somewhere a bell

somewhere a bell

and within
a dim and smoky lantern

swinging still
from its nail

the ship
plowing forever

into night
the sea

vastly
unimpressed

the stars still
distant

the universe still
expanding

~ ralph murre

More Crude Red Boats in The Harbor

Scout’s Honor

Merit badges for tying knots -

the bowline, the sheepshank, the clove hitch.

Merit badges for whittling the likenesses

of dead presidents and woodland animals, and

of course, for assistance given to the feeble

in their never-ending quest to cross the road.

Maybe they should keep handing them out.

The badge for showing up every day

right down to the day they tell you

not to show up tomorrow.

A merit badge for the day

your infant son needs major surgery.

Another for that day he’s grown

and buys his first motorcycle.

Badges for each of your daughter’s tattoos

and piercings. Diamond insets

if you can’t really mention what’s been pierced.

A merit badge, or, at least, a colorful neckerchief

as your party loses another one.

( But it could be taken back if you move to Canada.)

Bronze medals for burying parents.

Silver for friends.

You’d rather die than win the gold.

A merit badge and letter of commendation

the day you actually give up your abuse

of anything, or anyone.

And a little badge of semi-precious material

for every day that you get out of bed

and wear a brave costume.

One for that confident smile on your face

as your knees tremble beneath the table.

                                                               ~ Ralph Murre

Good news. That's just a sample poem from my first book, Crude Red Boat, which has been out of print for a while and pretty hard to find.  But.  I've just been able to purchase some archived copies from the estate of Norbert Blei.  His Cross + Roads Press was the publisher.   He'd probably be disappointed to know that I was letting any of them go for the cover price, but that's just what I'm doing.  I'll send out a few of them for $10 plus $3 for shipping and handling, and when I feel my own supplies have become dangerously low, once again, the price will escalate sharply.  Interested?  Drop me a line at littleeaglepress@gmail.com (put Crude Red Boat in the subject line).  Any of my later books also still available at that address.     ~ RM

Valuables

detail: louis sullivan bank - sidney, ohio

the banker asks

what use is a butterfly

having forgotten his childhood

the poet asks

what use is a bank

having forgotten his old age

~ arem

Pleasant

At his memorial

how pleasant we all are

dressed nice

a glass of wine

the blue of the sky

these shimmering women

this sultry day

almost as if

these fine shirted men

this striped awning

just as if

on a holiday

as if he'll be in

the Adirondacks

for the summer

Europe,  maybe

Bon Voyage!

how pleasant

~ Ralph Murre

It may be too much, all this going on for the passing of one friend.  I'd promise to stop soon, but I may not keep that promise.    ~ RM

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