"Je Who?" This Time Paris

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"Je Who?"  - This Time Paris

She skipped past the building

stepped over a sign "Je Suis

Charlie" - In the clubs she

heard about this "guy" Charlie
She had not packed her soul
on this vacation from thought,
She was not about to capitulate
to a single instant of sad or vaguest
ennui – No, she was no one but 
herself -for herself, flipping hair
swishing her hips, shaking off a
slivered-sense of chill in the
predawn light as she walked
streets as she had imagined un-

encumbered - She had come
after all to Paris – for fun 
not to condemn, generate

or navigate even the slimmest
channel of what was "politics"- 

after all -she shrugs, smiles
in stumbling circles - Turns -
with arms akimbo and sings -
above distant crying voices
“Render unto me only pleasure”-
Slurring-sloppily-her silly
scurrilous self talk - sacrilege
in the site of light from Eiffel
Tower to Arc de Triomphe -
She checks her manicure
refuses to bear witness -
ignores the flecks of blood
on yes her liable hands
that brush glittered glass
and gore as specks of lint
Massages lotion into a tiny
raw spot flaring for an instant
until it is vanished-banished
She is here - after all for fun
in skinny jeans and ballet
flats - a reinvented imitation
Audrey walking celuloid streets
She will be care-free
No price is too great.
Nothing here is her problem
Though she does need to
spray a bit of cologne under her
nose to block the annoying odd

smell of inky blood
punctuating an end 
she will not cede
Her dancing denial.
determined to twirl
For she is in Paris after all -
City of Light -

and it will shine -
even through
their tears



*
when a poem requires an end-note it has failed
This "vacationer" was intended as a metaphor for mindless self-absorption which is truly horrific.
I have edited this since first writing this morning.

The Shelter of Shine

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The Shelter of Shine 
Happy New Year 

I resolve standing in the center of the Shelter

Of Shine that there shall be a revolution in this

new day. I see in the waves of wheat and ripples

of sea, in the clouds skittering above and in the

earth beneath my feet the review of all that has

gone before and turn my face dedicated to the

light – recite that recent ways are not the way -

that despair, desolation and tears falling as

thrumming drumming dismal downpours are not

the design. With a lightening heart I cast off 

each moldered strip of gravitus 
each flickered beheaded bloodied individual
each scar and scourge upon Mother Earth in all her forms 
strip these horrors one by one and see beyond
and know that even the flattest grimmest

gray shall never ultimately win –
 for there is
no contest nor competition nor conflict 

There is only what is – and what is holds and heals, 

repairs the slightest fray in the fabric of the grand

shimmering tapestry. 
for all is meant to renew 
Here on this new morn in a fresh born year
it is revealed that all that beckons the darkness

is but a  fairytale – a whirl of whispery words

I resolve standing in the regifted 
Shelter of Shine that there is a revolution of
positivity and hope soaring beyond the curtained sky

 In this New day I shall fear no more the intemperate pull 
of purloined panic – stolen from my childish terrored fears – 

for there in the waves of wheat and the ripples of

sea in the clouds skittering above, and in the very

earth beneath my feet – in the darkest unstarred

night and beneath the skudding skies of cast-over

day there is always–
bright as an infant's newly gleeful gummy grin- 
trickling under closed doors and through cracks 
in darkened corridors of place and mind 
there is 
always light. 

Safe, in the radiance that pours about us all and gathers its beams 
into a smile of benevolent certitude –

I here and now with a strong arm and calming heart

throw fear personal, and collective, into the vanishing wind 
and stand
bearing witness 

filled with hope and possibility, kindness and awe of

All connected into One –

Centered in the glimmer and sparkle

in the crystal clear air of the future

of this bright new day beginning 

I Breathe 

Again 




Happy Healthy New Year filled with Peace, Love and Light 

Happy Birthday to My Father

LRK and Hindy 1/2/30 - 8/9/90 

Happy Birthday to My Father 

(with deepest thanks to Walt Whitman the father of poetry in my heart*)

I sing the song of my father
every particle of my being
today infused with him as
though he stands beside me
and has never left – though
he did vanish one hot
August morning - sunlight
burning through white
coverlets – though I felt
His heart beat three times
One – Twice – Thrice
under my palm and
then stop – he did not die

I sing the song of my father
Who left with black hair
glinted with silver in his
Sixtieth year – slipped from
any coil mortal or otherwise
but for the coil that holds my
heart pounding my soul still –

I sing the song of my father
He turned my head to
the first cloud in my first
sky - to the wind in the shimmer
of sun filigreed leaves to the
sea rippling – as he drifted sand
through fingers and we sat
Together watching a tiny flag
on the top of a curlicued
Castle tilt and fall into the
Onrushing tide.

I sing the song of my father
In the eyes of all who work hard
and deserve respect and those
who cannot find work through
limitation or exclusion. In the
wonder of all that sprang natural
and all that rose from the mind
of men and women –

I sing
The song of my father who turned
my face to cobalt and burnt sienna
the shock of turpentine on a clear
morning a blank canvas holding all
possibility.

I sing the song of my father
in the crabs that poked from
the mud on the day on the pier
while he painted and the sun
began to slip below gilding all
In that silent sacred place to
Which he granted me entrance.

I sing the song of my father – to
Sun burnt ribs that rippled under
Young flesh – to his ebony hair
To the taste of salt on his young
Flesh as he carried me far out
Into the sea.

I sing the song of my father
to that crinkle nose secret
smile he passed to my mother
as they sang from song-sheets
To his eyes closed in ecstasy as
Music shook the walls around
and I peeked from my own
encouraged experience to see
A tear trailing at crescendo

I sing the song of my father as
I feel his hand in mine strong
Ever present – singing in the
Shimmer of leaves in a willow
Rustling in chestnut blossoms
Soaring on the velvet tip of
A blued jay on a clear day
Returning caw for call

I sing the song of my father
As he stood watching my ride
On a carousel light slanting
Through high window – calliope
Playing waiting for me with
Open arms to jump – I jump
I sing – the song of my father
Holding my newborn son
in aquamarine waters high
above his head – diamond
droplets falling about them
I sing the song of my father
Coffee cups before us
Words flying as red cardinals
soaring from- between –above

I sing the song of my father
I sing in memory, in reflection
In honor, in dedication and
In love – I feel his presence in
the air that brushes my cheek
In every particle of my being
and though I thought it a wonder
that he left when his hair was
mostly black and his back straight
when he could bend and rise
From the earth of his gardens hands
rich with fragrant loam – Left still
young enough
I see him now – hair white –
The slightest stoop as he stands
Shining in the blaze of sun
Beams shooting dancing rays
For it is from
His lips - I sing his song
Forever with the life he
Lent to me.

Happy 85th Birthday Daddy

*********************************

* Little process note here: First of all this is a first-from-my-heart need-to-write-something-this morning for my father. Apologies to both him and to all the billions of other memories which did not immediately flash into my mind - I hope that in my spilling my memories I did not hurt anyone in the process. He was well loved by so many and loved us all in return. Secondly it was my father who introduced me to Song of Myself when I was a small child - I could never read it again without thinking of him - and so please forgive the hubris of the repeated paraphrased line.

Happy Birthday to My Father

LRK with Hindy 1/2/30 - 8/9/90

Happy Birthday to My Father 

(with deepest thanks to Walt Whitman the father of poetry in my heart*)

I sing the song of my father
every particle of my being
today infused with him as
though he stands beside me
and has never left – though
he did vanish one hot
August morning - sunlight
burning through white
coverlets – though I felt
His heart beat three times
One – Twice – Thrice
under my palm and
then stop – he did not die

I sing the song of my father
Who left with black hair
glinted with silver in his
Sixtieth year – slipped from
any coil mortal or otherwise
but for the coil that holds my
heart pounding my soul still –

I sing the song of my father
He turned my head to
the first cloud in my first
sky - to the wind in the shimmer
of sun filigreed leaves to the
sea rippling – as he drifted sand
through fingers and we sat
Together watching a tiny flag
on the top of a curlicued
Castle tilt and fall into the
Onrushing tide.

I sing the song of my father
In the eyes of all who work hard
and deserve respect and those
who cannot find work through
limitation or exclusion. In the
wonder of all that sprang natural
and all that rose from the mind
of men and women –

I sing
The song of my father who turned
my face to cobalt and burnt sienna
the shock of turpentine on a clear
morning a blank canvas holding all
possibility.

I sing the song of my father
in the crabs that poked from
the mud on the day on the pier
while he painted and the sun
began to slip below gilding all
In that silent sacred place to
Which he granted me entrance.

I sing the song of my father – to
Sun burnt ribs that rippled under
Young flesh – to his ebony hair
To the taste of salt on his young
Flesh as he carried me far out
Into the sea.

I sing the song of my father
to that crinkle nose secret
smile he passed to my mother
as they sang from song-sheets
To his eyes closed in ecstasy as
Music shook the walls around
and I peeked from my own
encouraged experience to see
A tear trailing at crescendo

I sing the song of my father as
I feel his hand in mine strong
Ever present – singing in the
Shimmer of leaves in a willow
Rustling in chestnut blossoms
Soaring on the velvet tip of
A blued jay on a clear day
Returning caw for call

I sing the song of my father
As he stood watching my ride
On a carousel light slanting
Through high window – calliope
Playing waiting for me with
Open arms to jump – I jump
I sing – the song of my father
Holding my newborn son
in aquamarine waters high
above his head – diamond
droplets falling about them
I sing the song of my father
Coffee cups before us
Words flying as red cardinals
soaring from- between –above

I sing the song of my father
I sing in memory, in reflection
In honor, in dedication and
In love – I feel his presence in
the air that brushes my cheek
In every particle of my being
and though I thought it a wonder
that he left when his hair was
mostly black and his back straight
when he could bend and rise
From the earth of his gardens hands
rich with fragrant loam – Left still
young enough
I see him now – hair white –
The slightest stoop as he stands
Shining in the blaze of sun
Beams shooting dancing rays
For it is from
His lips - I sing his song
Forever with the life he
Lent to me.

Happy 85th Birthday Daddy

*********************************

* Little process note here: First of all this is a first-from-my-heart need-to-write-something-this morning for my father. Apologies to both him and to all the billions of other memories which did not immediately flash into my mind - I hope that in my spilling my memories I did not hurt anyone in the process. He was well loved by so many and loved us all in return. Secondly it was my father who introduced me to Song of Myself when I was a small child - I could never read it again without thinking of him - and so please forgive the hubris of the repeated paraphrased line.