.
I can take you to the edge of the sea.
I can show you where to sleep under bridges
and tell you not to.
I know 28 ways to get warm,
but none work.
I can sing the first lines of songs
and hum what hasn't been heard yet.
I can show you a billion stars
and name three.
You can show me dancers
called Staci or Wanda or Michel.
You can take me to that little place you know
with good chili. And cornbread.
I can tell you how all of this looks
from over there. Or up there.
We can drink with abject objectionists
and stand out among insiders.
You can take me to Green Mountains
and Death Valleys.
You can show me
the red-rimmed eyes of believers,
show me where they've knelt
before high priests and loan officers.
We can dance in circles.
You can take me wading
in the deep end of the pool,
swimming in fresh dew on the lawns
of the desert and the deserted.
We can be quiet as Quakers
as we meet with madmen.
You can tell me everything,
or at least something, will be all right.
I can believe you.

~ Ralph Murre

That first line was prompted by, which is to say stolen from, Alexander McCall Smith.

Go Figure

But, Daddy . . .

Murre, DeGenova, Rossiter, Koehler

But Daddy, I can't sleep . . . are you SURE there are no poets living in our town? Maybe even right here on our street? What does a poet actually look like, Daddy? Pretty scary, I bet.

No Dreams?

. . . and those people who don't believe in gods . . .

do they never dream then?

Plastic Ekphrastic Post#400

Wassily Kandinsky

On Kandinsky's "Painting with Red Spot" 1914

In this grey

Great Lake

February

Wassily

how I long

for color

the flame

gold blue

blooming orchard

amber field

U.F.O.

red spot

sailor's warning

sunrise

orange mountain

terror

of your painting

But Wassily

to be fair

sometimes

it's O.K.

for me

to be here

you there

~ Ralph Murre

Yes, this is my 400th post to this site. And , this would be a great spot for me to say something rather profound. No such luck. I thought a little about trying to tie this into "The 400", meaning, I guess, the elite of society, but I am obviously in no position to speak on that subject. Then I thought about the Chicago & Northwestern's "400", the crack passenger train that traveled, I believe, from Chicago to Minneapolis in 400 minutes, which is still a rather enviable speed, but I realize that speed records have not much to do with this blog nor with my life in general. So, after my first 400 posts, I will simply say Thank You to those several of you have followed along, and I'll say that I hope to continue, in my not-so-elite and not-so-speedy way, to lay a few thoughts before you.

sketchbook

Postcard

From Paradise

This minaret of dolomite, cold-water flat, artist’s garret of a peninsula appended to the broad side of my state, this bit of rock with life oozing from every fissure holds my heart, holds my thoughts, carries my prayers. Floats body and mind from fertile farms and second cities, away, into the cool of the lake. Here, to be a member in good standing of sunrise and set, to be part of rainbow’s arc and thunderhead’s roll.

Here, too, the rush of commerce, the haul-it-in, haul-it-out retailing of the gross world product in the shapes of lighthouses, gull-like geegaws and fishing boat fol-de-rol. Lodgers in plaid shorts replace loggers in plaid shirts. Where cedars live on rock and hope, and trilliums announce the season, signs of spring also include “for sale”, “private beach”, and “own the dream”. We’ll each buy an acre and mark its corners with bright ribbons, to show one another where the dream ends.

in a leaking boat
someone from paradise
rowing hell-bent

- Ralph Murre

first published, in this form, online at Haibun Today

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