Back in the Cradle And Still Endlessly Rocking

Brooklyn is distinguished not only as the home for all true hipsters but also as the cradle of the American self-published poetry scene.  (Remember Walt Whitman?)  So this April 1st, we will be rocking the cradle and celebrating the arrival of National Poetry Month with a reading at the Word bookstore in Greenpoint.

For my part it will be a bit of a smorgasbord presentation.  A little bit of Musto and a little bit of Monkey King.  There will be a smattering of self-published and newer self-unpublished works.  Hope you can join us at Word and then afterward somewhere nearby for a drink!

The Field Marshal of Spring

This time of year more

Than a millennium ago

The great Tang poets

Used to make their way

Around the willow parks

Surrounding the outskirts

Of Chang An in search

Of the earliest signs

Of spring

It became something

Of a game played by

The likes of Li Bai

And Du Fu to see

Who could lay claim

To prior sighting of a

Crocus breaking forth

From the ground or even more

Incredibly who might stumble

First on the sprout of

A wild asparagus spear

And it was precisely

Such a moment as this that  

My wife and I encountered

On our way home

This afternoon

As we rounded

The corner onto

Foster Crossing

And came across

This willow tree in our

Neighbor's front yard

That was lit up by the

Sun's retreating rays

As if from within

It glowed with pride

Having just signed up

For another leap of faith

This being the first day

Of Spring no less
With a rime of snow

Still dappling the lawn
And this willow was already

Engaged in vigorous display
Of the path forward

Poem First Written as an Email to my Wife

I suppose death
Is something a guy
Could get used to
Sooner or later
Everyone does
The lights go down
In a permanent way
And all your credit lines
Get pulled too
But when all
Other means
Of communication
Have broken down
Do you think
We'll still find
A way to stay
In touch not-
Withstanding
As if life and death
We're nothing more
Than semi permeable
States readily or not
Overcome by the spirit
If not equally so
By the flesh

A Question Posed to My Nonself Which Oddly Enough Promptly Replied

How is the no-self

That much different from

Low self-esteem

When it comes

To accepting the truth

Of the world’s disregard

For the most heart felt

Of dreams?

Between the infinite

And the infinitesimal

Falls reality’s narrow

Band of shadow

Obscuring us

From all we

Otherwise yearn

To feel and be

Ode to the Yin Extremity

Last night was a full moon plus one so it rose in perfect splendor thirty minutes or so after sunset. Here's a poem I wrote in the course of my walk down to Weesuck Creek to watch it happen.

*  *  *  *  *

Announced by

A faint corona to the East

There’s just a snout

Of amber light

That first breaks out  

Above the horizon

Nothing more than

A flickering presence

Through the tree line

A Chinese lantern  

Pulsing and molten

As it filters through  

The cloud bank too

Not so much seen

As felt in all

Its Yin extremity  

Slowly the full moon rises

Ever at the ready 

To seep through

Whatever veil or scrim

Reality chooses to

Throw in its way

A glowing Gestalt  

That fills in gradually

Only as it ascends

An inch or two and

Takes possession

Of its abundant powers

In presiding over

The vast expanse

Of Weesuck Creek  

Over the swans sleeping

In their saltmarsh dens

And the shellfish beds

Lying in sessile splendor

Under the luminous blanket

Of yesterday’s snow

Now all held in thrall amid

The March moon’s glow

Suffolk County Snowscape

Tonight in a snowstorm

Riding home on the bus 

I could be traversing

The surface of the moon

Or a dreamscape in which 

Each twig of each passing
Branch has been

Precisely articulated

In accordance with

The exercise of

Its own free will

Just as I myself have
Attained to my present stature
Under the fading influence 

Of available daylight

A Poem - written while walking along Fourth Neck

An email arrived

Just now alerting me to the 

Quogue Library's early closure

On account of the snow fall it seems

And here I am traipsing around again

Down at the end of Fourth Neck

Notebook in my left hand

And right hand pressing 

Down with a vengeance

As if somehow a firmer

Grip will better fix

The ink to the damp page

While the snow keeps falling

Not so silently in fact

Since I can distinctly

Hear after a great fall

How it pings the
Notebook's pages below