Monthly Archives: July 2017

And there once were insects / a poem

No, I mean Insects.
They were everywhere,
like little alien life-forms right outside the door.
Walking Sticks were the largest
and they really looked like long sticks walking.
Has anyone seen one lately?
Caterpillars, colorful, furry, prickly,
barbed, horned, striped and spotted.
Daddy Long Legs – everywhere.
There were bees in flowering bushes
humming like transformers,
and they were all wild,
making honey somewhere.
So many,
I still associate the smell of certain flowers
with that electric sound of bees.
Sure I got stung, a lot,
but it never killed me.
Getting stung was just a fact of life
on a summer’s day.
And there were Writing Spiders,
literally hundreds in the field.
(Oh yeah, there were fields.)
And all kinds of jewel-encrusted dragonflies
zipping through the air.
And ants, black, red, yellow and flying,
hard-working, good citizens
of their realm.
Oh and moths,
made out of powder, or so I thought,
because every time I caught one
and held it in the round container of my hands
it would leave a smudge of powder,
white, pink or bluish-gray.
I used to go to sleep to a symphony of insects.
They tuned up as the sun was setting.
The sound was orchestral in scope
increasing and deepening
until it felt like I was being rocked to sleep
by waves of sound.
Where did they all go?
Some people call them pests.
But oh, how I cherish those memories
of being rocked to sleep
by the music of pests.

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Dali’s mustache revisited

Dali’s mustache revisited

Who cares if Dali’s exhumed mustache is intact?
Who cares if a cat can say his master’s name?

Who cares if the Congressman
Thinks that NASA has a secret reason to go to Mars?

Who cares if there are nettles growing among the raspberries?
And that my friend is probably right,

That the stars are actually the tears of God
Reflecting the light of our souls.

My back hurt all night, and it still hurts
Even though my wife rubbed it with Tiger Balm.

That’s all the matters.

And when your back hurts all night,
I promise not to remind you
Of Dali’s mustache
And the sorrows of God.

Reflection: This is the first poem I have written in weeks. It was inspired by the news of Dali’s body being exhumed to prove his patrilineage. More to the point, it impressed me that they noted that his mustache was still intact. Not that is was intact, but that they noted it. I suppose I would have too; in fact I’m sure of it. Anyway, I also thought of Lazarus, risen from the dead. Poetry never dies. Sometimes it plays dead so it can disappear for a while, rooting around in the underworld, most likely bored with the pencil-thin searchlight of the conscious mind. Surrealism to the rescue of my writer’s block!

“No clue”: poem and thoughts

No Clue

If dis life meant for joy

so, at 66, I should know,

shouldn’t I?

Have somethin’ to show?

Figured out a few things,

but I’m slow,

(At least my wife says so.)

Sure, I’m slow

to let joy in

slow to bow,

to the secret in the center.

So show me how.

I’m with you.

I’m with the man with

the foolish grin,

speaking perfectly loud.

Dancing round the secret.

I’m the one

with the bug in my ear

who whispers,

move beyond fear.

And then there’s that secret smile.

Big Secret Smile.

That bug flyin off now.

I see him flying in your ear!

What’s he gunna tell you?

You let me know

while I’m still 66.

Because by 67

I plan to be a traveling puppeteer

and I don’t know

where I will be

in a year.

No clue.

A few words: Just got back from Monhegan. Now there is a magical place. What I will miss the most is the flowers. Well, the sea. The flowers and the sea. I told everyone I was building a little house in the woods there. There is some truth to that. It’s a dream house. It’s not real, but my soul says it will do for now. This poem is my attempt to stay loose, to keep the dreaming fresh, like those flowers and the sea.