catnap

slipaway 

sleepaway

sere

summer

sunday

stalk

supper

sometime

later

~

r.m.

Yes, the Moon in June

that moon there

and the poet

with nothing to say?

~ arem

just having a little fun with the new camera, some old software     ~ R.M.

The Kid, The Old Man

photo: valerie murre-schlick, 1969

But what do you get the man who has nothing for Father's Day?  A son.  Received 15 June 1969, Father's Day that year, Morgan, my firstborn, and he, today, celebrating the holiday himself for the eighteenth time as the celebrated.  But for big, round glasses and a well-waxed handlebar moustache, he still looks about the same, though taller.  I'm shorter, fatter, balder.  Still proud of my kids, their kids.  Still getting accustomed to being The Old Man. 

Just a moment, now, to thank Arvin and Daniel and Cornelius and all those grandfathers' grandfathers back to Lieven Murre, born in 1630, and his grandfathers, whose names I do not know.

~ R.M.

Survivor

In the part of town     staggering     toward some awaited gentrification

Al's Hamburger     doing the same thing since '34     with little applause I'll bet

no ovation     Not much change after the depression     the second war

There's a notice posted     high on the white wall     near the white ceiling

This is not

BURGER KING

You don't get it your way.

You take it my way

or you don't get

the damn thing.

Hamburgers shall have onions fried or raw     that's the decree     Al's word is law

and that's O.K. with me

~ Ralph Murre

No Rush

How can it be 
that the first moose
in the wild I'd ever see
would appear
at that moment
I'd bought a new camera,
dropped in the power,
and installed the memory?

And how can it be
that the first moose
in the wild I'd ever see
had the time
in that forest
to stand and wait for me?
Had the moose nowhere
more important to be?

And didn't the moose
(and the muse)
deserve better poetry?


(of course you deserve better, too, but I had hoped maybe my first-ever moose photo would do)

Another Memorial

Off Blackhawk Road

Blackhawk, old warrior

outnumbered by European starlings,

is that you, or your namesake,

perched high on that cottonwood branch?

Do you see me here on the land?

I think you’d still know it –

this path on this island of sand.

A creek still flows.

The deer still drink the cool of it.

But Blackhawk, hear the mourning dove mourn;

don’t fly back to that little lake.

In a hundred summers, the trees may return

that the damned fool clear-cut for a view.

Let his sons, for a hundred winters,

have nothing to burn.  Hell,

let his daughters freeze with them, too.

Or is that unkind, Blackhawk?

Too hawkish a thought for my mourning dove mind?

There’s a warning of chick-a-dee-dee.

Now, a racket of crows

and the waxwings wax alarming.

Can’t I relax?  After all,

a creek still flows

and the deer still drink the cool of it.

~ Ralph Murre

a handle on it

in this kind of light

and always

on a bench

on the dock

on this kind of day

in this kind of light

a few old men

buttoned in

their dark coats

and dispositions

listening

to each others'

long stories

their hearing aids

turned off

~ ralph murre

Getting Across

How many boards      I ask

in a boardwalk

If  I tell     says the sage

you won't build one

~ arem

A farewell . . .

from a photo by bobbie krinsky

Norbert ~

If, once again, you must lead us where we will surely follow; Via con Dios, Amigo. Gracias por todos.  My English is not good enough to express what I feel.  I resort to a language I do not speak.  You understand.     ~ Ralph  

. . .

This morning, our friend, Norbert Blei, left us to wander in another realm.  Sunnier, maybe.  He was our teacher, our compadre, our conscience sometimes.  He was the thorn in our side.  He was the salve for our wounds.  He was our encyclopedia.  And he wrote.  Oh, Jesus, he wrote.  He published some of us, read us, read to us.  He told me I was a poet, and I believed him.

Norb caught the 8:18 train this morning.  Jude was there, on that cold platform, to see him off.

My deepest sympathy to his children and to all who loved him.

Fare thee well, Norbert.     ~ RM

River

I've moved into a pretty classy neighborhood.  Well, at least one of my poems has.  Take a look, if you like, at the post for April 15, 2013, at http://expressmilwaukee.com/articles.sec-270-1-poetry.html , the online poetry page of Shepherd Express.

Ink-Dark Waters

A friend, who understands these things, suggested that the best artwork I've done in the last couple of years may be in the ink-splattered mess I've made of my little drawing board.  I stared into it for a while and began to see something of myself. This may not be what he saw.   ~ RM

Red Kite

it's as if

my little red kite

meant something

to the sky

~ arem

Quick Silver

and I said what I did

           and then you

and now

this frigid afternoon

   comes between us


~ ralph murre



a twenty-fifth anniversary, but my wizard alchemy
turned silver to quicksilver, and it slipped away . . .

Born Toulouse?

art of  henri de toulouse-lautrec

the thing about sad songs --

-- they make me so happy

~ Emmylou Harris

What is it, I wonder, that makes us love the blues, the sad country ballad,  the somebody done somebody wrong song, the dark forces of pulling apart?  Sure, I'm talking about song-writers, poets, and artists -- we're the worst, I suppose, but is anybody rushing out to buy totally happy music?  To buy novels or see movies without any conflict or struggle?

A lot of people, though, seem to be able to see the flick, get their safe dose of tragicomedy, and go home.  Is it only those of us striving to be creative who turn our lives, and those of people around us, into little operas?  I know people who appear to be continually happy, and it seems to me they must be running on some alternative fuel to the stuff I burn.  I fear, sometimes, that the urge to tell a good story gets all mixed up with living a life that makes a good story.  The problems really seem to arise when the tales of our existence are winding down and we try to get to a "happily ever after" line.  I keep writing, but some days I feel I'm getting farther from that ending .

   ~ Ralph Murre  

Night Sky with Burger

There is so much yet to learn.    

~ arem

Wonders

Wonders

and how they

never cease

like the best

geysers

fair to middling

rivers

like, let’s say

promises

Anybody loving

anybody

is a kind of

wonder

to say

nothing

of you

loving me

To say

nothing at all

of miracles

~ Ralph Murre

Better Prescription

I've got some powerful new glasses which have allowed me to see things that seem to have gone unnoticed in the past.  For instance, I took a cursory glance at the Ten Commandments and saw a footnote in fine print that I hadn't been aware of at all:

VI.
Thou shalt not kill.*

* Except if thou shalt happen to possess drones. Then it's way cool.

"Democracy as law is a fight for every day. If you don't fight for that, it’s just a piece of paper." 

~ Juan Garces 

Sonata

moonlight

the way

it casts beethoven's

long shadow

and here

the bare birch

there

dark arbor vitae

~ ralph murre

Work (?) In Progress

What I Used to Know

I understood
that dandelions
are beautiful
as dahlias and
the cheesemaker's daughter
delightful

I knew
the grace of grasshoppers
equals
the pomp of presidents
or peacocks and
pigeons stand iridescent in sun

I suspected
there is less
to people
than they
let on
and more

and I knew
my flesh was holy
as communion bread
or Wonder Bread
and Mogen David wine
after blessing

I heard pines
whisper
prayers
that
went
unanswered

I saw the early signs
the dancers on aching toes
yet I never doubted
perfection
the questions
in the eyes of does

~ Ralph Murre

note: "work in progress" refers to the poem, not the building!