Friday, October 28, 2016



Right out of the blue Ronald Baatz every now and then sends to me his latest collection of poems.
Right out of the blue I usually sit right down with the collection and read the poems. Every last drop.
RB and I have never met. I know where he lives. I haven't been to Troy New York in thirty years.
I read his poems and almost never have a pencil free at hand so I stop and go get a pencil, then I
begin to read again. As I read I check a poem here and there and some I also don't check I also like.
I'm sharing the ones I recently checked. I think I'll write to RB and ask if we might take the 
checked-poems and make a foldout booklet to share.
Yes, this is what we've done.
The above image is the booklet of Ronald's poems —
but what the hey — we'll share it all with you here.


from Uncle Ghost

Morning -
I shake
a little birth
a little death
on my eggs

I row
an unwanted dog to
the other side of the lake
along with a box
of powdered milk

It's true -
I always save
some piss for the shower
always forget to rinse
some soap from the beard

Old woman sitting
on the same bench
tells me that if she has
two hairs left under her arms
it's a lot

In my younger days
an old person's eyes seemed
to be the eyes of a donkey
now such eyes are the eyes
of a saint with bent legs

my first wife's ashes
in a high and windy place -
so high and so windy
my hat's blown off

Relax -
no harm will come
to the merriment of the berry
spinning in its
own decay

I take the night
and slowly soften it on my tongue
so it's easy
to swallow

Like the perfect cricket
I continue singing my lazy song
knowing I've already
practically killed
a lifetime

Until they bathe
in the soft dirt at the
edge of the garden
sparrows avoid
being seen

I lick every seed
I throw to the birds -
so at least some part of me
will fly away

While cutting away
the rotten parts of a pear
I wonder how many gods
can fit on the head
of a fruit fly

I was just a small kid
when I learned how to use a swing
but I was able to swing high enough
to see beyond the hedges
to the cemetery

Insomnia -
doubtless it will be
with me until the end
I'll probably die one night
while trying to fall asleep

I want to come back as a crow
and keep coming back as a crow
until the sun turns into a raisin
in a dark box
of other raisins

All night long
the mockingbird reminds me
that one must also rely
on the songs
of others

for Samuel Charters

R O N A L D      B A A T Z

Uncle Ghost
Wolfscat Press