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.

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