in Little Plum Park

full moon last night --
they say it will be 
even better tonight
and perhaps the night after next

on wooden park bench
far from home, leaves waving
steam whistle blows -- antique
locomotive Kyoto Railway Museum

on my right young man
tossing baseball to young woman
recording whole drama on camera
selfie-stick in the current idiom

on my left old couple
unpack minipoodle from snuggly
then open lunchboxes
pouring tea into ceramic teacups

leaves waving, water babbles
in lazy brook among
stepping stones while
pigeons prowl the underbrush

--Ross Bender

smoke in your eyes

when I gave up smoking cigarettes
seemed like the whole world staggered
to an end -- kalpas shaking

when I took the key right out my mouth
the howl -- like somebody forgot
to feed the cats -- it was like that

took the receiver off the hook
dial tone back in the 20th century
now white noise -- it was like that

fragments shattered on volcano shore
then the waves washed them away
blank mirror in your face

never did quite understand the meaning
of nicotine -- smoked a long clay pipe
for a time, packed with Balkan Sobranie

let us now meditate on the significance
of the filter, or exotic associations
Gitanes in the French Caribbean

unfiltered Camels in downtown New York
life measured out by tobacco
the habitual pose, gazing at autumn leaves

something to do with the fingers and lips
rolling ciggies, kissing tobacco
it did not seem particularly erotic

seasons going by, nerves numb
gazing out at the sea, waves washing away
and brushing off the ashes, all the ashes

when I gaving up smoking cigarettes
it was like turning the radio off
that pulsing moment stopped time abruptly

a study of the limits of desire
when a lovely flame dies
haunted scent of ancient autumn leaves

--Ross Bender

caterwaul

the neighbors were making
lots of ruckus 

last night 

but perhaps 
they were trying 

to sing 

bongos, ukeleles, clarinets, 
cowbells, castanets

and this awful wailing 

but maybe 
they were just trying 

to sing 

thought it might have been cats 

but it was the vox humana 

about twenty-seven of them 

and all prima donnas 

making a racket 

attempting to swing 

but heck 

to be charitable

maybe they were just trying to sing 

return to the little rooms

returning to the little room --
studio, efficiency, cubicle --
solitary cell in the brain

blundering home at odd hours
you miss the address, or the building's 
down, burnt out, demolished

or the elevator refuses to pause at your floor
you wander out in the night mesh,
Manhattan street matrix

(it was the decade of the solitaries
long-distance hollow-eyed striders
up and down the wounded bleeding avenues)

at last, guided by some god's hand
you stumble home to the little room,
safe place, asylum, it endures in time

narrow bed, desk and lamp, and in the drawer
the deck of suicide cards, your old poems
cryptographic tomes line the shelf

reclining, you recite aloud
the old bards gather
chanting greybeards join in

moonlight plays over the foot of the bed
autumn returns and in its clarity
angels take wing over Harlem

full moon slides and your mind to the west
over the cliffs to paradise
down to the river, onto the rocks of time

--Ross Bender

little rooms

in the little rooms 
the trance arrives then departs
your Muse approaches

furious priests march in
beating their tambours
the drums, the incense

imposing women,
formidable as storms, rush over you
delirium in their wake

the keys to the little rooms
to find them you consult 
the subway maps

these little rooms are always
similarly furnished --
a narrow bed, a lamp, a desk

reserved for you
in a decaying building
down in the slums of time

--Ross Bender

BLACK POWER 50

living in the USA past five decades
been like participating in a slo-mo
slo-mo slow motion peoples' movement 
or a lazy funky guerilla war

Malcolm said: America is a Prison.
hard to quarrel with that truth
world's first modern democracy
world's greatest prison nation 

different gulags for different folks
graded by skin-color, IQ,
different walks, defiant thoughts
a cell awaits you tailored to your
     very own personality

--Ross Bender

stupa

narcolepsy
this drowsiness
laid on thick by winter's
monochromatic brush

take the night train
the catatonic express
nod off
with a head full of snow

there are stupas 
at my doorstep
shard upon shard
stone upon stone

--Ross Bender

bardo

your face frozen in the window
I bring food offerings
hieratic cats, their old souls
behind ancient eyes

your body entranced in the sacral bed
anointed and unguentine
once we were entwined
under the pyramids, under the sphinx

soul's boat rocking
dark gelatinous waters
florid multiplex demons
stand at attention

this is not dying; yet it is
this is not a journey; yet it is
your face frozen in the waters
under the pyramids, under the sphinx

--Ross Bender

stunned morning

storm-driven birds
gray smoke blown against leafless trees
Scarlatti's liquid harpsichord gems trickling down
pristine waterfall

stunned morning
jet contrails brushed white on cold blue sky
cosmic overtures
the silver birds

bare-limbed trees, upper branches
black on white chimney
distracted, you glance away
when you return the shadow remains

mornings you help bring up the sun
seeking perfection -- sunrise across the street
it plays on squat dormers, lattice work,
stolid brick, yellow, aged

aged by this morning somehow enhanced
you strive to conquer the music
or to merely comprehend it

trash day -- recycling trucks grind by
in stiff breeze red green white pizza box
skates across the street

smoke wisps in shadow etched
whitewashed brick wall of nursing home
bright morning sunshine
like old outdoor movie screen

--Ross Bender

there are maps

down in the subway
there are maps
if you can read them
you'll get where you are going

of course, even if you can't read them
you'll get where you are going
anyway -- 
that's just how it goes

I've been studying this phenomenon
for some time now
it's profound, yet simple:
you always get where you are going

to put it in other terms,
as Darwin once said:
'everything is the way it is
because it got that way'

--Ross Bender

strange women approach me

strange women approach me on the bus
wanting to know my business
they're subtle
asking for directions
asking for a cigarette

don't they know you can't smoke on the bus?

might be social workers
might be ladies of the night
might all be a honey trap
you never know
when you're riding on the bus

that's why I just say no
keep staring ahead into the distance
watching the streets go by
and the people dancing

murals, coffee shops, hair-braiding salons
and days go by

you see women on the bus 
you think you recognize
you might want to talk to

or exotic women in rain ponchos
displaying Chinese character for "the way"
(in Japanese 'michi')

when you get a bit closer
you see it's just some football loge
you feel foolish for having asked
"why are you wearing 'michi' on your poncho?"

these women must all think you're nuts

that's why I just say no to myself
when I get the impulse
to talk to strangers

keep staring ahead in the distance

watching the streets go by

--Ross Bender

beatniks

the beatniks are back in town
you read the message in their eyes
old souls, and wise
sorrowful, deep soulful eyes

don't look like beatniks though
more like the angels
or Daoist immortals, balding
skinny, with grey straggly beards

don't wear those berets anymore
nor dress all in black
these ain't young hipsters
no, they the ancient survivors

beatniks gentle, been through the wars,
flips, epiphanies, and highs
now they down
down to the ground

but they swing
oh yeah, they swing
like the stoned old crows
on the wing

--Ross Bender