The Courtyard ((a poem)(and Commentary on: "Specific Poetry"))

The Courtyard

Do not weep for me this day
as you lower me down into
my grave, for I am, a million
miles away…a million miles
and then some. So do not
look here and there, within,
this courtyard, rather look up,
up into the blue, blue sky—
there you’ll find me, every alive;
there I’ll be passing by, in
a whisper of the night, in a
chill within the winters light,
in the colours of an autumn
leaf, within a rhyme of some-
one’s poetry: with Christ.

No: 2410 /6-29-2008

Dedicated to my wife Rosa.



Commentary: “Specific Poetry”: Some poetry is specific in that it is carved out of, or into the roots of ones beliefs, culture, and means what it means within perhaps its own language and genre (being religious our having a philosophic view), or whatever: it becomes different once you change the dynamics, thus, the characteristics or descriptions change. In essence, the language in which the poet writes can be specific as can be his meanings in his poetry, and hard for the reader to understand because of his specific beliefs, culture, and therefore he perhaps writes for a specific group also. And so, in a nutshell, not all types of poetry are meant for all peoples, or for today’s globalized world—as a whole, and it might be wise for the reader at times to look at this and consider this when reading another’s poetry, or take that into consideration. An example might be, Anne Sexton, who writes specific poetry, in that she writes confessional poetry. We all can perhaps understand her poetry, but if you are a psychologist, you will understand it better I believe, or if you are of a mental disorder such as depression, you will see the characteristics or her descriptions much more clearer than the average reader, and I say this with all respect intended to writer and reader. In a like manner, if you are a recovering alcoholic, you may understand my poetry better then another person, when I am writing on addictions in general, or the hardships I’ve endured because of this wild chemical that commands and demands for its pry to submit.

Call for the Ammo Humpers (a Poem for the Unsung Heroes of War)

In every war, there are what you call Ammo Humpers, those young men who carry the ammo, bullets and those heavy shells, artillery shells, to the front lines, be it by hand, or machine, or whatever, but up to and beyond the Vietnam War, in all previous wars there were Ammo Humpers who humped the ammo, the shells needed to the fighting men, to use for artillery, the unknown, and often the unsung heroes of the day, the unknown labor behind the fighting men who were on the front lines also, the Ammo Humpers were right behind them every minute of every battle ever fought.


Call for the Ammo Humpers

Under fire they run, deliver, if need
fight, hump ammo to the frontlines
save life’s—deliver ammo to the
shooter. They are known a the knights
of the war, although these unsung heroes:
bring the artillery shells to the tanks,
the bullets to the gunner, its all pure
powered gold, with fuses and primers,
that explode; a well trained soldier is
worthless without good a Ammo Humpers
near to close by: engagements can last
a minute or perhaps hours, days—
surrounded, entrenched, overlooking
tanks, and trucks and invisible foes,
while dodging grenades, and fighting
men in foxholes, in and around the
perimeters, and the Ammo Humpers
run from twilight to daybreak, push
on, and on, and on, until their youthful
eardrums become dumb; yet the gunfire,
the explosives go on, and on, and on;
the young unsung heroes the
Ammo Humpers behind mortar fire,
and chaos, under full force attacks,
ground assaults—go on, and on,
even though the air is thick with smoke,
even though it chokes, and chokes
and chokes, he goes on, and on;
dodging machine gun fire, infantry
phones, that are calling in for more
Ammo Humpers to run, run, run the
ammo in, for them to kill, kill the foe.
Then they pull back regroup, tell the
Ammo Humpers the ones left (for one
dies out of very two), tell the Ammo
Humpers the second attack is coming,
Soon. By dawn it will be over, and the
outcome fair, the enemy dead, men
wounded … the sky no longer blue,
and this is just one battle of countless
— now everyone listens to hear if new
incoming is coming, and how close
will it be, eyes in the sky, observing…
laugh quietly if you can, before you
protest, try to get some sleep, and
you start to think ‘Why would anyone
want this sorry war, to go on, and on
and on, now the moisture evaporates
all around you, the glare of the sun comes,
now were veterans (you whisper) rest,
dig in, light a cigarette, it doesn’t matter
they know we’re here. They’re coming,
and the Ammo Humpers are ready,
I see them from here, let them come,
I hope before darkness, “Watch out,
shrapnel…watch overhead! Where’s
the Ammo Humper Charlie?’ —
‘He’s dead!’)…

No: 2406 ((6-21-2008) (A tribute to the Ammo Humpers, of all those past wars: Civil War, Spanish American, WWI, WWI, Korea, Iraq, and those going on at this moment, especially in Afghanistan, and Iraqi)

Sailing Away (a poem on the life of a poet)

Sailing Away
(a Poem)


A poet who writes perhaps knows too much
A scholar and philosopher, and perhaps a crook!
As if life and its normal journey are not enough
Could never be enough; not even with all its
Travels, towers, troubles, and tenderness,
nor with all its adventures, its vast universe, and its ghosts:
Nor with all its wars, and higher learning universities,
Nor with all its lovers, and friends, and so many
Of life’s confrontations; used and unused furniture
He brought to his home, along with the wives
And children he had, with all their Christmas’ and
And toys, troubles and pains and insane days—
He marches to the tunes, of his country’s song
But he never sings along; he reads and writes
From early evening to the break of dawn,
that’s a poet’s song. He really wants to sail away,
merrily, merrily, far away, because nothing is quite enough!
Thus, in-between, he gets drunk a lot, not enough!
And then, somewhere along the line, he thinks its:
Time to stack it all into one big bag that is rough!
How precious life was, and is to a poet, never yet
is it ever enough, and sometimes it’s all way too much…
way too much, he wants to sail away!...
His emotions are like a rollercoaster; his heart
in the hospital, half the time; his soul wondering
from church to mosque to synagogue, then home
again, wherever that may be. He finds God
everywhere, so does he find the devil, neither
rest, angles are as busy as he, but they never
protest: I fear the poet dies either with God, or alone;
Thus, a poet who writes perhaps feels too much
Never able to love himself as he loves, and wants
To loved; hushed, he looks on, and on and on,
at simple things, like: hats, rats and cats, and plants,
and souls: eyes, feet and confessions, so many things,
and then his children leave home, gone, complaining,
rearranging, and saying: “We never got enough,”
they got a bone of contention, full of terrible hate,
jealousy, envy and not enough guts; they live in disgust,
way, way, way too much…they want, and want and want,
in abundance; but a father Poet already knows this,
he’s a spy, a villain… and somehow, someway, he just sails away…!


6-18-2008 (he is implied a lot in the poem, but he in this poem means s/he, or me)

Two Bar Poems (From Donkeyland)

Bar Poems

Portrait of an Old Bar
In a Forgotten Neighborhood

Oh, down at the bar the boys
are playing, singing around the
bar, on stools, chairs by tables
they sit here and there
did you hear what I whispered?

I merely whispered
here and there the boys sit, like
pinned dogs in a cage locked
as dead as dead is possible
to exist and exist there still.
I said, a poet once lived there
I saw him singing and dying,
around the bar, on stools.
Across the room, a pool table
made from corpse’s, once there
their ghosts exist there still
as dead as dead is possible.
Did you hear what I said?

I merely meant
how glad I am not to be there
I’d be singing my songs with them
and bragging and singing and lies.
And I know now, and knew then,
it was my soul, lost in the booze,
my cage door opened, unlocked,
my drunken face, stopped singing
and the Poet got away somehow…!


No: 2392 6-4-2008




Noon Walk in the Bar

The spring sun beams
drift through a narrow bar door
as I walk through Death Valley with no shadow
It pulls at my breathing
and searches about for me.

The walls speak.
I hear them speak all afternoon
I will drink my evil, drink my evil
The craving extends
and reaches out to me.

The ceiling breaks.
It droops and smothers my face
in the presence of my friends, my friends
The world is full of friends
When you’re drinking!

No: 2393 6-4-2008