Sweet August

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Ahhh sweet August…the Everest of summer time

hot days and nights – sidewalks chocked with tourists

boats with bright sails smoothly drifting by

the park – ahhh the park

BBQ and wine – guitar strumming and love poems

cool dark movie theaters with giant boxes of popcorn

every day is a gift with an hour glass

only thirty one days – then gone

cheap watermelon and a walk among the trees

a season of reflection – slow down – look around

a song bird tells me how sweet it is and that winter will erase all of it

tee shirts, shorts, sandals – that’s all

bike along the ocean and smell  life in the salty air

memories flood and leave – childhood

dusty old roads and scorching baseball afternoons

fruit and vegetable delights fill the markets

zen evenings watching the sun retreat

full moon madness and tales of werewolves

sweet August and another year going by


Taking the Air


eighteen eighties western frontier bound

late in the evening when only a prairie sound

cowboys and gentlemen in all their affairs

would walk the night streets and “take the air”

a customary routine from a simpler age

to lay aside all troubles, discouragement and rage

today this seems zen like, so Buddha, so rare

to walk down the street and breathe the local air

hustlers and drifters, joined the silent share

to shut up and just take in the night air

profound and so common, anyone could

life would be different, uniquely so good

cool and refreshing, a lesson from the past

to slow down and enjoy, not breeze by so fast

to rise up and leave that comfortable chair

join the old cowboys and take the night air


Around the Fire


Under six hundred year old trees as thick as a car

sitting on the grounds where the Chumash lived for

thousands of years

Cool night air cleansed by the salt water waves

sounds of nocturnal night beasts

City voices silence and die a city death

wild nature soothes the smoky soul

the sun is down and heading for Asia

thoughts are born – thoughts that never lived before

ancient stories come calling – myths begin to chant

and dance

voices from the netherworld

disconnected from evil electricity and opinions

you take notice – things are different

a refreshing waterfall of peace trickles

in a tired blood stream

visions of old wars and journeys burn

in the flames

knowledge prances in the night air

inviting you to engage

put another log on and wait just a

few more minutes

two lane black tops back in the 1950’s

Kerouac – California

Steinbeck upstairs typing away

Kennedy giving speeches and Castro smoking cigars

Eisenhower and Mamie

two tone shoes and Bill Haley and The Comets

Buddy Holly and the crash of the Iowa plane

Polio sugar cubes and flat top haircuts

Cheap gas and high grade V8s

Chrome ideas and hula hoops

the fire dies low and tree frogs croak

bed time

A Young Writer’s Day Dreams


Oh to write a novel!

so rare and so telling

Oh to look deep within

and find a story of old

Oh to see the words

forging heat in a breast

Oh to finish such

a task and lay down the pen

Oh to see the cover

on book stores front windows

Oh to see coffee shops

with readers spell bound

Oh to stand on the

stage to much applause

Oh to stand on the

ship’s bow sailing east

Oh to hear praise from

London and Paris

Oh to dream of

more and airy thoughts

But now the bus is

here and he boards

sleeping softly in a summer nap

he drifts and drifts….


I am currently working on a new book for next year and will only be posting on this blog on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Thanks to all the readers especially those in India.

Evil On the Half Shell


Back in sixty eight, Nixon got his turn at the war

Johnson had killed thousands but the rich men wanted more

but body bags started showing up on the news

mothers watched in horror and some got the blues

hippies in the streets along side the uncool squares

protest horns started volume as “hell no” began to blare

but the war machine kept going and does until today

what makes war so popular and so easy to make us sway?

it’s evil I tell you and nothing else can explain

why killing is the answer and melts the human brain

“thou shalt not kill” is no longer the preaching

as evil became the teaching

rudeness leads to violence and souls to destroy

and evil on the half shell is a devilish American joy

A Gray Flannel World


It’s a microwave world in TV dinner town

paper souls and styrofoam meltdown

C students at best and flat lined bald heads

the only pulses beat from the graveyard dead

sensitive classes and dog food kitchens

while yellow chickens are still bitching

gone are the psychedelics and the shoeless bums

everything is clean, sterile, men without thumbs

adrenaline is outlawed and so is fun

a thermostat turned off the sun

roads are safe again because they’re gone

risk is illegal and the dusk is dawn

everything is cool and banal is the way

language costs money if you need a say

big brother and little brother all the same

everyone is blind but lost their canes


Paper Dreams


High pitched junkie screams

coming from old ancient gravel pits—dead dreams

all from old rotten paper

evictions notices lay beside lease agreements

paycheck stubs rot together with termination notices

birth certificates swallowed by death forms

bank records by the million of bankrupt companies

old crossword puzzles solved

out of date phone books in stacks thirty feet high

acres of shredded documents whose secrets are safe

old love letters from ex-lovers who died young

mountains of last years’ newspapers loom darkly

silver cans filled with torn tickets and tokens

barns filled with old airline tickets that fall over

gutters clogged with little dance rave notices

japanese trash bins holding old chinese fortune cookie messages

election yard sign the day after still rooting for a failed candidate

where does it end?