My Beliefs

My beliefs are not so different
from those of "primitive" tribes.
I know there is a soul,
and that the soul survives.
Life goes on, no doubt about it.
Clothing is sometimes needed,
but I am happier without it.
Women are at least the equals of men,
to be loved and always respected.
Wisdom should be listened to,
and arrogance rejected.
The rich are not better than the poor,
but peace is surely
better than war.

Greedy for Life

I have been greedy for lives,
one was never enough.
I have walked naked through forest
with blowgun and darts.
I've been dockworker, shipbuilder,
astrologer, farmer, physician,
practicer and patron of the arts,
Pagan, Christian, Jew,
to name only a few,
woman, man, boy, girl,
high and low class,
married, single, multilingual.
I know the present
and I know the past,
why should I not know
the future too,
if this greed for life
shall last?

Edouard

While I was taking Betty for her walk this afternoon, the Swiss eccentric, Edouard, called out to us. He is a dog-lover, and wanted to greet Betty. She likes him too, and clearly considers him a friend. After giving her a lot of attention, he said "she probably smells wine on my breath." (He said it in Spanish, but I translate.) He showed me his tongue, which was purple from the fruit of the vine--he was obviously three sheets to the wind. He gave me the useful information that, in Germany, Johnny Walker Red is Johann Geht Rot. But he pronounce "geht" to sound more like the English word "get," so I guess that must be how it is in svitsdutch. About then an attractive young woman went by on a bicycle,and he followed her up the block with his eyes (actually, I think his whole body turned). He said, "for me, it's a memory--many years ago." "My bird is dead," he said. I guess he's in his sixties, and I'm in my seventies, so I probably know more about dead birds than he does. Sometimes there are ways to revive them, at least for a time. We commiserated a bit with each other, and then Betty and I had to go. Although Eduardo's property is filled with an incredible collection of junk,he's a friendly guy, and I consider him an asset to the neighborhood, dead bird and all.

28 March 2017

O Portunhol

[portunhol surenho]

Escrevo en idioma bastardo,
seguramente non é el mío,
escreverlo é desafío,
lerlo é un lío,
Qué infernal lunfardo!

I write in a bastard language,
it certainly isn't mine,
to write it is a challenge,
to read it is a hassle,
What a hellish slanguage!

Note: Rather than a single language, Portunhol is a dialect continuum that exists along thousands of kilometers of Brazil's border with its Spanish-speaking neighbors. My dialect, a work in progress, shares some of the features of the Portuguese of southern Brazil, as well as many features of the Spanish of Uruguay, where I live. It is not the same as the Portunhol of Rivera, or as that of Artigas. I believe the only dialect that has been formally studied is that of Rivera, Many dialects have probably never been reduced to writing, but I am trying to make a literary language of mine, which I call portunhol surenho. This poem is just humor; the truth is that I love the language.

A Curse on Spell-checkers

I know there was never a need
to separate practise from practice.
But "supersede" and "proceed"
are differently sourced,
and our hand should never be forced
by lexicographer praxis
or an ignorant spell-checker axis.
My language has been superseded,
and I know it well,
but spell-checkers,
ye little feckers,
can all proceed to hell!

27 March 2017

LVI.
O número do Bobo é zero,
y dá os termos de su reinado.
"Arcanum" est nomen eius.
Que nos ashude Deus!

Zero is the number of the Fool,
and it gives the terms of his rule.
"Arcanum" is his name.
May God help us!

29 de agosto 2016

Gardening

The sun warms
the back of my body,
as I trim back
tea-rose runners
that have leapt
over the wall.
Working my way
around the backyard,
I do the same
to morning glories
and the pink flowers
that also grow
over the wall,
increasing our privacy.
As I make my way
around the garden,
the sun warms
my other sides,
missing nothing.
I lop a few dead branches
from the palmettos
near the hammock.
Then I go around again,
loading the trimmings
into a wheelbarrow,
as I gratefully accept
the sun's blessing.
Taking the wheelbarrow
through the garage
and into the street,
I almost forget
to put on clothes.

Soy un poeta naturista. Eso parece ser el nicho que me estoy tallando, y no estoy solo en ese espacio. Aquellos que tienen suficiente interés en mi poesía como para leer más que el posteo más reciente probablemente verán más que vería un mirón. Esto es como debería ser, y también se hace necesario por la censura infantil de la desnudez natural y no-sexual de parte de Facebook.

I am a naturist poet. That seems to be the niche that I am carving out for myself, and I am not alone in that space. Those who are interested enough in my poetry to peruse more than just the most recent post are apt to see more than would a gawker. This is as it should be, and is also made necessary by Facebook's childish censorship of natural, non-sexual nudity.

La ropa del alma

El cuerpo es
la ropa
del alma.
El mío es fuera de
moda,
sin tatuajes,
ni "piercings",
ni aretes,
y bastante viejo.
Se hace desgastado
por los márjenes,
pero todavía
se puede
reparar
y remendar.
Me siento
cómodo
en ello.

The Clothing of the Soul

The body is
the clothing
of the soul.
Mine is out of
style,
no tattoos,
piercings,
or earrings,
and quite
old.
It is getting
frayed
around the
edges,
but can still
be repaired
and patched.
I am
comfortable
in it.

Mahatma

The soul experiences
through the body.
In this great adventure
all body types and
skin colors are
valid, as are
disabilities
and infirmities.
Failure to experience
is malnourishment,
repression of the senses
is starvation
of the soul.
Death of the body
is only another
experience,
as is the birth
that follows--
forever.

25 March 2017

Ducker Rap #130

We have a need,
we can't proceed
without a plan
for to a man
and woman
we are lost,
we've paid the cost,
an ocean of humanity
living in inanity,
trapped in insanity,
the serfs of forces
that we do not see.
But what if we
should choose
to lose
our chains,
be those forces,
be the sources
of our destiny?
Plant the seed,
grow the tree,
and be
and be.

--Little Ducker
30 January 2017

Together we ascend
the pyramid of desire
to offer our love
in that holy fire.

22March 2017

Digital art by Minx @BettieDaMinx

I Am Who I Am

I am who I am
and I am what I am.
The seed of life,
and all lives,
is in me.
Through wind and storm and rain,
I shall remain.

My Nakedness - II

Like the strength in Samson's hair,
my power is from my nakedness.

LXIII

THE GIFT

You must find
your inspiration.
Go to her,
if need be,
in a dream.
Acknowledge
her leadership.
Ask that
the precious,
though invisible,
gift
be passed
to you.
Don't be afraid,
hold out
your hand.

14 March 2017

If I Could Speak to Africa

If I could speak to Africa,
in a language all their own,
I'd tell them to use
the "holy books"
for fuel
and treat each other
as holy
instead.

12 March 2017

SUNNING TO VALPARAISO

Wearing only hat
and sunglasses,
ma-te in hand, I sit
on a chair on our
starboard-side balcony,
facing the sun.
As we head for our
port of destination,
Valparaiso, the surface
of the dark Pacific
is shimmering,
molten silver.

12 March 2016
(A Facebook memory, about which I had forgotten.)

ESSENTIAL

My voice reaches
South and North
America, Europe,
sometimes even Asia.
But Africa,
ancient homeland
of us all,
it does not penetrate.

Why?

An essential piece
of the world
is missing.

10 March 2017

FORTY-FOUR FIFTY SOUTH

From the magnificent and

now-familiar southern

stars, I see that

our course is north-

northeast. Calm wind

and sea. As we run

in the Gulf of

Corcovado, the

night is peaceful

as a cat.

10 March 2016

(a memory from a year ago)

My Grandmother's Generation

My grandmother's generation
mistook the Church
for sanctity,
and the Brits
for civilization.
Still, there are times
when I miss
that lost world.

9 March 2017

Sunrise in Aguas Dulces, Uruguay, March 8 2017, International Women's Day / Día internacional de la mujer.

I rise with the parrots in the trees.
My call goes out on the southern breeze.

This is the world that Nature made,
Among the trees, a sunny glade.
Here we may speak of what we love,
The grassy earth, the sky above.
No one shall tell us that this is wrong
For 'tis ordained, and in our song.
Many have passed along this way
And so have we, but did not stay.
For this is knowledge of present and past,
It comes to us, but will not last.
Outside this glade are others met
Who do not know, or would forget.
Hurrying they heed another call
And dying daily, live not at all.
Oh do not wake them while they sleep,
But live to love, and not to weep.

5 March 2017

THANK GOD THERE IS AN IRELAND

Thank God there is an Ireland
to hold our hopes and dreams,
to fill the world with magic,
'til it's bursting at the seams,
to hold the world's beauty,
for all our sons and daughters,
to safeguard every hill,
the land, the air, the waters.

Thank God that hearts so true
have risen to the test,
and kept this magic place,
to give the spirit rest.

And though I do not live there,
a dream that will never be,
thank God there is an Ireland,
and Ireland lives in me.

1 March 2017

SEMPITERNA

I am the life of the earth,
and its green trees,
the air, the water,
the earth itself and its fire.
The sun, the moon, the
wind, the rain and the tides
are mine, and I belong
to them.
Ask not my name,
for it is all names,
nor my language,
for it is all languages.
My roots are in
the jungles of Africa,
and on the arid plain.
I invented all the gods,
to help me tell
my story.
All songs and all instruments
are mine,
all dances and all poems.
It is my visions
that bring the future,
and my memories
that make the past.
I am all women and all men,
the children and the old,
the pleasure of love
and the pain of separation.
Among the clothed,
I am the naked,
among the false,
I am the real,
I am the feast that
does not end or fill.
I am a river through time
that knows no time,
a truth that knows no lie.
I am Life,
and cannot die.

1 March 2017