This is a poem page

Someday
If I'm hungry
maybe I will go down 
         that great big slope
down into the regions 
       near the marshes
and the river
where within the thickets
     deep with ticks and mice
   dwell those things
that's good eatin'

But not today
 just ate.

  besides
there might be other
    people there already
   it's hunting season.

Comment:

I have issues with my last poem
   that I wrote so much better in
             my mind before
      I got distracted by the
             wine of life and taxes
  ranting into the night
     all night driving on a furious
          blog journey to no where.


    no answers living on the sky
            in the winded heights.
   no poems left lonely on stone markers
       in the blizzard light
  on a stone wall     
      so far away from it all . . .

    That last poem didn't have a
        reason.

    It din't serve a purpose.

      The water drips all day all night
    out of the gold mine cliff out
   in Berkshire Heavan of long forgotten
                    yesterdays.


  Out on the horizon there are trees 
              dancing to Music of the 
            wild wind of Summer Highland
                midnight hiking trips
     with all your buds and bros.

   A cucu bird or something
        lets loose a pleative mating
    wail, some ritual developed
      in long ago flok places on       
             some      
        far away beach
  now burried way below the flooding    flowing
           sands and muds of lost eons

  You get the house two more weeks here
         at this uncountry lake
    so a night of walking the winded bliss 
        shores of dawning Adirondacks
    take short winter walks towards 
       rivers of deceiet and
            bummer time LSD letdowns.

   Yes, I have issues with this last poem.

Pleaidees on Saturday night
   with you upon the rock ridge
    where cherry-trees dance and
   Wicken lovers marry for their
            eternities of rebirthing
      to be you and me and Santa Claus
   from 1935 living in a bowery hide-holl
  with his collicy triplets and
     their other seven brothers
  with Grandma Wheeze and Sunshine
     Uncle Charlie who he always loved.
 
    Butter is too much to pay but she
  loves it more with the toast in the
       morn, the more to have
   breads and wheats like
     sunny Christmas blizzard short-crackers
   called pious offerings but
     too many knickels and too many dimes
   lost for tracking the trail of tears
   and buying old books and cards and letter
   of history. . . . 
     it's for the children.


But Butter bean (from the other poem)
   comes skamppering back in time down
     that New York Loser streets before
   she took him back to Maine to 
be with the family who (always) love them
   outside of time, deep secret chocholate
   love afairs with out the knowledge
     of sexuality but the sensation
   of mountaintimes in bliss (the high country)
   far off in the eternities of the
         golden dawns (always happeing some
                     where)
   Happy happy Butter skitter skatter bean
   choclate doggie lab happy waggy back
in time 3 score years to 1935 Christmas
        time sad drunk broke Santa walking
    home butter bean is happy and 
    scattering love in that 
   doggie quantum dog buddha waggy
    love puppy way that only doggie dogs
   can (and will do)

  Unconditional love even across the
    eons of time, infinities of
   love. . . and free puppies.
  Free puppies.  So he'll take
   his 10 children and grandma and
     uncle lucky and go to Maine in
   the morning rain.

   And 
     on the road
  somewhere in places
   on the way, maybe
      after passing over a 
   mountaintop
    in central Conneticuit, 
    route 144?  route 6?  Somewhere,
   there will be free puppies.

   He will stop the old car (and
   the 13 riders) and add three more,
     three little puppydogs for
  the farm up in Maine.

   Happy Family Christmases for all
        always.
   

Weepmiester on your
   day off
     you drove all the way
   to Ridley Creek State Park
  ripping up your notebooks
   on an alkoloid induced
  barf festival someone left
     paper in the icetea 
   that you didn't know about,
     puppy eyed and tired you can
  only hope for awakening into a better
      day,
   less cleche
   and over with you say
  
     out the door.

  how do you get out and into the world?
    I took that trip that day with you
  to be free of the pain of the sad
  class failings that I would otherwise do
    my broken festival lighting candles
         had cracked the linolium of 
     Eames table from bad wiring.
   my heartache ears listened to your
    snotty chuckles like this was
  the sound of the wine
    being poured into the holiest of holy
       chalacies . . . 

    Someone strumping a rubber band 
           was as harpists at 
  the twelve always open gates
       and in full site of God and angels
    do we confess our eternal love.

     Oh Kay, now, as a test, when
   we cum down and we
    we're sober again
   we got ta live out
the 
rest of these many lives
 before we get to the place of
       promise
        where it is all still true
         our eternal love, 
         me an you,
   many many life timeslater, down time
             when the rivrs all
          flood and flow in different
    patterns (great brandywine stories
            of lusty love be told for
             freedom)

   It was you
      I landed on the branch next over.
    it was you.

    you flew away, you already had
          another.
   
     it was you
    your love is always true.

   Meek sharks of deep waters only
        timid if they are saited
   and fed of bloody offerings not
      like Jesus.
   jesus who could be 40 days
       without food and
  not take it
         when offered.

    Shark tank wall-street sharks like
       lions in a collesium and
 companies are the offered sport while
        we all watch.
   see and be seen is what she told me
     that one who stands disgraced now.

      I didn't say anything bad
 about her.  She was always
       nice to me.

    But she wasn't good for me.
     I loved her but I had to walk away.
  I loved her.
     now she is a pillar of salt.

   Mini tiny trees
     on a tiny tiny knoll
   on a massive mountain
     miles above the town,
  miles away from the 
      rushing flood.
    
    A dam breech in the valley
     far across time,
      in another season
   resurfaced the valley 
        by changing the course
       of the rain and rivers.

   When a mountain washes away
     hillocks skip like lambs off towards
        the sky
     cause gravity has stop for a brief time
      causing some anomaly in the rhyme . . .
   my heart broke long ago,
      now you can just see the faultlines
    of my psychological breakdowns, now
          healed, now done with, 

    giant oak trees hang sweetly over
         those ridge lines and weepy down
  below the willows sing and sashche away
       the river's guilt of loving you,
          loving you
        forever.
        forever.
    I had that guilt of loving you
         forever.

   and then when the earthquake hit
     that guilt was forever subsumed
 and forgotten.

     The band played on and into the night
             and everybody was dancing.

    Martin
          Martin in his confusion
   he was walking alone
    down the highway
       alone
      and afraid of the coming
   dark
     the coming dark
   into which he walked slowly
         picked up the pace a little
      when the wind got strong
        because it pushed him along
     that wind
      it pushed him along.

   Could he have found a place
     near some craggy cliffs 
   out of the wind?
     Or travelling alone
       that winded night
     far from home, afoot,
   would it 
          be better to move along
   let the wind take him where it will
    the wind is strong.

   Martin.  He stood against the wind.
      he didn't let it push him into a cave.
  he stood up and raged against his
        inner hates
      his self-immolations of
        recognising sin within
       himself
   sin
     within himself
    and freed
   him self by
      forgivness
    not just of self
  but of others.

   Forgiveness of others.

  In this way did Martin free the world 
        forever onward
   from those hatereds and falacies
     of social order.

   Freed us always.

   
  Reflections of a bridge
   at the end of day
     all those folks
 in their cars
        safely crossing over.


    Cold Winter awnings unwound
     and Winter snugglies snuggled inward
      to keep those tootsie toes so warm and
             kind and light (of the sun)

   Berry sweet drink pushed toward
     you too much vitamins
   in your hair make it droop but
      school is next so don't be late.


   Tomorrow.
     I won't be late tomorrow
   even in my sorrow which
       teacher can not know
    and I won't tell him.
      Won't tell him.


    I just stair outside into
  the November gloom all first period
       in mathclass unaware of
   what is being taught if anything.

   Mr. Sighs and heartaches, he calls me.
  Think of the pains you will have 
    that that river will someday
   always be washing away.

   And even though you know this,
     Mr. Sighs and Heartaches,
   you will have your teenage angst,
     no stopping you.

       And you will find your
   very loves
     being flooded and washed away,
  your very coveted loves, your
     child loves of me me me.

   What do you say to a teacher
     who is also a prophet?
   And all I had to learn
     that day
       were quadratic equations.

   But instead he taught me about
        mystic burning love
   (and the infinities of lifetimes
       in heartache and suffering
          if you let yourself and
       which he has now forever taught
    me how to avoid)

   May God always bless the 
       teachers of math and
   algebra, both of numbers
     and of souls locked in
    eternal fellowship.

   
     

All of this is, of course, copyrighted
2008.

It is currently only available
as a curtesy.
Availability may be limited in the future.

Above we have a view of the mountain from the raod through the state park.
This was taken on Friday Nove 6, 2008 in
Easthampton.(Southampton?)