Walking My Dog During a Florida Thunderstorm

The rainclouds appear as a puffy silk shelf

from which gray garland cotton balls hang

from the saturated swollen sky

like ribbons of Christmas tree ornaments.

Cracks of thunder crackle with

flashes of lightning streaks that explode,

light up the darkness in flames

like oil and water sizzling in a frying pan.

A spectacle of blue spears

slice the sparkling heavens

illuminate the water-logged particles,

like dancing minstrels parading the engorged highway.

All this,

while my dog pissed and shit.

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Azaleas and Wild Onions



I’m in my Azalea bed digging out – again – wild onions that continue to
multiply there year after year.
When a hawk flew into the house and was killed
I buried her in this bed,
rested her on dried Sage,
planted an Azalea next to her,
placed a beautiful stone over her plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
When my brother died, Mom and I scattered his ashes
in a hidden clearing in the woods behind her house.
We planted Azaleas to adorn the earth
next to a beautiful stone I placed on his plot.
And the pungent wild onions grew.
Sometimes the sorrowful fragrance of this planet’s progeny is just too much.
Year after year I’ve uprooted the sad scented things.
I’ve covered them over with heavy mulch – leaves and bark-
so the sun can’t warm them, I believe,
so they can’t grow bigger, I think,
so they can’t multiply, I hope.
Still in the spring, wretchedness again grows up around the bushes of pink and purple joy.
Then I discovered I could eat them –
those tart, toothsome, allium canadense.
So now, I snack on them while weeding,
knowing that ants farm aphids, and flowers seduce bees
because they live in mutual symbiotic relationship.
And if I eat bitters, sweetness will by and by appear on my plate
from the soil of the One Earth
from the One Garden.
Where grow both wild onions and Azaleas.




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Three Poems - Karen Corinne Herceg

 A Thin Season

(For a young man beheaded for listening to Western pop tunes

in his father's grocery store)

It is a thin season

culling the air of blue breath

choked sudden as a sword

at the throat of a young infidel

the forbidden pop tune of his innocence

still playing in the annals

of his thoughts

kneeling, repetitive, insistent

as the accusations of the faithful

who behead him

on an afternoon like any other

clouds rising

in a decimation of distance

between the neck and heaven.

Isis goddess of love, the moon,

magic and fertility,

a healing sister of deities

daughter of earth and sky,

twists in a massacre

of celestial delusions

bearing the severed body

back to the arms that bore him,

the one who will hear music

no more. here ...


Autumn Waits

The day screams colder

presuming bare

desperate winter trees.

Leaves bleed out colors,

sap freezing in their veins,

skies running bleak.

I build fires

against a frigid

unforgiving horizon,

fabricating warmer hope,

when climate will not mirror

the measure of my soul,

dictate rhythms of desires,

the direction of spirit.

When melting or igniting

will not be issues

within the waiting.


Feline Intensity

She regards him

with a feline intensity

the pierce of question

disguised as bravado

fake it 'till you make it

says the swish of the tail

the come hither

bait and switch love trap

that knows you want it

so she gives it

hoarding triumph

like a flag

raised

while gazing in the moist aftermath

her sleek eyes following sky-framed rooftops

that keep reaching.

Cats never look hurt:

just indignant.

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Jewel Weed

The jewel weed is blooming 

In the late summer field. 

It's strangely sad that sweltering days 

are coming to a chilly end, 

Like a love affair that smolders 

with desires and resentments, 

Kept in teetering balance 

Till the tipping point comes sure as bills. 

And what once filled the dancing heart 

Now spills ashes on the floor. 

But while the jewel weed still blooms, 

The lingering high sun brings to blossom 

what could be, 

Then rolls downhill to the icy cold 

of what will be.  

(8/22/15 JM)

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The Book Faire


The book faire is a distraction.
Why would I leave an early
Summer morning of soft breezes
through my window;
gentle piano from the radio,
a Blue Jay's rescue from
sentimental memory;
the heavy burden of capturing
the plight of the charmed
and the damned—
rendering these hours of wealth
worthy of my attention,
with half of my life achieved,
to walk into a weekend carnival
of colour, food, and noise;
leaving money—earned from
my strange morning meditation,
for bound collections of ideas
scribed by other minds,
when I have hundreds
in my garret already?
The book faire is my destination.


-Robert Milby
July 2, 2016


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Jazz Is Me

The sax player blows upbeat soulful notes
The bass player punctuates the air with staccato beats
The drummer's drum brushes scratches the skins softly
The trumpeter's muted wa wa's is a stiffled laugh
Accompanying the pianist tickling the ivories.
Fingers snap to the scat and feet stomp ready to romp
Jazz is an exorcism of the mundane
An eclectic at times hectic proliferation
Of improvised mastery of a music artistry
Eclectic as it may be it has always appealed to me.
The greatness of Miles, Coltrane and Count Basie,
Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald and Dizzy Gillespie
And so very talented more.
Jazz for the rich and the poor
Black and white.
Jazz is me without the blues
Aaahh Blues, that's a whole new poem...

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Teachings

My mother taught me to walk in heels.
She didn't teach me to kick.

My mother taught me to smile.
She didn't teach me to question.

My mother taught me to be alone.
She didn't teach me solitude.

My mother taught me vanity.
She didn't like me.

My father encouraged my independence.
He didn't like rebellion.

My father encouraged my talents.
He discouraged my direction.

My father made me listen.
His voice buried mine.

My father made me eat.
He did not feed me.

My brother brought the world home.
I wasn't allowed in his room.

My brother wrote for the college paper.
I wrote for myself.

My brother went to Paris.
I defended against men on the subway.

My brother argued with my father.
I watched.

My parents held to monogamy.
I learned to suffocate need.

My parents held to thrift.
I learned to turn off want.

My sister took care of my mother.
My mother took care of my father.
My father taught Gabriela to sing.
Gabriela bought me a dress.

I took care not to cause trouble.
Trouble took me in.

Trouble took me in
so quietly, I thought it listened.

Trouble took me in
so softly, I thought it was love.

Trouble took me in
with such a thrill, I thought I was free.

Trouble took me in
so deftly, there was no choice.

Trouble has a gnarled face -
Unmasked now, it unravels.

I continue to follow
dazed, hidden
I await the infant to kick.

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Greg Correll
I love this. The repetition of "trouble took me in" and the brave, stark telling of how the ones who should have nurtured us quash... Read More
Wednesday, 31 August 2016 09:12
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jane street (our tellings)

Jane Street (our tellings)

 They all wanted to fuck me
on Jane Street but didn't.
Such was the luck
of the brotherly type.
A witness to women
learning to walk
along the Rockaway sand.

Playing them Dusty. Joni. Laura.
Our voices rising to the sky
black w/worry. Intrigue. Late periods
and trouble at home. Manhattan dying.
The Bronx afire. The autumns
in Washington Square.

We talked to the city and
the city talked back.
Whispered us secrets
and lies. And truths that later
proved true.

They all wanted to fuck me
on Jane Street but didn't.
Such was the luck
of the brotherly type and
some pangs still play
in our tellings today.
Certainly sickness. Certainly death.
Certainly the tides, high and low and
who did who on Jane Street.

       
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Books, Poetry, Jazz. . . here's the links

If you'd like to read my latest jazz reviews on ALL ABOUT JAZZ.com or purchase books or listen to my Tuesday night Jazz program on W00C 105.3 FM, here's a few links for you.

ALL ABOUT JAZZ.com reviews: https://www.allaboutjazz.com/php/contributor_articles.php?id=142766

Tuesday Night Jazz Sanctuary, 7-10pm: www.mediasanctuary.org

BLUE FAN WHIRRING, latest collection of haiku from Nirala Publications:  http://niralapublications.com/new-booksarrivals/blue-fan-whirring-poems-by-mike-jurkovic/

SMITTEN BY HARPIES, first full collection of poems: https://www.amazon.com/Smitten-Harpies-Mr-Mike-Jurkovic/dp/1530404843/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1526748584&sr=1-3&keywords=mike+jurkovic&dpID=51Y-J12wCYL&preST=_SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch

SHINY BANJO CATFISH, first collection of haiku & short poems: https://www.amazon.com/Shiny-Banjo-Catfish-Mike-Jurkovic/dp/1535163968/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1526748770&sr=1-2&dpID=51djc6wlUvL&preST=_SY291_BO1,204,203,200_QL40_&dpSrc=srch

Eve's Venom, chapbook from Post Traumatic Press: 
https://www.posttraumaticpress.com/titles/eves-venom

A selection of my features for the Van Wyck Gazette
               NubGrafix                                                   p12          https://www.vanwyckgazette.com/spring-issue-2018?tag=Nub
               Maverick Concert Series                          p12          https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwg-spring-2017
               Roost Studios                                            p12          https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwg-summer2017
               Hudson River Maritime Museum          p12         https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwgspring2016
               Down in the Grooves                              p12          https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwg-summer-2016
               Talkin w/David Amram                           p12          https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwgfall2015
               Talkin w/Graham Nash                           p12          https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/vwgwinter2015
               On the Trail w/The Jolly Rovers.            p4            https://issuu.com/josephcaplan/docs/van_wyck_gazette_winter_issue_2016_







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Albany Poets presents: The Downstate Poets: Greg Correll, Mike Jurkovic, and

Albany Poets Presents:

The Downstate Poets of New York

Roberta Gould

Mike Jurkovic w/ Nick Bisanz guitar

Leigh Harrison w/ Bobby Perfect guitar

Greg Correll

Where? At the Hudson River Coffee House,

227 Quail Street, between Madison and Western

(on the corner of Quail and Hudson Streets)

When? Thursday, May 31st @ 7pm

Open Mic will follow. 

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