In Our Backyard Eden

In our backyard Eden

As the world’s din receded

I enjoyed the patio view

In the late afternoon with you

And a delicious foretaste

Of the seasons' change

Time itself seemed to be preparing

To tack back hard the other way

With the light trending 

Decisively north  

And when you brought in what 

Remained of the tomato crop I felt

A hint of the season’s first major storm

Only just then taking shape

Far off the Gulf Coast

And thought about making

Some sauce of our own

Or just getting sauced

Because what else can you do

Except batten down the hatches

And make yourself good and ready

In anticipation of an atmospheric

Disruption of the most extreme sort

Amidst the Ongoing Search for a Purer Lampoetry (in tribute to Walt Whitman)

For us post-

Post-modern poets

It’s no longer

Under the boot-soles

That we send our readers

Scurrying to look 

Oh no

We have a much

Better conceit than that

For what’s universal and

Utterly free

At least for

Anyone with

A high speed

Internet connection

Much better

If you just try searching

For Lampoetry

On Google or Yahoo

If you want to hear

My yawp transmitted

Via http packets

Over the rooftops

Of the world

And then some

Effusing myself

In the same jags

And eddies

I hereby bequeath my

Collected works

To the universe at large

In the belief that

U.S. copyright law serves

No purpose at all

Other than to

Keep us apart

So failing to find me

With one search term

Please try another

And another

Mistaking me first for

Marc Kelly Smith

Or Peggy Lam 

It matters not in the least

For if you look 

Long enough online

Amidst all the porno

Unending tweets  

And other clutter

Behold at last

There you'll find me

In the poetry section
Of the Internet
Just as well

Thanks very much

Why I'm Only a Faux Buddhist

Lately I've been reading this great book called the Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch.  It's a translation by Philip Yampolsky of the classic 8th century foundational text of Chan Buddhism -- China's homegrown version of Buddhism that first flourished during the Tang Dynasty.  The book was recommended to me by Professor James Miller, and I can't thank him enough for the suggestion.

More precisely, the book is the foundational text for the Southern School of Chan, also known as the School of Sudden Enlightenment, as compared to Northern School which apparently adhered to a more gradual approach.  I realize at my heart's core, this is my school after all.  So with that by way of background explanation, let me now tell you that  the full title of this poem is actually: 

 Why I'm Only A Faux Buddhist

And Devout Adherent 

To the Southern School

Writing itself having
Evolved into something 
Akin to a spiritual practice
It's left little room
To accomodate
So much jargon

All those levels
Of being and
Consciousness
Always looking
At yourself looking
Even when you're not

Sometimes it seems 
A little absurd
Yet at life's core
I too believe
In the importance
Of knowing Nothing
Most of all

Summer Vacation 2012

This coming week
I'm looking forward
To spending
In the house
And garden
Out on Fourth Neck
Where I will be
Abiding without
Access to a car

And the most
Important choice
To make each day
Will be how
To allocate my time
And energy between
Writing and reading
Eating and weeding
Right here in our
Our sweet little backyard

Driving Alone

This is a poem I wrote after driving home from the supermarket this afternoon.  I really don't want to give anyone the wrong idea by writing this, particularly not my wife who has tendency enough to worry.  But such is the poet's life, we must say truthfully what we think and feel.  


Driving Alone


Often when I'm driving alone
Out on the East End
Heading into a curve
It's like Jackson Pollack
I feel trying to maintain
A firm grip on the wheel

Life is such a tenuous thing
And we are each of us
In a continual struggle
To keep both eyes and hands
And all four wheels squarely
On the road in front as we go

For Marissa (by way of reply to William Butler Yeats)

There came a day

None too close

To September

When the crows had

Reappeared in greater number

Around the bird feeder

And the humidity dropped

Sharply from the swift approach

Of a cold front

And you and I made love

In the afternoon

In the shallows

The particulars

Of which don’t happen

To matter that much  

But for the amazing

Way we both sensed

We were standing near

The very navel of the universe

As we attended to that most

Essential part of our daily routine

And the Lebanese mosaic

Swirled about beneath us

As did time itself

And we clutched each other

Knowing the center likely would
Hold a little bit longer with

The very strong force
Of our centripetal embrace

An Ode to Growing Old in the US of A

This is a poem I wrote a few weeks ago after spending an afternoon in an Atlantic City casino with my friend Richard Musto. 

* * * * * *

-->

Underage gambling

Is illegal says the sign

Posted next to the Roulette Wheel

But what about overage gambling

I wonder as I look around

At the ranks of the geriatric

Daytime gamblers in Atlantic City

Why the state legislature

In its infinite wisdom

Hasn’t seen fit

To criminalize that yet

Even if it would bankrupt

A few more casinos

Down row after row

Of these infernal slots

Amidst the womb-like susurrus

Of bells and chimes ringing

There sit retirees

Spending what remains

Of their life savings

A quarter or dollar per spin

With walkers and canes

Placed alongside

Coughing and wheezing

In the smoking section

Or just squinting

While sitting too close

To the ubiquitous

Digital display screens

I remember in Vegas

Seeing a similarly

Hellish scene where

An old woman sat on her

Maroon scooter

Parked by the slots

With an oxygen tank

Strapped in by her feet

And a breathing mask

Stretched across her cheeks

And a long plastic cord

Affixed to the waist band

Of her stretch pants

Which was plugged directly 

Into the slot machine

And presumably the distal end

Was digitally connected   

Directly to her bank account

Enabling continuous play

Of ever more games of chance

Strapped in for life support

By one line and hemorrhaging cash

Through the other

What a superb metaphor

For growing old in the US of A



* * * * * * * *

In case you're interested, you can read a slightly later version of this poem on my Richard Musto blog.

The Redball Express

A slightly earlier version of this poem first appeared on my Richard Musto blog -- it's essentially the same except for four new lines at the beginning of the second stanza.


The Redball Express


Write what you know about

Is what the teachers always say 

At the Famous Writers’ Academy

So I have been drawn

Time and again

As to a lifetime quest

And now find myself 

The self-appointed chronicler

Of Richard Musto’s ride

On the Redball Express

A train to nowhere

Arriving fast

Just as from first to last

Various members

Of my immediate family

Have too often succumbed

To the overpowering tendency

To gamble without self-restraint

For me now the problem has 

Assumed a slightly different shape

Namely my bane has become

The intermittent care and

Consideration of an old man

Himself severely afflicted

As evidenced by many clearly
Cognizable symptoms

Of the very same curse

A Rambling Man

What’s the point of recording

The barely coherent ramblings

Of an eighty seven year old man

Some of my blog readers must think

I'm insane from time to time

To which I would like to reply

We all do ramble sometimes

Richard a bit more than most perhaps

But the fact is

I love the old man

I really do

He reminds me

Of so many others

Being a representative

Or stand-in for those

Long since departed

Including my own old man
And he’s also pretty remarkable

In his own right

As Michel and I hope

You’ll take a few minutes

To see for yourself

In fact he’s Zelig-like

And sometimes looks

Like Woody Allen

When he smiles wryly
And cocks his head to the side

Or taps his cigar like Groucho
As he asks a passerby
Do you like to rumba?

Well then pick a rumba 
From one to ten

* * * * * * * *

If you are interested in learning more about Richard, please visit the blog I have started about my current writing project - a biographical poem I'm writing (in collaboration with my friend Michel Delsol) about an 87 year old man called the Life and Times of Richard Musto.

Into The Void

Today, feeling sorry for myself, I wrote this poem, which I dedicate to my erstwhile email correspondent Hank Lazer, with whom I have exchanged a few sporadic emails.

Into the Void

Harder still

Is writing

Into a void

To receive

No response

At all

To email

Or query

Makes

Words appear

Even smaller than

They ordinarily 
Seem to be

Happy the tree

When it falls

In the forest alone

As it comes to rest

It makes a perfect home

For countless

Termites and scarabs too

I only wish it were true

That some of my poems
Could be likewise consumed


* * * * * * * * *

Ps:  On a happier note, sort of, Hank replied when I sent him a link to this poem.  I hope he doesn't mind if I share some of what he wrote with you: 

For nearly all poets, that ongoing sense of futility, of the void, of who cares – is an ongoing difficulty.  Also a blessing; perhaps, otherwise we would not face so precisely the need to do what we are doing for its own sake…

 To which I might further add - better get ready for me termites.