the circle of the people - can it hold ?

In a dream I saw Crazy Horse, shaman of the Ogallah Souix
  come down from the mountain
   - his face was shining with the holy light of his experience
      in the hills of his ancestors

"The circle of the People..."  - he told us
  " is held together with both truth and artful   lies
      but when the lies become too big
      the circle cannot hold."

            you are too many words (or.. the perils
                                               of quick composition  :)

you are
   too many words     I shrugged

         and tried to clear

  while behind me the   ancient
                                      of days     paced
                                            like a hungry mouse.

          Two Dreams

I  fell asleep one night   and
    as it chanced  - I fell into a dream
   
    Walking thru a town like a   post-apocalyptic Harpers Ferry
    A hilly place leading down to rivers
   
My old pals were with me   - Jim
   the genius one, at our campfire, bending over his journal
   and Pat, strong and stalwart
 
We were camped on a hill  - in good view of the ruined town

{Jim handed his journal over wordlessly
    & on the open page I saw
        a medieval world
        like ours in some respects
               and yet unlike
         with its own joys and sorrows
  }
...
      And as these things go  one dream  
                                      turned into another

I watched from an old Victorian beach hotel
   a bright but raging sea roll in

   long rolling combs of waves

   rolling over the oriental rug in the lobby

   wetting the feet of the upright piano

   lapping the first step of the staircase up
 
   the house creaked
   as water continued to  lap the porch and
                       roll  into the sunny foyer
 
   water warm and full of light
 
   "Dive in" says Pat from behind me, "it won't hurt you"
 
   We dove in and swam out to meet the dolphins

I Never Meant to Write this stuff Down
(inspired by the poetry gang at TUUC- Spring 2012)


I never meant to write   these things down   but  sometimes
...they arrive
Like a panhandler from some lost-in-time 70s hippie festival

using our assumed mutual hipness as an entree...

HEY MAN !
    I need a dollar to get home ya' see
and
you really oughta write this scene down.

I never meant to write this stuff down.
but  standin in a summer downpour  I realized

each and every raindrop is a bodhisattva

come back to save you and me

heard in the wind

what's my name ?

what is my name ?

I call my brother the West Wind to my side

call my sister to my side

I call my son the North Wind to my side

I dance

on the back of the great turtle that holds up the universe

you called me buffalo woman once

now in this solstice I lean forward to hear the sorrows of my children

I was Adam LeFay

I was Adam LeFay
__carpenter on Market Street

scratching my gray goats beard
wood chips scattered to
earthen floor shop

_as the Indian summer breezes blow
___eastward towards the Delaware

_ the light comes whipping down in shards
___between the glass buildings

someday someplace
I will be again
I was Adam LeFay

elusive

elusive

long ago I had a friend - like a fraternal twin
demian-like we

would duck and hide behind hedges the

longsummer haze the air - cool on my skin
your smiling face

Now lost in city hassle
heard far off laughter a bird song promising return rewind become

the beep line

pseudo memoir- names changed

Where I waited for the bus to high school in Spring of 1968, in a former gas station, they put a store to sell Honda motorcycles.

much cheaper than cars. Red and blue 150 cc jan and Dean had a song out about Hondas. Out of my price range though. Never mind.

Lenny's cousin Sean heard you could talk to chicks from other parts of the county on the public pay phone. Not person to person, but a technical loophole.
May 18, 1968 [ or the closest Thus.]
Scent of oranges drifting from the grouchy dudes fruit stand

Upon depositing ten cents, Sean hit the phone dial, cradle and coin return in a peculiar simultaneous way. Crouched and sweating, finger in his other ear, Sean listened with an expression of delight.
"Lemme hear it once."
"It'd just be wasted on you Teargas."

an Alieut at Robt E Lee park

I am the half blind storyteller

that sits by the fire

wolves howl down the valley

pine branches crackle, flames lick snow capped alaska range buffers the wind but
I struggle to recall our name for these mountains

^^^^^
Grandfather Raccoon insouciant in the flickering light

raccoon:
vain fools
I was old when your father's father crossed the Yentna.
what have you wrought ?
your songs are like dust

^^^^^
At Robert E. Lee park-- June 30, 1977 to Sept 1, 2006
I watch the spillover the now cracked dam
some civil war politco dweebs name stamped somewhere, in bronze or faded mortar

crossed the bridge
stood in light mist
inside some weird intentional circular grove of skinny trees.

seven birches - nine birches - eleven birches

empty railroad bridge
1890s ghost men on a ghost train back to Lutherville
hi honey I'm home

redwing

July 17th
now you're gone

maybe hiding back

___ in the cool woods

only a mockingbird here today - and some flying bug ascending the leaves

thrum of air conditioners from the subterranean offices

March 15
just returned

from South Carolina or someplace
sitting on a tall reed
___ by the pond on the left
skree-cherp
dive down in the grassy muck

go home