The Delaware Rambler

To Riad On His Birthday— January 1, 2012

2011-12-30T09:33:00.000-08:00

As I cross the wide Missouri

I think of thee, dear Riad Khouri

Perhaps like Lear, no more the King

But you'll always be the Arab Spring.

To Bev On His Birthday

2011-12-14T16:11:00.000-08:00

Down a dark and lonely lane

At a place called Witcheshouse

There lived this old man, Bevan

And Jo, his loving spouse.

Twas in the month, December

When Bevan did declare

"I might be turning seventy

But I got me f-ing hair.”

The fire it cast long shadows

As Bevan raised his glass

And as he drifted off to sleep

He passed a little gas.

Poète Maudit

2011-05-18T22:29:00.000-07:00

I
Ejected from our local cafe´,
and drunk on eau de vie, and beer chasers,
we hit the streets,
floating just above the cobblestones—
soon the ancient parapets of the Vieux Ville
are echoing to a bawdy chorus of Four-and-Twenty Virgins.

John Calvin looks down on us with contempt,
and muffled curses follow us
down medieval passage ways—
damning us to repent!

In tearooms, in the afternoons
I drink my coffee, renversé.
and write poetry in the margins of
The International Herald Tribune.

I fill my journals with ideas for novels I will never write,
and songs I will never sing.
I know everything, or so it seems.

II
You’d hardly recognize me now,
I’m far more pessimistic:
How easily opposing thoughts
co-exist inside my brain—
“It’s a paradox,” I say,
then tip my hat and walk away:

To simpler times and nobler wars,
when protest songs were all the rage,
when all my idols wore cloth caps,
and verse by Yeats could get you laid.

So to those days, we raise our glass
to the lads who slipped away—
we saw how it would all turn out,
and died of injured innocence.

To Manzo On His Birthday

2011-05-03T22:05:00.000-07:00

below the earth moves.

Manzo, a foot in each world,

stands fast and serene.

The Sands Belong To The Dunes

2010-09-23T08:42:00.000-07:00

as the olive is to the tree

the sun to the day

the moon to the night

so the sands belong to the dunes.

sculpted by the wind

the dunes are the people

and the people are God’s breath

made manifest.

Untitled

2009-11-08T08:50:00.000-08:00

This poem isn’t about anything
in particular
it has no secrets it doth portend
no time or season
no rhyme or reason
it has no end.

It’s not about love,
a heart sad and broken
a passion that will be remembered
for ever and a day.

Neither is it about death or dying—
No canons roar, no angels soar
no one surrenders to the light.

This poem is not a river,
or a little cloud hanging just above a maple tree
nothing falls in this forest
everything you see is exactly what you see.

This poem isn’t about anything
in particular
it has no secrets it doth portend
no time or season
no rhyme or reason
it has no end...

Poet's Corner

2007-11-01T05:18:00.000-07:00

A Bard named Canard,
and a Muse on the booze,
and a poet from Hexham-on-Tyne
were locked in a room, and threatened with doom
if they didn’t come up with a rhyme.

Heroic hexameter, iambic pentameter
the rhymesters just couldn’t decide,
then things got real rough, ‘bout technical stuff
like irony, metaphor, time.

The Bard pulled a gun
shot the Muse in the bum
The Poet he took out his pen,
as he stabbed the Canard
the Muse said, "En garde!"
ran the Poet direct through the heart.

As this poem portends
it comes to its end
with a word of advice to impart
whether lyric or ode, it’s not à la mode
to ever die for your art!

We Are The Puppet And The Puppeteer

2007-08-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

We are the puppet and the puppeteer,
blessed and accursed,
the hammer and the anvil,
the water and the thirst.

We sing our praises,
then undermine our confidence
we wake in fear, or in times,
insouciance.

We are night,
We are day,
black and white —
almost never, ever shades of grey.

We are the puppet and the puppeteer,
blessed and accursed,
the hammer and the anvil,
the water and the thirst.

Hidden In Plain Sight

2007-06-22T03:57:00.000-07:00

In an age where facebook
And twitter dominated the conversation
I’m about as good a poet as I need to be.

In this menstruum of low-intensity words
These times of :):):) on the Internet
Where language is subordinate to emoticons.
I, in my eld
—my geezerhood—
Sit and write poetry that is
All but hidden in plain sight.

The Prairie Crocus

2007-05-06T13:59:00.000-07:00

Prophets of the early spring,
the prairie crocus begin to stir underground,
they have but one imperative:
To be the first to be.

Five billion years ago,
our only star, the Sun,
gathered asteroids, and cosmic dust
from around the universe.

Then from a frozen crucible,
the fiery hand of providence,
turned dross into gold, then back again.

Mankind called this The Creation:
But for crocuses, who are atheists,
it was just the first day of their desire.

In early spring, the crocuses abound across the plains,
and idle long the days,
teasing honeybees with promises of nectar — a chalice gold for intercourse.

In the full bouquet of summer,
the crocuses are wanning,
and across the grasslands, a primal choir is heard —
of crocuses and bees in requiem.

Up Here In The Gods

2007-02-17T06:31:00.000-08:00

Down there,
through the inky black
behind the bright, white footlights
they stride the boards—
uninhibited, angry and free.

Jimmy Porter on the prowl
raging 'gainst the common place;
Martha and George locked in undying combat;
noble Willy Loman, indignant to the end.

The air is scented with sexual desire
Blanche, Nora, Juliet—
they are all there,
attention must be paid!

Up here in the gods
we sit in awe
of their thirsting, their pain and their honesty.

When the final curtain falls
we leave the theatre
timid, silent, alone:
It is we who are the fiction
we the invention,
unexamined and afraid.

My Family’s Necropolis

2007-02-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

Nearby where the highway lies
a road where once the trolleys plied
there idled for a little while
my family’s necropolis.

By simple graves, now overgrown
we counted years in little stones
and heard the rabbi’s last lament
at my family’s necropolis.

I knew them each and every day,
I knew their doubts, their DNA
and when they laughed and when they cried
and how they lived, and why they died.

In the marrow of it all
Grandmom wears a woolen shawl
she traveled here, through fire and war
to my family’s necropolis.

A stitch in time, now nevermore
my father’s father, Isadore
I feel his whiskers on my cheek
at my family’s necropolis.

Stoic beauty, laid to rest
once I slept against her breast
my mother’s here in valor's grace
in my family’s necropolis.

Etched upon my mother’s stone
my father’s name, his birth is shown
the date he’d died, he leaves to God
at my family’s necropolis.

December shines on barren trees
there is nothing more to grieve
all that's left are metaphors
of my family’s necropolis.

In Repute

2007-01-18T07:13:00.000-08:00

I never, I never knew why
I was so fierce in the defense of my repute;
how at the mere shadow of an innuendo
I became a summer storm
and raged like King Canute.

I never, I never knew why
I would not repent—
never let sleeping dogs lie
or ever, ever compromised.

This was the story of my life
I can sum it up in a line or two
I never, I never had finesse
savoir-faire or politesse

I never, I never knew why
I felt such contempt
and despite it all
was so content.

Monhegan Island

2007-01-09T07:21:00.000-08:00

On the early ferry from Port Clyde,
schools of watercolorists arrive on the island:
Raring to catch the morning light,
they scamper from the wharf
—passing between skyscraping stacks of lobster traps—
then up the abrupt, stony path to the lighthouse.

Like gulls alighting on a rocky outcrop,
they warily vie for a spot on the crowded lookout.
Finding places beside the uneasy glances of their fellow artists,
the flock settles, to bask in the glory of this most perfect summer’s day.

On the beach, near some fish shanties
a drawing class is in progress:
Seated cross-legged, in a semi-circle,
students consign a weathered dory to their sketchbooks.
Their instructor moves among them,
talking of vanishing points, and negative spaces.

Over at the Eastern end of the Island
a lone artist is painting out by Squeaker Cove:
Her subject is the headlands at Black Head,
dressed in a flowing skirt of crashing waves.

The painter’s tiny brush, flickers between palette and canvas,
positing titanium white, sunlight, onto a sea of cobalt blues and greens.

The picture is a moment, frozen on the ebb tide:
Of the morning,
of the cliffs,
and the sea,
and an impression of the Port Clyde ferry,
returning to the mainland
to gather up another gaggle of artists,
dying to paint irises in the moonlight.

Poetess Laureate

2006-11-09T10:23:00.000-08:00

On an international flight from Timbuktu
arrived the bard, Maya Angelou.

The officer from D.H.S.
perused her passport with some distress:
In the space reserved for what you do
Maya’d written Poetess?

So he placed a call in a whispered voice
and told his boss of Maya’s choice—
instead of maid or deaconess
Maya’s job was poetess.

At a later hearing that was called
to determine how it all snowballed,
why Maya came to be so bruised
they said the boss had been confused.

They said that this was not a crime
they blamed it on a static line.
The boss had said, and did insist
he’d clearly heard “terrorist!”

So much to everyone’s chagrin
he went and sent the S.W.A.T. team in
but they were well within the law
for demonstrating shock and awe.

Bad Dog!

2006-10-30T22:35:00.000-08:00

Old Mr. Smiley, standing at the edge of his garden,
dispensing tips on lawn care and azaleas in the spring—
whose gentle ways and life of virtue made him the treasurer of our Neighborhood
Association.

As you leaped into the air

to bite him on his derrière,
did you give some consideration, to my reputation,
before, without a provocation,
you nipped him on his too, too solid flesh?

Reputation, reputation, reputation! Oh, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial.

My Dear Friend and Pathological Liar

2006-10-14T08:51:00.000-07:00

No matter that I know you only by the lies you tell
your resume of daring-dos
the exquisite women you have wooed
the great and humble who've sung your praises.

No matter that it is all just a figment of your imagination —
for after all, what is there in truth to tell?

Better to know your myth,
the ones you so carefully construe:
For only in your fiction can I truly know who's truly you,
my dear friend and pathological liar.

The Binding Of Isaac

2006-09-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

The date palms shivered in the cool breath of an evening song;
Choo-wee-cha-cha-wee, trilled a desert lark,
as darkness descended over Beersheba.

It was in the time when Hashem still spoke to man,
and man still feared Hashem above all others.

By a wellspring —
the Well of Oath,
sat Isaac, son of Abraham,
wrapped in a mantle of moonlight and sadness.

In his sixty and seven years
Isaac’s flocks had multiplied ten fold
but so too had his sorrow.

A servant brought Isaac wine,
tended the dying campfire,
and departing.

Soon the fire rekindled
and an earthly comet of scarlet embers
ascended to play among the stars.

When suddenly the cattle began to low
Isaac staggering to his feet,
'Something is among the beasts,' thought he.

Then Isaac saw that it was Hashem
and fell upon the ground, a trembling hand raised
in supplication.

Hashem called Isaac's name, saying,

"I have favored you with many things;
delivered you from your enemies;
given you sons to carry on your name;
and brought you here, to the sweetest waters
anywhere from Beersheba to Dan.
So why is it that you lament?"

Commanded to speak, Isaac would reveal his true heart:
Of the day when his father took him up onto Mount Moriah,
the long silence as Isaac carried a bundle of sticks,
wondering all along, where was the lamb for sacrifice?
Of being bound, hand and foot and placed upon the altar,
and most terrible, the sure, unmerciful hand that held
the knife against his throat—
the hand of his own father.

When Isaac had thus spoken, a vast quietude came over the camp.
Then slowing he rose to his knees
and with palms outstretched, entreated,
"Why O Lord? Why?"

When all the tribes of Israel were winnowed to
the four corners of the earth
they carried with them this very question.
Throughout the ages, men would ponder this story and ask why?
Yet it remains a paradox even to this day
because Hashem no longer speaks to man
and man no longer fears Hashem above all others.

The Ascent of Man

2006-08-31T07:37:00.000-07:00

I strike the earth but the earth strikes back,
sending vibrations up the wooden handle of my brand new garden hoe
and into my tingling hands—
my target, a hard patch of earth, is unmoved.

I raise the hoe and strike again and again
but always with the same results.

By accident I discover I can pierce the clay
by angling the blade just a few degrees—
it is less a matter of force than finesse.

Soon I am cultivating my flower beds with abandon—
the earth crumbles and weeds fly:
I have mastered the secret of this antediluvian implement.

Later, relaxing on a lawn chair
with a glass of lemonaide
I admire my progress,
having evolved from Mesolithic to Neolithic man
in the space of an afternoon.

With Everything That Pretty Is

2006-08-04T08:58:00.000-07:00

How to paint your picture in a poem,
arrest your fleeting silhouette,
the innuendo in your smile?

To draw as only Shakespeare could,
an action painting on the page. Or,
with palette used by Claude Monet,
in dreamy colors to assuage.

With everything that pretty is,
and everything I’m not,
to paint the perfect portrait, sweet,
with things I had forgot.

A Paradox Explodes The Funny Bone

2006-07-08T11:00:00.000-07:00

Is there anything more wondrous in this world
then to find oneself in that pleasant spasm we call laughter?

When with all the powers we possess
we suppress
exquisite mirth, until it seems we’ll burst.

Or when irony becomes too much
absurdities of life collide
and in that instant
a paradox explodes the funny bone.