ISADORA GOING DOWNHILL

she danced with fire and terror
beside the October Revolution
and Bolshevik poet who committed suicide

a free thinking woman
a pioneer of modern dance
changing people's ideas of ballet
with attitudes on free love and lifestyle

like a Hellenic nymph
creating with her SILVER soul
and voluptuous values of working class
celebrating beauty and female body

bare foot and loose hair
always attacking the system
with her unconventional movements
living with her own rules

she died of a FREAK accident
strangled when her flowing scarf tangled
in the real wheel of her automobile
Isadora going DOWNHILL

BOHEMIAN POETRY CIRCLE

a loose group of literary beats
sit in some basement bar
lights out
curtains down
smoking
unable to see their whiskey
or another blue sky glimpse

old poets growing old
unable to write anymore
no longer wanting to be disturbed
or shaped by conductors of words
or publish another BRUTAL poem
they sit in darkness staying drunk
fighting their SULLEN fate

forgotten bohemian poets
with uneasy reflections of yesterday
and their dead perfume
disputing their agonies and fears
with the whiskey of their silence
they no longer know the TRUTH
or how to lie

GRAND LADY

she stands alone
somewhere between intimacy
and chaotic Times Square
sometimes loud sometimes soft
remembering days that used to be

the fading cracks on her face
reminds us of acts of yesterday
Fanny and Gypsy Rose Lee
a pre-eminent vaudeville act
standing tall

inside she remains gorgeous
hanging with the crystal chandeliers
and the ghost of some acrobat
falling to his death on the mezzanine
while laughing at Burns and Allen

outside she still stands tall
looking over the statue of Father Duffy
and the madness of the Square
needing repair but not shattered
The Palace... our Grand Lady

FROZEN FEET

she stands knee deep in snow
unable to take another step
or follow the path of life
frozen in time
my rusty lady with frozen feet

how long has she stood here?
with her rusted Sufi thoughts
riveted with naughty memories
only her welded mouth could tell

with her glacier conscience
without any zenith of desire
unable to bleed in the crippling snow
she listens to the frozen field

her tactic and strategy is to wait
for her Sufi friend to melt the snow
with the summer of his mind
and thaw the veins of winter
so she can walk to the pond

THAT RIVER

at our creek this morning
I simply watch
feeling the magic
of this special place
whose source is hidden
just let it go and let it run
the small stream will grow

letting it flow beyond boundaries
over the pebbles of life
in touch with roots and moss
accumulating images from beyond
demanding freedom from underground
where everything emerges into one
and a small stream will grow

moving on with absolute trust
before another storm arrives
awash with another day of dreams
flowing towards the sea of possibilities
where memories drown beneath yesterday
and fly above above the mysteries of god
the small stream will grow

bound and determined
without concern for the dead birch
preparing for the conditions ahead
and the firmness in its commitment
with self trust and wisdom
the small stream will grow
and become that river