It Serves No Purpose

it serves no purpose to sit at night

hearing the wind gust from the sea

wishing the wind would draw from me

a similar forcefulness.

words that flashed like a kingfisher

have lost their color and their shine

words that dinned like surf

lap like ripples against an anchor chain.

it serves no purpose to remember her

her life has changed and so has mine

traces of her still cling to me

like mist in the morning

self-pity serves tonight's purpose well

wind patrols the fields, guards the past

gusting against all moonstruck men

asserting its creed of violence.

it serves no purpose to sit at night

a spider spinning webs within the dark

the wind rudely rips all webs to shreds

though my fist clench and my words be lost.

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2024

Published as The Solipsist’s Song, 

Orbis #161, UK.

 Ode: To The Skull

There’s a purpose for an opposable thumb

a thumbnail shaped to scrape 

marrow from bone 

brain from skull

A hemispherical skull shaped that way

to allow a brain to work at speed

neurons signaling neurons

recognition in an instant

fight or flee

Coordinated by our brains

let’s tip our hat to the skull

take thumb and forefinger to its brim

manipulate our limbs

which crawled once 

but now can stand akimbo

there’s a purpose in design

Take the iconic Cray-1

made cylindrical to shorten its wires

because Seymour measured each wire’s flight

by the speed of light

just like in the brain the shortest path

Is inside a sphere

or hemisphere.

Dick Russell © Richard M Russell

                   2024

 To April

“April is the cruelest month”, crushing 

leaves underfoot sprouting 

from wood hyacinths

as armed men with boots on 

trudge terrain

April is an uncertain month

what was crushed uncrumples

what was dashed 

flickers

evil's frosty fingers are warded off 

by summer's warming helping hand

April is a treacherous month

birds and beasts bicker

people posture

apes demand homage

April is an untidy month

plants and trees shrug off old growth

there’s no time to keep picked up

after a squall comes in from the front

April can dismay

but come what may there will be May

April is when beauty emerges

April is when winter dies.

Dick Russell (C) Richard M Russell

                         2024

 Retrospective

There, within a shrub, song sparrows built their bower

well-hidden chest high framed with good twig bones

lined with pine needles to weave a soft cup

in what seemed half a dryad’s discarded bra

upturned when the shrub was cut to its roots

between two fine maples from sapling shoots.

Strewn seeds sprout and if not stepped on flower

Wood hyacinths prosper in wild succession

then columbines campanulas poppies acanthus

sedums and salvia oregano and thyme.

Hummingbirds disputed montbretia and fuchsia

bees bumbled among alliums

strawberries were picked daily now they are gone

raspberries and blueberries have come on

Dick Russell © Richard M. Russell

                   2024

New York 1969

There were those among us that shone with light

illuminated landscapes never seen so bright

awakened knowledge we knew not we had

remembering those people makes us glad.

yes, they were scientists, stars in their field

lantern bearers leading us forward

lighting stepping-stones of understanding

in the dangerous darkness that surrounds us.

yes, they were scholars of ancient tongues

lighting mental pictures all we can see

of our past path curving convexly

amongst a limitless universe 

where time can travel fast and far

with news of us to some distant star

now unembargoed after eighty years

memories awaken set free causing sighs and smiles.

I was born in London during an air raid

bigger bombs and missiles now daunt Ukraine

Gaza has rubble heaps bigger than Lambeth

Our brains cannot comprehend so much pain.

Jews, Palestinians, troubles in Ireland

Just some cans to kick down the road

always cause for concern always an issue

religion or rather irreligion rules

prayers go unanswered, politics flails

young children dying are just sad details

I was twenty-five at Columbia in New York.

Palestinians shared grievances I heard firsthand.

Blacks discussed racism openly with me.

I went to a Mets game and sat in the grandstand.

Revolution was in the humid Hudson air.

Mao said power comes from the barrel of a gun.

People read Sartre, Marcuse, Franz Fanon. 

Beckett got a Nobel.  I met Virginia.

We went to a party at Inderjit Badhwar’s

with Virginia’s friend her hair in an afro

where a black man punched a white man 

and Yvonne was uncomfortable wanted to go. 

It wasn’t racist, more jealously than portend

Don’t ask a girl to dance ignoring her boyfriend.

Dick Russell © copyright 2024

        Richard M Russell