Black Dog

by James DenBoer

Nothing goes on in his head.
It all goes on in his glands,
his muscles, his nose.
He chases every squirrel
every time he sees one,
barks and lunges at every cat;
he'd eat every bit of garbage
on the road if I didn't snap his lead hard.
He doesn't care in a way I can't.
He doesn't confuse past with present;
his only language is what's now
and under his black pads.
He's the perfect one, in fact,
to talk with, in the rain and wind
of January, when winter needs talking to
and writing down to bone-cold.
As with the many names of God,
I repeat his name often-he doesn't know
my name, he doesn't know this
is winter, he doesn't know
he could kill me with those teeth.
He listens to my chatter, my hum,
my chikk-chikk like a squirrel;
my noises keep him interested
and unworried. He scribbles
along the scent of air, his nails click
on wet black stones, he pulls his way
toward red lights on Fair Oaks Avenue,
he leads me back to start.

Snowfall In The Afternoon

by Robert Bly

The grass is half-covered with snow.
It was the sort of snowfall that starts in late afternoon,
And now the little houses of the grass are growing dark.

If I could reach down, near the earth,
I could take handfuls of darkness!
A darkness that was always there, which we never noticed.

As the snow grows heavier, the cornstalks fade farther away,
And the barn moves nearer to the house.
The barn moves all alone in the growing storm.

The barn is full of corn, and moving toward us now,
Like a hulk blown toward us in a storm at sea;
All the sailors on deck have been blind for many years.

And the Poopsie and the Toopsie

An almost real poem
by Peggy Parker


Ah, I remember the owl and the cat and the canary and the pig
The cow and the pigeon, the warbler and the kid
The coonskin cap and the button down blues
The top hat with the wooden brown shoes.
But where oh where will I find ol' Toopsie
When the moon shines brightly on old pond Poopsie?

Untitled

Another almost real poem
by Peggy Parker

Seldom sing a song when sad
or birds in nest will find you rest
Then wake you up with callings loud
That make you freak-out and run around
So don't be crazy and sing to birds
or skies or oceans and things that twirl
But long for good things far and near
Like when the deer and the antelope have their beer.

Bottled-Up

and another almost real poem
by Peggy Parker

I thought I saw a monster foot upon the fence on one afternoon
and took the gun from beneath my bed
and headed outdoors to fix the shed.
Forgotten foot upon the fence followed thus to shed and said,
"No shot this way tho I scare, what gives with all this shed repair?"
I glanced back in self alarm,
the gun in hand, a hammer in none,
why had I retreated out so steadfast sure,
to mend a board, or follow a bird?

I looked around and what did I see,
now two feet on the fence and no body but me
So I ran in the house, and drank another bottle of wine
My body had detached and those two feet were mine!

Personals

by Robert Phillips

I'm honest, discreet, and no way a lech.
Staying home with a rented video is just fine.
I'm seeking a friend first, we'll see what happens next.

My definition of fun is not very far-fetched:
Enjoy fishing, four-wheeling, casinos, and wine.
I'm honest, discreet, and no way a lech.

Want face-to-face conversation, no phone sex,
Non-smoking, drug-free women—the old-fashioned kind.
I'm seeking a friend first, we'll see what happens next.

I like a lady to let her hair down, get a little wrecked.
I have brown hair, brown eyes, am built along trim lines.
I'm honest, discreet, and no way a lech.

I'm thirty-seven, white, have two teenagers by my ex.
Looking for a lady, any age or race, similarly inclined.
I'm seeking a friend first, we'll see what happens next.

No psychos! (My ex didn't play with a full deck.)
I live on the northwest side, near the refinery.
I'm honest, discreet, and no way a lech.
I'm seeking a friend first. We'll see what happens next.

The Place

one last almost real poem
by Peggy Parker


There from sun and star,
A shooting flash of light,
Fell upon one Mr. White
And turned the chap all bright

But then to soot he turned,
And without a word to boot
From dust to dust he came to be
Upon his earthly root

What hope there be in any hour
To embrace his lost remains,
For they blew upon the winds of change
To far terrains not ours

Why ponder mote,
The speck in eye,
Or travel plains of grain,
What find you there in between
That changing space in rain?

For now in betwixt the mix of light,
and all there'll never be,
Here find no sight
Of that flash of bright,
Nor trace of what would be.

.

Dog

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

The dog trots freely in the street
and sees reality
and the things he sees
are bigger than himself
and the things he sees
are his reality
Drunks in doorways
Moons on trees
The dog trots freely thru the street
and the things he sees
are smaller than himself
Fish on newsprint
Ants in holes
Chickens in Chinatown windows
their heads a block away
The dog trots freely in the street
and the things he smells
smell something like himself
The dog trots freely in the street
past puddles and babies
cats and cigars
poolrooms and policemen
He doesn't hate cops
He merely has no use for them
and he goes past them
and past the dead cows hung up whole
in front of the San Francisco Meat Market
He would rather eat a tender cow
than a tough policeman
though either might do
And he goes past the Romeo Ravioli Factory
and past Coit's Tower
and past Congressman Doyle of the Unamerican Committee
He's afraid of Coit's Tower
but he's not afraid of Congressman Doyle
although what he hears is very discouraging
very depressing
very absurd
to a sad young dog like himself
to a serious dog like himself
But he has his own free world to live in
His own fleas to eat
He will not be muzzled
Congressman Doyle is just another
fire hydrant
to him
The dog trots freely in the street
and has his own dog's life to live
and to think about
and to reflect upon
touching and tasting and testing everything
investigating everything
without benefit of perjury
a real realist
with a real tale to tell
and a real tail to tell it with
a real live
barking
democratic dog
engaged in real
free enterprise
with something to say
about ontology
something to say
about reality
and how to see it
and how to hear it
with his head cocked sideways
at streetcorners
as if he is just about to have
his picture taken
for Victor Records
listening for
His Master's Voice
and looking
like a living questionmark
into the
great gramophone
of puzzling existence
with its wondrous hollow horn
which always seems
just about to spout forth

some Victorious answer

to everything

Here is a haiku inspired by a Ray Bradbury essay:


The Aesthetics of Lostness
==========================
Directional Maze
Digital Eye in the Sky?
A Voice from Above

The context and additional write-up is here ...
http://globalhaiku.blogspot.com/2009/01/garmin-industri...n-olathe-kansas.html

Mike Round

I met Robert Bly very briefly as he was leaving for Minneapolis to fly away somewhere for a speaking engagement. I was working with his wife Carol on a volunteer project. They lived on a small rural farm outside of Appleton, Minnesota. Robert wrote in a small shed in the front yard of the home. I wished now that I had peered through one of the windows to see what it was like inside.

Driving Toward
The Lac Qui Parle River

by Robert Bly

I

I am driving; it is dusk; Minnesota.
The stubble field cathes the last growth of sun.
The soybeans are breathing on all sides.
Old men are sitting before their houses on carseats
In the small towns. I am happy,
The moon rising above the turkey sheds.

II

The small world of the car
Plunges through the deep fields of the night,
On the road from Willmar to Milan.
This solitude covered with iron
Moves through the fields of night
Penetrated by the noise of crickets.

III

Nearly to Milan, suddenly a small bridge,
And water kneeling in the moonlight.
In small towns the houses are built right on the ground;
The lamplight falls on all fours in the grass.
When I reach the river, the full moon covers it;
A few people are talking low in a boat.

[From Silence in the Snowy Fields, poems by Roberty Bly] NOTE: I lived in Willmar for 28 years before moving to Florida.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: biplane1,

A Classic: "IF"

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

--Rudyard Kipling

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

- e.e. cummings

I think Ray doesn't like cummings, does he?

A few more classics:
My job is
Keeping faces clean
And nobody knows
De stubble
I've seen
Burma-Shave

Doesn't
Kiss you
Like she useter?
Perhaps she's seen
A smoother rooster!!
Burma-Shave

No use
Knowing
How to pick 'em
If your half-shaved Whiskers stick 'em
Burma-Shave

He tried
To cross
As fast train neared
Death didn't draft him
He volunteered
Burma-Shave

Her chariot
Raced 80 per
They hauled away
What had
Ben Her
Burma-Shave

What had Ben Her.