Prochaine etage, proximo piano, next level summer 2012

The following poems are just the window opening, making that sudden jarring noise

that startels you after a long silence. These are love poems and the feelings when it

evaporates. Poems that will appear in the new poetry book:

“A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing.”

Beg and borrow


I think of the dead friend dying of cancer,

and the young unknown man about to be married,

so what is between the time a man launches

a dream to beg, borrow and steal we all

take life seconds and cook time like some

chef taking orders from things, events that

leave us with a dear bill to be paid, and

we’ve been paying it with small talk,

climbing long ladders you can’t go back down.

~ ~ ~

It’s a sentimental journey, poetry is,

something binding to another. Life is all that  –

a sentimental journey all the time. Piano music makes a sense

beyond one’s life, then thereafter the difficulty to

make one’s music is sentimental after all.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes love leaves a blank stare,

so blank that no love can be made,

and only a goodbye, like sailors leaving on

a long sea ride, waving to the people

on the shore, something loved not seen for a

long time or forever.

this blank stare of love never solved is just

that,  a distant shore sailed away. From

never to be set foot again. The sea, and its

endless horror of loneliness,  bobbing up and down,

lonely buoy staring ahead into nothingness.

~ ~ ~

Does it really matter thief of people’s heart,

who takes nothing from everything,

but leaves the tendrils as if he never came

empty like the barrels of a gun chamber never fired.

Funny thing about love never realized,

it’s just that, a shot never fired, cold

shot in the barrel and that empty sound

is all the person will ever hear

the rest of her life.

~ ~ ~

Never will I write another love letter to

any woman whose heart is a closed orb

for that orb is frozen, and no pen or words of warmth

could ever penetrate what cannot be penetrated

and the love, and why love is not, becomes sometime

love cannot be. And this is why love is love.

~ ~~

The secular point of each generation is

to realize itself, and by the time that is.

It’s time for the next generation to judge.

~ ~ ~

Each generation is too busy making still life,

then to judge itself. That is the now, which

will soon be them. Human kind is a creature of sad light

always thinking of the past and how the future

will be affected. Like a long forgotten dream,

the future just happens each day next,

the way it’s supposed to.

~ ~ ~


To gain entry into one’s soul can take a

lifetime, the arriving like a plants hystemic

growth, some storm or events sweeps you away.

Life can make no sense, except for each

moment, better to live each second in some

kind of better life than to dream in one’s

own perfect fear

Life is like that, will take you until

your last second, that’s why when a roller coaster

ride ends that kind of slow down to a step,

and just let you off kind of quick.

~ ~ ~

This thing called time which gives lovers

chances to meld together two hearts that

were once apart, as if people were objects

in museums, alone looked at with “do not

touch” signs hung on placards from their necks.

These placards written by others marked in time,

then someone rescues that museum heart.

To time which then carries away two lovers,

unforgivable time that spills forth in some chant,

a pickle to eat or throw away as long as time permits.

~ ~ ~

Underneath the silver moon, opaque

harmless, but menacing. These full moon come

and go, leaving the world a little more blind

each time. Some mercurial bind of little importance.

Just some marking of time, elegant time that

postures each second, stands still only in memory, can give lovers

one more chance to love, and the world revolves around

itself, an owl head spins and gravity becomes this woman’s

friend, keeps her heart on the earth, from flying away

To that place where time stands still only in memories.

~ ~ ~

The depth of beauty, something beyond

that never exhausts itself,

never changing, is the true beauty in a face,

more like a musical melody

keeps playing inside. The music

stops, but the beauty of her face

kept on unending. So this is

beauty that can never be loved,

only admired.

~ ~~

Like Montreaux was a place, and the

Dents du Midi was something for a

dentist, up alone at Caux, the maps

showed roads that only existed in

the minds of farmers. To find these

forbidden roads takes some skills, luck.

This is the beauty of the Alps, that

things, roads, divine hamlets are found

by accident, the same way two lovers

find each other, by some twining of time.

~ ~ ~

Saillon 2011

This thing in between Saillon, the fete

with all the noise, people, faries and nymphs,

chanteurs, but before time began there was

nothing, only a void called Saillon, a name before

names, where groves of vineyards just bask there,

when there is no fete, is the sound before

time, a vacuum of nothing, space, not medieval,

but primordial, before sound, and ears could hear,

lays quietness of Saillon. A dog barks, and

rain smatter hits pavement, and there are no

ears, only sound before time.

~ ~ ~

Monte Generosa 2011

Something about being a young man at Monte Generosa,

being in the grotto with the salty old Swiss Italian men,

who joke, laugh at life and everything, it’s all funny.

these quarter centuries are like mist, a tethered dream

woven by invisible rope of jokes and laughter.

Someday, in twenty years, I will be on the Monte

joking into the sunset as the younger people watch and listen.

~ ~ ~

The dark spot between the light,

eternal optimist thinks this

light will always be there, then the light

becomes a dark spot within the new shade.

To paint a light color, start on a dark background.

To paint a dark scheme, set on a white background.

To find love, paint it where it does not belong.

~ ~ ~

Some painting of long ago,

some dissection of mankind.

as if divine providence gave

the artist supreme reign

over right and wrong, and all

was to please the church over

the left shoulder, and the people

over his right shoulder. In between

was the artist middle that sold

out only to make some meager means.

~ ~ ~

The city becomes some dark hollow

hull of a ship, something where concrete,

wood fused together to hold man

in its belly. These people that

float by in some San Franciscan theater

where no one speaks, and no lines are written

for anyone to remember. And the crowd

just watches dumbfounded, waiting

for the applause signal.

~ ~ ~

Autumn arrives with its whisper

inside some glove its fingers fit,

take the pine needles that fall, sounds

rustle as if the wind, not air but a

shaking of things, as if the world was in

a tumbler, and we just tumble around.

~ ~ ~

Yes (The painting)

They painted in celestial gardens

angels giving arms to the blessed

righteous one’s, weapons lay on

the ground, and to the victor is given

a hat with plumes, and pikes draped

with canopies. A golden chicken on the

mountain gleams inside the sun. This

is what victory really is. Angels

come down and speak of love not

war, and the wicked loneliness of nothing

is gone.

~ ~ ~

The poet and his Pelikan pen is a fool

with an instrument that both creates death

and life with one line. Who says the well will run

dry, when the mind is teeming. Some poet said:

“Nevermore.” That is not a word but nevermore,

like something you say to a child who eats between meals.

Better to “anymore,” so I can deal my love pellets

Inside this “evermore.”

~ ~ ~

Smart bombs and apple plumbs,

computers and horses,

old songs that should never have been written,

banks, dentists and long highway to hell.

Some lady came in and stole all the unfinished

drinks, that’s the way it goes in the city.

My daughter’s eyes have turned from blue to aqua hazel,

so there is this beauty to life after all.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes a harsh upbringing does nothing

but teach that life is an unwanting,

something not to be lived, but survived,

some hard scrabble, footsteps echo on

stones, better to be left at home, then

go out into the dark night. All that

awaits you is darkness. The morning always

comes, and you can write until the pen’s ink

is dry, but there is always music to play, food

for the mind, people come and go, but to be

alive each day after day is a joy. And whatever

harshness from before can just hang in the mist.

~ ~ ~

Action speaks louder than words,

but in the city, love roams to nowhere.

Those misfits called humans frolic to

some lost heartbeat, a path that

gives, loses what rescues down a blind hole,

instead love wanders away each day,

no rapture, only feint memories of what

could have been. The end is never near

and love wanders away again. Always so

far away, as if there is a mountain that can

never to be climbed. No star light to show the

way, but then, when all is lost, here comes

love, and the special moments wash away

these things that roam to nowhere.

~ ~ ~

The funny thing about love is that

It’s fleeting, like some bird that flies

to your roost, then flies away almost as fast

as it came, like the sun that hits your face

between clouds, love can warm you between

the cold spots.

Almost as if life is just some

sex bubble, where everything in between is centered

on one act, and love is the facilitator, some

trick of emotion, attraction that keeps us

hungry, food down our throats, kisses and

deep chasms of love.

~ ~ ~

It’s like a flood the way three daughters

come at you, they all speak some unknown tongues,

and their music is something from bad syncopated

machines, voice changing devices,

Mp3, Ipod, clicks the door shut.

Each night, as the moon revolves around

in mystified fits over gizmos and gadgets.

It keeps the hands busy,

and the mind likes it that way.

~ ~ ~

Back at the Chez Steel

All hell breaks loose every

morning. Something about kids

going to school uses energy

reducers, taking over the stress,

as if a ‘bird in flight’ wavering along.

There are never any endings only beginnings.

That is what he opaque world teaches on

many levels

These insects undefiant, some kind of joke,

like a flat tire, but confident is

the insect carrying the morsel, like an

unbound notebook we twine away the hours

like some mindless fish.

~ ~ ~

The winds have some extra

sensory perception, and the sun is

a glove to change every day . Then the

rain becomes sheets of decay,

Sultry alone on the blank streets

waiting for the sun to dry this.

~ ~ ~

So weeps the river of time when love

Is lost or swept away, but time does

not care about old love never spent, only

In today and what stands for.

~ ~ ~

Some long time ago in the dark ages,

a man sat alone in a room with a feather

and pencil, after some time, the piece was

finished, since crumbled to dust, never to be

read again, this thing called time, what it

does is such a perfect gift for the last

to be unknowing.

~ ~ ~

What happened to values?

said the old man to the young man.

These values given

from me to you, sanctified to obey,

but love conquers all,

so what does love and age quantify

to anything other than what birds chirp, and

fly from tree to tree.

~ ~ ~

The best place to write a poem

is from the inside, if you can find

that spot, stay there and listen

to the nakedness of your face.

The truth blisters on, gone like

Some bird that flies away.

~ ~ ~

The selling and sales of life’s things

are just that, a selling and sales

of one’s life and things. It’s all

just a passing of intangible  …

these things stay behind, and keep

passing along

~ ~ ~

The sun rises in the same spot

in the sky as only one place

as the moon. Same place, only one spot.

~ ~ ~

Occupation of one’s life by

the wrong person is the same

as stealing someone’s life away.

So better not to be stolen away.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes in the middle of the night,

people wake up to find nothing but

themselves, like some sentry, alert

as if in someone’s army. Then it takes

some time to find out there is no army, only

a million stars unseen in the night, like a

half-moon soon to surface. To fall back asleep

is the battle won against one million

stars, this unseen army marching you

to sleep.

~ ~ ~

In some place long ago was invented

Aa valley where the moon rises in the

same spot as the sun rises the next morning.

The pine tree anointed center of Earth,

axis of the universe, the Portuguese herdsmen

are up at 4:00 a.m. to move the cows, in some

dark portal, a lantern swings, a dog barks,

by 7:00 a.m. they are back up on the slope,

there is always a reason to move the cows from

spot to spot, and the water released into

the mountain, two cracks were heard, and

a spark brings death and life.

~ ~ ~

There is something about life on the lamb,

this suitcase and road, where valley

meets mountain, a husk of an old

beehive sits petrified on the door post.

Why be a wolf or a lamb, instead a wolf

in sheath’s clothing? Along the way, a

wolf is just an animal all the

same, but the lamb will always be

the lamb.

~ ~ ~

There was the light in her dark

eyes that stayed within me, like

a flute playing in the night, there was

nothing else but spastic movement.

Love is nothing without its mirror

reflecting itself on each other.

A flute plays in the night, sweet

power from the sky, and lovers

look that look, keeping love

what it is, a silent thing.

~ ~ ~

Somewhere in the heart of

humor lies a reservoir, this

force remains forever hidden like

a birthmark, something that comes with

you, like a long sleep, that you hope

to awaken from. The bells ring, the people

laugh, and the moon hides

away, half-full or whatever moon you


~ ~ ~

Once upon a cloud long ago love lived in some place we look for,

when you find this place, stay there

as long as allowed because love is

temporal, this flutter and bird flying,

keeps flying as long as there is wind,

hope or fantasy from this cloud long ago.

~ ~ ~

Some time long ago people wore

fake hair, mops of silver and perfume.

Today, we wear fake brains, strange

thoughts imbedded from this place, this time,

there anymore, always something to hide,

one must find a way to be.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes the story is never over,

it keeps going like some flower growing.

You can never pick, only smell, and

that is the best part, otherwise, the

flower just melts away, and the story

is over.

~ ~ ~

There is something about going home

again, the forethought is there, and then you are

there also. Seems like shadows outline the

dark lines overcast skies always say you are

home, dim-lit rooms, dim-lit people, and

the crusty smelly chair you left. Kind of like

a spider spinning a web where the web once

was, disintegrated, but built up again.

Makes sense when you leave, but

only a home is a home when you make it one.

~ ~ ~

The funny thing about mankind,

rolling across the planet, invents animal

traits for protection, like the pike, some

porcupine, in the center, waiting for

some sponge to attack. Then a tribe

of amoeba on horses resemble

some moving stock of goats meandering.

Then comes the sheep, moving

aside for the goats, some procession of

animals, mankind in the forefront in control.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes the last orchard drops

the sweetest fruit only too fresh and delicious

to have, only pick-up, marvel at the facets

this fruit has. But what is a fruit if not to

be eaten, enjoyed. Its seeds lost forever inside.

Lost forever this planet never known, blocked

by the moon from the sun that will never

shine again. But who will pick up

the fruit if you pass it by?

Love is a thing known to

no other, so when it comes,

it’s always misunderstood.

~ ~ ~

Time only runs out

when we are out of time.

~ ~ ~