Autumn in the city

About two weeks ago I smelled autumn  in the city and since then I saw chestnuts on the ground in the park, walnuts, acorns. Of course rain and slanted light among the trees... Leaves falling and two young chess players taking in the last sun of the day.

The clouds have been spectacular, not to discern faces or animals, just to see them move, just to see them and thinking of who will see this beauty after they have moved on...


Clouds move
from west to east
so what I didn't see
you will do
and then
the change
clouds from south to north
just clouds
quick and horzontal
no face formations
nor myths of celebrations
just clouds
and a horizontal
eye of a hurricane

Leaving Arizona

It is all this
the expanse of land
wild vastness working on the body
the winds of sand and storm
working on the soul
the water of a wilderness
swift silty screaming cold
and the shooting stars
above the sandy night
and silence and quiet

It is all this
when one is awakened
by the moon

It is all this
and the people
one holds
the poets
the foxes
the deer
the friends
the coyotes at night

It are the mountains and mines
the minds
and never mind

It is all this...
so free and so wild

Time for the Colorado river

No power
packing water coffee bait
long drive
Pierce Ferry roiling rapids
no camping no fishing
no parking no fires
no rangers
sleeping without a moon
under the stars
in sandstorm wind











It's all about leaving
running out of time
not knowing
was it dream time or
think time yet
fear of frailty
longing for water
and
the fluidity of joy
the adventure
the call of the
wild one
the one I was
I am

White Cliff Canyon

The first time

the first time I drove

through white cliff canyon

in tony’s cherry red and silver Z 220

then in my yellow Z 280

the Blazer red and white

the silver grey Huyandai

and several miscellaneous rental cars

I always saw this brown horse

head held high

beautiful and masculine

would say hello and wish him well

today in the rented Toyota Prius

the horse was no more

so him I cannot now show

my head hangs low

Walking in the desert

When time is slow

the company good

you walk and talk

then laying down

on the outside couch

I smell the time of desert sand

opening my eyes

the mass of pinpricked stars

in my skies of blues

I name them Billie Holiday, Miss Ella and Aretha

in my darkest hues

eyes closed the reflection

of the sun in orange yellow glow

then in these silences 

tweets of birds

a far plane and someone’s plan

a car, a truck, a trick

and slight of hand

then swimming

in the desert glass and singing sand

 

Bake sale on Old Miners Day

At nine the women have set up
their last stand
have baked
now sell or as I
eat and share and buy
dress up on a dare collect
for the merry go round
in this town
flags
for the vets in the cemetery
vaudeville play
community spirit
for a day
friendshp
& foreign wars
cow girls
bad boys
and floozies
bikers on harleys
(yes I know the sound well)
in a way
all soiled doves with
pretty old cars

Desert words

walking without talking
watch without time
Spanish daggers and
and soft singing sand
the crunch of a footstep
and flapping of wings
rabbit brush and rosemary
through chirps and tweets
hearing silence
sticks strait and twisted
sleeping snakes
from childhood nightmares
watching out for slithering
a fleeting movement of bees
beings and fleeing
in the sparseness of tracks on soil
around a solitary plant
desert words of burning sand

Mojave dessert

 










Sunday morning breakfast

window rattling wind

clang banging doors

clattering tin roof in rain

sand-drifting crevasses

all dust my home

desert lilies’ white stain

a jittery fix for cows and deer

as for folks meth & beer

war stories on Sunday mornings

of fallen heroes

at the VFW breakfast boasting

of classified unmarked secret

warfare & all alive to tell it

to the stranger that I am

and in this desert storm

I hear the sand grain wail

What I learned in Africa II

Two years after my first African experience I was send on a mission to Uganda. Nobody wanted to go, since during the gulf war the planes flew over the country. At least that was rumored among the colleagues. Anyway we were well protected, a machine gun armed soldier stood every 10 meters along the road from the hotel to the conference center and we were warned not to wander off. In the yard of the presidential palace there were vultures. I wondered about that and found out that Idi Amin used to torture wayward students and if they died the body was thrown in the yard to be eaten by the vultures. It was many years later, but the vultures still haunted the place and considered it their territory. As happens a bunch of us was free one afternoon. So we skipped lunch rented a taxi with four colleagues and took off to what was a National park in the making. There we met up with some people guarding cattle with riffles. I asked why they were armed. They spoke about armed thieves and poachers and such. A few weeks later in April from Uganda armed groups entered Rwanda participating in the 100 mad days when 1.000.000 people were killed. I realize how naive we were. On the way back to Kampala we ran into road blocks, had to buy illegal gas, saw eyes in the darkness of the forests. One of my friends asked: are you not afraid?  And there in the taxi I wrote the following poem:

Headlights light

up life

of those i can never know

in the deepest dark

i ever saw

Roadblocks everywhere

Accident

Police

Checkpoint

Stop control

am i afraid

i am afraid

i am not

the shepherds are armed here

nomads

just as i

(the road from Lake Mburo to Kampala-11PM)

1991 spring 

Of course during the week I managed to wander off: once to the market and once to a local bookshop where I bought some books by local poets . What I learned was that I was not afraid and took a new turn in my life.

Sagesmoke over the water

I know I haven't been blogging for a while. Not that there wasn't anything to say. On the contrary there was too much to say. Too many e-mails clamoring for attention: yes most of them worthy causes. Too many activities. There was Hoboken goes West: friends of mine had organized and Dave from Scarborough came over for the occasion. He and I went 'junk shopping', checking out secondhand stores. I found Ben Okri's sequel to 'The famished road', I book I devoured. The book 'Songs of Enchantment' just 50 cents. And yes, the first paragraphs did again captivate me. 'The West' in Hoboken consisted of civil war reenactments, even a small field hospital and some Indians with leather robes and beaded patches and tipi's in the park and a Leonard Peltier stand..

 Family visits, and a solemn goodbye to a lady found dead in the water. Her daughters and family, her friends from NAIS, all were there. In a sober way Black Eagle smudged us all. Memories were shared. Questions remained unanswered.

 did she think
did she ponder
or just
did it
by accident
into the cold
water
purse on the quay
or did she let it happen
welcoming the push
was she alone
overcome by the pull of death and bliss
and was someone
watching her
was she standing
before the jump
or did she glide gently
off the quay
who after all this
took her phone
the little money
from her purse on the quay

and then
sage smoke and flowers
and silence for her voyage

Tony Mafia, Chicago August 4 1931 - Antwerp, Hoboken, May 9 1999

Fourteen years ago Tony Mafia died after a life lived fully. With many friends he is not forgotten and his paintings still make a house a home.

This large and wonderful painting is hanging in the public entrance of the European Parliament in Brussels. Once in a while someone tells me they have seen it.

The tearful eye of god, where not only god is crying but also the guitar player, lovers, doves and a dog and a stallion all this  one can see on the painting.

Tony loved his guitars, loved Spain had been for half a year in Casares, Andalousia. A strange place where he painted the locals as he saw them. These paintings were shown at Gallery Françoise Besnard and the show sold out. Jack Nickolson, being in Canes for the film festival, came to Paris, visited the show and signed the guest book.

Hopefully soon, I hope to organize a larger exhibition of Tony's work with the help of some friends.

*



All is changed

nothing stays the same

but the street

on which the changing

walk until words

of past

hurt

for lack of a tomorrow

The fading star

of laughter lost

hears but the

murmur of memory

on rue St André des Arts

meeting Madame Françoise Besnard