celebrations of life

i look for my missing brown fedora

still drink the now cold coffee

listening to the symphonies

on flat disks in my near quiet chamber

amongst the lavender incense

and a couple of dancing candles…

smoking the self-rolled tobacco cigarettes

and concerns of artistic freedom

and self-censorship

while in poet persona

and my long plaid flannel robe

while gazing at my writing words

and the walls adorned

with pictures of pretty girls

like my old college rooms.

and would i lie naked

with my aging small body

on warm tropical sands

caressing the flesh of an equally

dressed beautiful woman

with red flowers strewn

and a salted breeze

coming with the blue and white horizon

of a southerly ocean scene.

and re-tasting the butter dipped

flesh of the king crab

and sipping semi-sweet white wine

re-playing the words and music

of -les miserable-

as seen from the balcony

of the splendid auditorium

and youthful re-living a few

athletic successes

as another badge of manhood

as years pile into years

and the body de-evolves

but the spirit would suit up still.

the old fool i do become

for you tis like watching

your parents and aunts and uncles

do the fast dance

at the wedding reception

for a glowing pair of twenty-something’s

waiting for the honeymoon to begin.

my mirror with it no lines

except the ones growing

on my face

and thinning now grey hair

and muscles that be not so crisp

tell me no lie

that i be ageless

as the lavender sweet stick

slowly burns down

and its red ember begins to cool

and whether to re-light the flame

or drift away into soft night

still even about to sleep

i worship at the feet of feminine beauty

with a silly chuckle

that i may be old

-but i ain’t dead-

and thinking i remember a line from a speech

by a kennedy brother

-that the dream still lives

and the spirit will never die-

**************************************

at least that how I remember…

classic music plays in the background

though my mind hears Bob Dylan

singing “Blowin’ in the Wind”,

and Dion singing “Abraham, Martin, and John”

as I remember the moments I heard the horror

of the shootings of Dr. King and President Kennedy

and Senator Kennedy and former Beatle John Lennon.

in second grade, the quietly crying teacher

asked us to me quiet and place our heads

on our desks as if kindergartner’s taking a little rest.

school was soon dismissed

and we dashed out of the buildings

and the rumours spread

that the president was shot

and I naively said to an older student

“I pray he is still alive”

I was told in youthful candor,

“No, he’s dead. They blew half his head away.”

at least that is how I remember that day…

lying on the floor

watching TV at my uncle’s home

the news broke in

that Dr. King had been shot in Memphis

and that he had died

the grown-ups pretended not to hear

and said nothing.

at least that is how I remember that night.

senator kennedy had addressed the campaign crowd

in California late at night

and said “And now on to Chicago”

and moments later in black and white

the Eugene McCarthy campaign staff was shown

in white flat campaign hats crying and college age

young women with their hands over their mouths

as a spokesman for the McCarthy campaign announced

that Bobby had been shot and taken to the hospital.

New York Senator Robert Francis Kennedy

died in hospital the next afternoon.

at least that is how I remember that night and day.

Howard Cosell on Monday Night football

as I drank an eight pack of Little Kings cream ale

that John Lennon had been shot and killed

near his Dakota apartment in New York City.

slightly drunk and age 25

I ran to the bathroom and vomited

the stale ale from my guts.

just the day before I had heard

Lennon during a taped interview

on the radio say,

“I got tired of being Elvis Beatle”

in the ultimate irony

I had front row seats for a live concert

from four stage performers

hired as Beatles look and sound-a-likes

for a nostalgia show called -Beatlemania-

only three days after John’s death.

at least that is how I remember that time…

freedom and the unfettered imaginary muse

(the imaginary muse indeed reflects no one person, the characterization is completely imaginary)

kris kristopherson and Janis Joplin

me and bobby McGee

-freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose-

and half o’pot of fresh ground coffee

and Beethoven and self-rolled

tobacco cigarettes in

only my long plaid flannel bathrobe

being my alleged artistic persona

somewhat wishing for an attractive muse

in between the lines

and I see the conflicts about us

that need not have to be

and bobby kennedy quote from George B. Shaw

I often get slightly wrong

-Some people see things as they are

and say Why?

I dream of things that never were

and say Why Not?”

I plop on my old brown fedora

bought for pocket change

from a local yard sale

and switch from coffee to water

and nibble at a quick lunch

and it is all about atmospherics

and perceptions that become reality

and the karma that one exudes

an invisible aura that surrounds us

as perceived by nearly all of others

I take pause for another lunch bite

and glimpse the snapshots

of a lovely young woman

in brief costume

whom I will never meet

as an imaginary muse.

I chuckle silently that

I would hire a live model

to sit quietly nude

a few feet from me

while I wrote poetry

about lying myself unclothed

in a country pasture

near a flowing stream

and white and violet wildflowers

and those high cottony clouds

upon the pastel blue skies

and hills on the horizon

and a lush valley beneath my feet

and seeing myself as if in a painted landscape

and through the daydream’s haze

I return to the conflict again

for this moment.

another of my selves

perhaps another time

would trap myself

in contemplating strategies

and seeing only the war-riddled harshnesses

and the talking heads

talking of war

and rumours of war

and the angry people

shouting about who is right and who is wrong

but that is not the self I am this day

for I want not to see the anger

to see the violence

though I know that it be out there

I want to think not about foes and fighting

for I want neither foes or fighting

and should that not be us as well?

and to be cliché that we must learn

to compete well and be able to disagree

without being disagreeable…

my real sense detects

the reality that some will stop at nothing

in their anger and greed and hatred

and I wish that we and all

would lose all but a token amount of the weapons

for they need not be used in a better world

as I pause again to gaze

at that imaginary muse

and take another bite

of that little bit of lunch

and light another smoke…

and what so much better

we could use the coin

spent on guns and bombs

and all the instruments of death

for I be my dreamer self this day

perhaps much from a little

over consumption the evening before

and a little too little sleep

as is too often my

growing older habit.

and still is not the challenge

be to convince others

we want not your conflict

and we would only defend ourselves;

though strong we may be;

if we be forced to meet a violent challenge.

that we not be dragged

into your angry karma

that we all somehow need

rise above our lesser natures

and now let me for this quiet moment

float back to my softer dream

as this self this day

be as a dreamer

lying in sweet pasture

with that imaginary muse

under an early summer vista

in the moment free

of the moment’s previous attire

wrapped together in the gentlest embrace

as would all unfettered

lovers and dreamers be…

Valentina and the old fool

-this poem is different for this site

and rated PG-13-

(My apologies to the model

and the photographer. This work was very loosely

inspired by a lovely photo shoot

of a lovely young woman

on an art photography website,

pictures by Maurizo Moro. )

her lips crimson and hair like liza minelli

as if sally bowles in cabaret

and I could envision her

wearing black thigh high hose

and short black dancing shorts

and low-cut tank top

smiling and dancing and strutting

with Joel Grey as the master of ceremonies…

sexy and fun and a little tacky

showing a bit of cheek and some cleavage

and playing to the crowd

a beer hall cabaret

a bend at the waist

from the back

looking over shoulder

and then forward as if to pick up

something on the stage

and then placing a hand

over her almost exposed breast

as if an “oh my, what are you looking at”

then standing and throwing her arms up

and tossing back her shoulders

and doing a little shimmy and shake

and turn of her hips

the audience roars approval

at her naughty but nice joke

some PG burlesque

“a drink-up mein schotsie”

a bow to the crowd

and the hand covers herself again

and smiles and Valentina says,

Oops, I did it again…”

and then another little turn

to show her back and a slight bend

for one more cheeky moment

and then a run off stage waving

her name perhaps staged as Valentina

slips behind the translucent panel

in her dressing room as an old fool,

I mean, gentleman, such as myself

brings a bouquet of roses as red as

Valentina’s full lips

She knows he can see her alluring outline

through the white fabric covering

of the dressing panel

and she smiles as she removes her costume slowly

and then her bra and panties

doing little turns to change the outline

of her lovely form in a near strip

the ultimate tease.

Valentina asks the old fool to hand her

a thin knee length floral robe

over the panel.

As the old fool does

he gulps at being so close

to the now nude dancer

separated only by

the translucent panel.

She faces the panel

and he almost sees

the all of her

as she stands nearly

pressing against the panel

She holds open the robe for three

or four seconds before

deliberately tying off

the sash…

The robe shows her nipples

pressing against the fabric

and momentarily the robe

folds in between her legs

as she appears from behind the panel

the robe is tucked somewhat between

her legs as it molds into a sexy V

right there and the hem

is hiked to her upper thigh

Valentina’s eyes meet the old fool’s eyes

and she smiles pretending to not know

that her tease is going on

and the effect on the old fool

that her performance is having.

The old fool congratulates Valentina

on her performance and tells her

what a great talent she is…

She smiles and bats her eyes

and smoothes her robe

and says with an impish grin

“I would love some champagne, my dear”

The old fool opens the door

to her dressing room

and calls out for a bottle

of the house’s best bubbly…

Valentina says sweetly

“You’re such a lovely man…”

The bottle is brought quickly

and glasses poured

and toasts exchanged…

and the old fool gets no closer

to the lovely Valentina

than to offer a kiss on the cheek

at the end of the bubbly.

And Valentina coos

“You will be back tomorrow, won’t you?”

and the old fool answers

with a slight bow of his head,

“of course, my dear, of course.”

As the smiling old fool leaves

and the door to the dressing room

closes behind him

one can barely hear

Valentina’s laughter

as she then calls her own

master of ceremonies

who works backstage

to bring their own bottle

absorbed in cost

from an overcharge

on the old fool’s champagne…