Saturday, May 28, 2011


......using the image by German surrealist Michael Maier as a prompt

at intermission we met on the shore
storm clouds churning with blue
broken by the roar of silence
without notes glowing in the sky

thoughts of emptiness deep in my soul
in time with my suffocating cello suite
choking on the music of Bach
in time with her mute lips

with denial playing my strings
treading gently before the onslaught
ignoring the incoming tide
I skipped stones across the sea

our eyes never met just wept
as her wing blew to my bow
washing and slicing my strings
squeezing down to my highest pitch

at last she glances at my bow
her face shining with suspicion
shrugging off the imbalance
we make music on the shore

Wednesday, May 25, 2011



it all started with a cosmic cloud of gas and lies
bad cheques floating imn space
junk bonds dancing on Wall Street
deserted mortgages without homes
broken bankers covered in soot and ash
suddenly losing their braggadocios tone
listening to the birds at sing sing
looking for a government fifty years in debt
printing invisible money
to pay the bankers who stalk the poor
and piss on the vegetation
rotting bodies of another war
vanishing lakes and rivers
by the flesh of greed and hunger
and another exploding Ponzi scheme

Saturday, May 21, 2011


sitting in the Cellar jazz club smoking
pouring whiskey over lost words
four poets stare at their failures
realizing hell is what they create
waiting for his return

the last time we saw him
his long fingers lingered on the ivory
with sizzling chord progressions
knowing heaven was his creation
not some faded decaying rapture

rising from beneath the stage
with drums full of suspense
the cool jazz started to sizzle and bop
Fats Waller returned to celebrate
May 21, his birthday

the four poets watched from their whiskey conference
drunk enough to find their lost words
and create more hell
not to be be judged
celebrating his return

Thursday, May 19, 2011

La Esquina Calienete.........(The Hot Corner)

that is me in orange T

it is a hot simmering place
where smouldering men gather
in sultry Parque Central
across the street from the grand dome of the Capitolio
in torrid Old Havana
assembling daily from early morning
late into the night
in-your-face, high decibel shouting
choosing sides
where the only rule is no fighting
men coming and going
moving from one discussion to another
sometimes sounding like a riot
wild hot gestures with inflamed voices
delivered with philosophical flair
baseball fans with serious debating skills
a public place reserved for serious baseball fans
why doesn't Jose Toca play more?
Ismael should be on the National team
Orlando Hernandez shouldn't have been traded
the Yankees are not the best
they should come to Havana and play the Industrales
who is the real lost son of Havana?
Minnie Minoso?
no it's Luis Tiant
they argue while I listen
without fighting