at evening

western

could I be

a sundown man

enfold you

unfold you

the colored rays

of our shining

the western sky

at evening?

~ ralph murre

as Mardi Gras approaches

Delta Blues

There, on the edge of the shelf,

in the sad and beautiful frames of generations,

the black and white portraits of us,

the sepia of our flesh,

the glisten and the dance.

There, the mouth of Old Man River

speaks to the sea of a continent stolen,

but Mother Ocean says, “Africa –

I’m here for her children. Europa –

I’m here for her children.  And Asia’s,”

she says.  There,

where those two meet day in and out,

night after night, in throes

of love and fight and blows

of gods of wind, there

in a mixed-blood flood,

she takes away a few of those

she’s brought on her broad back,

but carries them now in her womb

from that Crescent City where the water

rises above the tombs.

“Shall we gather . . .”, sings the old man,

“On that beautiful shore . . .”, says the sea.

~ Ralph Murre

The Grandfathers

the grandfathers
their hands flinty with work
reaching down to take mine

smell of oil and liniment and wool
smoke rising
snow falling

their heavy shovels
and plaid coats
the names of old countries


~ Ralph Murre

If that sounds like an old one to any of you, well, it is.  Kinda.  In the spirit of revise, revise, revise, I boiled a fair to middlin' nineteen lines down to nine, and I think I like it even better. If I keep going this way, someday, I'll say nothing at all, and that may be best.   ~ RM

In That House

In That House

". . . any room was full       

of such choreography . . ."

~ Michael Ondaatje

each of the chambers

of his heart

held a dance

his inner ear

a symphony

the optic nerve

told of roses

and rose windows

remembering that day

in that far away

when her eyes whispered

maybe

and still

after

the quick step

of all these

yesterdays

a waltzing

and that fox

still trotting

the way she does

in that house

full of the choreography

of whispered

yes

~ Ralph Murre

Gratitude in Dark December

There's nothing more gratifying for a writer, I suppose, than to be read -- and to have a person or two in some way moved by the reading.  A couple of years ago, I penned "In Dark December" which has been published here and there in print and on line, and which I've read at several events.  Well -- people seem to like it and it's been spreading on the internet and by emails and now I get references to the piece from far and wide. Thanks to friend Kris Thacher for the above photo, showing the poem posted on the Poetry Pole on Candelaria Road in Albuquerque, New Mexico; a far piece from my digs in Northeast Wisconsin.  Sometimes, I think, a piece of writing can be bigger than its author, and that's certainly how I feel about this poem.  Grateful to have had my pen on paper -- my hook in the water -- when this one came swimming by.  Grateful, too, for the friends, new and old, who have helped keep this alive.    ~ RM

In Dark December

by Ralph Murre

Whatever you believe,

whatever you do not,

there are sacred rites

you must perform

in dark December.

Do this for me:

Pull together

the kitchen table,

the folding table,

and that odd half-oval

usually covered

with bills and broken pencils

and red ink.

Pull together family and friends,

cool cats and stray dogs alike.

Turn off everything

except colored lights,

the roaster,

the toaster, the stove.

Cook.  Bake.  Eat.

Yes, even the fruitcake.

Eat, crowded around

those assembled tables

with mismatched chairs.

Reach so far

in your sharing

that you hold the sun

in one hand,

the stars in the other,

and no one between is hungry.

Now walk together,

talk together,

be together

on these darkest nights.

Give and forgive.

Light candles and ring bells.

Sing the old songs.

Tell the old stories

one more time,

leaving nothing out,

leaving no one out

in the long night,

leaving nothing wrong

that you can make right.

~ first published in Peninsula Pulse                                                        

in the pond of plenty

Heaven

I don't know about the streets of Heaven, nor am I likely to find out -- but parts of County Trunk Q were paved with gold this morning as a sheath of shed tamarack needles clung to the wetted roadway.  That's good enough for me.     ~ RM

Of Sugar and Marigolds

It is

La Dia de los Muertos

let us remember

and let us dance

~ RM

Hallows Eve

With appropriate dark

And this damp chill

Tomorrow begins November

We shall wear brave masks tonight

RM

Islands

Islands

No man, you tell me, but everyman, I tell you,

and woman and boat, every Wisconsin farmhouse

and apartment in the Bronx; an island.

That blue circle of horizon, the dangerous passage,

those days the ferry cannot cross from my shores

to the quiet cove of yours.  The sea between.

~ Ralph Murre

That's the little tug Neverwas in my sketch above, departing Rock Island, Wisconsin, in the early afternoon of long ago, and getting a friendly wave from an unidentified guest at the Thordarson Boathouse, where Sharon Auberle and I were recently privileged to read to a sizable and receptive audience from our book Wind Where Music Was.  Headliner on the program was ferryman Richard Purinton, who was introducing his Thordarson and Rock Island, an absolute "must read" for anyone interested in the history of the region and the biography of the man.  I predict that this wonderfully researched volume will be the standard text on the topic for a long time to come.     ~ RM  

Falling

digitally derived from seed co. photo

Like a Melon, Love.

She weighed it in her hand

in her heart

this chance

this could be

as a cantaloupe

this fruit

this thing

bought on faith

before it could be

cut open.

She

smelled of it

felt of it

fell.

~ Ralph Murre

That first line (italicized) is a snippet

borrowed from Louis de Bernieres

Deity

Proud to present photographic proof, at last, that there is Someone Up There, a man at the controls, if you will.  Look very closely and you'll note that He, like the rest of us, is scratching His head as He looks at the good old U.S. of A.

Remembering My Education

On the First Day

Coy Colleen

goes not unnoticed

by slack-jawed juniors

and in the sky

mares’ tails

chased by stallions

their thunderhead bluster

their temporary insanity

~ Ralph Murre

Alignment

One Day at Stonehenge

pretty much like another

the August sun

and over there

a couple

making promises

beyond a prayer

and praying

for something fortuitous

in this once

in their lifetime

alignment of stones

and stars

and over there

the gods

and all

the rest

~ Ralph Murre

Destiny

Sweets

There’s a guy on the radio

singing about Sweet Destiny

as though she’s bringing

something more palatable

than the just desserts I see.

     Could be.

          Could be.

Soon enough, I guess

we’ll be at Destiny’s table.

Don’t rush me

toward that sweet reward.

~ Ralph Murre

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.