Orange afternoon
The sweetness of the Maples
embraces the haze

Late Spring memories
cling to the soul like the ash
from the raging flames

 they say the universe consists of
dark matter and black holes

my city is full of
my city is full of
dark matter and black holes

we got some
white holes, too

My mother, my father, my sister and me,
On horseback regarding the camera, smiling. 
My brother is absent as he’ll always be, 
An incomplete course, the college requiring. 

Just one month after the picture was taken, 
He was found walking alone with a Bible,
Naked as the day when he came from the womb. 
Shy, gentle Mike broke a State Trooper’s finger. 
Soon he was subjected to electric shock. 

Then descends a curtain of uncertainty,
A tension ever present with intention
And attention hesitant and reticent. 
Presentiments of future futility,
Fatality shattering reality. 
A kind quiet soul, simply seeking serenity 

A chaste kiss on the cheek for a farewell,
The haste of the departure guaranteed
No time for an embrace, but just as well,
It seems the more we get, the more we need.
My arm around her waist reminded me
Of evenings from our past, quite long ago,
As flies in amber, chambered memory
Inspected, resurrected joy and woe.
Fleeing and flown, the evening at an end,
Is time well spent expended on the past?
Past Perfect passed perfectly the Present tense,
The question is, I fear,  intense at last.
Add an “e” to past, to create a paste,
Too pasted to the past, a life’s a waste.

WELDing THAYER MIDDLE, her HOLWORTHY WIGGLESworth.
mmmmmmm ass a chu pusey strauss etts

WELDing THAYER NORTH
Pack’er Penny, Pack’er Penny, Pack’er Penny, Pack’er Penny
Greenough,    ough,   Ough,   OUGH!

WELDing THAYER SOUTH
Widener,         W  i  d  e  n  e  r,       W     I     D     E     N     E     R

Stacks!

We LAMONT Time’s passing packs.
pax vobiscum                                                                 pax aeternam 

The Yard                                                                                they come

The Yard                                                                                 the   f a l l

The problem with climate change deniers:
They aren’t biologic logic buyers.    

She was only a poet’s daughter, but her couplets were heroic.
An ancient philosopher’s offspring, his stowaways were Stoic.

The ancient son of an anthropomorph, his fallacy was pathetic.
The simple son of an aesthete, his poems were anesthetic.        

The single son of a son of a goose, yet he really knew how to get down.
The dolcissima dear drummer’s daughter, with the best paradiddles in town. 

What do you do when you’re stuck in a bed,
And your life wanders through the tape loop in your head
For the ten thousandth time?      

 

 

 

RHYME!

 

But,     
           if you can’t rhyme,
Go get gin and a lime, 
And some ice in a glass,
 Knowing, this too shall pass.

Love me tonight, tell me I’m the one,
And I won’t come undone till the morning when you’re gone
                                                           -Robby Seidman

A Jewish Huguenot from New Rochelle,
Whose tunes and heart and humor we loved well
He came to Cambridge to pluck his guitar
In the Oxford Ale House and the Harvard Yard.

A beautiful sense of the deeply absurd,
He stayed true to his troubadour dream,
Drummed up one Sunday, the Sullivan Show,
February of 1964.

An electric guitar, and an amp, and a band,
And a dance, and some girls, this is fun!
Let’s do this again, I can’t wait! We got paid!
she kissed me She Kissed Me SHE KISSED ME!

He reserved his best songs for his shot at the top,
Releasing them one by one, recordings by
Tom Rush, Lynne Anderson, Roger McGuinne.
Then came double platinum Belinda Carlisle.

Finally someone whose last album was platinum
times two, wants you and your song to record.
Not only that, it will be the next single,
Place hotels on the Monopoly board.

Then something goes terribly, terribly wrong,
The video isn’t played on MTV.
A textbook case how not to market your product,
A new way to make musick history.

He then pitched an idea to someone at Disney,
About the lost continent under the sea,
He came back in two weeks and then the guy told him,
“What a coincidence! I didn’t know,
Someone here’s working on the same idea,
Glad you could come, Oh now I’ve got to go,
Give me a call, I’ll be glad to see ya.”

Then came a phone call with really bad news
Leukemia, possibly fatal.
I saw him one last time when there was still hope,
His spirit resilient, no self -pity.

Choosing the artist’s life seems romantic,
The highs are quite high, but the lows, oh-so low.
When the new stars are almost all infantic,
There’s a place where few with sanity go.

Thus some lovely moths, when summoned by light,
Oft become undone, succumbing in flight.