tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36637255526471073492024-03-13T22:30:01.002-07:00Outrunning StormsAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-55745141995411233932012-04-21T07:44:00.001-07:002012-04-21T07:44:17.219-07:00untitledlooking at a blank space and nothing<br />
much inspired<br />
has bubbled up yet<br />
but this<br />
drivel<br />
bubble<br />
pop!Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-47304446139008962932011-10-01T18:50:00.000-07:002011-10-01T18:53:38.155-07:00October in That Railroaded EarthOne calendar gone in the trash heap of an old back yard<br />
What mothers -since then- have sighed the sweet swell of<br />
Farewell<br />
Only one that I know of<br />
The only angel of earth that comes to me<br />
In the shape of strange old angels<br />
At my door step.Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-78533736544100511622011-03-05T19:02:00.000-08:002011-03-05T19:07:08.238-08:00her gleamher gleam her eyes poised just right<br />half open half closed<br />smirking that knowing<br />she knew all my mother knew all<br />even when there was nothing<br />to know<br />her white head intent<br />spent my youth in her shade<br />her sun gave growth to me the boy<br />and into middle life<br />her sardonic grin<br />now with months passed<br />grows thin<br />her gleam her doubt just right<br /><br />3-5-11Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-37986490430589012202011-03-05T18:41:00.001-08:002011-03-05T18:41:54.984-08:00New Hampshire ImpressionsThis bridge of land has been unlocked<br />From careful hand to masts of rock<br />That loom and stretch the ribboned road<br />Has quarried most, that green she coats<br />Then inks to black where eyes of doe<br />Flit swift and cold near boulder’s throne<br /><br />By cutting gullies, frothing white<br />The heads of moss poke holes through night<br />And burdened there with cat-like eyes<br />Are sparkler brights on country heights<br />Whose patient rovers crossing lanes<br />Drop tracks of rolls and coffee stains<br /><br />This one grand slope that furrows time<br />That grapples sky with mountain’s light<br />It’s bands of silver etching through<br />What rings of birch have leaned askew<br />The bridge holds true, it cups and throws<br />The bedrock falls to silt and stew<br /><br />Where simmering we see her toil<br />A family sown in land’s deep soil<br />A cloud of crow, a wash of dove<br />Round heights that ice has gripped above<br />And soon to rinse her granite face<br />That rain has carved with cunning grace<br /><br />Into a shallow water’s trough<br />Grand spectacle greets fish and moth<br />That boats could swell in mirrored sounds<br />Their waning cries call dusk to shrouds<br />Bathe valley steeple crowned with white<br />Poke spires round God’s pristine sight<br /><br />Prod fingers clay that belch and steam<br />Hold weary workers heads to dream<br />Call clouds to boil in heaven’s hand<br />Calm fears that strive to understand<br />That faith and stone are shaped the same<br />Beneath this lion’s fiery maneAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-42052645758383278292011-02-02T15:33:00.000-08:002011-02-02T15:39:41.493-08:00HANDSHANDS<br /><br />My hands are<br />Smooth and small<br />Extensions<br />I have always<br />Looked down on<br /><br />My forever friends<br />Hopefully<br />Always attached<br />But<br />If lost<br />Then wished well<br />Till I join them again<br />To play catch<br /><br />The fingers<br />Were there for me<br />My bony buddies<br />Nails for heads<br />Knuckles for bellies<br />Whisker hairs<br />From gently curved flesh<br />That gripped my fork and pen<br /><br />They scratched<br />They stroked<br />Now, just a hint of age<br />Has arrived<br />One small dark spot<br />One extra crease<br />One vein more pronounced<br />Now I’m looking for <br />Old man hands<br /><br />The hands,<br />Like cold twisted clay<br />They creep up on you one day<br />Struggling to pop the cap<br />On the pill bottle<br />The claws<br />That tighten into balls<br />They can only strike out<br />Angry at having grown<br />Old.Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-66625893897644163442011-02-02T14:53:00.000-08:002011-02-02T15:06:36.405-08:00Thoughts Part 1<strong>I am starting to write again. Well....that's a start. Stay tuned. Now where did I put that Muse?</strong>Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-56154267409573328392010-07-08T15:19:00.000-07:002010-07-08T15:21:14.960-07:00Tangents:Chapter 1 -The Fermenting (Excerpt)Prattle on endlessly and make certain that the aquarium in the Indian restaurant overlooks those who chose the buffet style dinner. <br />Glass walls that bounce back the city bus in all its glory are merely reflectors of what’s actually going on in the piss and dirty streets of Cambridge. <br />The lofty are ploughed under and the musical is betting on the sweet sound of the Bolivian flute to send them to the other side where they will find the Promised Land. <br />Couched in clichés, we corner ourselves in hot summer late afternoons where the in-goers and street hangers wish kiosk doom on the token holders. <br />The hum and brazen criss cross of car horns curls dangerously around the narrow roads that wax historic in all their blue parking sign,--(P sign on corner)—splendor. A bite of warm and friendly Chinese food and then a thick room temperature Guinness at the Black Sheep and the sudden doorway bum frightens me and how I wish I could park somewhere and get on with it already---Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-45672467009664353062010-06-16T15:27:00.000-07:002010-06-16T15:31:59.806-07:00Formationsthe horizon darkens again with slate colored anticipation, as rumbling flashes murmur their impending crescendo<br />squads of birds become V formations of here comes the rain<br />the horizon mumbles something about a purplish billowing line<br />witch hands scrawl the bottom sky with yellow pencil<br />scare show of eye blinding instants<br /><br />6-16-10Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-19395100516573036572010-01-25T15:43:00.000-08:002010-01-25T15:44:53.633-08:00Sounding Board For The Masses (or how I learned to shut up and speak)How to begin?<br />At times it seems endless. This lofty position I’ve so glibly accepted as ear to the world; therapist to the minions; and sounding board for the masses. If I thought for one precious second that all this time spent nodding my head, and lending poor advice were being wasted, I’d say, “Enough is enough already!” But au contraire mon amis. I foolishly set forth into the uncharted regions of mans love-clouded mind. I wantonly excoriate my dearest friends for mistakes I haven’t even made yet. I laud the virtues of patience and tolerance, when in fact; I am the largest transgressor of both. Yet the words continue to flow. The love-lorn continue to stagger up to my doorstep, laying their tangled lives at my feet, expecting me, of all people, to put things right for them once again. But who will lend an ear to my darkest anxieties when they finally become unbearable? When will my time come, or will I always and forever be the receptacle of other people’s sordid unravelings? I see not the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I do see where this is all going… <br /><br />The Big One Regular Kid 1992Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-88461430417681012272010-01-21T14:48:00.000-08:002010-01-21T14:49:27.851-08:00UntitledFloozies<br />With cavities<br />Live in the trees<br />And the breeze<br />Blows the hair from their eyes<br />And they become<br />Bowling balls<br />In the halls<br />Echo ancient robots in the hallowed caverns of the Earth<br /><br />circa 1984Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-70505156339577477232010-01-17T17:38:00.000-08:002010-01-17T17:39:03.999-08:00THE THESPIAN AND THE MOONGAZERI looked for her<br />through years of<br />moon-gazing,<br />knowing<br />we both discerned that satellite.<br /><br />She clothed herself <br />as actors do,<br />and she sang<br />the angel octaves-<br />spinning under spotlight<br /><br />My world was featureless-<br />a tectonic slumber<br />of silent plates;<br />ashen ridges on<br />cross-stitched faces.<br /><br />Through the grist mill<br />of a brick skyline;<br />she laced under cars. <br />She blossomed through windows-<br />a billion year body.<br /><br />Captured to your script,<br />I buried myself<br />under her Mediterranean eyes,<br />and the hunger of<br />the coliseum.Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-34451413023798711292010-01-06T17:42:00.000-08:002010-01-06T17:45:43.814-08:00John Wesley HardingIn the smoke den of the 90's<br />John Wesley Harding takes the swing to the thing<br />and exultantly proclaims<br />it's the world and all it's problems<br />the worldAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-42808622429013876732009-12-29T15:01:00.000-08:002009-12-29T15:02:58.573-08:00From “La Boniche”Merrimack<br />Flowing brick and glass<br />This modern outlook<br />Onto the old soda fountain<br />Gone<br />The leaning downtown clock<br />Holding vigil at Kearney<br />Merrimack<br />Once flowed rivers of fedora hats<br />As giant beetle buses<br />Belched thick exhaust<br />Into Harvey’s Bookstore<br />Chasing the ghosts of the Rialto Theater.<br />That old Greek barber!Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-14333531759517522272009-12-23T17:49:00.000-08:002009-12-23T17:50:54.919-08:00DERBY PARK POET’S CORNER 5-4-90Dancing Drunk<br />Every module moves with singular thought<br />Expressing to everyone their singular meaning<br />Draped in liquor<br />This cape drowns their inhibitions<br />Pound the floorboards you rhythmic creatures<br />Rejoice this humanity<br />Unveil this foolAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-86543304511787620632009-12-20T09:18:00.001-08:002009-12-20T09:18:30.028-08:00WHERE OTHERS FEAR TO TREAD (1-31-93)He took his position next to the gargoyle<br />And summoned what strength remained,<br />To impersonate the gothic<br />Yet he failed<br />And now we try to teach him the ways of the celibate<br />But what results can be expected from an emotionless paragon?<br />I would flog his hide, -but sooth!<br />The statuary feels not the barb or the spear!Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-23235031813238765372009-12-16T14:27:00.000-08:002009-12-16T14:28:39.370-08:00Pepere's RailsHe helped shape the rails and<br />He blew the life into the red lights<br />That criss-crossed our hearts <br />With the iron ties of night<br />On switch box<br />Or rock bed<br />The number counted out<br />The fuel rigs<br />The cat-like cars<br />Stealthy in the woods<br />Watching with their<br />Feline surety<br />He redirected and braked<br />His long cigarette jiggled<br />On his bottom lip<br />The men in the yard<br />Brothers and cousins<br />Gathering next to the<br />Mile markers<br />With heavy burdensome wedges<br />Or crossbars<br />Singing their song<br />To the coyote sky<br />They would drag their asses <br />To the line<br />And squawk in French or<br />Boast in Polish<br />Rough hewn hands<br />A pillowcase filled with granite<br />The stock-still eerie far off wail<br />Of the Manchester line<br />Just now over the switch<br />Green lighted<br />She’s a derelict siren<br />Drawing nearer and<br />Pointing her beam between<br />The forlorn stars of <br />Simple evening<br />Her feet fitting through the<br />Curving steel<br />Like a graceful dancer<br />Attacking the diesel atmosphere<br />His baleful eyes<br />Gave no hint<br />At the raw hurt burning in<br />His legs and back<br />A gray lunchpail with<br />Mashed potato sandwiches<br />Four of ‘em for cryin’ out loud!<br />Made by his doll like mother<br />In the cramped kitchen pantry<br />She made Paul’s too<br />He’s just now out cold near the<br />Toolshed<br />Hands resting on his chest<br />Under the moon<br />Flaps of his boots<br />Ragged tongues<br />Panting at Orion<br />I’m not sure how he managed<br />Great bear of a man<br />That posturing under porch eaves<br />Suspenders and locks of hair<br />Rolling on his head<br />Pressed suits<br />Set against the dump fires of<br />Little Canada<br />The boiling black smoke<br />Arcing over the Merrimack<br />Arthur heaving dumbbells by the shrubs<br />Sleeves rolled up to the<br />Bulging biceps<br />Face contorted<br />The rails called them<br />Following lines like Boston & Maine<br />Out of the North Country<br />Across Vermont and down<br />Into<br />New Hampshire<br />The Canadian express<br />Dropped her red boxes on flatcars<br />Lumber on the nape of<br />Forest necks<br />Bearded men with torn pants<br />Wrapped their mouths around the<br />Necks of futility<br />That grab bag of punch drunk weekends<br />Smelling like shit and whiskey<br />Broad women under broader hats<br />Berate the young ones at<br />The terminal<br />Some slick-headed kid<br />Hanging his poor head below his<br />Coat collar<br />Turned up to the bitter cold<br />I asked the Northern Line<br />To take care of my family<br />Huddled together<br />In the fourth car<br />A plague of suitcases<br />At our feet<br />I asked the Northern Line<br />To speed us home......2/13/01Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-20897151471665746342009-12-15T14:01:00.001-08:002009-12-15T14:01:49.555-08:00Waiting It Out In Newburyport 11-16-00Waiting it out in Newburyport<br />My tie wants to strangle me and<br />My suit coat is a threat to decency<br />Parked on a creaking town hall bench<br />As old as 1851<br />A wall of long dead town fathers<br />Behind a curtain of sepia tones<br />A wall of long dead young men<br />Blown apart in all the great wars<br />Ceiling fans circulate the breath of<br />Yellow record keepers<br />Pushing down floorboards<br />On muffled feet<br />The common council room occupies<br />The acoustics of the water committee<br />And their paper scrolls and pleas<br />Mimeographed flyers flap<br />On corkboards<br />My coat hangs in the hall<br />Like an invisible traitor<br />Someone rubber stamps<br />Something<br />My neck hurts from being still<br />So much time here<br />And all of it<br />WastedAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-35853197829499220062009-12-14T15:00:00.000-08:002009-12-14T15:01:41.065-08:00A Face For Each FeatureMilford is a farmer who busies himself with the demon-beauty that is cornucopia.<br />Amherst is a lunch pail of egg and toast—the general of the highway army.<br />Derry is a stand of leaning pine holding council with fox and skunk.<br />Further south, Lowell is a bowler; sliding along warped wood.<br />Dracut is a shameful boy; fidgeting next to his mother.<br />Waltham is a spindly stretch of mortar, with a franchise of cheap eats.<br />Lawrence is the friend that smokes too much and mooches.<br />Concord wears a tri-cornered hat and takes too long to load.<br />Boston is the grand inquisitor who bends to no one.<br /> She is a rank amateur when it comes to the color of humanism.<br />The Cape shows its bicep to the ocean.<br />Quabbin fills up and spills and is a watershed.<br />Berkshire is the noble timeshare of the Downy Woodpecker.<br />Williamstown makes pottery meant to break.<br />Groton is at once nocturnal, and then it becomes as saymite.<br />Dunstable is a lost vagabond, with overstuffed suitcases and apple orchards for arms.<br />Franconia has at its heart, the downward necklace of water.<br /> We come to the face, and grow like the Bohdi Tree.<br />Keene has the stability of a garden row,<br /> planted close to the tender caregiver of the country.<br />Hampton and Salisbury are cousins once removed;<br /> implacable beauty in the inlet of salt.<br />The Grand Banks, the mother of us all,<br /> shelter bullets of scrod and tarpon.<br />And then there’s the signature of Nashua;<br /> the floral script of an antiquated hand,<br /> writing her story across a hilly page.Andrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3663725552647107349.post-84401442214238278322009-12-13T06:34:00.001-08:002009-12-13T06:34:56.964-08:00New Hampshire ImpressionsThis bridge of land has been unlocked<br /> From careful hand to masts of rock<br /> That loom and stretch the ribboned road<br /> Has quarried most, that green she coats<br /> Then inks to black where eyes of doe<br /> Flit swift and cold near boulder’s throne<br /><br />By cutting gullies, frothing white<br /> The heads of moss poke holes through night<br /> And burdened there with cat-like eyes<br /> Are sparkler brights on country heights<br /> Whose patient rovers crossing lanes<br /> Drop tracks of rolls and coffee stains<br /><br />This one grand slope that furrows time<br /> That grapples sky with mountain’s light<br /> It’s bands of silver etching through<br /> What rings of birch have leaned askew<br /> The bridge holds true, it cups and throws<br /> The bedrock falls to silt and stew<br /><br />Where simmering we see her toil<br /> A family sown in land’s deep soil<br /> A cloud of crow, a wash of dove<br /> Round heights that ice has gripped above<br /> And soon to rinse her granite face<br /> That rain has carved with cunning grace<br /><br />Into a shallow water’s trough<br /> Grand spectacle greets fish and moth<br /> That boats could swell in mirrored sounds<br /> Their waning cries call dusk to shrouds<br /> Bathe valley steeple crowned with white<br /> Poke spires round God’s pristine sight<br /><br />Prod fingers clay that belch and steam<br /> Hold weary workers heads to dream<br /> Call clouds to boil in heaven’s hand<br /> Calm fears that strive to understand<br /> That faith and stone are shaped the same<br /> Beneath this lion’s fiery maneAndrehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06337074083317280543noreply@blogger.com2