CredoP p p p p p apapaving the road
forlorn gravel with potholes;
human intrusion
where does it go?
Hereby and whereas today, helas,
a new poetry has emerged
to speak the view of the sunken class;
the dead birds and rhinos,
even something Phillie Mo1 wouldn’t advertise.
Their sleek paint leaching into local water
affecting even the tiniest of genes
of crawling centipedes.
This poetic voice drunk
from the words of ancient heroes
and the splash of oils,
mixed and splattered upon canvases
with their own devices.
The freedom of Twain2
and the tightness of Pound3,
the apoplectic vision of Munch4,
the serenity of Bonnard5,
the mundane Parisian street of Zola6,
and the ecstatic cries of Madame Liberté7:
“Liberté, egalité, fraternité.
Mais Madame, Qui font les regles de l’entrée?”
“Personne,” elle respond8.
1Philip Morris
2Mark Twain
3Ezra Pound
4Edward Munch
5Pierre Bonnard
6Emile Zola
7Madame Liberté – A figure in “Les Miserables” by Victor Hugo and painted by De’lacroix in a classical oil.
8Freedom, equality, brotherhood. But Madam, who sets the rules of entering?” “Nobody,” she answers.
A voice emerges, the voice proclaims:
Let us, each and one, try to hear our
whisperings and pleas.
Let us try to understand the beauty within.
Let us try to hear the whisperings of
the infinite,
in the silence and blindness
of all that is around us.
Acceptance.
Let us try to grow from the smile of others,
from the howl of the gull,
from the sick baby bird.
Let us try to give to the infinite
what is theirs and shall be.
Let us be thankful of our God
whose image is the vast ocean
on a cool day, with a constant roar,
and the simple logic of a 1,500-foot rock
jutting above the salty water
adorned in coniferous greens standing proud.
AwakeningsGuiding whispers in the trees –
probing sounds push into my thoughts.
New direction, new reality,
environment of a new day
built on yesterday
and last October
and Wednesday a week ago.
The ferns lay huddled,
but push their spores up
hoping for enough moisture
to take them to their homes.
The mockingbird has appeared
and pronounced a new season.
We know he jests,
yet pivots in the right direction.
Arcane thoughts that this can last forever
and it hasn’t even started yet.
Hyukatake is halfway across his journey.
The mockingbird laughs and points nowhere.
Man clicks on his machine.
The sky is riddled with secrets.
Perky powerful pride of the red-breast
declaring the end of Winter.
Poor Vision Big white cones spot the countryside;
markers for the cows to flock.
Black animals with fat, white splotches
parted on God’s green hillsides.
Trees adorned with creamery-white milk
and big, green cigars hinge on the Summer solstice,
the night when all green verdure rejoice
and men reflect on the deep orange hues
of a fading day.
Life of soul and
soul of men.
Twilight gives to the Summer air.
All breathe the last Spring breath
and accept the onslaught of change.
Remembrances of a Winter’s past,
a cold, dead night,
when spirits reigned the haunting spectrum
of another place without life;
a chilling wind and then,
the prophecy.
Breath of each moment
and the deep orange hues.
Striking resemblance of a solstice gone by.
The body twinges
with another layer of time.
The earth basks
with another layer of green.
The Lord’s Touch
Cirrus whites laced into soft deep blues
curious lights sifting through deep green hues
gurgling waters grip slippery rocks,
then, flow through.
Beginnings of a day,
Sun, creating its own line
on the mountain,
presses down.
Humble trees stand and stretch
in the cool morning air
toward their God and my God,
knowing deeply within,
the small moments’
power of eternity.
The birds feed and perch
in these towers of deep green,
singing of life simple,
possessing, albeit briefly,
the wisdom of the forest.
A stand of alders pronounces Thoreau’s thoughts;
rich white beckoning
of effervescent spot.
Unspoiled nature reveals my God,
fast water flowing to salty seas,
shimmering surface speaks of a new day
and new light
which God shines on all life.
Synergies Of A Dream
Scope and perception of the huge green,
that envelopes,
that sees through
this radiant season of the renew.
Complacencies of the Algonquin DellDelusions of bright orange and white,
shimmering below the surface
against the mirror image
of the greens on the pond.
Soft newness of new friends –
and a certain new peace
as I gaze into the waters below.
The fish,
orange, white, yellow, blue,
are happy and calm.
The spirit of a too busy world.
Simple peace of paradise,
yet never quite there.
The push, powerful
of ever-present nature
permeates within and without
the effervescent green.
Our new fish huddle
and sniff the ground.
Night FallsThe silence of fading light
while dogs bark, cars pass.
The world moves on
casting deeper and deeper shadows
until all is a shadow.
Twisted trees dimly perceived
soon to be suspended in darkness.
May 8, 1998May 8.
What an unusual morning it is;
frost on the clover,
the last blades of a violet tulip
still stretching to the sun,
and I, passing the last days
of my fortieth year.
Tiny DropsPassing time on a cruise
dangling 27,000 feet.
Entangled time currents
passing back and fro,
past and present,
leading me through a cylinder
in which the past diminishes
with the distance traveled.
Alert to the magic
of the dangling moment
I gaze at space,
and watch my thoughts
tumble haphazardly
on the page.
Measurements of gravity
and the unconditioned
nature of the moment,
set in space,
to the light
of the sun,
its glimmer
on the water
and my eyes’
absorption.
The tiny drops of our passing existence
move swiftly
sometimes slowly,
always beyond our grasp.
Future is as future was,
leads to moments of growth
and fruition,
of ideas and big dreams,
and big ideas and very big sky.
The plane flies,
billowy clouds stick like paste
on the white misty veil
that clouds the earth below.
Beginnings of an IDEA, forging an identityA poetic work is a massive, relatively, collection of ideas.
Us to them.
Us to them.
“Them” what!
Who is our audience, if it is constructed of all people.
Who can hear an idea?
If it is constructed of people who are searching for direction?
If it is constructed of a literary crowd looking for a new idea?
Is it uncertainty (thus concern) about the millennium?
Then, who is “us” and what are we trying to do by publishing a massive, relatively, construction of ideas?
Are we forging a “persona” for future potential as literary artists?
Are we constructing this work as . . .
A poetic work is a massive collection of ideas.
Banks of BeauchêneGreen wallpaper,
splashes of white,
with big splinters,
impermeable.
Red buckets sitting
along a wooden plankway,
on each side lay a series of big buckets
adorned in red with machines behind,
fastened to the wooden walk by white rods
as if in a Van Gogh.
The red buckets were suspended by rods over water,
held from the big lake to attend to the fishermen.
We sit in the red buckets.
Moon rises on Petit Beauchêne,
The green banks shimmer,
The bright white birches flash,
especially in the turtle pit.
Moon rises slowly
the lures sink and jig
hoping to interest a wondering Walleye.
Wind rises and falls,
and the green banks,
Stand for eternity.
Lord of the RocksOn hard granite benches,
gulls with ivory chests
manifest their new breed;
little fuzzy grey balls
floating in the water
off the hard granite stone.
Ravens hover; watching
as the great blue heron
nestles with its young chicks.
Their woven nests lay strong
on the branch above.
Thick radiant verdure
amplifies the levels of heron nurseries,
perched on the dead white pine.
The clear black water laps
layer upon layer.
The CHOP……….
Mild presence yet heavy
60 feet deep and broad
soft whisperings, the wind
pushes the water swirling,
creates a quiet
in the eddy;
we watched the winged animation.
The gulls fly overhead
screeching their hollow-call.
Deep blue sky with clouds forming,
reforming, effervescent,
live, with motions from the East.
Table Set With GraniteTable set with granite
atop a rock face,
facing rippling water.
Le chef; orange flames
(burping onions)
prepare the grease
seasoned bass sizzle.
Bud beer cans, le vin du jour.
The gaze crippled
by the majestic power
of the green verdure.
mystifying beauty of birches,
beeches, and conifers.
All washed down
by a refreshing immersion
in the deep cool lake.
The CatchAlgonquin green
the flesh of the tall white pines – whispering.
Below lay the boats, searching
with vivid preparation.
Of lure and worms
given to the desire
of the passing moment.
Worms press, driven down by
the sinker to attract.
Sweet moment of sensation as
Small Mouth Bass attach and
pull commandingly
set – and play.
Man harnessing worm and minnows
to bring out of depths
fish of dark green amber.
GlimpseStark contrasts of color.
Flat lake reflects the light of fading sun,
soft moon low to bring brightness.
Nature is alive with power.
Swallows swoon under the porch.
Cut wood shows the cold Winter
only to reblossom,
forests green.
Hay Rumble GorgeHay Rumble Gorge
swiftly in a very slow manner
treading lightly,
following brown water,
moving, meandering down,
swiftly following course,
treading in a not-certain course,
finding a big perch
a different reality.
Canada day wanderings,
fly fishing,
a couple Rock Bass,
Doug snags and pulls
Dan unhooks and throws,
K.B. cocks and bang
One more Rocky flung.
SerendipitySerendipity,
unusual mention of the passing of the last 45 days,
and 30 days,
and 15 days.
A new form –
an idea projection of,
today, this eve reflection of an image –
a petit construction.
The fish wrangle.
Laughsong
Listen to the wind
sun shimmering on the water
reflecting into the banks
garrulous greens.
Bright light thaws
enduring trees.
Hard winter allows
summer ecstasy.
The breeze massages the skin,
rustling pines soften memories of a winter chill.
earthy fragrances arouse the spirit.
Getting in the mood
All is silent in the constant breezes.
All is blind in the dazzling green verdure.
Pale plaque, mysterious;
inevitably,
the passing of another day
ashen yellow streaks fade
into pinkish shades
sky radiates deeper and deeper blue.
Inspiration and EnergyAll falls down to the water
Westsound’s Surface
serene, placid , still
Pacific Impulses, breeze whispers
Western winds breathe
waves palpitate
Water, the ultimate surface
Bird islands
Jewels of a dream
The Kingfisher chatters
Palliated peckers climb
bald eagle perches
loons search, then dive
Islands in the rainshadow,
a grand sensation.
An oarsmen tug
Pull at the crap trap
et voila – two blue crabs
Plunge in the boiling water
add spices, mangez
Madrone sheds and cries
giving up layers of skin
exposing deep virile green
opulent radiance
western red cedars adorn
Douglas fir sets the tone
Ancestors wonder
how it was
or shall have been with kin
2 or 3 generations down
Really, do they really
act this way
That’s my kin
Wishing we could be there …
Variable greys
passing amber ceilings
Orcas Isalnd
In the shadow of the Olympics
as if time passes in the centuries
but stands still
in the wonder of the moments pass.
Orcas Island
San Juan Island
August 23, 2004
Train VoyageSunrays stretch to the earth.
Clouds defining
yet allowing radiance
(another station)
Sundays arrive on schedule
and leave with fading memories.
SanitzThe idea is that tomorrow will be yesterday,
but not yet.
Empty space in between that is the X,
the grant intersection,
and it’s, and it’s, and it’s, and it’s, and it’s,
anditsanditsanditzntznz.
Now and then
through the little window
when the new wind
in the cyclonic birth
of another day.
LONGINGI wanna grow up
an’ be a proletariat
now I got my educashin
I guess I cin.
I wanna grow up
an’ live with the masses
and’ get spat on from above.
‘Cause where I live
the floor’s too soft
an’ the TV’s always too loud
an’ I never know whin I’m hungry.
Yeah, ‘cause now
I don’t even know if there
is iny poor
‘cause I never seen anybody
dying o’ no food.
I seen people flat on their face
but it wasn’t from no food.
I wanna grow up
an’ be a proletariat
‘cause what I does
don’t make no sense.
First RelationshipThe trick is the denim
‘neuve’, become a part of,
stiff blue gone,
sensitized
then a long wearing in
a confident knowing,
feeling, becoming,
a part of your body.
Threads begin to show
white threads with skin tones underneath.
Crisis point.
Yea, one can easily replace denims.
The trick is the strength
of the feeling.
Yea, one can also patch them
any fabric matches denim
for it is not the fabric but
the feeling.
The more patches,
the more feeling.
Nevertheless,
threads tend to disrepair,
becoming a perilous struggle
to survive.
Kind of reminds me of time
and two people
and the struggle to survive,
except not so predictable.
Pervasion
It’s a wonder:
a thread
woven randomly
as randomly as life
a fabric, then a network
of fabrics.
The dye is cast
until it is washed
another entropy potential.
No dye is everlast.
Semi-permanent existence.
How can I make you feel
that I am real?
When the fabrics are washed
in different tubs
sight unseen.
When to touch is to know
to see is to believe.
Existence Is RealityExistence is reality.
Days pass into weeks,
weeks into months,
months into years,
thus passes another year.
Indefinable time.
Measured against each grain of sand,
one finds it immeasurable.
Conceived of and spoken by each being,
animate and inanimate,
crying out.
Is it the passing on the place,
the journey or the being there,
the mortality or the immortality,
the finity or the infinity.
The water laps on the shore
and the sands bridge.
The moments pass in whichever manner
we choose to measure them.
CrepusculeFrom the eyes of a Mockingbird
alight in a tree
on a branch.
The big bird
with the big tail
flashes those wings
with big white,
knowingly and unknowingly,
the preacher.
Purveying the green campus,
he uses his voice to reflect his own being
and projects the mockery
that is not him,
or his nature.
He offers a silly tone to the day.
Tooah, tooah, to you not he watches me as if in jest;
offers tooah, tooah, bode tooah not,
ha ha ha he laughs in jest
ha ha ha watching the meaningless motions of stupid humans,
not knowing a big human word like behavior.
One night he cries disgustedly –
as if to reproach the whole human race
while the turtles copulate madly in the pond.
He cries tooah, tooah.
The turtles sink,
the weight of both and sheer exhaustion
leaving bubbles that float up from the murky bottom.
Illustration
My attention was riveted to the painting
as the eyes of the painter
translated the emotion on the faces.
Squeezed tubes of oil,
mixed by bristly hairs of a brush
held with the fingers
that interprets the eyes’ perception.
CreationThe eye receives God’s given beauty,
allows ideas to foment,
stirring with other local cogitations,
shakes a few thoughts into an idea.
The artist ponders
upon how to release
kinetic energy.
Colors mix and blend
on the palette under the watchful eye.
The dynamic congeals layer upon layer.
The surface expresses
the magic of the eyes’ discovery.
Herb Wolf, III
New York City
11/23/99
26 December 1979Quietude.
Tucked away bus station---
early departure 8:55 a.m.
9:25 gone,
she’s gone.
No the spirit stays
or I’m gone.
For we go together,
are together.
Late hours rising. Little reason to sleep.
Possibilities of a lifetime so short.
Time was:
a time to touch
one to feel
one to believe in
one to one
one to listen
one to talk
one to see (be seen)
one to one
one to search
one to find
one to understand
one to one.
Time is one.
The 70’s----seven days left.
Reflections of a time span;
a hundred and twenty six moons.
So this is life.
This I found:
reasons to live; reasons for an end.
Pleasures of the earth; pains of existence.
Solid rocks to believe in;
hollow rocks to be wary of.
Memories to keep intact,
memories to let pass
places to return to;
places no to.
‘Twas a decade of days
with different threads woven
Searching for pieces in the puzzle,
trying to understand
where the chapters begin
and the last ones end.
A span of time
each to one’s own…
Reflections of a decade.
(I know that I’ve grown.)
Herb Wolf, III
Bus Station, Breezewood, PA
12/26/79
Dear EmilyA woman before your time;
I gaze for hours upon hours
at the vast grey sky;
distant brown rock, hard and cold
in the distance, supports a white tower,
an isolated light house.
It was as if your soul rests there
observing from afar a part of you that’s gone forever.
That is your voice,
your words remain
in the literary room.
You were a poet before your time.
Silence accompanies the roar of the ocean.
The lighthouse beckons all who care to listen.
Herb Wolf, III
Emily Dickinson
Room
Sylvia’s Hotel
Newport, Oregon
11/27/99
Faces and Names – NYCWe walk unhibited
towards nowhere
flakes of magic
appear and disappear
syncopated morsels
of desire melt
hear and heard flow through
luscious tendrils of time
slipping through my fingers
like silver memories
liquefied
that never reach earth
Musings turn into music
then memories
eyes pierce, noses protrude
ointment drips through
another round
a hand stretched
to capture ephemerality
closes
and makes an empty fist.
Those eyes strike; funny,
lips defoesque
cause creative juices to flow
Lapse into fits, fall, flapping
clock – what does it matter
fin flapping, grasping for breath
O to be immersed again
waking in a cold sweat,
the idea arrives;
like a fish in water
the tale survives
moments blow like bubbles
in syncopated manner and fade.
Herb Wolf, III
3/30/02
SunsetVirgin Swamp greens
Feeling of a toasting,
to olive palms,
To the blond manifestations
of sea oats;
Wispy, wafty, lifting, lofty
in the tropical breezes.
These airs; sifting through
Sea palms softly, gently
Bemuse
Lift the gentleman,
as if carrying,
on those breezes,
in the lofty air
through adulating crowds,
in parade spirits.
Let the senses soar.
White gulls crack the horizon
Amidst the earthly greens.
Placid whites of ciro-cumulus
Ribbons
Adorn the upper sky.
Inner coastal waterway
absorbs, consumes, exudes
an opaque white.
Distant Barriers
of the vast Alantic stand;
a weary brown mixed with grey
just above the horizon.
Dark clouds,
in the Sumter fort formation,
hard grey against the sky,
seam the endless
idea of infinity
to the mundane greens and whites
of our days
and our lives.
Herb Wolf, III
Awandah, North of Charleston, SC.
8/21/02
LexingtonWalking through Gratz
upper and Mills
Flipping back and forth
through the emotional tunnel
that holds the mind,
Looking up, a gingko
young leave of July
fresh, shiny, vibrant
long wide avenue –
brick sidewalk of
antebellum age
homes held secrets
of the hundreds of years
that the New America
has made.
Chiseled stone lays silent
Not asking nor giving
richness of sun,
of age-old Kentucky streets
of passage pf love lost times
Family roots dug deep
in Crescent Hill,
Lost loved one, Cave Hill
as one felt the pain of passing.
Watching it all go by.
Herb Wolf, III
Lexington, Kentucky
7/17/03
P,R,F,R,MPiccadilly paradox
paradigm of paradise
or let relentless rummage run
fanciful flights of farce
farcical fancies, flying
face down, hurtling, smashed.
Sorry – let’s start
in the beginning
and then talk family or
how it all began.
Rhetorical reason or rhyme
reasonable rationalizations of right and wrong
mystifying meandering.
PsalmO God, your simplicity of touch
the power of silence
created by water flowing
the vision given by water
bordering hard rock
stretching into trees.
Life, O Life
the greatest of gifts.
Our tangent nature
the ultimate manifestation
of your love.
Spring DreamsThe morning began as a testimony to our God
to the breath that we are infusing
to the scents that permeate this profuse Spring day
to the sight of white pear blossoms exhilarating
to the chirping of new life and peepers
to the taste of good food.
All professed a real Spring, a new beginning.
The day passed in that manner
a new garden was turned.
We manifested during dinner
and the rain fell.
Top of the copper crowned lune
the sincerity, the simplicity
the audacious, audacity:
allow the rough and uneven
Lens, idea, filter
a clearer view
The MOON’s big day
bulbous bottom frothing
moon follows rambling earth
in rhythmic patterns
Lunar eclipse
mellow metamorphesus
copperish stains from
earth’s shadows
depicts
an iron Hold
on the little lunar legacy
that floats around the earth
in its subservient manner
The moon looks like a crème brulee
cooked upon a wave
observed by an indifferent world
strained by the film
of a tainted (media), idea
not a prophecy moon, (egg),
The earth keeps spinning:
two people walking on a
cool afternoon
capture the vivid moments
of the late days’ sun rays
wrapped around the earth
walking and talking ,
springers springing
taking full advantage
of all this good earth
has to offer
Two bald eagles
perch high on an aged branch
of a mature oak in the middle
of a field recently harvested.
anniversary weekend
getting married again
on the Eastern shore.
The two lovers walked
in syncopated recognition
of the enduring notions of life
The eagles brood over
their field of brown.
The moon rose
creating a bright shimmery
path over the bay.
Herb Wolf, III
Tilghman Island, MD
11/14/2004
A Koi taleBlue is the color of my skin
liberated is the feel
of cool water
brushing through my tail
Sunlight filters, permeating,
piercing the forbidden
surface above
life, so strange, like
the infinite particles of earth
that found the torrid bottom below
my new friends of
depth- orangie, shino, sumi
some resemble binds like the
black crows that circle many
leagues above
I am the keeper pf the pond.
They call me the great white
shark. They watch me
meander counting infinite time
as rain drops fall only to be
absorbed in the billowy puffs
of moisture that defines the sky above.
Above the forbidden surface.
new friends with white wings
and skins of coal brighten
shino – orangie mill, dart
like arrows through a sitting sun
creating contrast, mixing new life into
the existing order.
Manna from heaven drops,
frenzied motion shatter
shimmering surface
They watch, as white
flashes slashes orange,
black tangents streak,
cutting through simple shades
Old order blends into new order.
I watch the dark ghost
dreamingly sashay as if gliding
manifesting the infinity
through air of time
Sunrays pierce the forbidden surface and bend. Fins flails push and wave as if motionless.
Herb Wolf, III
Algonquin Dell
5/15/98
SpiritThe doves were
outside Dad’s window today.
It seems they have
been lately.
Their songs were like
messages from above,
calling him home.
There were six deer
in the field,
running together.
All of a sudden, they stopped,
turned, looked back at
me, and stared for
for the longest time
and were gone.
I saw a red fox in
the field
a lone fox.
He ran, then stopped,
and stared.
As if he knew the turf;
he surveyed and leaped forward.
Feeling that he had lost
the weight of the world,
he was home
in the fields of the Lord.
Herb Wolf, III
2/13/03
McMaster CornerThe Koi rose near the surface
What an unusual morning,
The green blades of iris
pierced the ponds surface,
water chilled by
December’s melting ice.
Clear blue skies
like tsunami at Phuket
the week before.
New year began,
year of the rooster
All seemed tranquil,
incipient beginnings of ’05.
Trowel turning warm earth
in the garden;
I heard wailing;
Lynne outside in a night coat,
Shrill voice as if the earth shook
the gruesome words thud against her heart.
Peering out from our kitchen window
a hawk on the sycamore branch
spread his majestic freckled breast.
Focusing on him,
Hey Lynne
there’s Scott
she spotted him.
He flew away
gone from this world.
God is not a random idea
Nor is it a vengeful fate
that will condemn
but rather it is destiny,
With each act of natural
destruction
comes a new creation.
Out of the finity
into the infinity.
Sorrowful newness that mourns what was
moss grows over dirt
a newness evolves,
embraces and submerges the misery.
Herb Wolf, III
Home of Herb & Lynne McMaster Wolf
Passing of Lynne’s brother Scott January 1, 2005
Watch your feelings
Watch them become thoughts
Watch your thoughts
they become your words
Watch your words
they become your habits
Watch your habits
they become your
Character
It is your destiny
it is one’s destiny
Dr. Reginald Gobel
9-8-94
