CHAPTER 1

    Dem Birds

    A flock of dem birds was flocking together
    winging as one past a barn
    Dey were dodging and soaring over and under
    the wires strung on poles in the ground

    Dey went flocking like that 'til one of dem birds
    gets a notion he'd like to set down
    after alighting together in the orchard tree branches
    dem birds began singing a song

    It was the same old tune dem birds all knew
    about the crests on their breast and the worms in the dew

    Den dem birds chirped and hopped about
    dining on fruit, nuts, and flies
    complaining of all the cats and cars in this world
    lamenting the ever-narrowing skies

    Off they took one and all
    like only dem birds will
    continuing on their southern swing
    and they won't be back until ...

    In spring I expect to see dem birds again
    winging north past the orchards and barns
    dodging over and under the telephone wires
    on the lookout for cats and cars

    They'll sing their old song
    the tune they all knew
    about the crests on their breasts
    and the worms in the dew
    So whenever I see dem birds
    I hope they see me too


    Behold, the Universal Web

    Breathe in
    Breathe out
    Behold the big sky mind
    the universal web
    across the expanse
    above the swinging door

    Here is the string which binds us together
    silky milk-steel cables
    jack-hammer tough
    shards whispering in the forever breezes
    The big-sky mind holds every one
    It's all there in the universal web

    God is a golden spider
    inviting us to his kingdom one by one
    to die
    to live again
    forever
    and in all ways

    The web of life
    all creatures breathe in
    and out
    The web of love
    all creatures struggle with the ecstasy
    The web of victory

    breathing in
    out
    The web of defeat
    this idea breathes no more

    The web of hate
    spawns corruption that eats itself alive
    The web of lies
    putrid carcasses gaping open, oozing vile juices
    The web of power
    yes, a blade, cutting each way

    The web of knowledge
    books, question marks, a computer mouse
    dancing in the moonlight
    A web of light
    shining under the hood on a rainy roadside night

    There are angels dancing naked
    criminals walking free
    money to be made
    debts to be paid
    atoms to be split
    as far as one can see

    Behold the big sky mind
    the universal web
    To find it
    One must sit
    To climb it
    One must let go
    Breathe in
    Breathe out
    the swinging door


    Portrait 39
    (with apologies to e. e. cummings)

    today is the day of portrait 39
    slippingonthatslide
    headlong
    down down down
    not even september in new england cansavemenow
    frustrated happy poor but charmingly so
    nothing left to do but ask
    whateverhappened to the cleveland browns?


    There's Still a Lot of Green in This World
    (Let's Keep It That Way)

    There's still a lot of green in this world
    Let's keep it that way
    Make an effort
    to keep that color green ... green

    Don't you just love those greenback dollars?
    silk paper with pictures and numbers
    revealing Masonic secrets of the ages

    Useful for purchasing such items as

    pencils with erasers
    picture books with illustrations
    clothing and shoes, all styles
    coffee cups to use as planters
    cassette tapes to store in the attic
    insurance manuals by the score
    office supplies and equipment
    computer parts—software mostly
    furniture of all kinds
    lumber by the yard
    real estate at the Cape
    with an occasional slice of heaven
    on the side

    Don't you just love the green-grassed lawn
    when there's clover
    and little yellow flowers blooming?

    Love it in the morning
    before dewy drops evaporate
    in the middle of the day
    after it rains and the clouds blow away
    How about at dusk in summer
    under the children's bare feet?

    Can't see the green on winter nights
    when the snow is deep and white
    unless you have a flashlight and a shovel
    but then it won't look as green as it might

    Don't you just love those Green Mountains?
    every bit as much as the White?
    The Adirondacks? The Appalachians?
    green is green wherever you find it

    So here's to the mountains I've climbed
    to the ones I've yet to try
    Here's to mountains I'll never see
    after they close the book on me
    So, green the hills
    so green when you're in them
    so green the tops of trees from above
    so green their reflections in the water
    so many different greens
    but not all in a row

    It's enough to spin your head

    Don't you love the Boston Celtics?

    as green as any team
    can be

    Red Auerbach
    Bob Cousy
    the Bill Russell years
    Halvicek stole the ball!
    Go Larry Bird!

    Don't you love green?
    to know you're still
    living

    Green makes me like the car light go
    on some ride through the forest
    leaves and branches and trails
    up through the scrubs
    up above the tree line
    stand up to the wind
    look at the world
    It'll be big
    spread out for miles around
    sweet dream green


    The True Yankee Blues

    Sorrow in the gray late afternoon
    twelve before four
    it's raining
    wet and cold
    steady downpour

    The yellow purple flowers
    are wilting to their knees
    the Pilgrim dirt is about to assume them

    This is the Yankee blues
    so ancient and so new
    so inevitable
    so take heart
    find joy
    at least we know the truth

    Small flocks of birds
    fly by my dreamscape window
    between drippy drips
    heading for southern trees
    where the worms still wriggle
    and the insects sing their names

    Back up here comes the New England frost
    the people work
    the people work even when they play
    for there is not a moment lost here
    not a moment to let slip away

    The spirits of the esteemed and the estranged
    who reside in these green hills
    are undiminished at the end of another working day
    these ghosts retreat to shiny, colored boxes
    to big toys with big screens
    to joy sticks and push buttons
    to bourbon on the rocks
    to cooking dinner without the fat
    We singers of the Yankee blues

    Tired eyes
    weary minds
    stronger than the stones beneath our feet
    plain and hard
    distant, surly shyness
    no way to shift the weight
    to carry another thing
    but somehow, we will

    Until we wilt like October flowers
    in the rain beside heaven's gate
    to be assumed by the Pilgrim dirt
    to join with our mothers and our fathers
    whether we love them or not
    so ancient
    such joyful lamenting
    so gone gone gone


    I Remember Him Still

    This is a poem to my friend Oil Can
    Everybody loved his name
    He was a real blues cat
    such a happy handsome boy
    So sad to see him go

    I remember him still

    Charmed fellow
    velvety black
    emerald eyes
    how he loved a whisper in his ear
    Oil Can
    Good boy

    My, he must have had the loudest purr in town!

    I remember him still
    Peeking
    in the backdoor window
    balanced
    on the narrow iron railing
    his way of telling us how he wanted to leap in
    So open the door, and get out of the way

    Where was he going on that midnight prowl?
    His regular route
    in his velvety style?
    Or did he go off to Hollywood
    to star in the late movie we saw on TV last night?
    No? Well I guess he must have gone to Boston
    to play with the Sox

    I remember him still

    In the places he liked to be
    emerging from the bushes
    padding across the lawn
    tail in the air
    to greet us when we came home

    Asleep on a stack of newspapers
    the sentry on the table by the front window
    Playing clear the runway with the office supplies on my desk
    Fetching little paper balls, until the kids came along
    Smiling by the heat register on cold mornings
    Enduring the summer vapors
    as baby hands rub ice cubes on his hot back

    I remember him, still
    dead on the table
    his beautiful heart drowned
    every last life used up
    We could do nothing to save him
    so we brought him home
    and we honor his name
    whispering
    Oil Can

    This is a poem to my friend Oil Can
    Everybody loved his name
    He was a real blues cat
    such a happy handsome boy
    So sad to see him go
    I miss him still


    Letting Go

    When it comes to letting go
    and falling
    it's not the ride that kills you
    it's the sudden stop at the end

    So when you're poised in that old airplane door
    at twenty thousand feet
    with the wind rushing over the all of you
    pulling you
    pushing you
    swirling you so loud you can't hear yourself think
    and the time has come to jump
    release your iron grip on that hatchway door
    and pray you packed the parachute right

    Because it's too late
    you're already swept away

    The feeling is flying, floating, diving
    wind tears fill your eyes.

    It's like the first time you swam in the lake
    when your toes couldn't touch the bottom
    a little scary
    but, hey, the water wasn't that bad
    You kicked your legs
    you pulled your arms
    you wriggled like a fish

    Under the water, your cheeks puffed out
    your eyes bugged wide
    your silky hair streamed everywhere about
    and when you came to the surface
    not able to hold your breath a single instant more
    you took a gasp of sunshine
    catching your father's eye
    "Hey Dad, did you see that?"

    Indeed he did
    Your father was watching over you


    Somebody Someday

    How can I still think
    that I might be somebody someday?

    How can that possibly be?

    Do I think all this ranting and raving
    on the edge of my mind
    because the machine keeps spitting me out
    will save me?

    When I die
    I won't go to hell

    and if I die
    and don't go anywhere
    I hope I don't know it

    and if I get lucky
    and make it to heaven

    I'll put in a good word for you


    Jugglers All (for Steve Adams)

    I

    We're jugglers all, you see
    We're jugglers both, you and me
    There are so many jugglers in this world, it's past counting
    They juggle all the time
    more matters than hands
    in souped-up cars
    at traffic lights
    spinning blue rubber smoke
    when it turns green
    tires squealing leaving eight-foot skid marks
    Those boys are betting they will get away

    Jugglers climb up telephone poles
    with sharp cleats on their shoes
    Tools dangle from the belt around the belly
    handling live wires with only gloves on their hands

    Jugglers inhabit the tall office buildings by day
    hiding behind walls and desks
    where the carpet is nice
    the lights are recessed
    balancing books
    on the tips of the laws
    tossing black and red figures into the air

    Jugglers dove into the cold Adirondack lake
    searching for the missing girl who
    was tortured and murdered and
    discarded in the mud
    tangled in the reeds
    until she was found
    the prime suspect walking free

    II

    That juggler wears a three-piece suit
    with creases sharp as razor blades

    That juggler wears his underwear
    bunched over the top of low-riding pants

    That juggler there
    wears a cracked, Harley Davidson
    black leather jacket and black jeans
    He doesn't even know his daddy did too
    way back in 1965

    Now that juggler, she's
    not wearing any clothes
    but there's no doubt she juggles like wow!

    III

    Jugglers juggle multicolored balls of silk
    balls round and odd, even bowling balls and pins,
    flaming butcher knives, chairs and tables, slippery swords
    fireballs, elephants, and sky scrapers

    Jugglers juggle kittens and puppies
    in midair without crashing
    rattle snack shacks when testing the brakes
    or making love with a passion

    Jugglers juggle calories
    cholesterol, drinking, and drugs
    wisdom and folly
    Kukla, Fran, and Ollie
    throwing notions in the air

    Jugglers juggle lovers and haters
    litigation negotiators
    401Ks, lies, lives, and livers
    with stock options in mutual funds.

    Jugglers juggle figures, numbers, letters
    history and science
    local weather conditions
    nutrition, the environment
    life in the food chain
    electricity in wires
    what those in power don't want
    to have known

    Jugglers juggle the most
    inside their onion-layered heads
    bringing bread home to Mama
    watching the kid play that game
    Express yourself
    somehow
    take a walk in the dew
    pray to the Lord above.

    That's all jugglers do.

    They just keep 'em in the air.


    This Is Blue

    Blue is the color I want to talk about
    Not just any shade of blue
    I want to talk about the colors of being blue
    not juggling cobalt blue with baby-blue eyes
    in the big sky blue

    The feeling of blue is also the sound of blue
    Just as there are different shades of blue within the hue of        blue
    so the feeling blue
    and the music blue
    fade into and out of the shadows
    withhold the light
    so that it's like yesterday's newspaper
    blowing down Trumbull street on a rainy blue night

    What are the blues?

    Why the embodiment of the first Buddhist precept
    of course: Life is suffering
    We suffer, we work, we die

    This is blue
    When that chill races up the spine
    so you know
    something just happened somewhere in this world
    that drove one more poor soul
    over the edge into the forever night
    from begging on the knees
    'til gone

    It's that moment in life
    when you realize
    you don't want justice
    you want mercy

    Into the blue music mood
    Miles Davis blue
    but I'm thinking of the blue blues too
    I'm thinking Mississippi Delta blue

    Robert Johnson cut a deal at the Crossroads
    now he's sinking down
    I'm thinking Chicago blues
    Don't make Wolf follow Muddy again
    he might bite someone
    or burn the place to the ground
    Texas blues lost in the flood
    Kansas City, swinging blues
    why I even know the true Yankee blues

    It's a chugga chugga bass-line riff
    a drive on the percussion
    and a good old hollow-body wooden guitar
    steel strings and a whiskey-bottle neck for a slide

    It's the elegant Les Paul Custom
    a banged and scarred Strat electric
    too loud and
    somehow loud enough
    extended in a high-pitched solo jam
    edgy, rusty blue
    not only for the roundness of the sound
    but also for the feathery blue silent curls
    eminently not played

    It's calloused and stained fingertips
    the bloodshot eyes
    the faint smell of reefer
    bourbon shots
    beer chasers
    quick sex in the alley

    It's the blues rumble and moan
    hellhounds on the trail
    speak out
    shriek
    girl back-up singers
    with voices from the church choir
    seductively dressed in black-cat bones

    It's the smoky daguerreotype
    silhouetted heads
    swaggering, drunk, sweaty
    tired and beaten crowd
    happy and loud
    until last call is announced
    and a delegate from every party
    battles the currents toward the bar to
    secure one more round
    before it's shut down

    The sound of blue
    will remind you
    enlighten you
    revile you
    unbind you
    enrapture you
    seduce you
    but you have to find your own way home
    In brave bold chords

    the standard blues confession encore
    'bout the mean mistreater
    you been mistreatin' someone
    someone been mistreatin' you

    Blue gets clear, sharp, and muddy brown
    On its way to black
    ten miles an hour too fast
    on a two-a.m. back-country road
    switching off the headlights
    near the stop signs
    and blow right through if its dark the other way
    all defiance
    Let's see you pull this trick
    from the east or west
    You can do it, so do it now!


    Visions of the New Millennium 1

    Was last night the last night?

    The last night the children
    will sleep through the night
    heads safe on comfy pillows
    beneath thick blankets
    gliding in sweet dreams
    until the usual morning nudge?

    Here they all are
    emerged into the cold air
    which shocks the nose
    grogging into fuzzy bathrobes and slippers
    mumbling brrr
    at the back winter window
    icicle perpetually falling from the downspout
    footprints crunched in the snow from
    the trudging paperboy's boots
    eating hot cereal and drinking hot chocolate
    waking to the new day
    after the last night
    of the millennium

    waves of illusion and reality

    Thirty chosen people in California
    are beginning to have their doubts

    In the middle of the night
    on a moonlit hill
    standing and sitting beside their luggage
    with promises believed
    before the sun comes up
    their faith punches the ticket
    confirms their reservations
    thus allowing them admittance
    aboard the next ship out
    to heaven
    away from sorrow
    worry
    and aggravations
    Only the stars have arrived

    For the sun of the first day
    after the last day
    is soon to rise
    soon to dawn on them
    it's just the same old thing
    another day on the timeline of space
    so they might as well go home
    and feed the cat
    (June 4, 1997)


    Visions of the New Millennium 2

    Through thick lenses scratched and smudged
    From the pulpit of experience
    of just walking around town
    reading the paper
    watching the TV news
    scanning the horizons
    floating on the waterways
    peeking into tunnels
    stalking over bridges
    meditating about osmosis

    it is the reflection
    of the refraction
    the dear old concluding consideration
    that every age stakes its claim to the last millennium

    Reality, illusion, death, and taxes
    bag and baggage
    drive on
    never going anywhere
    or not for long

    For this planet
    this solar system
    this universe
    this black hole
    is like a strange little speck of dust
    out there
    and the cleaning woman don't come 'til Friday.