A poem for my friend and the rest of us:

Dave Morice newly arrived

the typewriter sitting on the plush red footstool

open to anyone.

Steve Toth Chuck Miller Allan Kornblum

Morty Sklar Jim Mulac Anselm Hollo Darrell Gray

actual Actualists fabulously fleetingly famous

Iowa Workshop rebels in the 1970s

fighting armed unapologetically with words

free verse sonnets limericks odes

broadsides chapbooks mags performance poetry

a creative marathon as never seen before or since

words shaking literary foundations

from the heartland to the coasts

for their ephemeral while

rowdy resounding rising.

As we all are

in our own way and time.

Look up and see what we've accomplished

in the darkening sunset

of praise promotions reviews

that sparkle pop and explode

filling the sky

one shining moment

day

decade

before fading into smoke.

It matters so much at the time

climbing ladders

passing others by whatever means

stretching out to brush one finger

on that golden ring

while still young

and the dazzling carousel of success

feels like it could do nothing less

than go on forever.

It stops

sooner than anticipated

grinding to a halt

with stripped gears

rusted silent beyond repair

as we all do

against every expectation

plan

hope.

It’s not Iowa, it’s heaven

where we find ourselves

renewed

made perfect

to live another day

write another poem

shine in being

not achieving.