The Coming of the Toads

A Notebook – Since 2007

Month: September 2022

  • When Then

    When sound is noise that murmurs gurgle
    and talk crabbed rambles and gabbles
    When susurrus of water shuts off clang bang
    and no breeze blows blossoms and all fall
    long leaves crisp prematurely dull and grey
    When thoughts are crickets in a dark repeat
    and inanimate objects won’t cooperate
    When strings stretch and snap out of tune
    and ears fill full of hardened yellow wax
    Then it’s time here for a nap or a blue beer
    for there’s been a near miss missio dear.

  • A New Moon

    The doctors of science
    are replacing Earth’s moon
    with an artificial one
    made of rayon and crayon.

    The new moon replaces
    the old one deemed now
    obsolete and in danger
    of falling into the sea.

    From Earth we’ll be able
    to adjust the moon’s color
    and position to improve
    its influential benefits.

    Several high speed elevators
    attached to Earth’s tallest
    peaks will allow tourists
    easy access to hotels

    bells and whistles
    of space cultural
    events and venues
    and an Earth museum.

  • The Night Unwatched

    Two Poesies last night lost
    reports our own Town Crier
    this morning for those
    who now can not read.

    His cocked hat skewed
    he rings his bell and yells
    “Oh, Yes! Oh, Yes!
    words ‘n lines all tossed.”

    There is a browling
    of those waiting
    at the curbs for jobs
    “What is the night

    which goes unwatched?”
    asks a hawk talk host
    “Our Town Crier
    blatted had them

    but let them go
    in the night down
    said dark back alley
    while he canned.”

    “Of no consequence
    whatsoever,” said
    Sister Aloysius
    watering the uprising.

    “There is much
    in the night goes
    unseen and never
    does it get told.

    These stories grow old
    but come back to haunt
    us in ways we do not
    know or show.”

  • All About You

    I was all on my own till I touched you
    till I touched you I was all on my own
    and you all alone until you touched
    the sky above the ocean the clouds
    pulled you from a dripping wet swim.

    You liked to come first touch waiting
    patiently fins by our sides politely
    waiting for each other in the shadow
    outside your watery cave in the cove
    I without you and you without me.

    All about you was all about me
    and all about me was all about
    you on our slow trip to elderly
    crust when crest again you are
    thine and I am mine all alone.

    Out to sea it was all about you
    fish and shells and boats above
    while we waited for you and we
    waited for me it was all about
    you it was all sea creamy ocean.

    This solmization of signs mused
    no curled hair no moist kisses no
    tattoos no clothes no perfumes
    no cigarettes no booze no streets
    no cars alone olive drab greys

    sea greens and ocean blues
    all about us surround sound
    where water touches sky
    all about you all about me
    all about me all about you.

    Nothing to be done nothing
    to do much ado about you
    about me about me about
    you nothing to be done we
    sit on our rocks and wait

    for the final tidal coming
    when you touch me and I
    touch you first you then me
    then the everblue sea the
    ocean in our dew eye mist.

  • Ice Creamery

    The sun a mini strawberry delight
    in a field of vanilla smoke tonight
    as it falls into a debauchery of ice
    creamery I dive under a tsunami
    of chocolatey covered cherries
    the size of bowling balls while
    this reverse osmosis produces
    a raspberry spearmint julep
    which is to say hold the bourbon
    and bring on the rosewater
    of camphor lime and take away
    the six pack of IPA and keep the
    ice cream coming in this the
    ice creamery bathtub of sobriety.

  • A Doodle in Portland

    Like things that go bump in the dark
    night these sounds are not quite
    like what we think they are like
    old bent and dusty books shelved
    in empty house plant pots like books
    of poems used to start tomato seeds
    in hopeful spring before the last frost
    shoves the soil over and worms awake.

    Just so like I jump into the fray
    with big plans for a newsletter
    about things that are not
    empty hotels atop sidewalks
    full of homeless and fat cats
    full of fur surrounded by mice.

    On Instagram I post a skinny guitar
    and instantly hit the delete button
    and just as quickly bring it back
    like an usher flicking the auditorium
    lights on and off like a strobe light.

    And so so on I flicker and go
    with the flow now here now there
    always nowhere in the act
    of writing, of whirling στρόβος
    twist about and birl about.

    I go for a walk around the block
    and step on a glob of adhesive
    caulking and my shoe picks up
    like a magnet all manner of muck.

    Which like a bad sign awakens
    me to be more cautious of where
    I step like into a newsletter
    and so so on I doodle here
    while the sun comes
    closer more and more near
    like a full moon on this
    the hottest night of summer.

  • Rowboat

    They said rowboat
    lost untethered
    with the ebb tide
    one day late Fall.

    She was to wait
    but waded off
    he back for the basket  
    she in search of shells.

    He forgot the sandwiches
    in the car up the road
    and the redundant bottle 
    of purple pinot noir.

    From the pier end
    she fell hell bent
    and got her into
    the boat and off

    waddled he oaring
    she at the tiller
    crossing the bay
    to the picnic beach 

    the old couple
    coming years said
    but the new owners
    did not know them

    said better keep
    an eye out
    not a good day 
    for crossing the bar.

  • Subbing in Substack

    I spent a few hours this week delving into Substack, the online self-publishing venue giving independent writers the opportunity to build a syndicated portfolio intended for a dedicated audience of subscribers who read for free or pay, often on sliding scales, the writer usually offering more content to paid subscribers. It’s a little like busking, where the musician sets up on a busy street corner and pulls out the axe and puts out the tip hat.

    One great plus of Substack is that there are no ads, few distractions. The presentations I’ve seen are clear and clean. I was already a free subscriber to Caleb Crain’s “Leaflet,” a combo newsletter of his bird watching photography and his lit-culture-watching writing, and of Julian Gallo’s “Cazar Moscas” – wonderful title that, which means to catch flies, or to fish with a fly, apt metaphor for Substack. When Substack began, in 2017, not too long ago but maybe a long time in online years, the idea was to establish a newsletter, so that with every Substack post an email notification went automatically to subscribers. And that’s how I still read Caleb and Julian’s new pieces. And this week I discovered and subscribed to Patti Smith’s Substack. I had become aware of podcast capability at Substack, and when I found Patti there, I saw that she was also putting up short videos, which I immediately found attractive for their simplicity, honesty, clarity. They didn’t seem to be performances, but downhome one way conversations, personal, if you will, in of course an impersonal, voyeuristic way. For example, I saw her in her everyday place in Rockaway, and it looked exactly like a lived in beach house might look if it indeed was lived in.

    Anyway, I had been interested in moving my “Live at 5” guitar gig from IGTV to some other venue, not really all that interested in seeing my seventy something selfie on the silver screen anymore, and growing tired of Instas addictive format, and I thought about podcasting, that is audio only, some guitar, song, story, poem, conversation. Then I became aware of Substack’s video capability and before I knew it, I was going live on Substack with a “Live at 5” show. Or so I thought. The whole enterprise ended in disaster. As near as I can tell, Substack does not enable live streaming. You have to upload either audio or video, and the videos are limited to, it appears, under 10 minutes. I had by Substack “Live at 5” showtime 16 free subscribers. I’m not sure what they ended up seeing or hearing, if anything. And then, late last evening, I discovered the “Live at 5” video I had made for Substack in the photo gallery of my Samsung device. It was just over 5 minutes long. I watched a bit of it, stopped it, and deleted it.

    Interested viewers may check out another version recounting my subbing at Substack experience here. I’m reminded of Dylan’s famous words, “and I’ll know my song well before I start singing,” an admonition I’ve never paid much attention to, and also reminded of the Nobel Prize time Patti forgot the lyrics, which was no big deal, but of course everyone had to make a big deal of it, as if pros never get nervous or forget the words.

    Where do I go from here? IDK. Real time with real people might be nice.