He was a wise man who invented beer. ~Plato.........
[ Soul Style ; Green Flash, San Diego, CA ]................


Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light. 
Before the phantom of False morning died,
Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried,
"When all the Temple is prepared within,
Why nods the drowsy Worshipper outside?" 
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted--"Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more."  
Look to the blowing Rose about us--"Lo,
Laughing," she says, "into the world I blow,
At once the silken tassel of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw."  
Ah, my Belov'ed fill the Cup that clears
To-day Past Regrets and Future Fears:
To-morrow!--Why, To-morrow I may be
Myself with Yesterday's Sev'n Thousand Years. 
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and--sans End!  
Into this Universe, and Why not knowing
Nor Whence, like Water willy-nilly flowing;
And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,
I know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.  
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of Me and Thee
There was--and then no more of Thee and Me.  
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press
End in what All begins and ends in--Yes;
Think then you are To-day what Yesterday
You were--To-morrow You shall not be less. 
--from 'The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám' (trans. Edward FitzGerald)


I know it’s summer even if I can’t decipher the call.
I believe in the birds haunting me. I held on.
I’m full of bluster but also full of vision.
I’m not ready to put the book down.
To stop singing bright spots thrilling the quicksilver
.....over my torrent.
I make sounds, forget to die. I call it living,
.....this inhuman conch in the ear.
A pewter sensation and wind.  

The sun remains a yellow sail tacked to the sky.
I am climbing air here. I am here
.....in the open.
The kestrel swerves.
Its silent kerning.
A stunning calibration of nothing.
I’m left to see. 
--from 'A Winding Sheet for Summer'; Peter Gizzi

I wasn't planning on a solstice related post, but, here it is! The poem in its entirety available at POETRY, June 2016.


Caught Summer is always an imagined time.
Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.
There must be prime
In the heart to beget that season, to reach past
.....rain and find
Riding the palest days
Its perfect blaze. 
--from 'My Father Paints the Summer'; Richard Wilbur


[ Roberto Burle Marx (1958) ]........

Design for the Minister's Rooftop Garden, Ministry of Education and Health, Rio de Janeiro.


--William Carlos Williams 
As the cat
climbed over
the top of 
the jamcloset
first the right
then the hind
stepped down 
into the pit of
the empty
flower pot


....Any way you walk
....Any way you turn
....Any way you stand
....Any way you lie
You have pissed your life 

From an ineffectual fool
butting his head blindly
against obstacles, become
brilliant — focusing,
performing accurately to
a given end —  
....Any way you walk
....Any way you turn
....Any way you stand
....Any way you lie
You have pissed your life 
--William Carlos Williams


Perfection, Perfection
--Kilian McDonnell 
..........................(“I will walk the way of perfection.” Psalm 101:2) 
I have had it with perfection.
I have packed my bags,
I am out of here.
As certain as rain
will make you wet,
perfection will do you
It droppeth not as dew
upon the summer grass
to give liberty and green
Perfection straineth out
the quality of mercy,
withers rapture at its
Before the battle is half begun,
cold probity thinks
it can’t be won, concedes the
I’ve handed in my notice,
given back my keys,
signed my severance check, I
Hints I could have taken:
Even the perfect chiseled form of
Michelangelo’s radiant David
the Venus de Milo
has no arms,
the Liberty Bell is

[via except in dreams]


Observations on True Voluptuousness
--Lauri Otonkoski (trans. Anselm Hollo) 
Mornings he ends up
putting on his clothes. 
In his profession
he works. 
On his way to work he sees an incident
and decides to tell his nearest about it that night,
employing a few colloquial expressions. 
He has a mood
but the weather's outside. 
From the lunch menu he does select
some food and a little drink. 
In his free time he loves
works made by artists
and compositions composed by composers. 
In the bus, he directs his gaze at a person (female).
'Subject, predicate, object!'
he admits. 
'Expletive, giggle!'
She turns to look
at the view through the window. 
But when saw-souled sun and contemplative moon
changed places
and day swooned into the weave of night
...............the world's engine
...........it, it just went on purring.



Almost makes me want to change the title of this blog to Two Light Lamp Post!

[via louxo's enjoyables]


Haiku- Spring 2016

more cold wind,
lonely colors of hyacinths 

green shoots piercing
the gray mat of litterfall-
again, myself

after the rain
enigmatic evening
slides on a dream

magnolia blooms
canvass the yard
for lost moonlight

growing optimism
is forgiveness 

cherry blossoms-
each petal falls
to its memory

pieces of sky
in buildings mirroring
our half truth life

plexi rush
scratch hour

Infinite Jest
cradled in her arm
against her chest

a branch of lilacs
whispers fragrant amnesia
in a slow sunset

blossoms and sun,
afternoon curlicues
upon the lazy

lax dog leashes 
tied outside the diner,
sunny side up


Off the Corner Block 
Convallaria’s memorable scent
dispersed from the bore run
of an original rain, down
to the cloaked grip on all
these shoots and blossoms, 
these imminently done postures,
a borne ground to stand upon,
where I have my time, craven,
bumbley prepared with a fammulus
vole sleighting off an underworld. 
And what’s to be known of the
quaggy inklings, wiffled dynamics,
murmuring losses-- a mulched pulse
and when gone missing from
foundations of pale hospitals, 
a reality parallels the cyclorama
personally backed by sapphire,
as to meander is to wisp violet
without a swaddle from anything
but sideslips of botanical breath.


The Man Who Awoke with Singing over the Roofs
--Tomas Tranströmer 
Morning. May rain. The city is still quiet
as a mountain hamlet. The streets quiet. And in
the sky a bluish-green aero-engine rumbles.—
....................The window is open. 
The dream where the sleeper is lying prostrate
turns transparent. He stirs, begins
groping for attention’s instrument—
....................almost in space.


[ Personal Shelf ; Jacek Yerka (1999) ].......


Dooms of Balm
--L. S. Klatt 
The earth is covered
in lilacs. Corals
in the lilac sea mean
brains are thinking
of bee balm. When
last perfumed, there was a purple discharge, then
a gratitude. We sleep, knowing we may be ambushed 
by a lilac dream,
but the sun is
a friend, our ultra-
violet friend. To
make a synthetic
grief out of lilacs
is not to feel

[from Sunshine Wound; Parlor Press (2014)]


Intrepid Pilot
--L. S. Klatt 
Dear Stranger, if a lark chased by a birdshot
seeks asylum where things are hidden, go
to it with an armload of chameleons &
armadillos. And if, in the flooded glades
of the Orinoco, you discover a woman
bathing a panther with lilac oils, go to her.
And if you eavesdrop on certain light-
bearing insects, take a bicycle that will wheel
you into dark space. What you must not
blot out, but rather imagine, is that your cloak
is a lifeboat. Into midnight then fall backward
because, weightless there, you phosphoresce
in a slipstream of transit.

[from Sunshine Wound; Parlor Press (2014)]


--Lawrence Sail    
From each drowned river
they drain out to sea,
the shivering images
of inverted hills,
bridges and cities,
to be scoured by salt — 
and return as stormburst,
sunlight or the moon's
pale versions
of attraction: the flood
of born-again blankness,
a belief in beginnings.

[via verse daily]


[ Endless ; Keith Jarrett (1992)]

p - Keith Jarret
b - Gary Peacock
d - Jack Dejohnnette


54th Chorus
Communities of houses
Caparisoned by sunlight
On the last & fading hill
Of America a-rollin
To the Western Chill 
And delicacies of statues
Hewn by working men
Neoned, tacked on,
Pressed against the sign
To see the swellest coupon 
Light on the fronts
.....of old buildings
Like in New York
In December dusks
When hats point to sea
--from "San Francisco Blues"; Jack Kerouac (1954)

Beat doesn’t mean tired or bushed, so much as it means beato, the Italian for beatific; to be in a state of beatitude, like St. Francis, trying to love all life, trying to be utterly sincere with everyone, practicing endurance, kindness, cultivating joy of the heart. How can this be done in our mad modern world of multiplicities and millions? By practicing a little solitude, going off by yourself once in a while to store up that most precious of goals: the vibrations of sincerity.   ~Jack Kerouac


53rd Chorus 
Pulsing push
To come on in
Inundate Frisco
....Fill the rills
And ride the ravines
And sneak on in
With Whippoorwill
............The Chinse call it woo
............The French les brunes
............The British
............Cellar door
--from 'San Francisco Blues'; Jack Kerouac (1954)


3rd Chorus 
3rd St Market to Lease
Has a washed down tile
Tile entrance once white
...Now caked with gum
Of a thousand hundred feet
Feet of passers who
...Did not go straight on
Bending to flap the time
Pap page on back
With smoke emanating
From their noses
But slowly like old
...Lantern jawed junkmen
...Hurrying with the lump
...Wondrous potato bag
......To the avenues of sunshine
......Came, bending to spit,
& Shuffled awhile there. 
--from 'San Francisco Blues'; Jack Kerouac (1954)


It's all gotta be non stop
ad libbing within each chorus,
or the gig is shot.

--Jack Kerouac


The problem of time seen through the example of music. Music is returning time. The taut springs of time. Time coursing through certain creative personalities, and so personal time. The time of Beethoven, the time of Brahms, Chopin’s time, Mozart’s time. 
These individual times, so varied in their movement, their temperaments, their energies—are subject just the same to the general laws of time. There are always two inclines leading into the present: the past and the future. For all that, though, music taken as a whole holds hints of eternity, of permanence. 
The raw material of music is time. 
Time is the raw material of our lives, too, although each of us molds something different from it. 
Time as a gift, as something given to us—to use, to fulfill, as one fills a glass of wine. It’s given like the coin in the Gospel parable, to be multiplied. And how could time be multiplied except through eternity and outside eternity. 
When I listen to music, I feel how time passes, I hear it passing. Time is intensified, revitalized, recharged. 
--from 'Industrious Amazement: A Notebook'; Anna Kamienska