Friday, December 25, 2009


RWP#106...prompt was "repeating or repeat"...sitting here in the Rockies...cold...but in brilliant sunshine..foot of snow on the ground with birds at the feeder...wood stove keeping us warm before going for some snow shoeing....after talking to family.....I REFLECT...REFLECT on some of our lovely people who live on the streets...trying to keep warm..and having supper at some soup thoughts and love are with them...and HAPPY HOLIDAYS to all of the poets on the street and ALL OF poem is


I called him Johnny the walker
where the street was his home
the original dharma bum
in his only words of
hello sir
I don't know her
the beat goes on
the poem he started
at Desolation Peak
in Kerouac's Cascades cabin
one hundred days of writing poetry
like Kerouac
the beat goes on
with the foggy days of a mad writer
high in the Cascade mountain wildernes
in the howling winds of Diablo Lake
tormenting his soul
too mad to live
too mad to be saved
too mad to talk
the beat goes on
writing about everything
saying nothing
all at once
exploding like snakes across the sky
as the world yawns
as the candles
Johnny walked all the way to Canada
writing his poem
with his toque on his head
bundle on his back
now homeless at christmas
on Hastings street
hark hark the angels bark
as they pass by him
to some sweet shop
in the red horizon desert
not looking for books of poetry
but books on vacations
budhhism and self defence
as the beat goes on
for Johnny the walker it's only
hello sir
I don't know her
the beat goes on
in his only words
harking at the barking angels
as they pass by him.

Saturday, December 19, 2009


RWP#105 using some of the prompt words
Legendary Stars and Old Cars
Somewhere East of Eden
deep in the Mojave desert
curled in the back seat
of my 52 Meteor convertible
under the moon and joshua trees
I awaken in some graveyard
of legendary stars and old cars
frozen tombs and zuit suits
a rusted Porsche
with James Dean at the wheel
still on speed
Marilyn in the backseat
searching for chloral hydrate
parked next to a rusted 51 Caddy
with Hank beatin on a jug of wine
hey good lookin
what ya got cookin
cook some up for me
subdued humans
legendary stars and old cars
in a desert graveyard
somewhere East of Eden
reading Steinback
searching for sureal poems
and lost peyote buttons.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009


RWP#104..this weeks prompt was something about sex
....this is a draft


At the centre of our unrequited love
holding nothing as an object
celebrating music and poems
of some distant mystic
identifying our bodies
as star covered lovers
flying in our fused thoughts
as our youth hides in a vase
beside Budhha
feeling the breeze of his magic touch
inside the museum of orange hues
staring at the constellations
as the earth shakes under our blazing dance
and thundering clouds
open to our lost memories of youth
with stirring newborn emotions
striking lost parts of our bodies
unknown in our youth
with visions of mounted horses
blowing up in some new found space
our flesh searching for hidden pleasures
and sweet songs never sung
blessed in our nakedness
intoxicated in our vintage wine of love
in our charm bracelet of sex.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009


RWP#103....the prompt this week was the pomegranate.


I met her on that night train

in Siberia

I didn't know her but I liked her

the legend amongst the crates

at the back of the dining car

beside two heavy set women

playing poker


I didn't know her but I liked her

sitting on a silver platter

beside a bowl of purple juice

hanging from some ancient garden

like some lost child in exhile

beside a huge machette knife


tring to escape death from the underworld

searching for the fog of unshed tears


from bombs

cold rain and cable TV

defering the rifts of time

holding on to her ancient seeds of truth

her tough skin

crimson pulp without fiction

her tart flavour

her colour

her poetic stories

of gone but not forgotten pomegranates

I didn'know her but I liked her.

Sunday, November 29, 2009


RWP #102..prompt was childhood memory of food


March 1955

no dinner bell rang

the bellys are ready

ignoring the cries of the mourners

forgetting the corpse
overthrowing all the tears

drinking from his hat of memories


eating homemade bread

from the the bowl of his Russia


dancing the Cossack dance

to the balalaika beat


eating pirogies

from his lost hat

celebrating his adventures
slipping out of Russia with two frozen apples

from Odessa to Saskatoon
peering through a gypsy window
with an imagination of velvet roses
with an endless appetite for the new fix
forgetting the killer who was a poet
rather to be poor than famous

dancing the Cossack dance


eating dill pickles

from some Bolshevik jar

dancing the Cossack dance

to the past poetry

of Alex Pushkin


sour cream with everything


everyone dancing

to the bayan beat

craving food and jazz



cabbage rolls

beef stroganoff

more bread

more borsch


remembering his Socialist thoughts

liberal ideas

his love for his homestead

his family

his zest for life

his love of music


sour cream
tasting the food he no longer could eat

farewell dedyshka.

Friday, November 20, 2009


RWP#101 Prompt using all these "P" words


He was that unhappy stranger

grooking on some street in Brooklyn



for the posthumous Dodgers

with some forgotten platitude

speaking without aims of words

unable to prevaricate prayers of the preacher



his transformed theology

walking his lonely processional path

unable to procrastinate his endless effort

breathing the poets' polyglot poetry



lost lovers with charitable progressions

with their porous plaster

and bleeding words of pernicious pimps

unable to turn on and tune out passions



the stolen parallelogram poems of prayer

and empty plethora of unseen sight

withholding the lost prickle of judgement

blinded by speakable poets




with the pppppppppppppp pea words.

Thursday, November 12, 2009


RWP#100...Prompt is dreams


I left home a long time ago
in a tin cup on the track
with a suitcase of emptiness
looking for a landslide of answers
from the preachers of truth
to be a madman painter
like Van Gogh
burn words of sick poets
like Kerouac
shoot crap with drunk hobos
like Mr. Mudd
stop pucks from the Rocket
like the eccentric Sawchuk
throw sliders and screwballs
like spaceman Lee
remaining speechless forever
because it takes two to talk
become more boring with time
to attract the ladies of the lost Zodiac
forgetting all the grades failed
because the schoolyard was a horror show
disturbed by my friends in prison
who couldn't be trusted to conspire
to sing Your Cheatin Heart drunk
with the great Hank Williams
to be a drunk writer in Havana
like Hemmingway
to be a stoned jazz singer
backing up Billie Holliday
to be a poor elevator operator
stuck on the ground floor
to be a gigolo in Montreal
unconscious and healing the unknown
eating a smoked beef sandwich on the Main
with Leonard Cohen without his hat
migrating to some unknown land
with a ceiling higher than Christ
pouring whiskey to the converted
so they could thrive in the cold
listening to Trotzky and Marx
as they talked to the spirits in Moroco
sitting in Casablanca drunk
with someone called Bogart
travelling the unknown highway
unaware the party never ends
of the broken radio
and all its guts
with closed eyes
not being afraid of travelling blind
with the Boys Of Alabamma
holding on to nothing
but the bruises caried inside the suitcase
dreaming of home

Monday, November 9, 2009


RWP#99... using the prompt... two people stting
at a table with broken glass on the floor.


There is more than memory
when it's lost
Edie and Jack
at Figaro Cafe on Macdougall street
at Washington Square.. speechless...hopeless
thoughts never spoken
promises never given
lost moments of yesterday
for the old dead poets
on their suicide pact
of their sexual repression
Jesus had no religion
for mysteries and non believers
their smoke and dirty feet
the Yankees and their stolen bases
the past had square faces
in unknown places
with sounds without noises
with bare feet and bleeding noses
for the desired streetcar
shortcuts to empty spaces
with no memory
without tongues of the church
speechless and hopeless
for lost tears
emptiness of broken glass...Edie leaves
towards lost memories and forgotten fears.

Thursday, October 29, 2009


RWP#98....using this photo
by auburnnewyork


It was the year I ran away from home
leaving my rotten days of boredom behind
to join the bright-lighted carnival
the year the clown interviewed me
smiling and smelling of wine
with a perverted look in his eye
the year I traded my wool sweater
for a leather jacket and black denim jeans
and the lady of nicotine
the year I failed juggling
but passed kissing the elephant girl
with her fragrence of mustard and fries
the year the hot dog-faced boy
locked me in the monkey cage
barking with an illegal smile on his face
the year I walked the sideshow alley
mingling with the freaks
howling with the alley cats
the year I found the shooting gallery
where the clowns shot heroin
while eating cotton candy
the year I rode the ghost train
before falling from the roller coaster
the year I won the doll prize
kissing the bearded lady
where nobody wins
the year I learned games are honest
but the carnies steal candy apples
from kids
the year I woke up in some alcove
under a roller coaster
wrapped in feathers and caramel
the year I ran towards the sombre sunrise
like a monkey through fires
towards a fortune of boredom
leaving a broken roller coaster.

Friday, October 23, 2009


RWP#97...using the cut up technique
I cut up a page of Sailor Song by Ken Kesey
page 371 and randomely using words for this poem . I added the word
SKIN.....after slicing my finger with the scissors.

This is a draft


Ike had suspicions
about everybody in Kuniak
especially that goddamed newshound
who stood still
publishing dirt
green stuff
the dead friend in the limousine
the old squid
Isaak's soul
the old dog in the limousine
skin in the poem
the carcass in the limousine
the dead brain with no glasses
the dirty dish with paranoia
seepy skin in the limousine
the poor that conquer skin
his maniac brother without skin
driving the limousine in Kuniak.

Thursday, October 15, 2009


using all the prompt words
in bold


Rolling up into the land of purity
searching for that awakened state of bliss
and some cosmoramic exhibition
of shocking enlightenment
listening to Mother Tuckers Yellow Duck
giving us insight into irresistible false kisses
from their invisible memory candles
before it exploded inside the jars of our head
then surrender to the long tailed thrasher Bill
and his non vowelized poetry
who would always croak in a language
of a capricious professor
from the progeny of some learning school
then surrendering in vehement denial
to Mock Duck and circumcisions
while bleeding insolent behaviour
towards the prison farms
and asylums using a therapy of chelations
to detox the chemicals from brains
not allowing a socially responsible investment
in free speech
we were the Kitsilano reprobates
exulting peace love and pot.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009


Amigo on seawall

Wayne and amigo on bench

RWP#95.."mash" 2 poems together. Poems not satisfied with. I mashed SLEEPING ON THE EDGE and OPPOSITE SIDES OF BENCH (in italics) then every 5th line I added a new line (BOLD)..anyways this what I came up with
Above the saffron pavement
sitting on a bench in Havana
all I can see beyond him
drinking rum
I am a happy stranger
with Jesus lying on the malecon seawall
we talked about poetry
the Havana coastline retreating like a hem
like beat poets
getting drunk to get thirsty
covered in the cobwebs of the breeze
cultivating a rose by Jose Marti
enclosed in turquoise they slept
revolutionaries in love
having nothing having it all
along the malecon
we attracted kindred spirits
from the patches of seaweed
and Hemmingways for whom the bells tolls
writing when the writing was done
I saw at first glance
baseball Castro and Cuban music
azure ripples of the Carribean Sea
a common destiny
three amigos rum poetry and dreaming.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009


RWP#94 The prompt was this image...
My angel and my Thomas Hawk


Uncrossing my legs from the ball of twine
arching my back
taking a satisfied breath
looking like the spectre of death
I gaze at her
I don't need another drink
I'm high on iron spiked with red dye
honoured she is here
to see my life in full view
dressed in red
frozen in fear
as the transparency of my nakedness
and my guiding light
allows her to see
who I pretend to be
the invisible poet
with my cathedral of memory
lost in the acid of religion
needing prozac pills
to fast like a monk
to walk on water
towards the valley of yesterday
and play the moonlight sonata
and sing with Sinatra
then shave the head of an atheist
who needs it laced up
before joining the communist party
to find out the diference between left and write
and meet the mystics and senile poets
who are learning to read write poems
remembering the last time I saw her
wearing her soiled white apron
disguising her crooked crosses
tired of being white
listening to Ray Charles crying
inside that rejected church
drinking rum
smoking cigars
aging rapidly in her silence
yearning to be a poet
trying to sober up
frozen in the eyes of the beholder
and staring through the hole in her bosom
caused by the shot of sorrow
and the collapse of religions that collide
remaining silent
she has now heard last call
the game is over

Friday, September 25, 2009

Speed Reading In A Limousine


This week the poem was to take the form of a "whopper". So here is truly a whopper. Book titles and poems I red are in red.
This is a draft.

Speed Reading In A Limousine

We were bubbly drunk last weekend
when the limousine arrived
to take us to San Francisco
we told the chauffeur
as we loaded the boxes of books
case of wine
bread and cheese
in the back of the limo
twenty five hours of reading
as we headed down the gravel rod
with wine glass in hand
she started reading Alice Munro
The Love Of A Good Woman
for this road trip
I had Kerouac's On The Road
to get started
from our small town of Golden to San Francisco
The Town and The City by Kerouac
was next
speed reading to North Beach
with The Subterraneans and
Doctor Sax with
Visions Of Cody
Visions Of Gerard
Maggie Cassidy and the
Dharma Bums with the
Desolation Angels singing to
The Good Blonde And Others
Atop An Underwood as
Orpheus Emerged crying
The Mexico City Blues
San Francisco Blues while eating
Pomes All Sizes when
Orpheus Emerged the
Lonesome Traveller reading
Scattered Poems along with
The Scripture Of The Golden Eternity truly a
Book Of Dreams
Book Of Blues or trying to memorize
Vanity Of Duluoz while remembering
Satori In Paris then forgetting the
Pic of
Old Angel Midnight
Trip Trap
Heaven And Other Poems
as I poured more wine for
the love of my good woman
she reached to
Pull My Daisy from my lapel
to use as a bookmark in
The Handmaids Tale
finishing Kerouac's books
I began reading Grishman's
A Time To Kill which I threw out the window
then quickly turned to Hemmingway's
Men Without Women and
Truce Withouut Light
then a change of pace
Erle Stanley Gardner's
The Case Of Long Legged Models
as we entered Northern California
then some beat poetry on this
Sunday Evening where the
Junk Angel sings the
Blues For Sister Sally a
Benediction for
The West Coast Sounds and the
Abomunist Manifesto
Sex And Desire and
Mexican Loneliness while watching the
Migration Of Birds before the
Sunflower Sutra needs to
Howl and pray for
The Rain
For Love before writing his
Preface To A Twenty Volume Suicide Note after learning
How To Medidtate and sing a Sunday
as our limousine reaches North Beach
and turns on Columbus Avenue
stopping at City Lights
books all red
wine all gone
passing the Zapatista mural
on Kerouac Alley
we went to the front door
posters of anarchism mucktracking and
class warfare
lead us upstairs to Ferlenghetti
sleeping on his sofa chair
baseball on TV
popcorn and beer
dreaming of Ezra Pound
we slouch beside him
from a weekend of speed reading
in a limousine.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009


RWP#92 using all of the 13 word gems shown


Trapped within the head of his madness
contemplating thoughts of poetry
never written
a temporary remedy for despair
for last nights death confection
a hip hop poet
a scofflaw
who would rather drink plum wine
than sleep
or conform to the laws
of prohibition
or be in the limelight
for killing a snake with a bible
at a born again funeral
or having a blockage of the bowl
and starting a war in Iraq
or extend a hand
to the preacher of Wall Street
who has only a pittance
for the poor poet
but bails out the vomitting multitude
bourgeois bankers
who run off with the money
and burn in their fields of clover
with the preacher of Wall Street
a husk of himself
afraid he might be liable
for the poets madness.

Thursday, September 10, 2009


RWP #91 using the two photos Light Window and Light and Trees as prompts.
credit Greig Fraser for the photos


The old poet remembers
the memories he memorizes
forgeting the dream
he forgot he had
but are there in his mind
as he rests on the bed
as the night light shines
on the early snow
reminding the old poet
of the first morning in Old Havana
open window
full moon shining
rooster crowing out of tune
with last nites musica
the olor of last nites rain
sweet diesel smell
from morning autobus
the olor of petrol
from Miguel's 52 Chevvy
smell of cigarro
mixed with olor of last nites rum
as the vendor on calle Consulado
cries pan pan pan
as the smell of his fresh bread
means desayuno will be coming
and the fresh jugo
looking at my lover
smelling her avocado cream
I close my eyes and doze off
travelling to some other place
down some dusty road
the dead woman
lies under the trees
one leg flexed
the other extended
pointing towards the early sunlight
as her red robe flutters above her head
there are more dead ladies
scattered under the trees
with one lost dog barking
and running all around
if anyone had the power to wrench me through despair
and arid helplessness
and into prayer
it would be them
but it is the beautiful lady beside me
in perfection
that holds me to the ground
with grace
as I awaken
to the barking dogs on calle Consulado
and the start of a new day in Habana Vieja
an old poet who likes to remember
even what he might want to forget.

Thursday, September 3, 2009


RWP #90 inspired by this photo (bradleyolin's photo)


Sunday night church
rings of fire
town of multitudes
under a full moon
howling hosannas at Johnny Cash
as the church lady balances the glowsticks
to the new ritual
everything is lost
nothing gained
as greed is the new law
opened then closed
by the rings of fire
sureal and romantic
rejoicing with Jesus and Shiva
with Brahma beer
cheering Johnny Cash
and the ring of fire

Saturday, August 29, 2009


RWP prompt #89 was to use a headline. I used the headline THE GREAT DIVIDE. We live in the Rocky Mountains with a small creek running through... down to the Columbia river then to the Pacific ocean. Other creeks run down the eastern slope of the Great Divide to the East..North and South.


Gentle creek flowing
towering Rocky Mountains above
broken ridge orange and black
where the goats
believe in the mountains
and dance
clear as a glacier ridge
pyramids of spiritual evolution
summits that view
the precise chaos of creation
a combination of emotional challenge
and physical survival
romance and beauty filling my heart
gazing at the creek
as thoughts run deep
old memories
new thoughts
forming more wisdom
then thoughts turn away for a moment
to man's eyes and hands
and his monuments of foolishness
homes with no space or heart
like caged up chickens
pecking and scratching
with broken beaks
in their ideologies and fears
our home in the mountains
beside a small creek
flowing from chaos
as the creeks on the other side flow
to the East North South
as man divides on this dying world.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009


ReadWritePrompt #88 using all the prompt words


lights out
ready to rumble and BRISTLE
his hi-fi microphone
sitting on the lazer structure
with its organice DIODE on

biting his bloody lips
FROTH coming from his mouth
ready to RANT
spoon feed his faithfull listeners
with rancid ELOCUTION

ridiculing the loony left
as they HITCH-hike their free ride
with words that COAGULATE
like RANCID butter

always preaching his SALACIOUS desires
that echo to the converted
then rushing out HOMEWARD bound
elizabeth alexander's poem on his 8-TRACK
and more oxycontin for a man in pain

Thursday, August 13, 2009

hOt cOrner

ola, buenas dias, hell
o he replied. My name Julio. Y
ou speak english g
ood me no spanish. H
ot corner here, do you come
often? si, every m
orning to talk baseball. W
OW Im a baseball freak too like Castr
Orestes Minnie remember? si
outfielder infielder Chicago White S
OX. I watch Cuba play D
odgers in Havana in 1947. W
OW. I remember Jackie R
obinson his first season with Br
ooklyn played in that game. H
oly cow!..what you mean H
oly cow?
Oh just a saying scooter Rizzut
o use to say. Who best Cuban player? N
o problem...Marten Dihig
o. W
OW. He is in hall of fame C
ooperstown with T
ony Perez I saw at the big
O no in Montreal in 1977 with Expos. H
oly cow Julio said. We both kn
ow beezball. I scout Washington Senat
ors 1950s. H
oly cow. Pedro Ramos, Jose Valdiviels
o, Carlos Paula, Camilo Pascual, Evili
o Hernandez, you scout these? Si..W
OW, unbelievable. We could talk
old baseball all day long. Si..t
onite we meet at La Bodeguita del Medi
o where Hemmingway and the great p
oet Wallace Steven hung
out...Babe Ruth the Bambin
o drank there when in Havana t
oo. So we will drink mojit
os and talk beezball all night l
ong. Si..see you t
onite. Adios amigo.

RWP prompt 87.....vowel "O"
Photo of me at hot corner in Havana where Cubans have PASSIONATE
discussions/argument on baseball EVERY day. Every time in Havana
I go there. Last year met this old guy and u guessed it talked
beezball. This poem reflects some of what we talked about.

Thursday, August 6, 2009


Closed lips hiding behind darkness

death fresh like the last rain

finding salvation in a new language

no guilt no anger no regrets

today my seventy first birthday in the mountains

breakfast and the tart sweetness of fresh raspberries

fragrance of the new rose

looking at her wondering if love is blind.

the rumbling before the storm

twisted poetry of Ginsberg howlin and Pollack dripping

the jazz stylings of Farlenghetti

on the road again with Kerouac

painting writing loving

Dylan's the times they are a changin

Beatles and yesterday

memories some vivid some hazy

the first train and the lower birth with my mother

before she died

being Jackie Robinson diving for a ground ball

desired street car in Vancouver

leaving home for Montreal, then New York and the village

Haight Ashbury

a mystic swimming in the space of time.

............Read Write Poem prompt #86

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Where The Dead Whisper

ReadWritePoem prompt #85 from Doug Shaver's photo

Where The Dead Whisper

Spooky night on the horizon

here we are again

do you hear him?

do you feel him?

do you see him?

it's been exactly 34 years

since we buried him

here in Northern Michigan

they thought it was Tony Pro

who killed him

and burried him in darkness

beneath Giant Stadium

but, he shot himself

and we burried him here

at his request

in the cemetery of broken promises

where the dead whisper

Jimmy Hoffa's not coming back.

...........................................................NOTE : I wrote this poem today July 30,2009...not knowing that Jimmy Hoffa disappeared on this same day in 1975, exactly 34 years ago....YIKES!!!! this is really SPOOKY

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Drag Queens .....( Read Write Poem 84)

prompt was to choose 2 words from dictionary then use words between them. My words drag...queen


Dana danced in her lovely dress
Elton explored the johns
Franco flunked modelling schoool
Gerald gave herself to a gangster
Hogan hung out with bikers
Ivan illustrated for a fashion magazine
Jamie joined junkies getting fixxed
Kass killed her first lover
Landis landed in jail for hitting a nun
Marcos modelled in Miami
Nels never left his house during lent
Orton orchestrated a holdup in Denver
Paxton performed porno for dollars
Quincy quit her day job
Drag Queens in a Limousine
looking for Norma Jean

Friday, July 17, 2009

SANGUINE SUN.........painting by Wayne

Read Write Poem #83....prompt words used in red


Sacred arches
etched in the sky
revival of promises
lost under stillness
cries of gallows that hang
that slump
concealed inside the vault
communion softly spoken
compassion has no fault
as the flaming fur
burning hair
lost hearts
will loiter beneath the graves
speaking in tongues
attending the seances
where the corrupt shall lie
akin an echo of a forgotten plan
and calmness departs into reflection
with an acuity of touch
holding the righteous chalice
hampered inside invocations
of bloodstained knowledge
where honor flows
taking the stolen stillness
of death
as only in living will sacred arches know
were selfish faith
below sanguine suns are saved.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Little Man in The Blue Shirt (Read Write Poem 82)

What are you doing up on the stage?
in your peyote trance
faking the god of rock
dreaming of Paris France

what are you doing up there?
screaming those obscenities
a fake rock hero
carving up your destiny

what are doing up there?
no longer the PEACE FROG
a GHOST SONG falling on your feet

I'm the little man in the blue suit
watching you close the back door
opening the doors of perception
more and more a bore

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Read Write Poem #81...prompt by flikr oncle jim


Some called me autistic some retarded

always feeling discarded

empty and void

treated like a schizoid

always hoping you would be seeing

me as a human being

and not something wild

always treating me as a child

knowing I would never be mainstream

but always having a dream

I just kept hopping mile after mile

always with my smile

wanting to be free

and keeping my dignity

never caring to win or lose

just wanting to be able to choose

tired or being brutalized

and institutionalized

I might be different

even brilliant

sitting under my tattered umbrella

only me and my mantra

Thursday, June 25, 2009


You are sweet
you are caring
your hands are soft
when you bathe me
dad loves you very much
you are my mother

I love sports
I broke my ankle
I want you to read to me
I do not like
when you argue with dad
you are my mother

I have two daughters
I have four grandaughters
I am happy
I miss you
I have always missed you
you are my mother

I did not want you to die
so young
I was only seven
I needed you
to see me grow
you are my mother

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


My problem is
everyone mistakes me
for an onion
not a sapient
old dead poet

Why can't I be mistaken
for for a trumpet swan
dancing in the mist
or a bellydancer
having the best hand
at the poker table?

I know I barked
like a dog
devoured bones
played tether ball
and drapeed my leg
around fire hydrants

But if you check
my bibliography
you will find
I once hit
like Joltin Joe
played the horn
like Loui
like Astaire
like Hank
like Pollock
wrote like

A human being
growing in the garden
as an onion

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Historical Figure

A revolutionary poet

to free Cuba from the Spanish

cultivating a white rose

symbolizing innocence and vulnerability

offering love

to both friend and foe

everyone being equal.

Should not this be normal?

the way it should always be




a basic foundation for life.

It seems strange

this desire to escape

from oppression and


is called revolutionary.

Jose Marti


in the war

for Cuban independence

a revolutionary

a great poet.

Opposite Sides of Bench

Sitting on a bench in Havana

drinking rum

we talked about poetry

he read cultivating a white rose

by Jose Marti

I read swamp king

by Sid Marty

Marti writes about

light green and flaming red

Marty writes about

wild roses and grizzlies

I like beat poets

the harmonization of opposites

he liked opposites also

revolutions and love

we both read Hemmingway

for whom the bell tolls


on fishing

agreeing that

baseball cuban style is romantic

football american style the opposite

it seemed we were opposites in many ways

but we attracted kindred spirits

bonding over poetry

showing growth and decline

are not opposites

and opposite forces obey

a common destiny

over a bottle of rum

Friday, May 29, 2009


If I change as they are changing

if they change as i change

(if they change, we all change)

Is everything changing, as I bend

down to touch the wind?

(are they changing, or remaining the same?)

as I walk across the dunes each morning.

Thursday, May 21, 2009


Old beatnik poet have you gone too far?
travelling to the mystic stars
with the flight of your soul
in the backseat of your vintage car

or burning on the docks at Veracruz
with the sacks of coco
smelling like the celestial burn
trying to win but always lose

mad with your solitude and foe
in collision with the lonely planet
stalled in the broken elevator
that would never go

dreaming of the bat with no head
sometimes your open
other times your closed
still sipping wine without the bread

Thursday, May 14, 2009


three artists boarding a train
the clatter of the tracks
passing Rockefeller Centre
where the mural once was
Frida and Diego
using a glaze of sweat for a primer
and arranging broken glass
for their mosaic
Jackson Pollock standing beside his bottle
stick in hand
the scorching red paint
to carve an image on the floor
over the fence
down the post
on his granular sandwich
the willful ambasador of paint
showing Kahlo and Rivera
his sublime art
all the way to Birdland
to hear Charlie Parker
play for Lenin
empty his bottle
and finish his painting

Using words from read write poem ..... mosaic, willful, sublime, fence, granular, post, scorching, carve, glaze, finish

Thursday, May 7, 2009

Si Tu Me Miras (watching the sunset)

Setting unevenly beyond my silhouette

the evening of a thousand eyes

searching for the fire

moving like the spooky red horizon

caribbean on fire

burning everything

including my poetry

sitting in the middle

Che on one side Fidel to the left

Kerouac passed out in the sand

discovering the poet I use to be

hating old poetmen

cheering the triumph of the revolution

as the Cuban tide

comes up to our knees

vanishing into nowhere

listening to our intellect

discussing the narcotic haze of capitalism

the heavy weight of the embargo

how the neverdo Buddha

gets addicted to the white lines

and intellectual silliness

how the sea engines from Russia


where nobody refuses solemnity of slogans

mapped out in their furrowed tongues

and time burries you forever

above the sand

in your soul

where shadows gather beyond the curtains

beyond the opaque light falling

closing our eyes

arriving at the inner sunset

a timeless treasure

si tu me miras (watching the sunset)

Thursday, April 30, 2009


It has all come to an end
with thirty days of bela lugosi
riding on a gothic streetcar
looking at madonna without her child
and superman in his agron suit
listening to kerouac play jazz
on his typewriter
reading about all the canneries closing
in the city that has too many cats
called fanny and freddy
then tripping over the junkie angels
down on wall street
with eight thousand illiterartes
and their mushrooming visions
searching for a cheap mortgage
before taking a barge across the river
towards some may earthquake
searching for more petrol
with an emppty gas can
applauding the poets

Wednesday, April 29, 2009


i don't think i can
become the buddha drinking my rum
i don't think i can
believe the dogma my cat purrs
i don't think i can
appologize for the pope
i don' t think i can
dry my lashes under water
i don't think i can
ever say everything is concrete
i don't think i can
swim when bound with duct tape
i don't think i can
write the suicide note for elvis
i don't think i can
replace my knee with her replacement
i don't think i can
believe the truths of the religions
i don't think i can
not become twenty four again
i don't think i can
remember nineteen sixty seven
i don't think i can
forget seeing janis at the pop machine
i don't think i can
experience becoming invalid
i don't think i can
not believe the dogma that the dog barked
i don't think i can
see the classic greek dog that didnt bark
i don't think i can
ever bark again with this sore throat
i don't think i can
write more
my head is a bowl of mush
i am that budhha
and need to just beeeeeeeeeeee

Tuesday, April 28, 2009


At the top of the stairway to heaven
there she was
standing in front of the stage
beside joltin joe dimaggio
listening to the band
richie valens
ray charles
johnny cash
the big bopper
buddy holly
hank williams
watching marilyn and james dean

now standing tall
no longer alone
the red iris from our abstract garden
was no longer singing the blues

Monday, April 27, 2009


The night was dark
she was a happy bubbly specimen
I waved to her
she smilled
I went up to her like a flood of jewels
told her all about my past
and about how noble the police were
about how I just returned from Russia
which was more enlightening than the church
and she listened attentively at my lunacy
as I told her no lie
she laughed
I laughed
will you kiss me?
no no no its impossible she said
my lips are cold
I have ice in my veins
and need another fix
as she hurried away

(using prompt words..specimen, lunacy, impossible, veins)

Sunday, April 26, 2009


Why don't I sit in the streets
with the homeless
why don't I sit around all day
laughing with all my friends
why do I sometimes feel
a divine lonliness
why doesn't my heart
do more
why do the nights
turn dark
why is there a bag lady
in every town
why am i not playing divine music
to the whole world
why is life too short
or too long
why do we need
fire air water
why am I often
why didn't my dad
give birth to a child
why do I always seem
why can't I live like
the bronze pigeon
why now that I'm old
I don't want to run the show
why is there a sacred
and a profane
why are there so many
self help wwriters
why can't I write poems like Cohen
or do I want to
why do I seek love
and not hate
why is my house cluttered
and not sparse
why do I keep adding
and not subtracting
why does my lover look at me
when I cry
why do I mask
my insecurity
why do i want to live
and not die
why don't I know that the universe
is inside me
why don't I appreciate
the small things
why was I more mature
when I was a child
why does god tempt us with
whiskey drugs and religion
why is the robe of a preacher
cleaner than a beggars' shirt
why are our hearts not
why is there obstruction
to the openness
why do I ask if I will
why don't I acknowledge
this moment is the best
why do I know
not knowing the answer
is the answer
as I dig deeper inside myself

Saturday, April 25, 2009


there was the time i wish i could croon

like frank sinatra in vegas

or leonard cohen in singer hall

moan like dylan at cafe wa

or sing like the great hank williams

belting song after song

drinking some old jack daniels

singing songs of love and pain

now mi sueno is to croon like ibrahim ferrer

soulful seductive and raw

giving a live performance in a smoky room

at la bodeguita in old havana

with bassist cachito lopez

pianist roberto fonseca

guitarist manuel galbon

and the old seductive diva omara porftuordo

cantante melodico (crooning)

su corazon engano (your cheatin heart)

mi sueno (my dream)

Friday, April 24, 2009


preacher roe who loved to talk
was worn like an old sack
so in solitude he flew off
to the place where planets collide
and eagles crash through the mud

searching to be unplugged
and find deep silence
where the road is too long
where the sky is too deep
where the horizon is too vast
where his mind will be emptied yet full
where the frogs hesitate to croak
he will stand naked and silent

with the blockage in his bowel
we wont have to listen
to his bull shit anymore
as preacher roe remains
silent and unplugged

Thursday, April 23, 2009


in the shadows of the cobalt hotel
obedient cars are lined up
sinking into the pot holes
from last winters freeze

being the lead man i exhale
clouds of frosty carbon dioxide
waving in the next car

my purple bald head hidden
beneath wool toque and soggy earmuffs
face covered with frozen beard

close by the the hose covered in ice
slippery and bleeding
from the broken water main

slowly drains
through the cigarette butts
and broken coffee cups

ankle deep in muddy water
i start hosing down the car
while singing your cheatin heart

looking forward to supper
and a bottle of red wine
no longer a starving artist
i now wash cars for a lving

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


you hitched a thousand miles
north from san francisco
looking for confessions between
the high winds and ten thousand things

growing older and blind
you rely on the darkness because
the night has a thousand eyes

wet and hungry you feel
the kleenex flavored snacks
dribble down your chin

looking gross feeling feeling depressed
heading for lotus land wondering if
what i have attained in buddhism is nothing

you remain a beggar
both lonely and happy while
im crying all the time

remembering that day i yelled at you
to get out of my way
i remain cold like an icy hydrant

in the shadow of that memory
i leave my silence to a co operative of poets
who have already bruised their mouths
against it

poem includes 6 lines from 6 poets

"you hitched a thousand miles north from san francisco" gary snyder from
august on sourdough a visit from dick brewer

"the night has a thousand eyes" robert creeley from chasing the bird

"kleenex flavored snacks dribble down my chin" amy chandler from travel log

"what i have attained in buddhism is nothing" jack kerouac from 190th chorus

"im crying all the time now" allen ginsberg from tears

"i leave my silence to a co operative of poets who have already bruised their mouths against it" leonard cohen from the pro (nashville notebooks of 1965)

Tuesday, April 21, 2009


down to the waterfront i went
searching for the sailor
who would lead me to the parlor

inside he asked me what i wanted
a phoenix i replied
red orange green and blue

then across my bones and under my flesh
he applied the colors
with his droning needle

red for my rage
pixeled and screaming
to mesmerize all

orange for my jealousy
bottled in my dreams
and hidden behind no smile

green and blue for my envy
sadness and fears
and all the tortured nights

all hidden hidden from all

with the shades between
to show the journey i will take
the fire of coals i will run from
carving the deep lines dark
not stopping if i flinch
as i am already established with pain

trace out the wings like flames
relasing me from the hole
and the cage that holds

i am not what they want me
your sweet child to hold
i am now seventeen and need to fly

with the phoenix
you tattoo on my arm
off i will fly i'm now of age

Monday, April 20, 2009


somewhere waiting to be found
rejected by the scholar
hungerying and waiting to be found
she sat confused in pigeon park

in the back alley of chinatown
a bohemian poet sat
chanting some zen mantra
and glaring at the red dress

he got up and approached her
with the lisp and laughter of a fairy
he asked what she was waiting for
will you marry me?

of course i will
so off they went
he in black she in red
looking for some bohemian preacher

Sunday, April 19, 2009


when everything is right

i don't ask why

as the friendship will be

and float like a butterfly

when things go wrong

no matter if it's her or me

the friendship will remain

though at times will sting like a bee

the friendship is special

like the rose that will bloom

as the bee and butterfly emerge

we will never cocoon

sharing the sunshine and storms

the warmth and the snow

standing with it and through it

as the hot and cold winds blow


nothing lasts forever

Saturday, April 18, 2009


the palms sway in the breeze

above the saffron pavement

all i can see beyond him is

the azure ripples

of the caribbean sea

the havana coastline retreats like a hem

from the patches of seaweed

i saw at first glance

jesus lying on the edge

of the seawall last nite

his latin shadow spilled across the ocean

and over the kids fishing on the rocks

below her bedroom window

covered in the cobwebs of the breeze

we slapped at the flies

as the havana tenements collapsed

enclosed in turqouise

he slept

the words i used from the 50 word salad.... patches..seaweed..slapped ..bedroom.. turquoise

Friday, April 17, 2009


forgetting you is easy

now that your gone

i feel so relieved

not having to pick up the pieces

and so treasure

the times you were lost

and didn't have to chase you

or find your owner

you simply gave nothing

so when they put you down

it was better than losing

my boot

my shirt

my hat

my leg

they amputated

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Puting Off The Poem

today the clouds mumbled my thoughts

of azure blue and boredom

no sky after it disapeared

until i napped after noon

the cayenne didn't stay after i sneezed

and the pumpkin seeds lost their power

but still showed kindness

then holding the pickle jar with frog

hearing the chimes delight the breeze

i forged ahead of the birds and song

for their is no rest for the seasons

to look for the emory board of grit

searching for the edge of my nails

and repeating i shall not kill

shall not kill

shall not kill

until i write this poem

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Road Trip Never Made

I went to cuba looking for minoso

but found che instead

i jumped into his prefect

for miles and miles we drove

searching for adventure not minnie

we talked about marti and poetry

baseball argentina and fidel

we stopped at the stadium in holguin

looking for the girl with the pearl earing

on the road again another story

he said when the first shot was heard

cuba woke up startled out of sleep

bringing land reform justice and bread

smoking cigars and drinking rum

the trip seemed boring now

until we reached santiago de cuba

driving up to the pink house

with minoso standing at the door


Monday, April 13, 2009

Dancing In The Pool

we sat outside the hotel room
watching the two dance in the pool
thrilled at their movements
in awe of their absolute singularity

the midget like the changeling in the fairytale
and the tall green mermaid showed a vivid contrast
to bring an acute balance as they danced
jubilant never to impugn each others movement

the prompt was using these words 10 words
acute, green, bring, room, pool, changeling, singularity, jubilant, impugn, hotel

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Hometown Hero

in my youth burnaby did not exist

so we invented it

second street was the forum

where the rocket scored all his goals

fourth street was the arena

where submarine joe lost our lacrosse balls

seventeenth avenue was municipal stadium

where willie made that great basket catch

eighteenth avenue was special the gardens

where my aunt and uncle lived

they had a hoop with outdoor lights

somedays i was over there at dawn

shooting hoops and dribbling till after dark

most days an older guy was there

he helped the high school team win title number one

bob was his name and played like cousy

he had the skills to make baskets from anywhere

nobody could ever guard him i wouldn't even dare

bob could hit a shot from the parking lot

and dribble behind his back and through his legs

i learned to shoot from every spot at the gardens

dribbled between all the cars at the gardens

dreaming of championship number two

the forum is no longer there

the arena has been paved

the stadium has condos

however the gardens are still there

not the one we invented

only the ones that grow down the boulevard

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Easy Rider

they sold the drugs to the connection

the rolls royce is the connection

then captain america and billy the kid

hit the road on their harleys

life is the neverending highway

roaring to the unknown

and the pot is neverending

the highway is life

as they look for the rainbow

travelling across america

and joined by a drunken lawyer

searching for the freedom that is life

showing him grass that is their joy

the neverending trip

to the cemetary with the hookers

without their rolls royce

still searching for freedom

the freedom that is life

the american dream

the market place

continuing along the highway

confronted by rednecks

who shoot captain america and billy

along the highway that is life

Friday, April 10, 2009

thrift store boots

i needed a pair of cowboy boots

not hard when you know where to go

off to the thrift store always a sale

to wear to the cement city cowboy show

sitting on the shelf hardly worn

as usual the price was low

they were near the floor

kinda hard to see you know

they were hand tooled with a carved eagle

so for a dollar i took them home with me

as a tribute to all the thrift stores

that gives you a bargain not quite free

combing my moustache and dressing with care

wearing my fine silk shirt and go to hell grin

i swaggered with my special boots

to hear the cement city cowboys and their songs of sin

Thursday, April 9, 2009


sometimes days seemed wasted

years in the cities

sometimes decaying

with and without talent

but always a direction

but not always connected

patient at times sometimes falling

sometimes broke but never complete

but it was always paradise

now older sometimes wiser

it still is paradise

maybe really truly paradise

when your seventy and healthy

wonderful daughters

four great beautiful grandchildren

a wonderful caring partner

sharing glorious moments in the mountains

and loving her

it's all paradise

old flame

grade nine purple sweater short black hair

knockout gorgeous and liked me

an ass was i and played the azz

either too shy or too stuck up

i never asked for a date

never forgot her face

where is she now does she care

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

wavy gravy

mine was frisco

his was wavy gravy much better

hugh romney

Monday, April 6, 2009

next destination

last nite i dreamt

of being at the pne on the wave swinger

lifting slowly from the platform

for a leisure ride of excitement

lights and unforgettable scenery

then i was on this narrow road in havana

that passed a night club la bodeguita

cobblestone street never paved

ankle deep in potholes

a curb ditch smelling like sewer

winding to nowhere

and behind in the alley

there drinking mojitos

smoking mellow cohibas

with fidel and umbrito

it is four in the morning

they ordered more chicken and rice

another round of rum

because the own la bodeguita

and all of the alley

saluting che

Sunday, April 5, 2009


there was the time I dreamt

I was the great buddha

siting on the great wall

dressed up in drag

rhinestone eyes and red lips

drinking from a paper bag

it dam near choked me

so i got up and sang elvis

songs of love and hate

and all my imperfections

cues and billard balls

and all my perfect reflections

then someone woke me up

unlocking the honesty within

asking the question..why me

and not understanding my own psyche

buddha, rhinestones, paper, bag, perfect, choke, dress (7 words I could remember)

Saturday, April 4, 2009


not in tubes but on my canvas

in the studio I see black crows

among a blast of poppies

mars black and cadmium red

better than grey plastic and pink elephants

used milk jugs and lipstick

coal in a hot fire

that glowed while I slept

I have no coal to paint

just my eyes to see them

fully focussed in the light

black crows on the fence

staring at the red poppy seeds

then the bored crows fly off

the poppies stand up straight

waving their red flags

Friday, April 3, 2009

Three in Row

first day of spring

three ducks in snow

coyotes dinner

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Spring Dreamer..........

excited like a kid with his bag full of marbles
willd passions for baseball and being free
nothing lost and full of innocence
not aware of time just to be

now seventy with still some of those marbles
with wild poems and grace
lost innocence and empty of nothing
with a few more lines on my face
spring training again

Wednesday, April 1, 2009


the winter snow is trying to melt

crocus trying to push through

they say spring is here

soon we will see the bloom

as the bulbs plow like the sea