My Old Foe, Death

Death is a cagey bastard. It rarely comes right at you and if it does, it does so at lightning speed. It has a way of showing disinterest until it creeps from the shadows and coddles you into it’s clutches. I choose to search it out, keeping my enemy close, the better to keep an eye on it. It has a need to be in control and that is the battle I choose.




I walk through fields of amber and grey
boot heavy and heart full

all jangle and beat
in search of one who feigns
and waves along
with nonchalance

a foe I wish to draw near.

my life falls heavy
upon my chest
in anchored breath
of heated sorrow
and wasted want

He
bare and Poseidon-like,
a back of brass and iron.
banded arms in lock formation
jeweled in blood and blight
as emerald and ruby
these eyes of hardened deceit.

echo this,
echo I
hollow made thus
erringly so
you of yesteryear and forever.

but yet, I call
approach
challenge
yea,
even demand
to one who flicks
the ash of man

across the chessboard

of who dare?

I dare

I search you
yes,
in hunt of red October
and dip my fingers
to the depth
of your despair
in beleaguered plea
of selfish surrender.

I spy not
the whiskers of your age
nor the grain
of your youth
but the stench of your choice
I discern
in these fields
of inglorious restitution

and my eyes glint
as my tongue clears the scabbard
of notched forlorn

but you whisper goodbye
and trace
to the whisper of your
disappearance
the magic

in the chicanery

of your choosing

and once more, you have greased my grasp
with your laughter.

sheath full

of dull worn edge

boot heavy

with rusted jangle
and heart weary

yet alert,

watching

narrow eyed

to the shadows

that chase

along the edge
I plod on

knowing

when cease I to hunt you
your cutlass shall claim my blood
in chains

of sullen embrace.

~rick

Life and Voyaging

Pardon me, but I'm feeling rather the thief, today. I read this on another site (Never ending Voyage-Hank De Velde) and copied and pasted wholesale. I found it beautiful and encouraging and thought perhaps it may do the same for another.

The quote is from Sterling Hayden who was by no account a saintly type person. He drank way too much and after joining the communist party, turned around and sold out to old J. Edgar giving names and all. Ratbastard.

I include, here, a snippet from an interview with him about that shameful period.

[Q- After the War, you joined in Hollywood the Communist Party?

A- Yes, they put me in what was called "a backlot group," though Ronald Reagan would call it a "cell." I decided right away it wasn't for me. I remember the first meeting I went to, they said the next meeting was Tuesday night at 7:30. My first thought was, "Fuck the Revolution, what about my date with Charlene?"]

Anyway, on to my original thievery;

"In passing ... by Sterling Hayden oct 17

In passing ... "To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise, you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea -- cruising, it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about. "'I've always wanted to sail to the south seas, but I can't afford it,' some men say. What these men can't afford is not to go. They are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of security. And in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine, and before we know it our lives are gone. "What does a man need -- really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in, and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all in the material sense, and we know it. "But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention for the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by, the dreams of youth grow dim where they lie caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. "Where, then, lies the answer? In choice ! Which shall it be: bankruptcy of purse or bankruptcy of life?" -- (Sterling Hayden)

People I've Known

As the sand has fallen, I realize that more and more people I once knew I will never know again. It's funny how we never know when the last wave or handshake will come and we take so much for granted.

I remember Perry
just a dollop of a kid.
a snippet of a person
in brown stained levis

we ran
wild and free,
played ball
as if it mattered
and climbed trees
just to fall.

he disappeared in ‘74
along with two others
when that green dart
flew fields of trees
but not nearly
high enough
as an oak huffed it’s chest
to the insanity of youth.

Rob left then, too
a fourteen year old
with a death wish.
adopted, and for some reason,
everyone knew it.
a chipped tooth
and a laugh that couldn’t catch up with itself
it runs still today
in haunted silence.

I lost Dennis a couple years ago.
they said he’d die,
said his heart was sick
but I figured Dennis would get around it.
outsmart it. outplay em. always did.
he was fifty
and out of quarters.

Scotty was smart as a whip
and strong as a bull.
a bar stool philosopher
and a good pitcher.
pinched his pennies
for early retirement.
who knew his heart would just pause
a second too long
on a Sunday highway
and the pennies
would be orphaned
in a ditch of spinning wheels
and twisted handle bars.
I think he was 38
something like that.

I’ve lost a lot of them
some in cars,
some on bikes
some wed
to disease

I’m still losing em,
want names?
nah.
why make it personal.

every day
we play Russian roulette
to a loaded house.
somebody’s gonna buy it
and ya can’t fold,
nor beg your way out.
just ask Charlie.
God, how we envied him.
I think he was nineteen
when he and half his family
spiraled a copter into the goldless
dirt.

you wake up to a full house
aces over queens
and gutter down
to deuces and treys
in the last light
of a hopeless day.

and you never seen it coming
-even when you did.

so lawyer up,
policy pack
and vault tomorrow
in the lessons
of yesterday.

we’re all one muscle,
one split second,
one bad hand
from that
which we all fear most.

perhaps, fear is the thing
we should be fearing
and life
the thing
we should be living.
~rick

I Remember It Well

Sometimes, we don’t remember the details exactly as they really happened. And maybe, after all, the devil really is in the details.

I remember it well,
I said,
and you said
don’t,
but I did anyway.

you looked so-
no, really, you did.
and I laughed to your telling
as you told about
him and, um…

I remember it well.
we took the five
forty-eight
and arrived
early
and, well,
you know.

It was hot that day,
your hair long
and let down.
I wore that shirt
you never liked.
and you handed me-
no, really, you did.

well, anyway,
we walked through
the park.
I think mid-afternoon.
are you certain?

I remember it well.
your perfume tickling
my nose
and that scarf
wild in the breeze
no?
but I thought…
I was so sure.

did we have coffee?
I thought not.
it snowed.
really?
oh, yes-August
of course

did I have the Buick
then?
Ford?
are you sure?
was your mother-
no, I suppose not

and-
uh huh,
but I did love you,
did I not?
yes
and you me?
of course.
see,
I remember it well.

She Dances To Moons

I wrote this for a precious friend, she of so much giving and caring. She has her family. Her faith. Her friends. She has a spirit that shall never grow old and that is her greatest gift to me. I only wish I were a better writer for her.

she waltzes with moons
in a garden of words.
one hand to
the red ripe,
the other
to vine.

a look up
ahead
to wishes cast
from a bayou dock
deep in the stillness
of the black
with a casual glance
behind
knowing the pearl-topped
waves
have graced her yesterday
before leaving
for another’s youth,
another’s tomorrow

she loves where
she’s been,
she’s been where
she’s going
and she trances
to second-hand books
and far away looks

love is flawed,
this she pens
in her palimpsest
heart
but her garden
grows
more beautiful.

a treasure
to her friends
and friend to
their treasure
she pours herself
generously,
sumptuously,
and they drink her
full.
her long stem
stretching
to the nectar
of a dragonfly’s ebb
while we rim our finger
and lip the sweetness,
only to
cherish the taste
of her untamed garden
and fevered library.

she dreams,
still, as before.
Bohemian and cut-offs
seventeen forever
and taller than the clouds
and wonders,
and grapples
with the answers
an indifferent bayou
provides.

and she dances to moons
with fat red tomatoes
with skinny arms
to her skinny legs
in her garden
of words.

and her garden grows more beautiful
with every dance
and every verse.
pictures and poetry
Stevie Nicks
and morning glories
yesterday
and tomorrow

A soft, sure smile
She to us
us to her
cupped hands in drink
arm to waist
a garden walk
with a very special friend.

~rick

I Miss The Smell Of The Water

New York City, Paris, snow-capped peaks and lovers long gone. There are many things we once knew that embed in our souls, taking root, mooring loosely but sure. I miss many things I once held close. None more so than the smell of the water.






did they laugh?
to us?
at our legs?

or the popcorn,
the stale,
white miniature clouds
of buttered delight
that always
drew their beg.

the gulls-

how they made us laugh
and run
and chase

and,

what would we do
if one we had caught?

but we never did.
never
really wanted to.

~ ~ ~ ~

they held us,
but loosely so

so rigid,
so mariner ancient,
in their anchored stand.

and we played upon them
and the sea
played upon us

the rocks-

we swam
or nearly so

and she held us
in broad bosom bondage
but never too tight
and always cheerful,
in her wake.

we walked the barren beaches
on naked twilight sands,
and cake-walked cliffs
to distant foghorns
and morning bells

of drunken chime

in sparkling charade

and,

we got hot dogged
and potato chipped
to wind unfurled
and too many flies
proficient in the game.

*******

hot dogs here
are just Wal Mart at it’s worst.

the barren beaches,
cover my blighted heart,
crab picked
and starfish skeletal.
church bells of empty souls
toll for truck horns
of impudence.

and the gulls,
those gulls,
light
to another’s popcorn,
another’s rock,
another’s dream.

I miss me
when I was young.
I miss you
shadowing the horizon
as the moon watched,
tender eyed.
I miss us,
when all we needed
was all we wanted
and that we had.

And I miss the smell of the water.
in your hair,
in your kiss,
in your soul,
in my heart,

in my now.
~rick

Boldly Goin To The Moon

This is what happens when you don’t get enough sleep. Or any sleep for that matter. You start believing, silly twit you! Webster wrote the book for a reason and the moon is just a rock. Now go bake cookies and watch basketball. These are the things of substance. The things of Earth.


I think I’ll go to the moon today
and visit William Shatner
I heard he lives there
for the zero gravity
and ocean views

he looks good for his age
don’t ya think?
sure the botox makes him puffy
but hey, eight billion miles
across the boldly goin ain’t chickens feed.

anyway, I like the moon.
I might even claim it. Manifest Destiny
don’tcha know
I’m here-it’s here, it must be mine.
think that’s how it works.

friends have gone there
and returned all smily doodled
and dreamyland starstruck

I wanna be all dreamyland starstruck
and sappylicious terrific.
maybe open a starbucks
virgin territory, fer sure.

I wonder if it rains on the moon?
just star dust and pissywallows I suppose
and the water would just fall off
in gloppy cloppers anyway

can you tan on the moon?
do they have their own language?
on tv, it’s always seventy two
and English no matter the planet.
what a marvelous phenomenon

where was I?
oh yes, the moon!
would I find my dreams
on the other side?
would the stars be within my grasp?
would the train be on time?
or would it just be a clop of dirt at which dreams are hurled
and piddlydust fairies play bridge with William Shatner

I wanna go to the moon
my moon, our moon
the one you told me of
where dreams matter and want reaches
beyond yesterday’s decisions
and tomorrow’s good sense

I don’t wanna see Bill there,
let him get his own moon
on Vegas stages and silly studios

first we’ll plant a tree
then a garden and goldfish pond
and build a starliewinkle cottage
with green shutters and a fine patio
for evening viewings of earth
and all it’s silly goings on

we’ll tell each other silly jokes
like,
if Bill Shatner farted on the moon,
would they smell it on earth?
ha ha that’s a good one!

no, seriously
we’ll do it
it’s a date.

we’ll go to the moon
and we’ll find our tomorrow
on breeze of chocolate sapphire
and emerald peppermint

we’ll dance to Jupiters wind chimes
and Saturn’s rings will anoint us

mercury will be our nightlite
and earth our used to been.

bearlymarlo paw paws will be our lunch
and hickorysnaplle parlydorps our supper
we’ll learn English and teach our goldfish the backstroke

You shake your head
you say no?
such things cannot exist?
but you told me they could
you told me they would
if only we’d believe

oh, yes, I remember now
belief is that thing I read about in that book
the one bout pissywallows and gloppy cloppers
and star trek enterprise
silly me

there is no moon
nor life beyond breath
William Shatner is just a silly old man
who farts on the earth

and dreams?
clay pigeons for cruel sport
and Disney dollars

but it was a fine idea, wasn’t it?
yes, silly one, a fine idea.
now hush and go to sleep
sweet dreams.


(I first posted this back in the spring but pulled it within an hour. I like it though and have decided to let it grow wings and fly-even if only to crash. Take care)



rick~