1) Guesthouse,
In Babenhausen
The girl in the guesthouse
Is not as lovely as she was,
This year has worn against her.
She does not serve me so willingly;
Yes, she had a child, turned mother
And the glitter of youth that she shed
About the bar, as she
Brought me my beer, is spread
Too thin to be noticed.
She’s young, but looks middle aged.
Note: I was in Germany twice, once for 10-months, the second time for 44-months; during the second period, I knew the young lady at the guesthouse, a pretty German, her father owned the place, and her and her older sister helped with it. I had left the area for a year or so, and returned, and started drinking again, at that location, which was a bar on the highway between Babenhausen, and the Military Compound, nearby. But I hardly recognized her the second time. She was with child, and then I saw her before I left again, and that is when I saw the drastic change to her skin, her youthful beauty. I do feel, all this drinking and smoking and bar life takes the most out of a person, and of course it was a hangout for GI’s. Her skin was rich and vibrant; she was perhaps 19-years old when I met her, and 22-when I left. I of course back in 1976 was much older than her, I was 29-years old then. #1263 3/3/06
2 )February in Minnesota
O’ quiet February—afternoon
Thy winter winds have ripened.
To-morrow’s perhaps more rigged;
We live them solely: one by one.
The crowd, people, city’s heartbeat
To-morrow may come out to see,
The harsh February morning breeze,
Makes the hours of day much briefer.
#1238 2/23/06
3)White with Haste
(Footsteps of H.P. Lovecraft))A dedicated poem))
Dead leaves of days gone by—now fly:
White with haste, ghouls fly high;
Amongst old aisles, where footsteps once fell
Now tombs and tales and lurking madmen hail:
Here is where H.P. Lovecraft once walked,
And talked—and wrote gloomy tales…!
It is he, who howls now like a ghoul,
In the nights—white with haste; he
Who no longer can see the light!
His wings now are wings of dread,
His breathe is naught, cold with death!...
At twilight in the hoary haunted woods,
You can hear a whisper now and then
Some gleaming teeth that could be his:
Piercing eyes, waxed with death…!
Dead leaves of days gone by—still fly,
Ruffled with footsteps that once fell,
Here is where madness was dispelled…
Where Lovecraft walked and talked:
To his second self!...
#969 12/15/05
Commentary: H.P. Lovecraft wrote basically on the old legends of the world, it was his stepping stone I do believe; the world that once was of course, was no more, so he said in his many stories, and somehow this old world was lost into, or putout of the physical realm, punished you could say for violating its laws of nature, using black magic, teaching heavenly things to mortals. And so his luring shadows have lived on up unto today; his “Cthulhu Mythology,” defined a new creation of horror you could say, one that is/was not as raw as perhaps Steven King’s is today, one much better written I do believe, than any new writes of this genre in our day. Thus, I leave him with this poem in his twilight, and his creepy universe.
4)
Part III [reedited/ 5/12/06]
The Abyss of the Black Sea
[December 2005] Seven thousand feet, into the abyss of the Black Sea, where a hand full of shipwrecks, dating back to 3900 BC, about one hundred years after the destruction of the Great Tower at Kura, still remained, is where I’m bringing you; where some great flood took place. Below the current water line of the great sea, a waterline, eons old, John Michael Walsh, archeologist, from his mini submarine investigated this suspicious abyss.
‘What happened to these ships,’ he asked himself, which he just discovered, discovered and pondered on?
It was but a few months earlier, along this area he found branches, wood and rubbish for the most part (so he informed me), along with polished stones, yes there was a civilization here long ago he concluded, along the shores of this great sea; yes there was a war in the middle of this sea perhaps, he also told himself: the ships were there. And yes there was a flood, for the waterline was there. And here he was in the deep, the very heart of the sea, where he found ships, dark as it was, he had a beam of light from his submarine, thus, he saw all he needed to see; signs of carved tools were in sight; planks and ceramic amphorae, jars, ancient jars and wines.
He knew archaeologists have long been interested in the Black Sea, but he was the discoverer of these ancient ships, he also knew the story, the legend I should say: of the Great Tower at Kura. Perhaps these were merchant ships being escorted by a war ship, so it looked to him. He took some video images of the geographical area. Pondered on his thoughts for a while, stared into the blackness around the ships, the ancient floor of the sea.
As he looked about, he saw parts of the Great Tower to his astonishment; thus, the legend was true. But how was this indestructible tower destroyed. What could have happened? And so he moved about in the water. He discovered nickel, and iron, large and small amounts, all about the area; tantalizing evidence of an extraterrestrial cause, or roots of this mystery, or perhaps it was an earthquake, but he abruptly shifted his thoughts back to where they were, even so, even if the earthquake did take place, how was it triggered, it eliminated 90% of everything, or at least everything in this region of the world: it must have. This asteroid or comet that hit, most likely an asteroid he concluded: was, or had the impact of this is 100,000-times greater that of the strongest earthquake known. “Yes, yes,” he said, ‘…but was it this that brought the Tower down, brought the sea to its present structure, and brought the ships to its depths of: 7000-feet?
He had known of asteroids striking in Mexico, the Yucatan area, but that was millions of years ago, that ended the dinosaur age, but 7000-years ago, it was monumental stimuli for him. He was now in a daze, in a frenzy of hysteria, he couldn’t believe all his thoughts, his new ideas, his new discover. He would tell the world, he would be famous. The Great Tower of Kura was now rediscovered. He would be in the science journals, newspapers.
Then all of a sudden, just like that, there was a trimmer, a small shake in the earth, an earthquake, not much, just enough to disturbed the water, and he looked about, he had taken a vast number of pictures, then he discovered something else, an unearthed giant dinosaur, yes, yes a dinosaur, it was unearthed when the trimmer happened. “Just a minute,” he told his submarine, he talked to it as one does to his horse, or dog, or car:
“Yes, just a minute, I got to take a closer look at this, and then we got to get going back to the surface.”
Having said that, he looked at the clock, time was short, very short, and his fuel and air supply was short, very short, but he had enough, just enough perchance, so he thought, told himself, said to his second self:
“…perhaps, perhaps enough for…” then his eyes drifted to the giant dinosaur.
“It must be 145-million years old,” he told his Ms Submarine, “yes, indeed, I’ll excavate it, but what if it gets covered up again? or shifts to another location? and we can’t find it, I’m here now, now is the time; no time for paleontologists, or fossil hunters, I’m here now, no time to find a million dollar dig like this again, I got it now!”
And so he would not leave the site, and I must be frank with you, his ship is with the others this very day in the abyss below; yes indeed this very minute is where it rests in peace.
One thing the middle aged archeologist did do, he left his radio on, and I taped it, and a video image was released, and I have it, and so I shall be the next one down there. I was his only friend.
5) The Ash Dark Pyre
Cremated ashes on a dark Pyre
Reptilian serpents fly over me.
My soul is like some jaded vine
Irony supreme—a strange mind!
#960 12/14/05 Committed to Clark A Smith
2) Aforgomon’s: Obliteration
I saw the god, Aforgomon
There was something in his gaze
Likened to a salty hurricane!
Then he turned and swallowed me…
(head first)
“I have come,” so he told me then—
After peering from his abyss den
(where he had lived for eons when)
Now on earth’s surface:
“Death
by chains” he said
“of
fire” he said
“is
simply a
symbol;
It
Does
Not
Hold the
Gleam
Of
Obliteration
As in my
Dizzying
Gaze.”
His eyes were like the sea—deep
He had no pity for anybody—.
My body veered before the wind,
As he appeared—at my command
That is when: when
He turned and swallowed me—
With all his necromancy!...
#958 12/11/05 committed to CAS (Clark Ashton Smith)
6) The Messiah
Like pelts stretched from side-to-side
On a wooden cross, undressed, alive—
The Messiah hung, like a wild beast,
Uncouth, uncrowned, no dignity.
Deboned—like fish—His body hung;
Lifeless, deformed, in silent pain.
Dried blood upon His ransomed face,
Eyes decaying, hardly seen.
Pores hemorrhaging with a gloss of sweet;
Skin like mounds of inflamed tar
(like boils reflecting off dark shaded ice).
Deep distress around His soot-covered veins,
A mixture of Saliva, Dirt and Shame;
Ugly as sin, beyond recognition
(like open incisions of an autopsy).
Acquainted with grief, yes, oh Yes!
As the prophets foretold, long ago.
A new scene, we became REDEEMED!!
Notes: Originally written in 1987; published in the book, “National Library of Poetry,” (won Editor’s choice Award in the North American Poetry Competition of l988, out of 10,000 entries) also published in the book, “Siren,” 2003.
7)Winter of Death
In the winter of doubt
Death swims—engulfs
Like a hurricane—like
A ship sinking; thus,
Pitilessly with tons of
Crushing sea!
Here I stand on the lofty
Poop, above the angry
Waves—, as it waits
For Me!...
#943 [12/7/05]
8)Say Not:a Passing Era
[Three Poems]
1
Say not, the passing era has passed
And all the great ones dead at last:
No more mountains left to climb:
Yet I foresee a brighter time.
A wiser Albert Einstein, maybe born
A braver Patten win a war:
A taller America thunder in:
A stronger Hitler conquers and wins.
We’ll see before this world is done
A second Bin Laden destroy our fun:
A more alluring Marilyn Monroe:
A nobler Sister Teresa, come and go.
A weaker Israel shall be destroyed
By foe and friend in sheep’s skin:
And a wilder fighter than Casius Clay:
Demons and witches on parade:
A look-alike Christ: part the waves.
Aye, miracles will come about: through
Men, marvels and Poets warn-out…!
#1077 1/14/06
9) Eyes Out of the Woodlands
[A Short story out of Northern Minnesota]
1
[1959] He hid in the woods, watching his father and sister, what they were doing. So we heard that, that is. Most of us felt, and all of us gossiped, he was up to no good. Here he lived an estranged life, hidden in the thick of the deep, like a recluse.
At times it was said, you could smell his cooking of venison, or spot him driving his 1952-pickup to town, dilapidated. His one room shack remained on the 1400-acers his father owned, and there he lived quietly, out of sight and out of the minds of the people in town, except for the intermit conversations, and gossip.
His sister, Victoria, remained with her father year after year, her father selling lumber to the highest bidder. He had some tourist cabins also, down by the lake for the fish folks that came up from the big city year-round.
Why Ambrose was the opposite of his sister no one knew. He wanted to sell his one third of the 1400-acers, or perhaps it was one half of his fathers land, and god knows what he wanted to do with the money. But the old man said ‘No!’ harshly, said ‘No!’ after he had left, once and for all. Nine years he was gone, deserted his wife and kid, and went on back to that shack to wait for his father to die, and leave him the land. His sister still there, but the old man never forgave his son, who took a wife, had two grandkids, and left them someplace; he’d never get to see them. But the old man just left well enough alone. Virginia remained single.
We all said, Vera would marry after the old man died, then Ambrose would come out of the woods from his self imposed hibernation, and claim what he felt was his.
2
Nobody really knows what the other person is thinking, yet we guessed at it a lot, and maybe a few of us in town did know; as they say, ‘pride comes before destruction,’ and we all could see it coming.
Vera was gentle, soft spoken, always thinking, or so it seemed, perchance five foot two inches, short, and cute. She was forty years old now, so the cuteness was leaving her, the old man was sixty-seven, and like Ambrose, the older of the two, by two years, was moody and high spirited like his father—stubborn.
“Why don’t you get married?” the old man said one day to Virginia. What ruffled his feathers I don’t know, but Vera became dumfounded. (This of course is speculation and what we put together).
“If you’re waiting for my wooded lands, you’ve got a long wait,” we all heard him mumble that as he walked out of the grocery store in town one Saturday afternoon with his daughter, and put them groceries in his new truck, 1959 (Ford I think), and headed out of town to his huge log cabin, more like a lodge (yes, a lodge you could call it), in the woods, with six-bedrooms, and five bathrooms. She did say something sitting in that front seat, I heard her, before they took off:
“I have no time for a husband, taking care of you, the bookkeeping, cleaning the house; I’ve earned my share when you pass on.” The old man didn’t say a word, he perhaps knew she’d leave; the shape of things would drastically change then, then what [?] That was conceivably the last he ever said on the matter to her for a spell, and she remained living her old life, her old self at the house, a mild cool mannered life, sedate, and watchful as if with long-sided cat eyes.
3
I suppose if there was any respect between Ambrose and Mr. Beck, it was in that Ambrose left the old man alone; respect, or regard for the other, can and did come in that direction.
The old man must have been thinking (so we thought), Ambrose was brave enough to confront his greedy-design, whereas, Vera was willing to subdue hers, and just wait it out. Yes indeed, it was that way, and whatever was on Vera’s mind, she was not spending any of her money her mother had left her and Ambrose, whom gambled his mother’s inheritance away long ago, had none to worry about.
Then I thought, as many did, the old man would kick her out some day—not that he wanted to, but his temper, his nature, would put her in harms way, and he’d have no choice. And that is exactly what happened, what took place was this: the old baldheaded, bulldog of a man, Mr. Beck short and stocky, like a prize fighter one day opened the door and shoved her down the few steps there were on the porch, saying:
”Spend my money if you can when I’m dead!” And she left his house, just like that. She kept her regular reserved composure, and mild manner, which, strange to say, but true, she was crying, we didn’t think less of her for those tears, but it didn’t quite fit.
4
She had never cried before, in fact I always saw her as a pillar of strength. Much in control of herself, her emotions: therefore, if she was anything, she was a much deeper fish than her brother, and perhaps equal in shrewdness to her father: I don't know, but I’d say, a dangerous combination.
During the following years, a few years that is, two years to be exact, rarely did anybody stop to see the old man, he paid his taxes as usual; hired some help with the land, and boats he rented to visitors, and cabins he rented to the same folks: Vera now lived with her Aunt and uncle about five miles down the road. And Ambrose, well, he still lived in the woods, checking on what his father was doing, going back to his shack, drinking a pint of whisky now and then, making some home made stuff to boot.
Now and then the old man walked into the woods near the shack, but not too near, a glance towards it, and perhaps he saw Ambrose, perhaps not: he’d then go kill a few animals to eat, and paid it no more attention that that.
Then as Ambrose went one day to see what his father was up to, he saw him lying stone-still, dead on the ground, he knew he was dead; he was near the steps of the porch, as if he could have fallen. There was Aunt Betty’s 1960-ford, it took off quickly by the fence, which was by the side of the road, some woman was driving it, and it wasn’t Aunt Betty, unless she got her haircut short recently, and she hadn’t.
The county health officer showed up, and reported to the officials it was death by accident. He had tripped on a loose step attached to his porch; he even fixed it while waiting for the sheriff. The sheriff talked to Ambrose, and then they buried old man Beck by the shack, it was where Ambrose wished it to be. Vera showed up at the funeral, Ambrose did not. Victoria moved into the house and left the door unlocked for her brother Ambrose, but he never again walked through those doors—Victoria often stood under the arch of the doorway looking into the woods as if Ambrose would show up, she stood in that doorway until she died of old age—waiting, looking. |
