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THE GYPSY CAMP |
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I put a seashell to my ear and it
all comes back; the yellow sun . . .the Mediterranean blue, the sky, the children running
on the beach that day, the kildear birds marching in formation down to the sea, and back -
when my memory wanders, as it does when bad things happen, I put a seashell to my ear and
it all comes back; that day . . .you.
Even the gypsies. It all comes back. You see what loving does; it makes you trust in
horoscopes, and gypsy wands and fortune tellers, and even seashells.
I still believe in love. It's hard these days you know, and yet it's still the great
adventure; better than blowing bridges or a bus ride to Chicago. Even better than running
away from home . . .to . . . join the gypsies.
- -from "The Sea", 1967 & Folio #21, 1979 |
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Barry Gibb o
Edgar Rice Burroughs o Yvonne De Carlo o Gloria Estefan o Vittorio Gassman o Engelbert Humperdinck (composer) o George Maharis o
Rocky Marciano o Marilyn Miller o Ron O'Neal o Seiji Ozawa o Johann Pachelbel o Art Pepper o Walter Reuther o Othmar Schoeck o Leonard Slatkin o Lily Tomlin o Conway Twitty o Julia Varaday |
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September is the edge
of hope. Travel through it carefully and with ease.
The sweetest leisure is that we’ve earned.
Stupidity is no excuse for acting stupid.
The young heart welcomes harvest time as eagerly as Spring.. |
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WORDS ABOVE THE SIGNATURE |
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Because the bulls run
one week out of fifty-two
down Pamplona side-streets
and I cannot outpace them
anymore.
And democracy’s brass trumpets
blare from Spanish hill
to Spanish hill
(all sound, even echo, fading
before the tune is put in practice),
and Mijas has a four-lane highway
to and from;
and just a ferry ride away,
a certain city in North Africa
sits poised to snap tourists
into a poppy snare.
I walk on tiptoes through
the red / pink / amber fields
that fan out from it,
if I walk fields at all.
Because the arson match is struck
even on God’s vaulted ceiling
(never mind whole neighborhoods
now torched to cinder and all gone),
and fire forgets its subjects’ names,
is blind to
street addresses -
confetti ashes spread across my yard,
one hundred miles of blazing brush.
Low animals that creep the ground
on fours,
are cooked to bones.
The lesser works of Big Magician
children, weak from circumstance,
powered men who battle flame
with fist and nozzle well connected
made poor and puny by a heat that seeks
and seizes all within its blanket reach.
A mother huddled in a bathtub,
lovers propagating on a Baldwin afternoon
no match for match.
I bury strikers deep.
Because the arsenals in every land
are piled and pyramiding out of sight -
thus out of conscientious mind;
men want stepping stones to heaven
to be an alleyway of atoms
and there is no reversal anymore,
no rehearsal, just performance -
planned, unplanned, mistake,
unhappy accident -
a world that went
before a second coming.
Because no drums are drumming out
BEWARE
and no strong voice from government
or pulpit cries out loud enough, I care,
I no longer look across my shoulder,
worry over dented fenders
or try to figure out exactly why
some birds no longer sing the old songs.
Because this year
there must not be a Santa Claus,
I sign each letter I send out
with love.
It is the shortest word I know for hope.
Because I have more reasons
for with love
than paper I can put them on,
bill collector and computer generated page
will still get answers from me
with those words above my name.
It would not occur to me
to write sincerely yours
or best regards.
Please don’t think it's something personal
(of course, it is).
I mean, with love is no big thing
except to sender and receiver.
You and me the true believers.
- from Valentines, 1986 |
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