Hemingway’s Conversation


Hemingway contemplates
In a new found darkness.
He wonders when it will
And asks Cohen:
“Do you know?”
“How was it when you left?”
Cohen answers
No – it was so, so,
It hadn’t been that dark
Since 1939,
But the light
Eventually will come.
And we may see ourselves again perhaps In ways,
we haven’t seen,
Since very long ago.

Did you Hear ?


Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died
His family, and his lovers
by his side.

Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
The music and the words won’t be quite
so gravelly

Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
Won’t be long before Irving and Abraham
Are by his side.

Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died,
Discarded mask
And costume that he wore,
To slip behind a curtain.

Did you hear
Leonard Cohen died.
A village and a nation sighed.

Did you hear
That last
soft breath open:
Go by brooks love
Where fish stare,
Go by brooks love
I will pass there.


The Journeys Of Peter

The Journeys Of Peter


are the journeys

of Peter

through the darkness

and the night.

Living off the

the fat of his dreams,

and who by imperfect light

sits purifying

himself alone

late at night.

from the black ,

by reading Cavafy

and Layton,

considering Merciful books

of Cohen

surfing the lines

of Seferis,

empathizing with

the plight of Plath,

and considering

the weight

of Pound .

Oh how they made

him suffer

carefully not making him

a Martyr

and ensuring

he couldn’t keep up

or current

with the fight,

while old age,

and decay

did the rest and

put the final stop

on his pipes

and his kindness.

The thought

strikes fear

in his heart .

In the night.

These are the

Journeys of Peter

blind as a bat

he still sees

in the dark

The voice tells him,

just where to go,

exploring emotions

and the general plight

of his kind .

These are the journeys

of Peter flying


through the darkness,

late at night .


From “No Subject Here Just Light” by PWChaltas

Andalusian Song


Song of Andalusia
rolling over hills
and mountains
to Granada,
breaking light of
first in Seville,
and among
the solitary palms
of Algeciras.
Moonlit gutteral cry
deep from
belly of
of Gypsy, Arab, Jew,
a slow arrival from
Cordoba and Cadiz,
a fusion casting Spain,
a song that revives
the sleeping dead,
resounding deep throughout
the useless times,
over plains and night.
Strains of exile, pain,
longing and disgrace
are peering out from black
and lovely eyes
of lover’s face.
Somewhere Lorca
Is lurking in the moist
and creeping soil
lost in his duende,
tasting the
sweetened sadness
of the deep song
and now
inside it.
It no longer needs
to be inside him,
except in written words
on the white
and spread out spaces.
Hands like graceful
birds are flying round the fire
In the forgotten places.
The hungered Gypsys and
Gitanos dance
and sing deep down
from the well,
like flowing water
around the burning flames,
Proud heels are beating
into dust
and flattened earth,
waking passions of the dead .
Guitarras strum
soundless claps of hands
burn deep Into the palms
of Moorish lovers arms,
lost In the embrace
of black duende.

From “Free Verse in Useless Times ” by PWChaltas