There's a reason
dear reader
that the Vikings
set out to sea.

Viking women.

Tall.
Beautiful and fierce.

They craved the treasures
of Ireland
and the fabrics of the
northern coast.

Sent their men out
in open boats to find it
and bring it surely home.

Gave them a sprig
of chamomile
a taste of watercress
and urged them to sharpen swords.

This was not the story of
Lysistrata.
Not at all.

Yet I know this story well
living with a Viking woman
as I do.

She hounds me
nips at my heels
keeps me on the straight
and narrow.
And at the dawn of the day
drives me out upon the
steel grey sea.

So bid me adieu,
you who listen
there is fury at my back
and the open ocean ahead.

(In this poem, the authors alternate stanzas.)

AUTUMN'S CALL

In the stray
sweetness of yarrow
and starlings’ trill by dusk
rejoin the fading
without regret
as the foot worn grass will
receive morning’s frost.

And whenever that green yarrow fades
then I fade
in the dry husk
of this autumn of fire
this autumn of smoke and regrets.

Wake in sidelong sun
light half hidden
days under curtains
of violet and scarlet
leaves so soon
will bury the moss
inch by inch.

But I
being the beast that I am
will burrow through the moss
past every encumbrance
beyond hope and fear
and finally find the freedom of one
sweet day
in October
the air still
not a sound
but leaves settling
into the detritus of dreams.

We speak the true tongue
a language formed
in the deepest trenches
of the earth's oceans
those places where life was formed
where the elemental heat
of the planet
expresses itself
in steam, confusion
and eruption

We sing in the true tongue
music that is blind
yet sees all
its rhyme set to rhythm
a motion of flesh-hung bones

We stand against every fate
yet our song will endure
it will be the last song

And we paint
with a palette stolen
from the sky
on the day of the most perfect dawn

We are God's thieves
stealing a line here and there
dipping a sad bucket
into a river of stars
holding it proudly aloft
the heart shaped into a song
perhaps a poem
nothing more

Yet more than nothing.
And more than enough.

O sister
when did you become
the perfect treatise
on love and
the sacred painted face?

When did your words
divide the day
from my night?

It was ninety yesterdays ago
when first your verse
startled my eyes
speaking a language
native to this ground
speaking with grace
with love
and with a defined determination
sweetened by the red clays
of your home

The soul of the prairie
holds you in its embrace
the long vista
the tornado
the tempest
all compete for your attention

And here I stand
at the back of the line
humble
one hand in my pocket
one holding an urgent postcard

It simply says

Keep this in
your hand
it is for you.

There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only
silence

and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.

When the heart stirs
the feet soon follow
or so it is with me
born to be a dancer

Lithe and compact
fearless in motion
a Baryshnikov of the living room
a Nureyev in the night

When my daughter
was new born
seventeen sweet years ago
I would hold her close
dance her through the whole house
sing to her
tell her
I'll love you forever and ever
no matter what
promise her everything
it was in my power to give

Here
in my dotage
my dancing embarrasses her
my rude manners
outrage her at times
No matter

I thrill when
I hear her sing
weep
when I see her onstage
grin like God's fool
when I meet her at
the backstage door.

This tribute
and these poor lines
are humbly offered
by a man who is blessed
a man who wakes up every day
saying thanks
a father proud
a retired musician
(more or less)
whose child
without urging
took up the mantle
and carried it further
than dad ever could.

There we were at the beginning of the world
A forest
redwood
bay laurel
A watercourse chiseled
into the limestone of that ridge
opening outward
to the west and setting sun

We were almost under water
through miles, through layers of green

We sat together
listening
as the alto recorder in my hand
played on its own!

A tune that called
a mahogany-voiced bird
to harmonize
A tune
that gentled the sun into the sea.
A tune
that wove together
every instant
of the days we had yet to live

We turned the sun
into a scourge

Burned two cities in Japan.
It was not antiseptic.
It was not friendly.

It was ****** on a scale
that the world
has come to know too well
but by a means
that upset the balance
of nature

The magnetic forces
of the atom unhinged
set off on lunatic paths
to arrive at something
like the sun

Flesh was peeled from bone
that day
faces peeled from skulls

This is not a pretty thing
not a bedtime story
for your kids

Yet our taxes pave a path
to the next generation
of hell-found missiles
aimed deliberately
and directly
at the hopes
the domestic fears
the quiet anxieties
the moments of wonder
of love
the kiss in the morning
goodbye
the welcome home in the evening
of every person alive today.

Is there a way
to say
No?

(A note:  in this poem, the authors write alternate stanzas.)

FREEDOM

has always demanded
my surrender to an instant in time
surrender to fate and therefore
to glory

Though my wily will
has oft gotten in the way
with grand illusions and the necessary
fiction that I am in command

But in the end, it is command
of nothing and no one
for that is the nature of time,
mean shrew who prunes our hopes

A clock that does not click
nor clang, but flies tirelessly; one day
its talons will ****** us away, releasing us
forever, from the burdens of the day

And until those burdens take flight
I carry a candle for the hours, open a book
for the days, and teach my trembling hand
to hold on to hope.

It is all flowing uphill
back into the tributaries
into the headwaters

Life returns to its source
at the end
Chinook salmon spawn in their natal streams and die
their bodies nourish their young
who make haste to salt water
then return from the sea
to repay the favor

Uphill it is for us
a long slog, it seems

We are dedicated enemies
of entropy
unconscious
yet knowing our duty

So these are your instructions.

You must wake each day
and know it as a gift
never pause in worship
never cease your upstream struggles
until it is time
for such foolishness to end.

Grit and muscle
heart and will
life is short
yet sweeter still.

Sonic ghost
womb echo
tiny cave dweller
growing feet and hands
a heart unexpectedly beating

Come
be our girl

Let us bend our minds
toward simpler times
and hail the coming
of an unexpected apocalypse

Limping toward the infinite
scattering thank yous
and blessings
like popcorn to the wind
a foolish man
am I

This life was supposed to be
different
a changing of the guard
But the guard stayed on
same old starched suits
same old
old

So how did I become
so young?
I woke just yesterday
to a sunrise stretched
like God's fresh linen
across the eastern sky
No idea how I got here

Every memory is dipped
from the well of time
and I draw that bucket well
and carefully

I taste the water
as a sacrament

The tick tock of time
is a goad
and  a constant reminder
that we must never forget
and never should fret

So drink deeply
and know the sacred
in every moment in time
and every moment
long gone from time.

It is a gift that you are given.

Mother Ceres
hair trussed and
braided like an artichoke,
smiles down on this mad scene.

Bums asleep on every littered lawn,
cripples, drunks,
businessmen, young women
move by in the shattered light,
pacing to some cynical drum,
proceeding from
place to place.

Armageddon looms
with the stink of diesel
and a sudden roar.

Slow motion bodies
crawl, skip and hop.

The light grows white and
whiter yet. The ***** bus window
cracks
and outside
all is very still.

A head fashioned
from cold stone,
blank eyes seeing all.
A smile matching Death
to his lithe sister
Love.
A smile.

Demeter!
Ceres!
Mother of summer,
the dry wind.

Love the hollow stone,
the dust, the poisoned air.
Love this poor harvest.

In my home
there is a reading nook.
A small space
with windows facing
two sides -
to the south
and west.
South for the sun.
West for the setting of the sun.

That's where I live.
It's where I read.
It's where I write.

That's where I spend
my wasted days.

A blessed space
and a waste.

So here am I, O Lord!
Your imperfect servant
and you know me well!

I might live a good many years yet
with and (mostly) without your guidance.
So be it.

I'm kind of an old bird, I guess.
Might drop off at any moment.
So be it.

It's hard to wrap your mind
around eternity,
grasp the cold stone of death.
I guess things were designed
that way.

So best to
keep moving
and tell the tale
in beauty and bounty
while traveling this golden road.

A questionable son
the one
who chose auto repair
and serial monogamy
finds the golden road
to Washington, D.C. respectability

What does his father do?
He buys him a briefcase

And everything followed
and flowed
from that mineral moment

A career
a wife, in time
a briefcase never used
but full of good wishes
murmurs
and marching orders

The road ahead
seemed wide open
stretching west
into a golden glow
and open it was
purged of hindrance
by the workings of time

So here am I
that golden road
now behind me

Life seems a sand castle
on a castle of sand
with the tide pouring in

It is that last ember
glowing as the fire
goes dark

Tomorrow and tomorrow
beckon from a fabled future
they bid me adieu

I can smell the scent
of decay in this
warm summer's wind
kiss the sweetness of it
on my lips

I do not part willingly
hold out my hand
for every shred of
summer's light

But at the end of it
pack my poor bag
and make a crow's march
home
where I belong

In the beginning
crows were
as white as snow.
No.
Whiter than that.
Liquid silver.

But in these times
we see Crow as black,
though you will observe
Crow is silver in the sun
(which proves my point).

And there he is
at the very top of
that hemlock tree.

Surveys his rude world
and sees below
one whose ancestors
were here even before
tricks and tricksters.

Even before crows.

Coyote
Old Man
sly one
always ready with a joke
or a riddle

They say he spun the Milky Way
with his deceit
told the Earth's first lie

And as for riddles:
answer at your peril
or carry him
like a whispering sack
upon your back
until the end.

A woman whose face was found
On a fresco in the tomb of King Philip
of Macedon, father to Alexander -
She passed me in the street today,
alive and breathing roses.

She is the living memory of someone
who lived and breathed, as the
night is long, in the mountains
of northern Greece
A Long Time Ago.

She dresses in clothes that don't fit.
She has cut her hair and crosses
the street with grace.
She can see the comings and goings of people
and also
the passing of clouds from her window.
Her face,
open and almost awkward,
was discovered on a large fresco
in the tomb of King Philip of Macedon.

If my poem is color
then I will wave
every freaking color
as a badge

If I declare
amnesty for every poem
and vow
that no harm will befall
any poem

then I swear
they will remain here
on my verdant fields unharmed

So Sisters
Brothers
bring your lost
your wounded poems
to me at last

They will be well tended
They will not be misplaced.

My wife won't stop
writing poetry
it pours forth
rich in imagery
nuanced in tone
brilliant
inspired
every line loved into existence
tucked gently into bed each night
and called into service
the next morning.

Whereas
my words are meager
meek
brittle and contrived
words that push a barrel
of horseshit
toward the setting sun
No hope of ever getting there.

Why do I try?
It's really a bit sad
numero dos is my destiny
in this poetic liaison
I am forever the dunce
in poetry school.

But my teacher is a babe
a truly hot number
so I'll continue to sit at the back
of the class
try to follow the lessons
and hope against hope
she says a kind word.

The melodious thunk
of Thelonious Monk.
Nobody ever played
the piano that way
before or since
nobody ever imagined music
that way
before or since.

It took a while
for the audience to get it.
Longer for the critics.

And the Poor Man -
all he wanted was a
hit record.

His wayward mind
took him in difficult directions.
Left him with flint on his tongue
a fever on his brain.
No matter to the music, though.

So take it any way you like -
straight, no chaser.
Or after midnight.
Doesn't matter
the time and place
the drinks they're serving.

Not in this smoky little club  
practically sitting with the band.
Know what I mean?
Music like this
might once have been heard
on a planet
spinning in some wild ellipse around
Alpha Centauri.
But never here.
Never now.

So sit back and enjoy!
That's what I'm doing -
swinging slowly.
Join me, friends.

Book your flight to
my home town.
Bring your seven-cornered syncopation hat,
your saxophone or any other
musical instruments you possess.
You can sleep in a tent
beneath the fir trees
in my backyard
once the guest room is full.

And together
we can search for
the mystic connections
between interstellar music
poetry
truth
and love.

It was a yellow Corvair convertible
Ralph Nader's bogey
our ***-fueled chariot
our escape into the night sky.

We were strewn across a grassy ***** as if fallen from above
stars thick in the sky
still visible in those days
Page Mill Road
south of the City.

And all of the vanities
and honesties of brilliant youth
slouched about our shoulders
lit our speech
moved our *****
in the direction our fates intended.

It was freedom.  It was
escape. It was a foreshadowing
of much trouble
pre-dawn knocks on the door
handcuffs and the tearful call
home.

And a life leavened by sadness,
a constant sense of doom,

but a foreshadowing as well
of miracles dressed in second-hand
clothes,
but miracles just the same.

A square is the earth.
A circle,
the heavens above,
the spinning stars.

That which is wide
yet bounded on all sides
is home.
It is that which sustains us.

The earth.
The earth is beautiful oh!
Do come and see!

We live in a world
that is at least
half darkness.
So shouldn't half of our poems
be dark?
Or perhaps half of every poem?

Or half of that?

How do we parse the darkness
of this world -
of our lives -
and still live?

How do we tip-toe on the edge
of eternity
the grave
And smile?

You figure it out.
It's a mystery.

Where I live
crows crowd the sky
black kites in the wind

Inscrutable dark eyes
take my measure
as they pass
tell tales to the gale
herald the storm

Where I live
springtime makes her bold attempt
a moment of sun
fragrant blooms beyond measure
and fails yet again

Where I live
rain drowns the lowly worm
beats down like
the teacher you despised in school

And the sea!
The ocean has come to churn
here
miles inland

My eyes are raingrey
my spirit presses upward
the rain presses down

Yet I breathe!
The air is sweet
the moments of sun
and endless blue
miracles of the hour

I treasure these times
beneath a sea of showers
the Pacific Ocean
rolling over the coastal hills
arriving here at our door

This lush green world
whose verdant measure
is spoken in tongues
its secret heart desires the tempest
demands the rain
insists upon its prerogative.

How can I say otherwise?

I'm an assassin
a man of ******
I will **** your memories
and place them
in the dustbin of time

Sweetness comes with sleep
memory is illusion
****** a thing of gripping hands
and gasping breath
the only thing real
is my hand
holding this pen
a dog's tongue
on my face

Summer has settled sweetly here
we enjoy the hours
take pleasure
in the taverns
and circuses of this life

Our merriment obscures
the steady progress of time
the creeping insecurity
of old age

But I say
let merriment prevail!

In the face of all these
bogus truths
I choose only
truth
a steely resolve
and what might yet prove
to be a vain hope
in eternity

Time tells its tale
and time will tell

I saw you
I saw you through a fog

An unnatural light framed your face
your eyes in shadow
as always
the brilliant sun of June
cried in the heavens
the trees moving with the rumors
of what might be

Everything there was to say
about the rest of my life
was eloquently stated
laid down
exclamation pointed

But you, Cynthia.
Never further away
than today.

Tell me what's going on
in your life, my friend.
Did you tickle the belly of the moon
last night?
Lie down in the lair
of spiders?
Or did a sweet wind
take your mind,
transform it into ripples
across the pond
radiating outward?
Or perchance electricity and the sweet scent of ozone?
Or a tiny flower called
"Nevermore"?

Me
I chose to dig a cave
beneath my anxieties
taste something resembling Life,
in congested dreams,

All for a moment of quiet
and the hint of a new poem.

We failed the summit that year
Diamond Peak
summer of 1974

There on a razor's edge ridge
sheer drop to the east
thousands of feet
certain death on that side
no safe path forward

And the way we had come
an arduous boulder-strewn *****
Angle of Repose.

As we pondered our next move,
I told my friend a story
that had just come
into my thoughts.

A young man,
as we were,
promised his friends
he would fly.

To their horror
he stretched his arms
toward the sun
and leaped into the chasm.

Most saw a young man
in the long arc of his demise
falling to earth.

But one sharp-eyed friend
saw a fierce bird of prey
come rising
with the winds
and land
there
on that ridge
where we sat
and from which he fell.

The story was a presence
there between us.
We sat together
lost in its meaning.
And then it happened.

A bird of prey,
entirely white,
unknown to us,
perhaps unknown
to Science,
came rising with the winds
from below
from where that boy in the story
had fallen.
It landed on the outcrop
from which he
(in the story)
had jumped.
This magnificent creature
turned its impenetrable gaze
to us
and screamed.

The instant the bird alighted
and flew down the mountainside
we leapt to our feet
to follow.

What came next
took place in myth.

In that myth,
we were heroes
able to run at full speed -
some would call it a breakneck pace -
down that long mountain *****
Boulder-strewn.

Without fear
Without hesitation
in full stride
one boulder to the next.

Boulders the size of cottages
Some the size of a grey whale
mysteriously beached on a mountain.

Flying more than running.

With the falcon as a guide
we wandered the afternoon
through trackless
wilderness.

A timeless afternoon
in the Garden.
And then humbly
back to camp.

You might not believe this story.
But it is a story
as true as myth
and every bit as real.

I came to you
like a blinded man
a supplicant on the road to ruin
Someone who had once owned hope
but sewed it up in a sack
and gave it
to a beggar on the street

I came to you
like a condemned man
inches from the noose
holding hands with a phantom
a shadow masquerading as
wisdom
or death

Finally
I came to you
in desperation
the desperation of those
whose parents have disowned them
of those with a terminal disease
called life
a street corner clown
miming his passions
one false tear
tattooed on his cheek

And you humored me
Held me at arm's length
while you wove
a spider's web shield
to wrap up your heart
defend it
never truly surrender it

Yet you
dear heart
are my one

I never thought it would be like this
never imagined
that a bloviated moon
would sleep between us.
That a crows' chorus
would be our wedding march.
Yet here we are.
Dare I say it?
At peace.

People passing like smoke
their reflections in the glass
their ruddy faces locked away
in small
intricately carved wooden boxes
that make a sweet music
when opened.

Their bodies, which will decay
and become clean dust,
these also a sweet music make.

Watching
Listening
I breathe the bones,
lungs,
and thoughts of my ancestors
moving with this wind.

Whether carried and strewn like
October's leaves
or as if the wind itself
is the breath that these ghosts leave
in their passing.
The science texts do not say.
The stars,
hard and distant,
offer no help.

Through a pane of glass
life dissolves into its essence
Through a pane of glass
creation speaks

I never thought it would be this way
I chose to go
along for the ride
while this mad world
careened off the tracks

And yet creation
the godhead
persists
expands and contracts
unperturbed

I struggle to understand
the code
I peer intently
into the enveloping dark

And at the end of this inquiry
I find only music
and silence
upholstered through and without
by a sweet sense of peace.

Luck is my legend
it leads me down the pathways of fate
it plays havoc with my prospects
and cements a place in time
for every breath of wind
that might shorten my breath.

May luck prevail.

Dear Hello Poetry
You like my poems!
This is weird.
What do I have to show
for all those years
scribbling on a tiny notepad?
In my pocket:
$1.53,
an old shopping list featuring
cat food and half-and-half,
also the IPhone I'm using
to compose this missive,
some lint.

Dear Hello Poetry
you made me start writing
poetry again.

I thought I was done with all that.
It's too hard
takes up too much of my time.
Every second I spend
arm-wrestling a poem
is a second I could be using
to eat peanut butter on toast
or walk the dog.

Dear Hello Poetry -
because of you
somebody with an improbable hat
called me a poet.

Don't tell my mother.

And Hello Poetry -
because of you
I cannot buy a hat.

But I'll get over all of that.
I forgive you, Hello Poetry.

But please don't tell my mother.

We howl
beat our pots and pans
cry for mercy
from the pure weirdness
of that lopsided star

Oh and we send a note of despair
to our mothers
seek tears that cannot form
hollow the aching moon
poor waif that she is

And finally
turn the darkened cheek
to this insult from the stars

Moon
moon
stilling the moment

Once I wrote stirring verse to you
Now I stand stunned
speechless
as you steal the light
stuffing it
into the rude sack
of another day's fears

Sweet thieving lover in the night
swiftly bring back
heaven's delight.

I honor my brother in spirit
one who burns a bonfire
on every high hill
to celebrate the proposition
that mere words are a match
for eternity.

One whose poems
though misplaced
are always found when needed.

Luiz
here is my humble advice

Keep the predators at bay
never let a day go by
without committing
a flagrant act of love

Dream always.
And awake from your dreams
with the certainty
that dreams
are the daily bread of our lives.

I know you will.

You said that October
In the tall dry grass by the orchard
When you chose to be free,
"Again someday, maybe ten years."

After college I saw you
One time.
You were strange,
And I was obsessed with a plan.

Now ten years and more have
Gone by;  I've always known
where you were -
I might have gone back to you
Hoping to win your love back.

You still are single.

I didn't
I thought I must make it alone.
I
have done that.  

Only in dream, like this dawn,
Does the grave, awed intensity
Of our young love
Return to my mind, to my flesh.

We had what the others
All crave and seek for.
We left it at nineteen.

I feel ancient, as though I had
Lived many lives.

And may never now know
If am a fool
Or have done what my karma demands.

The streets
of Oporto
that ancient port city
were a riot of poets
it seemed

When the French fell
against all odds
a local bard intoned

"We were great
we were giants
we were many"

The people of that port shouted
they came together en masse
they danced in their waking dreams
waving their arms
and some probably wept with joy

They sang, by God,
and they partied like that
as only the people
of that port city can

And I'll tell you a secret:
those are the ones I want to know.

Portugal Campeão da Europa!

There are tricks
the eyes play on us

Tonight
when I stare into the darkness

I see rain

A summer of drought
and I see rain.

They call me dogsbottle
don’t ask me why
it’s a story out of time
branded by eternity

Charity was my subterfuge
desperation my defense

I came here seeking refuge
terrified and angry
ready to sow the seeds
of my own defeat

But a breeze on my cheek
deterred me
the chime of the church bells
stayed my hand
some tempest of grace
soaked the parched ground
of my parents’ need

I was relieved
through generations of grief
and ill temper
given grace as thunder rolled
and lightning struck

a sweet song in the wind
soothed my mind

And me.
Not knowing the day.
A dotard of the hours.

Well and yet alive
breathing still, dear ones.
Grateful.
And with fiber enough
for another blessed day.

There is tragedy in his eyes
his soul lays barren there
one of three in our family
a not so wild pack of hounds
loud and obstreperous.
He will live until he dies.

As will I.

Mary Winslow and I have just published a book of our poetry.  It's called Dea Tacita and is available on Amazon.com.  My email address is jeffardster@gmail.com if you want to send praise.  If it's not praise, the addess to use is deadendmail.com.   :)

The beauty of the barrens
the sky a blanket of grief
and no man knows the end of it

until the end.

Seven times seven ills
arrive at our door
the streets are silent
Nothing moves

How do  we merit
these days?
Did we earn so little
for our travails?

I blame God
since it is said
that he is almighty.
He could lift this plague
but does not.

So logic -
that machinery of madness -
tells me
this plague is sent by God
for reasons
mysterious.