This is just poetry. It won't save you, but it may locate you so that a rescue party can be sent out. — Dean Blehert

Friday, April 24, 2009


Dear Readers,

I've been off e-mail for several days (a bug--just got it up and running). Now I'm about to leave (a short trip -- back late Sunday) and will be off e-mail for a few more days. So here are a bunch of make-up and make-up-in-advance poems:

On both sides of every war,
rabid enemies agree
about death.

[Note: We associate war with disagreement, but I'm always impressed with the massive agreement that goes into any war, each side ramping up, developing similar weapons and disciplines, ranks, hierarchies, propaganda, training. This is particularly obvious where two societies of radically different background come -- as enemies -- to mirror one another, as, for example, Japan mirrored the United States in World War II. It seems we have too much love for one another, using wars to drain off the excess.]

The leaves of a whole tree top
lift off...


Out for a walk--good way to write,
because there is such wealth
of grassblades, insect and bird chirops,
changing tree patterns, houses as neat
as pieces of candy for the eye in their
endless variety of flavors, all this
to fill me back up as I empty myself,
not by what I write, but by lasering
through layers of mental debris
in search of, not the words,
but the speaker, the hearer.

When I was a kid, we called the wretched old lady
on the corner a witch because she'd shoo us
off her lawn and call the cops about ouor "gang"
running across the yard over which she bent double
every day, battling weeds.

Now I am 50 years old and a poet,
shabby, but gentle. What would you do
if you looked out your kitchen window
and saw me playing in your backyard?

[Note: Yes, I was 50 when I wrote that poem. That was 17 years ago, time enough for another high school education.]

All my women agree
that I'm very good in

When I was little I'd sit on the rug
before our huge wooden-framed radio
with glowing orange dial (as if
at the feet of a master). I'd peer
into the dial, trying to penetrate
its transluscence so I'd be able to SEE
The Lone Ranger, Sergeant Preston, etc.
It's like that when, trying to see you,
I look into your eyes.

Just when we thought the stripper
had taken everything off, she shed
a tear.

I am basically nothing at all,
which makes me very flexible.

How do you follow an act like

Dean Blehert
Blogs: (short poems) (essays and longer poems)
New book (Deanotations, Volume 1) available at

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