I Cry for Walter Cronkite

I Cry for Walter Cronkite
by Skorda

The icons of my youth are dying one by one.
Now time is taking even the strong,
The ones who made it through the crazy times:
When war and drugs and people with guns
shook the life from so many still so young.

One moment present tense, the next a memory
It is happening more now. Soon they’ll all be gone
Those whose words and deeds and faces
told us who we were and what we wanted
back before we drove the twentieth century
over the cliff of time.

I’m sad that Walter Cronkite died,
I didn’t know the man, but I knew his voice
He was ninety-two, his life had been rich and full with experience,
but still it is sad.
My grief at his death touches selfishness, the personal.
One more small door closing on my generation,
shutting off then from now.

If you’re old enough you remember him well.
His voice, steady as a heartbeat,
Always droning somewhere in the background,
A reassuring constant through decades of change
A voice both shared and familiar
Day after day
recounting the events of our cruelly imperfect world.

Forty years ago this week, he was there for us
That July,
the lull before the Manson murders and Woodstock
A moment when Americans united
feeling good, feeling proud, feeling strong.
Listening to Walter Cronkite
as we gathered around flickering screens of grey and white
watching men walk on the moon.

It didn’t last long, that communitas
The war did not end, and December brought Altamont
Dreams were diminished, dashed or discarded
But we still had Walter, we called him Uncle Walt by then
He was there, our trusted witness to change
in our lives, in our homes,
as if we knew him well,
in living color.

My grief at his death is real, if small
I would like to believe my pain is big, but it’s not
I want to cry for all that was
Or for all that might have been
But I know that I cry for what I was
For who I think I was, or might have been
I cry for what I can’t remember
I cry because it all washes away

The present robs the dead of complexity
Distilling life down to the simple,
a look, a word, a phrase,
wrapped up neatly and delivered to the future.
It’s happening to Walter now, barely dead,
The winnowing of life for the bits that flash.
The elevation, the apotheosis
I’ve even heard him called the voice of God.

I cry for Walter Cronkite
I cry for myself , for my generation
The summing up of lives, the relentless loss.
The icons of my life are dying one by one.
When all have vanished, when my generation dies,
Who will bear witness?
Who will remember what was real?

beach

Beach

Thoughts flow nameless
The night black sea, no moon.
Chill mist salt scent blanket
scratch of sea grass, sand.
Timeless water rhythms
roaring, breaking free.
I find your hand, your mouth.
No words.

Camp

Camp
- by Skorda

Running from the law, the family, bad debt.
or maybe just running, chasing fortune
with dreams and picks they headed west
to the edge of the hills, Deadwood.
Whatever they had been, this is what they are now,
ragtag men with muck on their boots.
Just men, with strong backs and hopeful hearts
thrown together by chance,
the fateful cry of "gold!"
Perhaps this day will be the one
when luck will change and gods will smile ,
promises will be kept.
Or maybe this day will end
as have a thousand others
for these tired, dirty men,
caught in their breaking dreams.
One more night in the rough saloon
knocking back whiskey, numbing fear.
Camp women lean across the bar
smiling into the dirty darkness,
a promise of their own.
Here in this land of dreams
where everyone can make a buck
the lonely heart will pay.

Appliance Alliance

I have been having a difficult time with my teeth this year. Years of bruxism, together with some less than top quality dental care performed overseas in a small village, have taken their toll, leaving me with no choice but to enter into a long term committed relationship with my dentist. The grinding has cracked roots and done untold damage, my jaw muscles are so highly developed I could be a circus performer flying through the air with a bit in my mouth. Truly. So this last time, after the consult when he told me how much it would cost and how long it would take to put my mouth in order, he closed the deal with the promise of a new night guard. I was not impressed. ?But wait?, he said. ?This one will not be like the others, trust me?. So I did. And, from the very first night, for the first time in years, I could finally sleep through the night.
And I woke up with this love song in my head...

Appliance Alliance: Love Song to My New Night Guard
-by Skorda

I never wanted the likes of you
one more worry, the care

the maintenance needed
to make it work beyond a day or two.
Always the possibility of loss,
the guilty pain that follows.
I never thought I needed you,
until, lying in my bed,
with you inside me
I knew at last
how great my need had been.

O!
Night guard
night guard night guard
brand new night guard
Yes!

There were others before you,
many,
and each I welcomed,
to save me from myself,
unknowing
of the damage I could cause.
And every one I loved, for their time.
The newness of each a promise,
a perfect fit, alas, short lived.
Some caused pain,
others, so smooth in the beginning,
revealed their sharper edges,
or began to irritate
until I would dread the thought of night.
I must admit I have broken a few,
or cast them out before the light of day
they were not made like you, so strong,
yet soft where I need you to be, up against me.

I think of you when you are not with me
times when I need you
today, in traffic
stopped thirty minutes
my hands clenching the wheel,
I missed you so
had you been there on the seat beside me,
I would have leaned down low,
where no one could see
and taken you in my mouth
in broad daylight.

O!
Night guard
night guard night guard
brand new night guard
Yes!

Sometimes the need is greater than want
I can say this now
thinking how night after night
grinding only against my own self
I was wearing down,
becoming old before my time
and not knowing how simple
the answer can be.
But this morning I knew.
I woke up refreshed and renewed
You had stayed all night
hard in my mouth, but comforting
and I loved the way that felt
having you to protect me
and I knew that I would keep you
here, to be mine.

O!
Night guard
night guard night guard
brand new night guard
Yes!

©Skorda 2008

Family Dinner (a true story)

Family Dinner
(a true story)

My sister is older
(I'm sure that I'm bolder)
She's certain she's wiser
(sometimes I despise her)
She now owns the house that at one time was mine
She's made it all fancy, now she thinks it?s fine
My acre of garden's been left to go fallow
she says she's been busy
(I think that she's shallow)
it seems that whatever it is I might say
She looks and me, nods,
then says "what does THAT pay"?
Should I acquiesce just because she is rich?
(when inside I'm thinking (My God, what a bitch!?)
But then we start talking of all that we share
I can hear in her voice that she really does care
We speak of our mother, we?re thankful she?s well,
we love her, although she still makes our lives hell.
I'm not always quiet, and is that so bad?
(depends I suppose, on how much wine I?ve had)
I opened my mouth during dinner to say,
Daddy, did you never know that your brother was gay??
My sister looked over, her face filled dread
I didn't back down from the words that I'd said.
My father said No, though I knew he was other
I thought he just liked to take care of our mother
My sister stood up, looked right at him and said
But Daddy the two of us know that its true.
Everyone knew it, except maybe you.
Then I made it clear if he votes for McCain,
It will be a mistake causing everyone pain
I went then to open just one more champagne.
We are all a bit tipsy,
(I try not to show it)
Taki's feeling better, and playing the poet.
We're all laughing now, cause he really is funny
we've moved past resentment, the shocks and the money.
my sister gets up then and brings back a sweet
my childhood favorite, I so loved so to eat
I think no one knows me as she knew me then.
But then we get fighting all over again.
Oh, not really fighting, it's just how we act
like children again, perhaps not exact
in the roles that we once played, but still it is plain
in sisters grown up, childhood still remains.
And so when it came to the end of the night
we saw that we really did not want to fight.
I looked and I saw her, my only sister
then I got up, went over and kissed her.

Cats

Reading the Bukowski poem got me thinking about all the cats and kittens I have known and loved. When I was a kid I always had an orange tabby cat named Pierre. Pierre the original, and after he met his unfortunate and bitterly mourned demise, Pierre II. My sister, five years older than I, was given a wire haired terrier named Cindy while I was still really young. I know she felt very privileged by that, as if a cat were a kind of booby prize pet. I never saw it that way.

Almost all of my childhood memories take place outdoors, I can barely remember doing anything of consequence inside the house. And when we were in the backyard, my sister would spend some time playing with her dog. Every once in awhile she would let me play with Cindy, and I admit it was fun to throw a ball and have the dog bring it back, or to dress up the dog in funny clothes. But most of the time the dog just sat there, or barked, or slept or chewed on one toy or another.

My cat, on the other hand, was always going off to do something interesting. We had a big garden and he would prowl through the cornstalks proudly, a princely predator surveying his domain. Occasionally he would bring a mouse, mole or (sadly) a rabbit or bird and leave it by the back door as if offering to share the bounty of his prowess. Both Pierres were manly cats, but still they loved to cuddle, and if you showed affection they would show it right back, purring with delight and making little mushing motions with their paws. I thought the Pierres were so very cool, I loved them each of them for their catly selves.

But, truth be told, it is my last cat, the six-toed Elmo, that was most like Bukowski’s. Elmo, a stray, probably dumped into the woods next to what used to be my house, yowled at my door for several days before I broke down and took him in. He was in such bad shape-one ear half gone, one eye destroyed, a huge oozing growth on his side- he needed several months of medical treatment before he was well enough to be neutered. But that brave cat wasn’t afraid of anything- fox, big dog, the road. He lived a long, adventure filled life. I think he knew how fortunate he was to have a loving home, but he could not resist the allure of the big wide world. He would disappear for days-sometimes weeks- but then return as if he had just stepped out to sun himself on the patio and -hey! where's dinner? When I moved, and my father moved into what had been my house, I did not have the heart to bring Elmo into town. He was a rover, and would either whither in confinement or meet an early death on the streets of the town. So he stayed on the land he had made his own. My Dad, a longtime dog man, fell in love with that scrappy tabby. As he grew older, Elmo learned to sleep on a human bed. I'm sure it was not a difficult skill to acquire. When he was old-very, very old- he disappeared one last time. I found out from the animal control officers that he had been found with a shattered jaw and had been euthanized. I am glad that he did not continue to suffer. But I was so sorry that he was gone.

I am rambling on far too long here. And so, I will close my feline revery with little ditty about an imagined kitty.

doggerel for kitten

Satisfied, the bowl licked clean
Warm sunbeam sprawl now, tiny sphinx.
Soft fur blissful, stretching, dozing
off to dream brave lion dreams:
the tiny tail tip of the quick gray fieldmouse
that scurried through the grass
away from you.
The many legged bug
you batted and played with,
but it died before the game was through.
Happy dreams of bravely stalking,
boldly hunting bird and mole
King of the backyard deep grass jungle,
spiderweb and groundhog hole.
Set to pounce at any movement,
whether it be mouse or snake.
Dream great adventures, little kitten,
You will live them when you wake.

African Grey

-by Skorda

Let me tell you, this was one smart bird
I think I fell in love
Not with his soft gray feathers, his red tipped tail
The way he cocked his little head before speaking
These were sweet, but shared amongst his kind.
What I loved was his alone -don’t laugh
I loved his bird brain.

This bird had skills.
Not for him the vulgar macaw pirate talk
Asking for a cracker, shocking old ladies
This bird was savvy to this modern world
He knew its ways, its sounds, the words.

This bird loved beauty.
He taught himself the gentle whistles and deep throated growls of the laborer
And from his perch
He watched the passing girls respond to his soft sounds,
They touch their hair,
They thrust their shoulders back a bit
to be more beautiful for him

And how this bird could laugh,
His special skill the cell phone ring
He must have known a hundred or a thousand, every phone in Europe, ringing in the crowded café
Fooled again

And on that blazing hot summer’s day
As we sat in the shade of a plane tree
Sipping ouzo, lazily watching lizards
Sun themselves on the ruined rock of Mystras
I had the need to see this bird, just one more time, oh please
On the other side of the mountains. Let’s go.

Racing daylight across the Taygetos,
white knuckled through Langada Pass,
Kalamata a blur.
And then the sun was setting over Sfahtiria
wrought iron mermaids glowing in the fading light of Pylos, his home.

I don’t want to tell you this part.
How, heart pounding I dashed through the lobby of the small hotel, eerily silent.
sensing the worst-knowing it-I approached his perch,
And there he was, beautiful still
without life or breath
His bird brain stilled
Preserved forever under glass
One more bit of Greek history
left to imagination

a word

I know where you are, Kalliope:

You hide yourself at helicon, perfection flowing from your pen.
No writers block, no clumsy phrase,
no revisions for you. The words are yours.
You break only to taste ambrosia,
Maybe revel with the gods,
Or to flirt a bit with Hebe,
sharing a cup or two of nectar.

Meanwhile:

I’m trapped down here
in the scorched and barren landscape of my mortal brain.
Picking through mental scrapheaps for phrases, letters words.
I’m looking for a word,
Or a scrap of a word
A few letters would do.
If I could find the right ones
I’d pick them up, clean them up,and shape them
Make something new.
Not so new that you won’t know what I mean,
but new enough,
A word without too many fingerprints
Shaped but not molded
If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll find it
And maybe you’ll see it
and maybe you will come down here for just a moment
And maybe you’ll smile at me
-skorda

February 15

Madness in the mountain,
Sweet communitas
Coconut reception
hothouse for the Goss.
Kerperamun, Kerperamun all-a-same-a-wine
Kavakeva kavakeva kavakeva divine.

Pumpkins up the flagpole,
Belly don’t know
Dark of the night
Come a sweet cargo
Alligator gossip
Ghost be white
Destroyer angel
Labored for a flight

River washing snakeskin
sing-for-go-round mate
Bird come, now come, now we wait
Kerperamun, Kerperamun all-a-same-a-wine
Kavakeva kavakeva kavakeva divine.

©Skorda 2008

John Frum Cincinnati

I draw a line in the dirt
bare earth where once there were trees
Shuffleboard straight, two lines now
Many hands to make them strong,
many hearts will make them bright.
A beacon, set for those above
The powers holding what we love..
They look, but see not sisters and brothers,
just nameless ones and faceless Others.
The strong control what we hold dear,
we send our light and draw it near.
No millenarian frenzy.
No Ghost Dance
We live the truth
The oldest story
there must be death before rebirth
Winter will yield to spring
Straight lines can, and do, curve into circles
A bag of faces tumbles from the sky
We rejoice
John From
John Frum
John From
Cincinnati

what's true

I watched you run the gauntlet
with such grace, nothing touched you.
The rubber band man in some short alley
is bending over backwards , begging you stop, to look, to maybe press yourself right up against the wall and kiss him
But no, you pass on by without a glance
With such finesse, such beauty.
The tormentors put down their sticks, shut their mouths,
and scatter rose petals in your path.
©Skorda 2008

-for hannah lee
what's true

Ta Phota

EarthQuake in Greece

January 6, 2008
-6.5 Richter
-7:14 AM Sunday morning
-seismic center was around the area of Leonidio Peloponissos about 150 km S by SW
-No major Damages reported since seismic activity was 70 km below ground; no Damages in Athens
-No major aftershocks expected
felt all over Greece and parts of Southern Italy
-The sea around Leonidio turned red due to massive amounts of mud that eminated from the underground activity.
of Athens.



Ta Phota

Twelve days passed

Chill gray morning, scented with basil,
The priest walks from the church, smiling
villagers follow, gather at sea's edge.
Young men, hope in their hearts, eyes shining
run down the hill to the shore.
Who will be the strong, the quick, the chosen
the holder of this cross?
With a prayer the priest lifts his hands.
This is Christ, now in the sea.
One, two and then the dive.
Salty water, cold and dark.
Hands grasping and rocks and sand.
One hand closes over the treasure.
Victory! O blessed day!
The earth shakes in reply.
-skorda

2008

The past year just sort of slithered off. I wasn’t able to be home to adhere to the usual traditions, superstitions, etc. No resolutions, no promises to self. Coming home on the train tonight I started thinking about the past year. I tried to think sweet things, but endied up focused on things I do not like and would rather not see, do watch, consume or have continue in the New Year.in this coming year:

Skorda Cranky New Year

Spare me please the status cars, lusty drunks with fat cigars
Internet thieves just waiting to hack
The guy who bends over and shows me his crack
No two minute fucks, no new Starbucks, Rhinestone cellphones? Nada
No big mouthed Rush, fake friends who gush, no skinny girls in in Prada

No neocons or mafia dons, big houses with gates that scream wealth
No people who push, that idiot Bush, or wars begun in stealth
Keep me from bullies and people who fight
Small closed minds, the religious rightt
No biased Fox news or celebrity phonies,
Crooked politicians and all of their cronies

No shows about prisons or Dr Phil
Cyberspace scumbags or children who kill
Stars who dance, that faked wide stance, hybrid dogs in cases
Politicos who choose to lie to cover all their bases.

No sushi that’s old, no coffee that’s cold,
Or food in the fridge all covered with mold
No e.coli or bad microbes
No hateful speaking homophobes

No rich getting richer and still wanting more
Begrudging the pittance that goes to the poor
No giant fake boobs,
shaved stubbly pubes
or piercings in places that always stay sore.
-skorda