world in a pram

one of the things
i don’t remember
is having been
pushed in a pram
by my mother
or father

was i ever
talked to
with such
adult-to-child
engagement
while someone
pointed out
the scenery
as it passed by

did i fall
fast asleep
from the length
of the day
the rattle of the wheels
rumbling beneath me
like a passenger
on the train
from paris to brest

i wonder
if someone
would push me in one
now?

faceless

i tried to talk to him today
at the spot
where i see him
on so many days
where he lies on the sidewalk
i asked if he was ok
he didn’t want to answer
instead he said he liked my shirt
from avalon tattoo shop

thanks i said

are you a tattoo man?

i have a few
are you taking care of yourself?
again no answer
just a gaze down the street
in the opposite direction
and i’m thinking how stupid
my question is
he is lying on his side
in obvious discomfort
and filth

i reach in my pocket
and hand him some change

thank you he says
with soft youthful eyes
that deceive his aging face
and his long dirty beard

Ryokan

This poem was inspired by my deep admiration for the poetry of the 18th century Japanese hermit Ryokan. In my opinion, he is the greatest poet to ever live. I recommend "One Robe, One Bowl", an excellent English translation of his work.


visions of ryokan


on this winter’s night
i think of my life
and how soft I am!

if the temperature of the day
is a smidgen too warm
if my room at night
holds the slightest of chill
I become agitated!

if the mail refuses
to come on time
or a raindrop
lands itself
upon my porch
i curse the postman
and cancel my walk

blanket on my lap
a sweater on my back
scented candle on the table
a little heater on the floor
i read a few lines
of ryokan
and the shame comes

one robe
one bowl
were his only possessions
yet there is lyrical joy
in the wisdom of his writings

unable to enjoy
a moment’s sleep
through the long lonely night
from the snow outside his hut
which chilled his feet to the bone
he would write about the beauty
of the moon
and the song of the nightbird

with pangs in his belly
from days on end
of no rice for his bowl
he wrote lines of love
and adoration
for all who refused him food

his dreams were not
of riches
or warmth
or food
or where he might go
when this world ends

they were visions
of the laughter of children
he’d play with
in the village
where he begged for food

his bowl was empty
his heart was warm
so on this night
of opulence
i have dreams of ryokan
in my heart
and my head

the trolley


one needs to come
on a mild and clear morning
and sit
at the trolley platform
and observe

take in as much as you can
feel the warmth
of midmorning california
and the light sensual breeze
against your cheeks
feel it lightly tickle your arms

close your eyes
and hear the sounds
the sploosh of the bus driver
setting her air brakes
the deep powerful rumble
of the passenger jet
shooting skyward

hear the joy in the voice
of the old man
as he greets his friend
in spanish
and shakes his hand
something about menudo
then points toward
the delicious aroma
of old town

hear the hum of the trolley
as it sits at the station
like a vacuum cleaner
rolling over the carpet
at home
a honk of its buzzer
alerting passengers
it is leaving soon

there is a change of moods
each time one arrives
and each time it goes
such an air of excitement
especially when there is one
on each track
then quickly it's peaceful and lonely
when they leave

you can see it in the people
who wait on the benches
alert and alive one moment
then sullen and quiet
when they've gone
over and over and over

next tuesday

good material
she says
when i dropped off the new shirts
and three pairs of pants
well-made, good weave
almost a shame to cut it
she says

an asian face
about my age
soft, wrinkleless
but work-worn
serious, she studies the work
of the factory worker
where perhaps
she worked before

every move she makes
as she pulls a sleeve down
rolls a cuff up
or runs the cloth tape
down my arm
and up my leg
is the graceful hand
of a true artisan
bent on making
a perfect fit

will be done next tuesday
she says
pay me when you pick them up
handing me the ticket
the first smile
spreads across her face

but i think of her now
as she clips my sleeves
straightens the material
lines it all up perfectly
then feeds it through

as she pumps the
worn and dirty black rubber
on the old metal treadle
with her foot
that makes the needle bob
as slow and steady as she likes

i’ll write the check
without a thought
of whether or not
the price is reasonable
it will fit just right
when i’m back in her shop
next tuesday

farewell to Chief Jack


young men
in blue suits
carry the box
draped in an american flag
which is crisp and neatly made
around its
seriously lacquered exterior

the remains of a man
who spent his life
in dedication
to the safety of others
whose vocation
was to retrieve them
from the cold dark
doorway of death
lies within

he was transported
from the little church
where he searched often
for divine guidance
and strength
to perform his duty
without consideration
for his own safety
or his life

in the highest honor
he rode in the back
of the old red fire engine
where he’d ridden often
as he rushed to perform
the work of rescuers
this time
his last ride
to the emerald green graveyard
was slower, somber and sublime

a priest says a few prayers
for the deliverance of his soul
one-by-one
family members speak
the remembrances of
a selfless man
and in an instant
we are gone

a vacant park-like
field remains
Chief Jack in his box
hovers above
his waiting grave
alone

No Mo NaNoWriMo

Well the December 1st deadline for NaNoWriMo has come and gone, and I have to admit with no shame that I didn't complete a novel of 50,000 words in 30 days. You will note on my NaNoWriMo link to the right, I only completed 20% of the required number of words. This is not an essay about making excuses for not completing, in fact it is with a certain satisfaction that I report here that I failed. Because while I didn't meet the original goal, it was while I was engaged in the flurry of page after page over the first week and a half, that the epiphany of changing my memoir to a fact-based memoir/novel came to me.

NaNoWriMo is intended for writers writing novels, hence the name, but I was using it to help me crank out stories for my memoir. I figured that if there are people out there cranking out a "novel" by typing merely two letters repeatedly until they met the word count goal within the required one-month time frame, I could use it for my non-fiction purposes. Yes, there are apparently people who do that - many people in fact. The rules state that you must type at least two letters of the alphabet in your novel, I guess in order to keep someone from typing merely one letter repeatedly. Not sure what the difference is, but then NaNoWriMo isn't taken seriously by many participants, which to my mind is a good thing. When I began there were more than 172,000 people signed up. I knew I had competition out there, but 172,000???

Anyway, back to my epiphany. Each day I wrote, I found myself thinking I'm cranking out a lot of words, and it feels good from that aspect, but I need to do some good research in order to be true to the stories and their characters. I need to meet the goal!" It was at this point, I realized that the book needed to be a novel, and that I needed to stop and do the research as I go along. Some of you might say "Hey, whip the novel out and do the research later!". But I've encountered something I hadn't fully considered in dealing with these old stories - many of them are from my early career more than 30 years ago. Some are from my childhood - more than fifty years ago. If I don't do the research now, people who can help me with verifying my observations and filling the blanks are leaving this planet. This has already happened to me on a couple of occasions. I can't afford to wait on the research.

But my dear reader, don't despair. I am still writing daily and the direction my book is headed is right where it needs to be. I'm diving in and working hard. Some of the stories come gloriously easy - I sometimes can't write fast enough as they come in a flood. For other stories, I'm a little hazy on the details - hence the need for confirming contacts and other research. And then there is the recall of some of the traumatic memories, which is intense and I find that it sometimes takes me a day or two or three to recover from it emotionally.

The work is good and I'm doing what I was meant to do. As the writer Max Ehrmann said: the universe is unfolding as it should.