My left hand humbled
my muted ukulele
hums a quiet tune
Poetry
South America Studies
Heading south to Uruguay in less than a month after fifteen years away. Getting so excited, I’m sketching the place in advance. Thanks, Google Maps!
Birds of South America
—Americana arrogantus
When summer comes, los uruguayos perch
Themselves on Maldonado’s Punta shore
Like seagulls, each aims a firm, fat belly
Boiled eggs in salted sun.
Across the border
Beyond the Rio de la Plata’s breeze
Argentinos strut through Buenos Aires
Proud as peacocks, their tilted coccyges
Bent back, cocksure, as if supporting plumes
Of opalescent eyes.
Over the Andes
In war-torn Santiago, los chilenos cuddle
Nuzzle—all in cooing, kissing pairs
A flock of plaza pigeons, not people
.
I mock them all, yes, yes—but I’m regal
Soaring above, a bald-headed eagle
Baskets
Baskets
—for Annelies
Not the one carried by little red riding hood
Skipping through woods to grandma’s house
Not the metal one screwed to my first bike
Nor the netted one through which I swished
My first free throw: There’s another basket
One we sit in patiently, tomatoes at a corner store
Each awaiting fingers, a squeeze, a test to reject
We are all tomatoes: skinny, fat, juicy red
Embarrassed by our flaws, our absent hot-house taste
My own basket, woven now for fifty years
Not made of straw, not woven strips of wood
At some point, we leave our baskets on the street
Outside some corner store, out in the air
Bare for all to see, to poke and squeeze and sniff
Look — See that man skipping down the street?
He’s light as a feather, a strip of straw
A girl on her way to grandma’s house
Sidewalk Haiku
Click on the link below to see a short animated film my son based on one of my haiku. It may take a moment to load. It may even appear to stall. Once loaded, click on the green flag to start.
//scratch.mit.edu/projects/embed/146276256/?autostart=false
Big Fish
Many thanks to Gyroscope Review for publishing the following poem in their Winter 2017 issue:
Big Fish
—restaurant & bungalows
Last year, a beach-view balcony
a midnight breeze brought salt
thirsty lime juice on our lips
.
At lunch, cotton-stuffed cushions
tables tall as crisscrossed knees
curries spiced with dragon weed
.
This year, a cold-water room out back
garden dogs, mosquito verandah
laptop lines and letters glow
.
Tonight, back for another sea breeze
pineapple curry on chicken and rice
I breathe the freedom absence brings
.
Your absence, a ghost seated beside me
stirs her own papaya pleasure
same same, yes yes, but different
.
Looking South
Been cold in San Francisco
first, wet and rainy
now, chilly and damp
.
Roads roll out before us
no one knows
where the bends may go
.
Afternoon in Amsterdam
Many thanks to Sandy River Review for publishing (most) of the following poem in their Fall 2016 issue.
Afternoon in Amsterdam
—for Roland Möe
Forget the red-light district
. toothless skirts from overseas
.. imported age-old fantasies
.
I ask the way to the Van Gogh show
. a bearded local walks me there
.. we smoke a bowl on a smoky bench
.
Inside, alone, nose close to canvas
. amazed by heavy strokes of pain
.. such violence in a starry sky
.
Someone tugs my sweater sleeve
. that beard with marijuana breath
.. twice my age, here to persuade
.
I say I’m hungry, leave the show
. he follows, knows a place not far
.. leads me back to his second-floor flat
.
Up steep and narrow bohème steps
. he serves up bowls of stovetop gruel
.. veggies and grains, a sweet-spice stew
.
Once he tastes, I try a bite
. smoke another bowl, relax, unwind
.. he lays a lazy hand upon my knee
.
Downstairs, distressed, I say I’m beat
. heading back to my hotel to sleep
.. he begs me not to go—Please, stay
.
Half his age, afraid of his long song
. I find my way to the red-light zone
.. still unsure if any road leads home
Seashells
Thanks to Zingarapoet.net for publishing the following poem today.
Seashells
—for Mary
Open like a seaside cave
the waves roll in, roll out
the bats fly in, fly out
.
And then you come, brief tourist
flashlight in hand, your oohs and aahs
only your absence left behind
.
The Tao of Doing Less
Many thanks to the California State Poetry Society for publishing the following poem in California Quarterly.
The Tao of Doing Less
—Koh Tao, 2012
All night, breezes brush the trees
palm fronds imitate the rain
.
When light appears, I rise from bed
slip into the hammock on the stoop
.
Dogs already up and down the beach
island mynas pecking fallen garden seeds
.
It’s enough for me, this warm humidity
this balm to calm my aimless wandering
.
Each morning, we wake to reinvent ourselves
each day attempts to best the day before
.
Though not today, not in this old hammock
not with time before me like an open road
.
This morning brings its gift of slow simplicity
nothing but nothing wrapped in nothing
.
I light a cigarette, take a sip of water
scratch a bite that itches on my arm
.
I have come so far to do so little
give me more, give me more, give me more
Two More Euro Poems
Many thanks to Bindweed, an online literary journal, for publishing the follow two poems — two more from my series about my travels through Europe in 1980. That’s me in the middle, between Chino and Abel, with the eponymous Volkswagen van behind us.
Volkswagen Van
“We never see him.” —Louis XIV
Grand chateau, once royal court of France
now packed with peasants on bus tours from Paris
—and me curled up in a Volkswagen van
.
Where once purple kings and sycophants pranced
dancing with stars on a moonlit terrace
this grand chateau, this royal crown of France
.
Now hosts a daily deluge—trash cans
full of coffee cups, littered souvenirs
and me curled up in a Volkswagen van
.
When one past prince fell ill at romance
too ashamed to be seen, too embarrassed
he shunned the chateau, a sin across France
.
Like him, I’m alone, a grin with no glance
never to know a stroll with an heiress
only the hold of a Volkswagen van
.
.
Railway Deli
—Train to Venice, 1980
Parents packed with diaper bags; infants, kids
stuffed like peppers in a carriage corridor
.
Uniformed soldiers smoking San Miguels
strung-up salamis, olives in a jar
.
I close my itchy eyes, dream of first-class seats
roomy leather arms, air-con breeze
.
I pop a Coca-Cola, pour bubbles over ice
prop my tired feet, sip the countryside
.
But eyes blink open, burning from the stench
thin tin can, narrow wooden bench
.
Three Welcomes (Sorta)
Many thanks to *82 Review for publishing the following poem in their Fall 16 4.3 issue.
Tres Bienvenidos
—Barcelona triptych, 1980
1) Pensione Viejo
.
Corner room with noon-blue walls
peeling plaster, thin twin bed
old wood dresser, stuck dresser drawer
.
Across the courtyard, canary in his cage
old man, too, staring from his window sill
old brown jacket, old brown cap
.
When I bid him Buenos dias
he tip-taps out his cigarette
pulls the shutters shut
2) Muchachas no Tocas
.
Up the Rambla, down the Rambla
city locals selling country crafts
wooden tables, rickety stalls
.
Spanish girls strut by, thick dark ropes of hair
eyes tagged only on merchandise
flowers and seashells, candy and clothes
.
I ask the price of a white gauze scarf
girl behind the table yanks it from my hand
spats at me in Catalan: No, no toquis!
3) Lluevos no Quieros
.
.Sidewalk table, white-coat waiter
unfolds a fancy café menu
basket full of sticky rolls
.
I order café con leche, plate of scrambled eggs
sit back and watch the promenade
parade of tourists, vagabonds like me
.
.The waiter brings my breakfast
scrambled eggs over easy
cup of coffee a cup of tea
.
Three Paris Poems
Much thanks to Forage, an online poetry presence, for publishing the following three poems in their July 2016 issue.
Rue de Tessier
—Paris, 1980
When I first sky her, I’m all eyes
a hovering hawk, hedonistic high
itchy skin aflame, wings open wide
.
I welcome her, unsuspecting mouse
I’m in, I’m out; around, about
our image on the mirror clouds
.
Soon, my hunger flies away, my bloodied beak
I look to my wrist for a reason to leave
desire now an empty cup of tea
.
Parisian Park
—April 1980
Alone in a city of choices
culture, croissants, corner cafes
two thousand years of touristry
.
Still, no baguette can satisfy
if I cannot just sit and feed
quiet on this weathered wooden bench
.
One small bite soon invites another
all become familiar, all the same
each contains its craving itch for more
.
A finch alights on the edge of my bench
cocks her hooded head, blinks an eye
feathers ruffle up her throat—she goes
.
I’m mired by these daily hikes to night
my search for food, my thirsty mood
send the oceans, wash me home to sea
.
Still in Paris
—May 1980
Ducklings on the river Seine
small beaks safe behind a drake
and me—no one to follow
.
Along the bustled Champs-Élysées
people bump and humble me
makes no difference where I go
.
My father must be home across the globe
painting or pounding inside the garage
pruning his backyard garden
.
I could pluck a pistol from my pants
taste its barrel, suck its bitter rind
no one home would ever know
.
I pause my hunger, shut my eyes
poked and nudged, ignored
a stone in the bed of a river.
.
Roman Cats
Many thanks to Red Omnivore, an online literary magazine, for publishing the following poem late last year.
Gatti Romani
—at the Roman Forum, 1980
The ancient stones, the uncut grass
skinny feral cats arching bony backs
mincing for mice, nosing for toads
.
I’m part of a pack of five loose strays
we, too, prowling; only not for lunch
we nose for bowls of adventure
.
Brazilian shorthair, royal Persian snob
two Texas tabbies mewing out meows
and me, their teenage tom-tom up a tree
.
Dogs who chipped and chiseled earth
who sweat to raise these crumbling walls
they haunt us here like last night’s rain
.
Like four felines posing by a column
clawing the air, shaking tawny tails
our own fossils chiseled into film
.
Passports packed and visas stamped
we leave our footprints on a path
we cede another century to cats
.
Crimes Along the Côte d’Azur
Many thanks to Route 7 Review for publishing the following poem in their May 2016 issue.
Crimes Along the Côte d’Azur
—Spring 1980
My trespass takes me to the harbor
big-rock jetty, cool-blue bay
Monaco behind me, shiny gold
casino coin glittering in sunlight
.
Yachts roll in, wealthy drunks aboard
chopped duck liver, sparkling wine and cheese
I’m chewing cheese myself—Smiling Cow
stolen from a store this afternoon
.
Same as stolen glances, half-nude tourists
olive-oiled breasts topless in the sun
me a thief like those Arabs yesterday
snapping secret photos in Antibes
.
The train to Nice, a woman sleeps
we alone in our cramped compartment
bar of English chocolate in her bag
gone before she bats an eye: Merci
.
I slip away from the hillside hostel
sleepy village porches early dawn
on one, a basket—cold milk, fresh baguette
I snatch it like a furtive photograph
.
Down by the one-clock railway stop
I peel the paper lid, lift the chilly top
five dumb pigeons watch me break my bread
they peck at one another over thread
Hotel Brindisi
Many thanks to Route 7 Review for publishing the following poem in their May 2016 issue.
Hotel Brindisi
–One Star, 1980
No fun befriending illness on the road
scratchy sinus, itchy cough, aches and pains, the runs
.
A fever comes, removes my clothes
folds up all my maps and plans
.
Dreams of travel travel back to home
romance of discovery subsides
.
I could die here—quiet, unseen, like those
who make our beds, rinse our basins clean
.
Tonight, I gargle with some stale Coca-Cola
clutch another colon cramp, catch another fire
.
The body always brings me back to now
reminders always dripping off my brow
.
One Prayer
Many thanks to Postcard Poems and Prose Magazine for publishing the following poem:
One Prayer
—Jerusalem 5740
I wait my turn, the western wall
white shawls muffling
gray beards mumbling
.
I pen my prayer on a store receipt
press it tight tween ancient stones
tight among a hundred crumpled cries
.
Some rabbi grabs my elbow
drags me to a cave
straps my arm in leather
.
He chants a sacred melody
Adonai Elohanu, Adoni Echad
one, we are one—everyone, everywhere
.
The crowd with its long tradition
me in this thin tefillin
this rabbi with his open hand
.
That early-morning Arab sipping tea
demanding twenty shekels
the pleasure of his plea
.
We are all echad—one prayer
one crescent, one star, one sphere
Long-Tail Taxis
Many thanks to Marathon Literary Review for including the following poem in their June 2015 issue.
Long-Tail Taxis
—Gulf of Thailand, 2012
Overcast dawn, low tide gray
..long-tail taxis bob awaiting rain
….waters to rise, to start their day
Tethered to trees, long rough ropes
..sitting still as Buddha grins
….quiet squirrels in coconut trees
One boat fat with jungle fruit
..Thai flag flapping, edges affray
….suns and moons of salty spray
I am a squirrel at a teakwood table
..curry and rice and coffee consumed
….waiting, too, for clouds to clear
That girthy garden statue squints
..always aware of this one moment
….low tide, high tide, water waist or ankle deep
Sunshine Bungalow
Many thanks to Panoplyzine, an online literary journal, for including the following poem in their Summer 2015 issue.
Sunshine Bungalow
–Koa Tao, 2012
No coo-coo clock, no digital chime
..no mechanical ring, no alarm
….nothing to nudge me from my dream
Only the sweep of garden leaves
..the blossoms’ breath, plumeria, weed
….my hammock on the balcony
Down the path, a match strikes a can
…a knife chops chilis, oil hits a pan
One That Got Away
Thanks to Rat’s Ass Review, an online literary collective, for publishing the following poem in their Love & Ensuing Madness collection.
A Girl in Venice
—April 1980
Flocks of pigeons, people in a plaza
..camera shutters snapping souvenirs
.
You step into my long-lens view
..focused face, heap of hair
..
Then Ciao, Arrivederci…
..gone before I lift my eyes
.
Back home, I pin your sudden grin
..to boarded cork above my bed
.
Tell friends the story of your glance
..watch them bend with envy at your smile
.
Today, on streets in San Francisco
..I searched for eyes to dance with mine
.
Tonight, alone, our momentary spring
..blossoms on my tablet screen
.
Poem for Mary Beth Moore
Again, thanks to Rat’s Ass Review, an online literary collective, for including the following poem in their Love & Ensuing Madness collection.
Red Bandana
—Ionian Sea, 1980
