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

Looking Up

LOOKING UP

Does the sky today
with its twelve cranes
neatly folded and calling
in gourd-throated rattles
look something like the sky
on that Friday I was born?

That day in 1944
our 386th bomber squadron
accidentally
hit a house in Belgium.

Was anyone home?
That’s important to know.
Were they aware
it was The Good War?
’cause that’s important to know.
And will folding a thousand cranes
really bring peace?
That’s important to know.

—Ralph Murre

first appeared in the Museletter of the Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets

Confection

Have some candy, my sweet.
No, it isn't medicine
and I never bring meat.
I'm your wonderful parent
after all,
so eat, eat.
Then we'll buy a plaything
for your right hand
and another for the other
and one for each ear.
Have some candy, my dear.
Now, what would you like --
A German car? An Italian bike?
I've a chocolate from Godiva.
Please, uhhh . . .
charge something to my Visa,
your D's a good enough grade.
You deserve a little treat --
more candy, my sweet?

~ Ralph Murre

conflict

cranes calling

from the north

church bells

from the south

cranes win

~ arem

Copper

Copper

He who travels on peninsulas must expect someday to to turn back.

~ Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Sure, you know about the red metal of common cents
and wires, its green patina inspires your sense of age,
and you’ve seen page and page of the Keweenaw’s
bardic sage talking of the Cliffs, but ‘til you’re there,
you don’t ask the what ifs, the copper-clad history
stiffs ya ‘til it stares ya in the face, this place evades
explaining term, not a germ of the thing comes through
‘til you stand on a zillion tons of rock broke and hauled
from shaft to light, this zillion ton blight a story of men.

Sure, you know, sure, you know, about the men –
the native men whose red metal was found on the ground,
the intruding men who showed the way to the deep dark
metallic middle-Earth toil, the Earth altering, never
faltering toil, the five-thousand foot down toiled rock,
the shock of Earth-rape tragedy, sure you know, sure.
About the men in Pittsburgh and Boston, lost in greenback
red-metal reverie and railroaded resource removal ‘til
it’s played-out and gone, ‘til it’s played out and gone.

Sure, you know, don’t you – about the Caesarian-section
birth from Earth of spirits unnamed, untamed – torn
with the red metal to the surface – left there in mourning
bourne of Earth-rape tragedy, warnings hidden now by
green drape raggedy forest recovery, winter morning
long-white snow-covery, oh, very well hidden warnings,
but stone rings mark spirits' homes and poems are writ
and hung in trees to appease these gods, these gods who
won’t be played out and gone in this little story of men.

- Ralph Murre
(first appeared in The Cliffs / Soundings)

I am an inveterate traveler on peninsulas, and a turner back. Of course, I've spent most of 40 years on one, but find myself continually drawn to other peninsulas of the Great Lakes, the Bruce, the Garden, the Keweenaw -- always comparing them to the Door, always asking "what if . . ." in the manner, I suppose, of travelers everywhere, newly enamored by their surroundings. If you think that my writing about the Keweenaw (see my post "U.P. North" from July '09) bears a streak of "don't throw me in that briar patch", you are quite perceptive. I rarely mention what's wonderful about the places I travel, because as Dave Engel said in a poem he read the other night in Calumet, "I don't want to see you there."

Whole Cloth

The latest from Little Eagle Press, and a very proud addition to our in-print list, is WHOLE CLOTH, by Ronnie Hess. The volume tells, in well-crafted verse and illustration, the story of Ms. Hess' exploration of her husband's genealogical roots and their subsequent transplantation onto American shores. "Roots" is the right term here, because they were hidden well underground and serious digging into the rocky soils of the Sub-Carpathian Rus' was required to unearth them. To tell such a tale would in itself be interesting, but hardly unique; to tell the tale in compelling poetry is a much greater challenge, and the one to which Ronnie Hess has risen admirably.

WHOLE CLOTH by Ronnie Hess, ISBN 978-0-9823419-5-7, 48 pp. 13 illus.
Available for $12 plus $3 s&h from:
Little Eagle Press
P.O. Box 684
Baileys Harbor, WI 54202
littleeaglepress@gmail.com

~ personal checks gladly accepted
~ book vendors: please inquire

Also available:
RED BOOTS by Michael Koehler
CROW INK by Sharon Auberle
A SLENDER THREAD anthology
BAR CODE anthology
PSALMS by Ralph Murre

Buddy

So I'm sittin' at the counter
like always
not feelin' that chipper
sr. discount cuppa joe, black
like always
He comes in, starts yackin'
like always
givin' me the blow by blow, see
of how he squeeked out this victory
in a tough solitaire game
I say fer d'chrissake
why d'ya think they call it SOLITAIRE ???
n'why 'n hell aincha fishin'?
He says somethin' 'bout
his old lady's bum leg
like always
n' I say I didn't ask
why y'r old lady ain't fishin', y' putz
an' he's back with
the freezer's full anyhows
and why ain't YOU fishin'?
Aw, hell, I tell him
lookit today's special
Atlantic Cod, all you can eat
$4.95
Can't afford fishin'
I tell him
pretty much
like always

~ Ralph Murre

Weather Proof

But -- this little reality we've built

and shingled so carefully

to keep out the dreams --

can't we paint it a brighter color ?

~ RM

Labor Day

Yeah, I'll write something about Labor Day, but I haven't much idea of what it means in this era. It's changed. We've changed.
I'm the son of a union carpenter and grew up in a time when a family could live pretty well on what ONE skilled craftsman brought home after a forty-hour week. We could celebrate the ability of American workers, we could sleep with full bellies under a leak-free roof purchased with fair wages fought for by organized labor. We had some notion of what Labor Day meant as we ate our slice of American Pie.
The slice, it appears to me, has shrunken considerably for the average working schmuck, even as the productivity of American workers hit an all-time high last month. Labor unions seem to be widely viewed as luxuries our society can no longer afford, in an age that allows easy exploitation of the world's most impoverished, wherever they are found, whatever form of slavery they can be forced into.
So, does the worker from the U.S. or any other rich, developed nation deserve more than one from a country teetering on starvation's brink? Of course not. But any worker, from anywhere, deserves some bit of dignity, some idea of parity, some ability to earn what it takes to feed, shelter, and clothe a healthy family. "Workers of the world, unite." they used to say, but "they" were commie bastards who are in some disfavor these days. Still, until it happens, we will only celebrate a meaningless Labor Day, with most of our picnic goodies supplied by the outsourcers as we wave American flags made in China (the home of ACTUAL commie bastards).
What do I know, viewing as I do, the working world from the safe distance of my Social Security dole? Not much. Not much. But I do see my children and grandchildren having, quite possibly, less opportunity than I had. Some of this, of course, is my own fault for believing that I, too, could work just forty hours per week. Some of it, though, is due to the devaluation of working people and of work, itself. And some of it makes Labor Day, for me, a bitter remembrance of a better time.

~ Ralph Murre

The Cliff

I 'm not much of a mountain climber (or a social climber, but that's not today's story) although I imagine that from time to time, when scaling a steep cliff, you must trust your tenuous hold and lean back for a bit, to refocus your energies and to survey the way ahead.
Yesterday, I leaned back. I fed my loyal Rozinante eight gallons of the good oats for which she repaid me with 432 miles of the grand beauty of this state when it is ripe for harvest. And I found solitude. So many miles without words beyond answering in the affirmative to "would you like fries with that" and later, a "Sure. Thanks." to the fellow ferry passenger who asked if I'd like him to snap the photo above, while we crossed The Wisconsin at Merrimac.
It was a cool and glorious day of the road. I relaxed my grip and didn't fall from my place on the face of this cliff.

the spotted cows

teaching rumination

their great wisdom

- Ralph Murre

Moonrise Lake Michigan

with the same eyes
through the same glass
the same moon full again
but never so full
as when you were in its light
never that color
we couldn't name
illuminating our embrace
and all of me
singing all of you

- ralph murre

Snapshot

In this one,
there's a manicured village
where the tiny steam train arrives
on time
at the gingerbread station,
the mountain children greet the summer visitors,
the yellow dog wags his yellow tail,
and the kindly station master
looks up from his work
to see the retiring kindergarten mistress
picking alpine flowers.
In the valley below,
a young man finds work
at the Messerschmitt plant.
It's all just wonderful.

~ Ralph Murre

Happy to include a new link to the blog of one of my great favorites; Jackie Langetieg, at http://jackiella.wordpress.com/ .

Blood

family picnic

alike and so different

our bodies and blood

~ arem

Summer Sky

Since my writing seems to have gone totally to hell, I thought I'd show you what I've been drawing.

~ Ralph Murre

Boating in the Stream of Consciousness

I was photographing off Sherwood Point today, which of course got me to thinking about Sherwood Forest which of course got me to thinking about Robin Hood et al. Was there ever a boy who didn't identify with Old Rob, I wonder? Ever one who did identify with the Sheriff of Nottingham? Of course, both Mr. Hood and the Evil Fuzz lusted after Maid Marian, and though most of us were not fully aware of the nature of lust at the time we were reading these tales, we were pretty sure we wanted some . . . . But back to my premise about wanting to follow the lead of the merry bandit rather than the bad cop; if I'm right about the almost universal instinct of impressionable lads to side with the outlaw, (and American lore has its share of scofflaw heroes, too, including most of our founders and present-day leaders), then how do kids turn into cops? Or tax collectors? Even we tax & spend liberal pinkos hate tax collectors, although the collection of taxes made it possible to build the lighthouse that is so important to my photograph, which I made from across the bay, from a park and marina which was acquired and built with tax money. Even though I was able to be there because I'm receiving my social security, I still hate tax collectors. And the constabulary.

It's great to be able to say that my piece, "U.P. North", from a few posts back, now appears in the August issue of the excellent web mag, "Quill and Parchment", which is put together by Sharmagne Leland-St. John. You'll have to subscribe to get full access, but the magazine is well worth it. Take a (free) peek at the archives at http://quillandparchment.com/

Graffiti

On the walls of this cave,
my paintings of the hunt
for the perfect excuse,
umber on dolomite illustrations
of my near-conquest of the fear of success.
Close to the fire,
where we might have huddled
and invented language,
my drawings of the vision
I hoped to have,
and in the deepest recesses,
the undervalued reliefs
which I carved in your absence
to commemorate the time
we were almost together.

Sometimes still,
the sputter of a torch
where I sketch.
Sometimes still,
the possibility
of dreaming.

~ Ralph Murre

"Graffiti" appeared in Crude Red Boat from Cross+Roads Press

Another Side

The photo shows another side of the Keweenaw Peninsula, and has nothing whatsoever to do with another side of my writing, which I am proud to say appears at the excellent Haibun Today site, and to which this link may direct you >>> http://www.haibuntoday.com/ <<< (go there now)

~ RM

U.P. North

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car turns north

As we’ve done before, and I’ve done before that, we point toward the Keweenaw – once copper rich, now dirt poor – the Upper Peninsula of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. North of Green Bay and the Fox Valley’s fortunate, farmlands fall away quickly, and so does any evidence of recent prosperity. Forest and bog slide by a million trees at a time and we get into the big land of Tookaway. Took away iron. Copper. Silver. Took away first-growth timber and First Nation people. Took away everything of value. But the invaluable remains, flourishes. The rivers flow. The trees grow. A few people eke out a life.
In Houghton, browned men and yellow machines dig at the pavement. The dirt. The history.

an old man walking
as if bearing a great weight
his soul enormous
through a thin jacket
against the cold of summer

The railroad tracks have been removed from the lift bridge to Hancock; the taking away complete. Quincy smelter ruins of the past fight for the right to co-exist with condos and other ruins of the present. Wavelets of blue water make a chuckling sound as they nibble at foundations.
Climb the long hill to Calumet. Behold glory gone so quickly there was barely time to screw-up its old quarters. Barely money to re-muddle the red-on-red stone and brick of the place, now deemed unsuitable for Mom, Pop & The Oh-So-Average Kids, but not yet vacated by the denizens of depression; the drunks, the drifters, the drop-outs.

from a red stone stoop
in Sunday morning brightness
his unshaven stare

In a nation that’s just getting back to hard times, behold a place that’s harbored them for a couple generations since the mines have played out. Behold the look of uncommon wealth gone away. We may all get used to it. But look at the handsome buildings left behind; left for the taking. Look at the epitaph of The Good Life. Look at the good folks fixing up in spite of churches out of business along with their parishioners, dance halls along with dancers, milliners with mills.

in an empty street
as if something might happen
a cameraman

Even some of the taverns have closed, unlikely as that may sound. Even some of the best of them. Elegant emporiums of leaded glass and leather-backed booths, of mahogany and madness. A few remain.

the darkened windows
with their neon signs gone out
Sunday morning bars

In the vacuum, after the great sucking sound of the removal of resources has subsided, come the artists and poets and other marginalized people with imagination, drawn by the low rent and high ceilings of the place, drawn by the Big Sea Shining Water so close at hand, the Woods, the Cliffs. Drawn by the very fact that this is a place away. They fix things, some. They fix more. It starts to get pretty nice. They win a few. They lose a few. If they win too many, they lose it all, because property values go up to the point they can no longer afford to stay. They find a new town, I suppose, and make it safe for realtors and re-zoning. In the meantime, Calumet is just the mix of heaven and hell that I like to visit when I can.
May our friends, the fixer-uppers on the Keweenaw Peninsula, stay ahead of the forces of gravity, entropy, and the tearer-downers; but not so far ahead as have our friends on that over-priced peninsula of Wisconsin, which we call home.

south in green summer
around the foot of Green Bay
a green car returns

~ Ralph Murre

Like a Bridge

The thing about a bridge - The Golden Gate, The Mackinac, Brooklyn, London, Pont Neuf, or Monet's Garden - the thing about a bridge is that its utility is lost on no one; its symbolism is lost on no one. It is as pure and straightforward a thing as mankind has created. Is it in spite of, or because of that, I wonder, that there are so many designs, so many ways of solving what is, essentially, the same problem? Oh, I know any engineer would tell me, rightly, that each is a unique problem, but my point is that 100 engineers would design a hundred different bridges to get the same path across the same same stream. Vive la difference!
A bridge, a home, a lighthouse, a fireplace, an airplane - all utilitarian things that also have tremendous symbolism, and all have been designed in almost as many ways as have snowflakes or pebbles on a beach - alike, but not alike.
I suppose I'm writing not about bridges at all, but about the beauty of the human mind; about whatever is that instinct that makes us want to create, to BE, something different.
Perhaps we should celebrate our difference with each bridge we cross.
~ Ralph Murre