Off the Map

This is the view from the front porch of the family house in New Hampster. With the birth of Amina it now has served seven generations of my family. It is called Hilltop.

The poem was written for Weaselboy when he was traveling last year.

Off the Map

Tell me about Pato

and Barcelona

and why it is a million times better

than Paris.

Tell me about the squat,

How the light is refracted

by the crack in the window.

How the ideals of Anarchy

are mixed with flour for pancakes

for dinner

because that is what thee wants.

Tell me how the roots of life

spread beneath the surface

springing up in the dark corners

of the dirtiest parts of the cities

and blossom with revolution

fueled with vegan sweat.

Tell me this and more

on dumpstered paper postcards

sent back across the ocean

to the place thee is always missed.

SP

Sniffing out Death

Death. Something is dead in the garage. I can smell it. It bitch slaps my nostrels the second I walk in. Something has had the audacity to die inside. Maybe it's revenge for some transgression I visited on some small vermin. Whatever it is it's rank. And, the garage is a mess. Usually it's a total sty at the end of the fall and necessity dictates a cleaning so the car can be kept out of the snow. It is amazing how fast it gets filled up after winter. This is the earliset I've ever cleaned it up, but hand is forced.

To clean I normally start putting everything out in the driveway, to put away in other places:barn, house, get rid of. It wasn't long before I found the culprit, an escapee from the morgue. As you may recall, the morgue is now filled with mostly vegan delectables salvaged from the Whole Grocer Dumpster. There was a package of Lemon Garlic Tofu that escaped but didn't make it far. In the recent heat the tofu has grown organism that may well not be vegan and is most definitely highly odoriferous. I carefully ejected the offending item.

It turns out the second show of the season was scheduled for the Bike Barn on Sunday as well. Weaselboy showed up with several others to attempt to put some order to the mess in the barn. There is most of a house, large beams, lumber, sinks, doors and windows along with all the normal resident bicycles and paraphernalia. Good luck. I continued with the garage and they had at it.

On the bill were 6 bands: Delay and Ghost Town Trio, both from Ohio., Rosetta from Philly, Minor Times Gift of Toungs and A Primitive and Strange Land, three Maine bands. Delay started with some great sounds at about 4:30. The Police (not the band with Sting) were here by 5:00. Yes FIVE PM on a Sunday. It seems the tender ears of the evil "See"a neighbor a quarter mile away has been offended. The neighbors that are all nearby don't care at all, infact the new neighbor across the street brought the kids over. So we promised to tone it down as much as possible and close the doors.

There is no real way to do punk right at a lower volume so I made a preemptive call the authorities and the down side was that the bands cut their sets a little shorter. There were about 50 or 60 kids and with the new floor on the second level there was overflow that migrated up there.


It was good music and they played until about 9 when the cops showed up again, just as the last band, an acoustic group was going on. Always put the acoustic guys last, they're quiet. After the show there was a fire dancer and juggling of fire clubs out back. I took a picture of that but all it looks like is dot on black so I'll close with a shot of my responsibilities for the day...taking care of Amina. Did I mention her parents are teaching her to refer to me by name: Grand Poop.

Stolen Kisses

Following my new penchant for posting pictures unrelated to my post, I offer an example of a day's, maybe two, worth of eggs from my chickens. I don't have any right now, but I expect I'll have some again.

The green and blue eggs are from Araucana hens. I had one her that would lay a perfect olive drab egg, exactly the color of Army green. If I had my wits about me I would have cloned the hell out of that chicken and sold all the eggs to Uncle Sam. I would have made a fortune. Better'n toilet seats.


Now for today's poem, for Carol, a life long friend. This was published, years ago, first in Matrix and then in the National College Poetry Review.



Stolen Kisses

A ghost stalks my kitchen,
paces, three steps by one.
She is in my living room,
three steps by four.
She follows me, talks
in the background when
people leave messages on my
phone machine,
scribbles notes on scrap paper,
puts them in my pockets.

For two years she has left
her mark; she has stolen my kisses.
There are none left in the cookie jar,
with the extra backgammon dice,
in the backs of drawers in old letters.
No more on Friday pizzas.

The warm, near spring night
touches my dream. I remember:
kisses for breakfast, served
with flowers and a skinned knee.
In the morning I pack.
I take a hidden kiss, my last,
leave it with a flower for my ghost.

SP

Jackie's Ladder

Something older for today. Weather report for Wendy: Overcast and cool. No need for air conditioning. A slight breeze, perfect for walking downtown, along the waterfront, during lunch.

The photo is just a randon snpshot of the lupins that invade Maine, just there to be pretty, although it's not a great shot. I'll figure all this stuff out oneday.

Jackie’s Ladder



Years in Turkey and Greece
come to me in poems on postcards:
Searches of hallucinations and backstreets,
snatches of silks and canvas, hashish and champagne.
The texture rich but the colors all running
together

You are running,
looking over your shoulder in anticipation,
praying for the sleep rat to take away
the exhaustion and pain;
all in a letter of fragments written in London,
mailed a month later from Istanbul.

You are traveling like an unattached
electron looking for a home base. The stop
in L. A. was hardly a cameo before you fled.
I know there were stars there, the love you sought,
shining, electric. So close you could walk
around them, but to touch was the pain
always at your heels.

You are my link to magic;
your lips breath my vicarious breath.
I wait the years between your three A.M.
phone calls from somewhere high
on you ladder and share with you a small,
solid, piece of the Earth.
SP

Language of Flowers

Yesterday, because of the day and other's posts, I was looking for a poem I wrote for Weaselboy when my father died some years ago. The passing of his beloved grandfather was a big event in his life. Of course, I couldn't find it.

What I did find, however, was a peice I was looking for and had spoken of earlier in this blob. So for Wendy, Lynn, Mel, as promised, I offer:



Language of Flowers
for Fran


Bundle of Reeds with their panicles.
Music.

Justica. The perfection of female beauty.
Walnut, Butterfly Orchids, Lupine.
Intelligence, gaiety, imagination.

Hawthorn. Hope.
Dwarf Sunflower, single Red Rose, Lucern.
Adoration, Love, Life.
Cedar Leaf. I live for you.

Candytuft. Lobelia, Yellow Balsam!
Indifference, malevolence, impatience.
Hortensia. You are cold.

Marigold. Yellow Chrysantheum. Mourning Bride.
Grief, slighted love. I have lost all.

Basil. Hatred.
Clotsfoot. Justice shall be done.

Gum Cistus. I shall die tomorrow.

Helenium. Tears.
Bittersweet Nightshade. Truth.
White Poppie, White Poplar. Sleep. Time.
Flos Adonis. Painful recollections.
Hawthorn.
Lesser Celandine. Joy to come.
Bundle of Reeds with their panicles.


S.P.

Antidisestablishmentintarianism

Girlface has several longstanding babysitting jobs and one is with Jessie and Chloe about 8 and 5 now. Apparently some time ago they asked the all important question, “Kelsey, what is the longest word you know?” After the appropriate time for thought she replied, unflapped, antidisestablishmentintarianism (which does not come up in my spell check, btw) For some months or years C & J took this as gospel and were appropriately in awe of Girlface.

Today, I heard the bad news. J & C approached Girlface with the information that she was wrong, that not only was antidisestablishmentintarianism not the longest word but it was not even a real word. “We know because we asked our cousin. He’s thirteen.”

Oh how the mighty have fallen.

NB:

The picture is unrelated to the story other than it shows the region where the players all live and I am still trying to figure out how to use blogger. Those are some of the islands of Casco Bay as seen from my back porch....if my back porch were in my friend's helicopter. Sure is pretty though, huh?