Poems
“California Morning”
Under a hot white August sky
I was sitting on my new sister-in-law’s
deck
looking out over a ravine
savoring my first cup of coffee
and three hours time difference
calling what I was doing “meditating”
which meant that nobody would bother
me
when a coyote appeared
ambling up a path out of the ravine
in my general direction.
I. The Approach
On a heavy day, with large and many waves,
it’s easy to waste all your strength
getting out to where they’re breaking.
Don’t make this mistake.
As you work your way out
through the maelstrom of the broken waves,
don’t let them strike you.
“Riding Waves”
Jack and Carol vacationed in California each year. Jack went body surfing during the day and performed poetry at night in the many CA venues. He said, “Life doesn’t get better than this.
My dad was born in South Boston. His heart was always in New England. Some of my fondest memories with my father are of cross-country skiing. Train tracks, frozen rivers, open fields – these were the places he’d seek out anytime there was freshly fallen snow. Jack loved free activities, especially ones that yielded some return – in this case, the ability to create your own warmth on even the coldest days of the year. Not only was it low cost, but it was low impact and, although it didn’t feel that way when the ice would thunder under our skis as it settled on those frozen rivers, low risk as well.
The Cantab was Jack's home base in New England. He might have discovered the open mike down the street, but the Cantab is where he came to own it. He said it was the best audience in the country – and that audience sure loved him. Jack was a celebrity there. When he’d read, the only sound beyond his voice was the rumbling of the red line underneath. Even the bartenders seemed to stop to listen to him.
— Kathleen Chardavoyne (Jack’s Daughter)
- For my wife Carol, the woman who drives me to Poetry The Quincy AA Group liked to let Charlie drive on their commitments. He was a careful driver who stayed a mile or two under the speed limit, and he liked to leave a little earlier than other people would. But he never missed a turn or had to ask for directions, and he always got the group to the meeting on time.
“Neponset Circle”
“Kenmore Square”
- I knew a poet who would make a couple hundred copies of a poem and stick them in a pouch, like a mailman who wrote all the letters himself.