my book of poetry about September 11th, 2001...and after Available NOW at -click here

Monday, November 16, 2015

Watching the Detectives...

I started watching Mark Harmon and NCIS with dad in Arlington back when he was with Susan.

Jen and I like to catch the syndicated episodes, we rented season 1, and saw the beginning of the series. Whenever I watch, I try to keep track of the “Gibbs Rules” and here are a few I was able to jot into the iPad before it took a bath. Fortunately, nothing is lost to the Cloud. In this time of hyper vigilance, I think of how these rules apply to my own experience in New York City.

Gibbs Rules - Nothing's more boring than perfect. Never apologize. It's a sign of weakness.

2. Always wear gloves.

5. You don't waste good.

8. Never take anything for granted.

10. Never get personally involved

11. When the jobs done, walk away...

12. Never date a co-worker

14. Bend the rule...don't break it

35. Always watch the watchers.

38. Your case, your lead.

42. Never accept an apology from someone who just sucker punched you...

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

She Didn't Care for Cats...

For My Mother Rose (1929-2014)

She didn’t care for bed time stories
She knew the price of milk and eggs
Her favorite day was Christmas Morning
She wasn’t one to plead or beg

She was the strongest person
On planet Earth
A force of nature
Since birth

Never sat on the lap of luxury
Her family her treasure trove
She made her way without a partner
She had no license when she drove

She did not like swear words
She loved a good ice cream Sundae
From dusk to dawn she worked it seemed
Monday through to Monday

She raised two unruly young ones
Did all of it mostly alone
She bought cars, and bought a house
She gave us comfort, she made a home

Life will not be the same
Without her
There’s  an emptiness

That won’t ever be filled

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Young, digitally astute poets with loyal online followings have catapulted onto the best-seller lists, where poetry books are scarce

I've been at this a long time.  Trying to get noticed is ever a tricky thing. Without resorting to stunts and gimmicks, or relying on the kindness of strangers, I have managed to carve a modest niche for myself. My expectations go as high as the worth of my work. I figure my lack of success means I'm just not very good. So standards of quality are upheld in some esoteric way.The above referenced article in the New York Times prompted me to immediately publish a poem on Face Book. Which is an old poets venue, I suppose, as opposed to Instagram or Tumblr. Poetry, as with all beauty in Art, is in the eye of the beholder. Most poets dream of getting their work in front of as many appreciative eyes as possible. I guess that is what the "game" is all about. The new generation is forging ahead, clearing their own path. Kudos to them and their society.

If you read further into the article you will learn that a few of the poets have been given a leg up, riding the popularity of established celebrities. Poetry over the ages has proven to be the most democratic of arts. Its popularity ebbs and flows with the times and it is good to see a resurgence flourishing on our latest new democratic medium of the internet. Critics will not be impressed, but given a choice between critical acclaim or popularity, I think most poets would rather have their work read by as many people as possible rather than face being insignificantly obscure. 

Am I bitter? Good question. If I am it is only because I have been drinking my coffee black, for the most part, all my adult life. I have the sense that when I get serious, when I really put the work in that's required, then it will all fall into place. What ever that "IT" is supposed to be, I have yet to decide.

For my few fans of this page, here is what I wrote the other day on my flight from NYC to Greenville, NC, long before I read this article:

Amateur Poet

I stab at truth
With my words
Their points dull
So that no piercing
To draw blood
Unlike Allan Ginsberg
Wandering a neon fruit
Illuminating night
Like a full moon
In autumn
Following Fathers Walt
And Lorca around
Tuned to their
Frequent and varied
Which rest in
Promethean hands
Dancing like stars above

I excel
At futility
My fusillade of verbiage
Wounds no one
Except, maybe