imageSome poet’s work seems like one long train of thought.
Will its energy stop long enough for me to get on board?

So I look for the sets of lines that start a conversation, only to
knock it all into a cocked hat. Sort of.
Like this:

“Today a letter arrived,
Sent from the city
Of poems —
The beloved
Summoning us.

The contents lucid,
The return address
Blurred by tears.

We must hurry there.
We must search
The city, high and low.

Even if it takes years.”

…. page 102 from the book of poetry, River Inside the River.


” To be alive, not just the carcass
But the spark.
That’s crudely put, but …

If we’re not supposed to dance,
Why all this music? ”

……….GREGORY ORR. not from the same book, it’s
from The Book That Is the Body Of The Beloved, quoted earlier in September by Joe Riley.

Happy Birthday, Tim !

always love,

End of Summer

imageThe afternoons are shorter,
the mornings holding back the sun’s shine.
Noon is resplendent, and I”m still wearing my easy white pants.

Not really holding on, I am as eager for autumn as for any other
change of season. …Just not quite ready!


” mother, summer, I …

My mother, who hates thunderstorms,
Holds up each summer day and shakes
It out suspiciously, lest swarms
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there;
But when the August weather breaks
And rains begin, and brittle frost
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air,
Her worried summer look is lost.

And I her son, though summer-born
And summer-loving, none the less
Am easier when the leaves are gone;
Too often summer days appear
Emblems of perfect happiness
I can’t confront; I must await
A time less bold, less rich, less clear:
An Autumn more appropriate.”

………PHILIP LARKIN, from the book, Dream of Summer,
poems for the sensuous season, compiled by Robert Atwan.

Let us now flow easily into Autumn.

always with love,

And Bob Dylan Too…

imageI love the impulse that moves a friend to send me a book of poetry,
out of the blue!

Months ago, in February this year, Bruce was in a bookstore
in Denver, visiting family.

A book must have fallen off the shelf right at his feet, because today it is
on my desk, a little after four a.m. and I am being noisy and happy, but
not finding the means to hear the song. So, opening the book, I find:


“Anything worth thinking about is worth
singing about.”

Which is why we have
songs of praise, songs of love, songs
of sorrow.

Songs to the gods, who have
so many names.

Songs the shepherds sing, on the
lonely mountains, while the sheep
are honoring the grass, by eating it.

The dance songs of the bees, to tell
where the flowers, suddenly, in the
morning light, have opened.

A chorus of many, shouting to heaven,
or at it, or pleading.

Or that greatest of love affairs, a violin
and a human body.

And a composer, maybe hundreds of years dead.

I think of Schubert, scribbling on a cafe

Thank you, thank you.”
………………………………………….MARY OLIVER,
from her book of poems, A Thousand Mornings.

This holiday morning, mid-weekend, is one of those mornings.

always with love,