Reco ve ry &
hrough the Seasons
R T
e
h
a Poems and Illustrations
b by Moe Armstrong
i
l
i
t
a t i o n
CENTER for PS YCHIATRIC REHABILITATION Sargent College of Health and Rehabilitation Sciences Boston University Foreword
Moe is one of my favorite people on this planet. I have had the pleasure of working with Moe for more than six years, and in that time I have come to appreciate him at many levels. Moe is a tireless advocate, with the kind of focus and energy required for making changes in the mental health system. He is also a wonderful teacher and devotes many hours each week to helping staff, consumers, public officials, and community members to understand the nature of psychiatric disability and the nature of hope and recovery for people with mental illnesses. Moe is also a historian and willing to share his insights about transitions in American society from the 1960s to current. In another life, Moe had a rock and roll band that recorded for Warner Bros., promoted reggae and rock tours in Cuba, had a radio show, marketed records and musical acts, and was the state twist champion. More important than any of these roles and lives that Moe has had, he is a friend. Moe is always there with a smile and a kind word to help staff and consumers in the mental health system make it through the challenges that they face each day. He is the kind of goodwill ambassador who would strike up a conversation with a needy stranger on the street and then spend the rest of the day helping that stranger. He is the kind of person that you want to be with during the best of times and the worst of times.
This collection of poetry is a remarkable body of work. It says more about who Moe is, what he's done, and what his take on the world is than anything I can say in this foreword. I know that you will see the spirit, humor, and heart contained in this work and come to appreciate Moe for his abilities as a teacher, advocate, and all-around helpful person. More than that, I hope that you come to understand through his words why Moe is such a special friend to those of us who know him, and why he is one of my favorite people on the planet.
ANTHONY M. Z IPPLE , C HIEF OPERATING OFFICER VINFEN CORPORATION , C AMBRIDGE , MA
Preface
These are poems about me. These are writings about my mental illness. I do see things differently than other people. That was the first question that I used to get asked with these insanity tests. “Do you see things that other people don’t.” I do. I also think differently.
I have learned to accept and celebrate my difference. There is still a lot of pain in my life. I am learning how to live with mental illness and teach other people what we have learned together about our mental illness. I do group, after group, after group. These educational support groups are my life’s work. These poems are my life. I call them, MoePoe’s. I hope you like them. This is glimpse of seven some months of my life.
I dedicate this book to Tony Zipple and LeRoy Spaniol. They invited me to Boston. I am grateful that I am here.
MOE ARMSTRONG BOSTON , MA Living with an Insect
Insects in July, flying around, at night
I want to, squash the, flying pest
Then, remember, we all have, to live
Looking closely, I see this insect, feels Light Sunshine
Never got, Could feel, hot the pain, before, Stayed cool, squashed to into July death
Lisa complained, I wouldn’t, 1 want to, Poems by Not hot enough feel that, Moe Armstrong pain I reminded her I don’t want, We could be, to be squashed in Florida The bug has, flown away The mornings, are fresh, Before I’m, in Boston done thinking
Always cool
Even these, days are, too hot, for me
I go through, life
Looking for, perpetual spring
Yet, the seasons, do change Moist Heat
Sitting, by my, window
First dawn, light comes, out Summer Rain Rays of, sunshine Summer, brought July Pour, through, There was, window, no way, fan to continue The hum, Heat, of fan, so keeps, hot me, calm Then, in this heat, Through, the rain came 2 the day Through With big, the Seasons Through, crash, the night of thunder When I, wake, I rode my, up, bike, turn on, through the, computer rain Watch, the sun, Felt, get brighter good, drops, Days get, of, hotter moisture This is really, On my, summer face
Riding, to, Vinfen
Wet face, while I, work Splendid Green
Never knew, plants could, be, so green
Shooting in the Capitol The mixture, of heavy rains, Where is, and bright, the outrage, sunshine lack of, mental health, Have brought, care, about, for red haired, a green like, Weston I’ve never, seen Look, how much care, Walk out back, has gone into my, on porch life, to succeed BAM
I have had, Full in the face, every chance, green everywhere 3 to stabilize Poems by Moe Armstrong And my sanity, has been, difficult
I’m left to live, with, no weird, movies, no drugs, no booze, no guns
Take something, which calms me
Learn about, how to live, again, with what I got, schizophrenia
Randy Weston, had none of this, did none of this I Go On
Never had, peace of mind
There were times, since the war
That I went, Summer Porch through life, with sometimes, The roar, bliss, of traffic, day after day goes on, down below, Am I growing, the porch older, and my uncertainty There is air, creeps in? freshness, after hot and, I should, humid days have more, confidence The end, of July Left wondering, what to do, More than, 4 with my life half way, Through through, the Seasons the year
Some days, have gone, so slow
Then, a week, goes by
Finding my way, Next thing, back to sanity, I know and stability A month has, Every day, passed is a struggle This year, Finding peace 1998, of mind, was a time, happens in, of learning, moments, to sit on, some days back porch
Not all the time, Feel the breeze, forever on my face, cool down from, the heat, after work Only a Year Ago
Last year, at this time
I was huddled, behind a wall
I had fallen apart
Was left to go, out, walk in the streets Thinking Mental Health Get my way back, Morning prayer to sanity
Let me have, How did this, the clarity to see, happen what needs to, be done with, How did I fall, mental health apart, I am still not sure My mental health, society’s mental, Built myself back, health through: 5 Poems by Can things, 1. Some light activity Moe Armstrong that work for, me, 2. Some time spent, work for others in conversation
I have so much And I am not over, self doubt, the emotional, about my ability, disorientation about my sanity I go on I keep working Living with the new, My job is, person go out, meet people, in the mental, health programs
Try to discover, who we are
What are the, needs of people, in need
Praying for clarity, to do this job With the Rain
It was a rainy day, in July
Heat had come, and gone
These were days, A Day Goes By that were overcast, and still hot Was alone in a room, getting ready to go, I got through, out into world this summer Get ready to meet, Wasn’t like, more people last summer Go more places Today, by the time, From Marlboro, the early morning, Massachusetts, rain ended to South Station
I was kind of, All through Boston and, 6 choked up inside around the area Through the Seasons Thinking about, people I had known A day of discovery, and ideas Places I had been First, Memories, riding around, on a rainy day on a bike, looking into corners of the city, meeting people, from our mental, health programs, on the streets, in the city
Then, driving car out, on the Mass Turnpike, for a meeting discussing, how to get people off, booze and drugs
The days are, fast and short
Before I know it, a week has gone by Flipped Out
How happy, I was, before my, first break
Kind of a, Sometimes Too Much fresh kid, from the, I’ve been, midwest too sick for, this society Dreaming, kind of, I have, guy rage
I still have moments, Lucky that, when I can, I haven’t, be, been, in my room or, picked up, in the country thrown in jail
Alone, at peace Most people, haven’t been, Reading, ready for me quiet 7 I’m trying, Poems by to live, Then, I am, Moe Armstrong brought back in the community
I am Moe I’m terrified I am mentally ill I never know I have no life, what I’m going, but survival, to feel like, from flipping, any given hour out Sometimes, any, Day after day, given minute I live with this I can explode, Could you? or fall apart, in a second
I wish all this, would stop
It hasn’t
What will happen
I don’t know Tanzanian Marriage In Cambridge
The marriage, procession, with Tanzanian, women singing, following the, bride
African bright, Poetry cloth of colors, wrapped around, Mind spun, their heads out of control, now back in synch Moving in lines, moving in song Off into, straight away, Bride dressed, day in best white Straight ahead Cambridge style, wedding My life, is poetry, Two different, short phrases 8 African cultures That tumble out, Through of my head, the Seasons Africans from there Africans from here and on to paper
I sat, Fought madness with poetry drinking soda, pop Never knew, what I had, watching the, never knew, ceremony my mental illness I just couldn’t do, what other people did
Would fall apart
Thought this falling apart, was special about me
Didn’t know, this is mental, illness
Yet, I got myself, back, through poetry
Organizing words, on paper
Organized words, in my head The Way Out
Conversation at, substance abuse, program, on Long Island What We’re Like and, the Way You See Us You, wanted to know Out on porches, reeling out, About life on, thoughts the outside You see ourselves, You didn’t realize, as unable to, you were outside leave You could go where, You think that, you want we stay in the, house, Here at Bay View Inn, all day long to stop drinking, is freedom Look out windows, only to go back, Freedom is “inside” to the porch First, Smoking cigarettes, 9 get inside yourself, Poems by to stop drinking and, Yet, inside our head, Moe Armstrong drugging there is a light, burning bright light This is your chance, to live Light that is always, lit Find out, who you are Searching for the way, to balance What you can do We talk Live your life, clean and sober We talk about how, to get to saneness Being in your, program, The pain of confusion, is an opportunity that each of us, experiences, To be free Is never seen or, understood
We are seen as only, smoking cigarettes Gone and Going
To come so far, I wept that morning
I had been fast, asleep
To have my head, full of dreams What’s Out There At least I’m dreaming, these nights in my sleep Driving through, the desert I have picked myself out, of the dust Light of the, day Brushed myself off Can see the, Started going in the, landscape, direction, stretched out of renewal There are, I wept that morning, fields of shrubs, life is so hard, 10 and bushes sometimes Through the Seasons Going through, Psychiatric breaks, where there doesn’t, can last a long, seem to be any life time The place is crawling, with the living
The desert means, that I can take time, to see, because, I have the space
To see each living thing, ants and bugs, lizards, I have come through, some field mice, a lot rabbits, scraggly stray dogs, Still got a way to go and some occasional, coyotes
Then I, just have to, jump out of the car, and walk around
See this life up close Nuts on My Car
Horse Chestnut, Bounced Back spiny green balls, called seeds I was left standing, alone Fall on my car
Some people said, Nature keeps trying, that I couldn’t have, to cover me up gone through, this schizophrenia, Imagine, I’ll walk, out someday Must have been, something else And a tree from, the chestnut seeds, Walking through, will be growing, the daily haze right through my, car roof Hearing the rattling, 11 and rustling The constellation, Poems by Hercules in the sky, Moe Armstrong Seeing the mice, looks over me and cockroaches, which aren’t there, Sky and earth, moving off to the side I walk through, this world Psychiatrists and, psychologists, My mind looking for, explaining to me natural meaning
What I have, Trying to find, what I experience my place in nature
What a life this is, While nature, what a life this has been falls on me
People explaining me, to me
While, my head, has a storm in it
There is no way, to get away from the pain
Stood up to face the fury
I’m still standing Old Hickory Forests
Some day, I”ll walk through, Bog Walk these forests, under the canopy, Wish I was out, of hardwood branches walking through, broad leafed, Finding ferns, and cattails leaves
Following streams, Looking for wild flowers, bogs and woods, and screech owls with bunchberry Then, these old opossums, Maybe looking hard, which get into Boston 12 seeing a brown winged, Through teal, I will discover in, the Seasons or northern pin tail, their native home eating, lesser duck weed I will try to come out, on some abandoned, The beauty of the, fields Northeast isn’t, the cities Looking for moist meadows, filled with Little Bluestem Many forests have, Grass been left and surround, these cities Find some Red Cedars
Waiting for the day, Look for songbirds people leave Maybe sing a song, Ducks, bogs and streams, myself also poised in wait
They know how to survive, without civilization Get to Sleep
Sleep came, so peacefully, last night
Didn’t lay awake, didn’t have, this restless fear
That keeps me, awake in, middle of night
Humid and Hot Came home, so tired, Last blast, couldn’t stay up of summer Went to bed, Hottest day, eight thirty of July Slept through Wasn’t so hot, the night till, as humid four thirty, in the morning Sat in the, 13 room, Was with the quiet, Poems by made phone calls, of the morning Moe Armstrong all morning Zen music, Turned on, by John Singer air conditioner Some poems Just to cool, down Feel rested like, I can go on, Sweating through, with my day the day My sanity, When I went out, has been a struggle of the house
There was that, Boston breeze
No breeze, all humid, in my room
Didn’t know, there was a breeze till I went out Fungus Out Front
Alcohol inky, mushrooms, growing at, door step Building Back You might, walk right, Better than, by them I have ever had
I have walked, Right now, right by them my life is better
Didn’t notice, Broken down, the living, and coming back, plants, gained me, at my feet consistency
Thought to myself, I gained, “Oh, a fungus” my life back, by being constant Not thinking, about how, Struggle to calm, this little plant the inner me 14 Through Is trying to make, Struggle to have, the Seasons a life for itself, peace and sleep in the flower box Struggle to keep, going through, Storm Moves Thru the day
Woke with, I take so many such a, herbs to calm, bang me
There was, I need something thunder in, the night I am mentally ill
There was, Step by step lightening, crashing Day by day
Woke me up I am building, myself back Then, came, rain.
Light rustle, of rain against, the window
I was back to, sleep Shooting Holes In the Air
Bombs in Kenya, missiles in, Afghanistan
Who will be safe
How long, before retaliation
Leadbelly We go on, with killing Jumping, Leadbelly, The United States song, talks against coming, terrorism, at then, kills many me in sanctioned military action First thing, in the morning When is enough enough About a man, going round, How much blood, 15 taking names to feel satisfied Poems by Moe Armstrong Just this one The missiles are, guy, in the air on a guitar The bombs are, What a difference, on the ground he made
Made more, music from, that voice and guitar
Than, the whole, electronic, orchestrated, wall of sound, that was to come, later in music A Person
All these people, speaking, for and about, me
Is a little hard, for me to take
Well, if me, feels this good, I can’t have, schizophrenia City Daydream
No congratulations, Wish I was, I have gotten, walking through, through, the countryside one more day Looking for, Learning to live, American, with schizophrenia, Elderberry has not been easy Letting the juice, No congratulations run through, 16 my mouth Through So I go on, the Seasons trying to get, Maybe catch, through the nights some, High Bush Blueberrys So that I can be, Low Bush Blueberrys stable during the days On a hot day, To turn on television, With my feet going, radio and read books I could be on, Find there are, a trail whole groups of people, making a living out of, Looking for the berries speaking about us Then, I come on to, People with schizophrenia, the bushes can speak for ourselves Berries in my hand, I am a person with, then, in my mouth schizophrenia There is so much, I can speak for myself said, for learning how, to forage
Getting back, to the woods $120 a Month
This hunch, of going, through the day, by getting, Eats and Thoughts through the night Milk and cookies Get up, with a, Under a tree, thought, inside a cabin to write down Looking out, There are times, a window when I can’t, sleep This is the kind, of life I can write That I want to, Sitting around, lead 17 the morning, Poems by of late August Milk and cookies Moe Armstrong I spend, Writing some, almost $120, poems on different herbs, While listening, To put me to sleep to music I need to get, Walking through, knocked out, the forest from the day Looking for, I probably always, plants and animals did The good life, The terror comes, never escaped, at night me The days can be good Milk and cookies, is how I kept, Still, to be able, my sanity to wake up fresh and not flipped, out
I have to go to sleep Moths
Waiting for the, Cabbage White Moth, to come back
Signaling the fall Rainy Moods Autumn doesn’t, come along, The rain from, until this moth, Hurricane Bonnie, is out and flying, came in drizzles about Supposed to be, Cabbage White Moths, the big storm filled the kitchen, last year, Light rain in, end of summer, the morning ate up my hops tea Thought about, They didn’t seem, when I once had drowsy, as they circled through, An office in, the kitchen and living, the Marine Corps, room barracks 18 Through Before the leaves, Listened to folk, the Seasons turn music, and wrote poems, Before there is frost, in 1964 in the air There is so much, Comes the little, in my life that, Cabbage White Moth has come and gone, and come back
I am writing right, through, this life I have
About the life I had
About the life I have
In a small room, writing poems, listening to folk music
Thirty five years later Monk Later
Bop in, the morning No Relaxation Thelonious Monk My head filled, I’m getting sentimental, with so many, over you thoughts “Gallop’s Gallop” There I was in the Dharma, Live at the “It” room, Club, at the Zen Center 1964 Los Angeles Alone with, When I was, my mind running around, LA I could’ve, rested Didn’t know what, to look for Didn’t doze, while meditating I could’ve, been at, Instead, this concert I went to, 19 flow Poems by Years, later, Moe Armstrong I got a CD, I thought, again in Cambridge Why not, In a space, rest my mind in my head, on Sunday morning Instead, went to, No matter what, thought, happens after thought We never miss out Tried to stop, the thinking We can always, catch up Couldn’t go back to flow Like, hear a concert, So absorbed, on this compact disk, in my thinking 34 years later That time just went past
With my head still, full of thoughts
I was beginning, the relaxing Nesting
Last day in August
How the summer, has gone
First there was, May
Now there is, August
Light rain sprinkles, Brought Together and overcast Learn by talking, These birds that had, with each, the same nests, person sitting, all summer around the table
They seem restless So much said, in this time They might be, moving on Had to hang, on every word 20 One nest, Through at a time, This was a, the Seasons they build a, focus group, nest, made up, and move on of mental health, consumers, They seem, about our mental health, to enjoy, the, programs nest they have, and the birds who, There were, they are with conversations, and ideas My summer ends, not by seasonal, That I never, temperature, heard before change Sat here for, But with birds, hours, looking for a, listened to, new nest the discussion
Got to know, people from, another point, of view Snail
Natural shapes, have some curves, that let the eye, wander
Black in the South Around this winding, Mance Lipscomb, slopping, bent over a guitar, shape, playing out in front, of nature of Texas feed store Finding, Down by the, that there aren’t, railroad station sharp corners
Sharecropper, Houses that singer humans built, stand in contrast, These stories, to curves of and guitar runs, a snail shell play on House that, Down in, nature built, Brazos valley on the back of, 21 the snail Poems by Noasota, Texas Moe Armstrong Looking at, Living with, the little, his family to understand, the big After he, worked in, Natural world, fields helps me to, understand, He was able, authentic nature to make music
With the money, from music
Bought him a mule and, a better guitar
Mance Lipscomb, had a story, to tell At Home
Learning to enjoy, where I’m at Bird in Cambridge Go for a walk, sit on a park, This little Chimney Swift, bench swoops down The people, The shape of, are gathered, the wings around Central, Square The way the, wings, Finding out, slope back who is there All fits to the, Spending time, character of, getting to, this bird know this scene Fast flying arcs, Then, take a walk, brings, down by the, Chimney Swift Charles River back to rest, at the nest 22 With a sketch, pad, Through Wouldn’t be caught in my hand the Seasons on a branch or wire I draw out, people I have, For this bird, seen it is only the nest, or nothing A goose waddling, past There, right off, to my side Try to capture, the shape of, This bird swoops, a tree, down on my sketch pad I am left to wonder Life goes by, for me Could I someday, fly like this
With wings that, slope back The Past
The night, was quiet, all night
There were, no stars
When I awoke, went for a walk Clicking of the Keys I thought the lightening, In front of a computer, was only from, I can no longer, the heat, remember, till the rain hit what typing was, like With a crash, the sky opened, Scattered papers, up all over the floor, I still seem to have Ducking my head, Yet, many of those, I ran for cover, written thoughts, are now on, all the way, 23 a computer disk home Poems by Moe Armstrong Not enough, There were times rain to, that I felt lonely splash up, my legs, Used to dread, my pants the pain of waking
Enough to sprinkle, This is no longer, my head the case
I ducked inside, I feel like I have, my home, a job to do did a little dance, while I listened, Rebuild myself to Emmy Lou Harris, Rebuild others music I’m just recording, Thought about my past the changes, that I’m going through Then, let some other rain, Sitting in front of, fall inside my head a computer, writing words, about the life, I’m living
Places I have been What I Do
The nights, turned crisp
Beyond cool Changes So there I was, so comfortable The Lance, Leaved Coreopsis, In my sleep flowers, are withering Never thought, that I would, This Tickweed, have this experience, is changing again Summer has, Sleeping almost, come to an, through the night, end every night The flowers, Cool air wrapped, are changing around me 24 For those, Through I finally feel, who take the, the Seasons like I am getting, time to notice better Bright yellow, I wake in the morning, petals, say a pray of thanks are shrinking
meditate The stem, is still strong write this poem People going, to work, might not notice, Tickweed
Might not understand, the time to, harvest is now
Tickweed is changing Leaving Town
The call for “Commuter Rail for Bridgewater,”
Clears out the, Train Station the South Station, this Sunday night Two ragged folks, down and out, The headlines, around the railroad, about the President, station scream out
Nine PM , Passengers pass by I’m here again, at night On the train, there will probably These are, be, the kind of people, discarded, like I used to see, newspapers all the time, in those days of, Keeping everybody, the sixties reminded, about Monica, Now, in Boston, Lewinsky 25 I catch a glimpse, Poems by of new street people, I’m on my way, Moe Armstrong different era to Washington
They were up, Heart of the storm all night, won’t go to, What will I see the shelter What will I learn
Hang out around, Talking about, the railroad station mental health
They were here, In the midst, again, domestic, trying to spend, and economic, the night, uncertainty South Station, Boston, Massachusetts Next train out, my Amtrak train, They will, the coast run, spend this evening, to Washington, DC living through, another night
While I head out, of town, on the train Get Away Day
About the President A home for the butterfly To censure, To impeach The butterflies, didn’t come North, I’ll go to the, this year Smithsonian, instead of read these, I get to see their home, newspapers when they aren’t, around Catch a glimpse, of history longer, A bird’s nest hidden, than today’s headlines in a wood’s edge, habitat I am too early, for museums Probably small sparrow; found this place Find a garden off, to the side of traffic, There is whole village, in the shade of, of insects and, Natural History Museum birds, living in this habitat Look for butterflies 26 Carved out in, Through Looking for, the middle of the city the Seasons butterflies, on damp ground Finding a way to survive
Here in the heart, Each plant has distinct, of Washington, defined beauty traffic going under, Smithsonian Mall Tunnel Black jack, bee lites down So there is a butterfly garden, The small pincers with no butterflies, on the front of and lots of flowers head, wiggles around, This is better than, flower top than the newspaper As I write, Surrounded by small trees, the world’s smallest flowers and shrubs ant, crawls across, The butterfly loves, my notebook the clover, the alfalfa I blow the ant, back on the grasses, There are sweet grasses with my breathe
The Big Blue Stem Grass, I’m lost in the, sprouting out, flower garden in clumps Capitol Power
Thought I, would walk, to the Capitol
To see what, all the hoopla, is about How to Raise a Butterfly? Channel Nine, Have late blooming, Eyewitness News, plants parked out in, front 27 Butterflies need food, Poems by for long journeys I read the, Moe Armstrong Washington Post, If you want butterflies, get a feel for, leave decaying plants political climate
Butterflies love to, Start up the, eat the mulch, steps, from those dead plants to doors, balconies and windows Don’t use chemicals Steer to the right, Butterflies love the natural walk in to sit, House Chamber A single flowering plant like, See the House, Summersweet Clethra, in action can go a long way, to keep butterflies, Experience, around corridors of power
Make friends with butterflies
Live with plants
Go for walks, through plants, and butterflies George Wallace Died
In the shadow, Back into the Union of US Grant, statue at, The old rebel died, Capitol steps I read about his, death The day George, Wallace died. In the shadow of, Grant’s statue On his horse, this General Under the gaze of Grant staring out Grant fought, across the trees for the union and the mall
In a stone’s throw, Washington, DC from the Capitol September 14, 1998
I’m reading a, newspaper, about the death, Fought for the Union of George Wallace The bronze soldiers, I’m realizing, of the civil war, pulling an artillery field, 28 George Wallace, wagon Through died today the Seasons He was part of, War monument, the reverberations, Washington, DC of the Civil War, still rolling through, The memories of, this country my own combat, history Grant wanted the, war over Fighting the other, side, He killed every, till death rebel soldier, possible Carrying off, those crying in pain, One of the last, the wounded of the rebels, died today My great grandfather, fought, Yet, George Wallace changed for the Union
Embracing African, I always wondered Americans, for votes What was his story
And, Teachers Unions, While at this monument, for better schools I say a prayer
Leading Alabama, For all soldiers back into the, nation And, for this old soldier, moe armstrong Dan Emmett
Diamond of the, Rialto Theater river boats
Gone, Playing songs, the cool dark, of, of the movie house, Pelham and, of my youth Gilbert
Without a care, Songs of people, in the world, enjoying themselves watching the flicks The master, Sitting back, is gone while the screen, story unfolds Songs of the carefree, life, I watch some, not of work cowboys, ride across, The well dressed, the sage dandies and ladies, sit in the front, All lost up, rows, in the moment by the stage 29 The great expanse, The humming, Poems by of the desert, and strumming Moe Armstrong moves across, the screen Going on
I wasn’t in the west “Double shuffle”
I grew up in, “Hoe corn, Illinois dig potatoes”
“Scratching gravel” Back in 1959, I was watching, Jump up and dance, these cowboy pictures like we got all, the time, I’m thinking, to get our good times in “someday I’ll live in the west.” “Pigeon wing,” around
While this banjoist, plays
Pick up the feet, while we do this, dance
Pigeon wing
Riding on the river
Double shuffle, all the way Washington, DC
City that is always, in the news, in the movies, on the TV
Different view, from, the street level
Northeast architecture, Federal Style Too Much Hassle
That now I am familiar, This town, with the buildings Washington, DC
I recognize the row houses, Runs on, which have become offices self importance
Have same peaked roofs, Doesn’t think of, and rounded, the outside world 30 window frames, Through as Federal style, The news from here, the Seasons in Boston from Washington, keeps generating, I’m moving through this, excitement, city, for itself of monuments, and old buildings The rest of us, are worried
When the power grab starts
Will we have a job Will we have a home
Washington likes, the power conflicts
The rest of the country
Doesn’t want this power trip Observing
The morning, commute
I was able, to watch, the day, unfold
People, in Washington, DC It Was Luck People on top of, people Could I have, discovered They will be, working all day, This path to, in the office, wellness, buildings sanity, stability, Returning home, sobriety tired at night 31 If I had lived, Poems by All day long, another life? breathing canned, Moe Armstrong air, If I had gone, in those office buildings down another, path? Behind sealed, plate glass windows Instead, I was left to, Imagine, flounder, outdoors for them, and discover these city dwellers, is riding, At the same time! the metro These floundering, With overcoats, mistakes, suits, ties I made with my, life Women in heels Were a help, These are the riders, in bringing, on inner city rails me to stability
Lucky I lived, long enough, to find out, a path Human Safety Net
The end of, this trip, to Washington, DC
September 15, 1998 Boston Bypass
This group of twenty, Washington, from across the country DC, to Boston We sat around, the table, I get to town, and talked about, the next, long term care, morning for people in need The Boston, Who would we, morning, be working with commute
What will mental, Seen from, health look like, Amtrak five years from, 32 now I sit in, Through the train the Seasons This was only, the beginning, Train tracks, of understanding, the Metroliner there will be a need, for long term care Riding right, through, The trip had ended, Route 128, that afternoon traffic
We asked each other Boston, “How would we, backed up like to be treated.” Bumper to, Should we break, bumper down and fall apart Imagine, people, “Guarantee long term, go to work, compassionate, every day, mental health care,” through this, as the foundation, traffic as a guarantee, was the answer I glide by, on the train
While, people, grind to work Reversed Realization
Back in Boston, We all, on the all night, have to, Metroliner get off, our high, New England, horse countryside, flashes by We are, capable, First light of, of, dawn every mean, spirited thing, This train, possible going by, as part of, There is, American, so little, landscape time
Except, To live I’m on inside, looking out To be together
Trying to think, Be good, how trains look, to each, from the out side other 33 Poems by I have stood, Go with, Moe Armstrong in a railway crossing goodness
Watched trains, Be kind go by, seen the people, inside Death
Now, I am the, Alfredo Russo, person, died on the inside Built himself, In my compartment, back from, on the pullman train homelessness
From drug addiction
From gang warfare
From streets of, Boston
Raised for decades, on the, streets
He got clean and, sober, to die from, brain cancer Traveled Alone
The airport, muzak, played Could’ve While I waited The plane, Boarded, I’m on, the plane keeps going, to Los Angeles The guy who, was, I could stay, to ride with, on the plane me, on this trip, No one would, to Las Vegas, know, Nevada I’m going on to LA
Guy who was on patrol, Then, with me in Vietnam get off and walk, down sunset strip, He never came with a floppy, 34 overcoat Through I was alone the Seasons Pocket full of poems On this trip, to, Looking at bright, Third Recon, lights Reunion Walking through, Las Vegas, Hollywood, Nevada looking for stars, just like I used to do Logan Airport, Six AM Instead, I will get off, Remembering the, this plane, war, in Ohio the people, who I served with, Go to Las Vegas, in Vietnam instead of, Los Angeles Traveling alone, this morning, Walk in the, with thoughts and, bright lights, memories, big city, of the war of Las Vegas
Without the, movie stars, of Los Angeles Under the Lights
In the Casinos
I’ll be looking, for the new, Sally Rand, in Las Vegas
Fan dancer James Whitcomb Riley Country Like in, The fields of, “Kings of Kings” Indiana, are brown She held those, fans, Being harvested parted them, just a little Reminded, this is fall Men gasped
We fly low, Tonight, a new, over the farms generation of men, are gasping, Grey barns around the casinos 35 White siding, Men in polyester, on the houses Poems by checked pants, Moe Armstrong are gasping This Sunday, in Las Vegas morning, no one is, Seductive dancers, working are peeking out, shaking their I see the, feathers life below, is only seen by, These dancers used, the farm work, to get men going done Now they got Viagra Not the people, working Wonder if?
Quiet Sunday, Because of Viagra, morning show attendance, will go down Midwest, slice of life, Will men still need the fan dance America
Fields, fences, roads, farm, houses and barns
Seen from the airplane Lots of Lights
The quiet of, Las Vegas, morning, before dawn
The clink, of change, pouring out, a slot machine
Bells ringing, Watching Vegas Lights flashing Too many, The mechanical, new cars sounds, of the casinos Too much, money Slot machines Roulette wheels Too much, Keno high living
This early in, Here, you can get the morning 36 Instant wealth Through More fun to, In Las Vegas the Seasons see casino in, action 24 hours a day
I go out, Signs flash on the floor Bright shiny autos, Catch the, roll by morning, gamblers Down Las Vegas, Boulevard Drink some, tea at The Strip Starbucks Who has the Walk around, most see the lights, and the people. All this glitter, doesn’t buy, Dig the scene peace of mind
I’m happy looking, at the cross section, of humanity who comes, here
I don’t spend a penny On the Bench
Strike up, conversation, with a woman, on the stone bench, outside the Westward Ho, Casino
She didn’t, strike it rich
Broke and, drunk in, the morning
Nice clothes, no money
A night of, At the Table losses She nervously, She tells me, strokes her, there’s a tent, hair city, where she can live As he plays, 37 Poker Poems by She can, Moe Armstrong wait through the, At the table, night until she, the cards, is sober flip over
I say good-bye, He seems, walk into the, to be losing casino lights, and street lights She tugs and, tussles, on to the sidewalk her hair, over and over
As if to say, we must be, going
They stay,
He continues, to lose On Vacation
She was, thin
He was, fat Macumba They came, Black Leopard from Kansas left alone, when his master, They are here, died in Las Vegas, Nevada Had to be reached They go, Roy, down the strip a lone man, got in the cage They go, into one casino, Sat still with, after another the leopard I wonder Until they, 38 connected Does she keep, Through herself thin the Seasons Thought about, why can’t people, So he can go to where the, other person is Spend what he, wants Sit still, until they connect Eat what he wants Then, spend every, While she goes, waking moment, on by his side with the each other Living without Spending time, with the each other, can be, a sense of enjoyment
Alone, with the, other person
There is a bond, that comes over, time, of being together
Learned this from, these animal lovers Secret Garden
Stripped, white tiger
Uses the, stripes, to hide, in the bush
He can run, after his game
Here at the, Secret Garden, Las Vegas, Nevada Life on Streets The animals have, everything to eat Consumer who I met in Vegas
I am a like a small Here in Las Vegas, child, I pick up cans filled with wonder I make two hundred Each living space, dollars, for the animals extra a month, on top, of social security 39 Poems by Filled with trees, Moe Armstrong and grass I live around the edge, of the strip I can get up close, look them in the eye My shopping cart, filled, What a wonderful, with cans in, world plastic bags
What a way to spend, I head down, the afternoon to get my money
Romping with tigers, Some social, lions, elephants and security dolphins at, the Secret Garden Some cans I have enough, to call this life
Living Waiting for a Bus
Three mental health, consumers, waiting for a bus
I go talk to them
They take me, down town, Las Vegas
Show me apartment, building in stucco, balcony out front
“Corner apartment that’s where I live” Stayed Behind
“$150 per month” Dedicated to those who stayed behind
“I live down below, We came, same rent” to town
“Lived here three years” Las Vegas 40 Looking to, Through “Work for tips lifting, get rich the Seasons baggage in the casinos” We lost, Spending free time, what we, at the Salvation Army had
“Best substance abuse I ended, program in town” up, a drunk I go back to the strip She’s working, Meet more people, in the casinos and look around There is, a way, for me to get out, of here
But, I never, seem to find it Under the Glitter
The late night, gamblers
Still going, on
In the middle, of the night
Going to bed, late At the ATM Waking up, The look of, early sadness, in his eyes People come, to this town, He lost everything to get rich
Was at, Gamble away, the ATM, all their money going for more, 41 money And spend, extra Poems by Moe Armstrong He thought, Yet, I don’t have that getting, enough, more money, money, would help, for restaurants him out I can’t understand Help him, out of debt What do all these, He was losing people, do for work? He lost some more That they can afford, Everybody is losing to live like this If people won
There wouldn’t be, Las Vegas Another Life
Two drunks, on the street
One drunk, patting the other, on the back Home Before Daylight Bent over, Las Vegas, a curb before, dawn Up all night, on a bender The last lights, of the, Waiting to sleep, Starlight Casino it off
Cool air, They have come, desert morning to comfort each, other Guy and his, girl, They know that walking down, they can’t sleep, the street, out like this, 42 in front of me out on the streets, Through in the night, the Seasons He is slumped, or they get busted over They just stay Hard night sitting on a curb, off in the shadows, All night away from the lights, of Las Vegas They are, winding, Looking out for each other their way back Until daylight, To a hotel room, when they can sleep, on the strip in a park
He walks ahead, she walks behind
As the sun, comes up, the lights, on the strip, go down
Day light happens, right in front of, Starlight Casino In Between
In between, trips to the strip
I hang out, at the Third Recon, Vietnam war reunion
Meet guys, who I might, have known Taxi
Look for faces, I could, I might remember have been, driving taxi, We have all, in Las Vegas grown older Driving down, So much older through the, night In our time, we seemed so young Writing during, the day I thought that we, Making a living, would never age 43 driving cab Poems by Everytime we get, Moe Armstrong back together Writing straight, through We look more tired Maybe, mystery novels, The war took a lot, about casinos. out of us I could have been We saw too much A taxi driver, The years have taken, in Las Vegas a lot out of us Small apartment, We are different from, off to the, the other people who, side of the, never went to Vietnam strip
Keyboard and, typing
Finding characters, for the novels
In my rides, and my walking, down the strip
In search of a sketch Carnival in Lawrence
Old fashioned, ferris wheel
Small merry, go round
Fills the park, in Lawrence
Big fair, “Fall Harvest, Days,” Back at Work in Boston for the residents
I’m coming in, Guys trying, dead tired to knock over, milk bottles From the road Get their, From Lawrence girl friend, a stuffed animal
44 In the distance, I ride by the park, Through just over, as the school, the Seasons the hill, past Stoneham across the street, gets out I see the lights, of Boston Parents picking, up kids I realize, that I’m part of, Kids delay, big city America ride home
Boston skyscrapers, Kids with eyes, just like Manhattan lit up, waiting to get, I ride my bicycle, over to the carnival through these, buildings Not wanting, to go home Now, I’m in the, far distance, Not wanting, over six miles, to leave, from Boston downtown Lawrence
Looking at, the lights
Sighing, “Wow, I live there” Morning Quiet
The stillness, of the mind
There is not, a sound
At five AM , I wake up
Before, Boston Breeze the traffic
The wind, There is, blew, a quiet, the flags that I have, learned, Straight out... to live, with The wind, off the, I withdraw, Longfellow, first thing, Bridge in the morning
Was stiff Meditate and pray 45 Poems by I was riding, So that I can, Moe Armstrong my bicycle, go out, against, during the day this gust I’ll try not to, There was, lose myself more, than, I set aside, a breeze in, mornings for, my face rediscovery
This particular, The quiet, day, lets me think, I was out, and reorder, with full gale, my mind pushing against, me
Across, this bridge, and across, this town Railroad Days
Lining track, Thought why, by the, there can’t, railroad be
Men working, More silent, in the, moments morning While my, The light, head unwinds of lanterns So, I can, Started the, draw pictures day
Those days, Conference seem, gone There is this, conference As I ride, the rails, We sit around, to discuss, Washington what Medicaid, should look like 46 There is nobody, Through left Accountability, the Seasons in the system by the side, of the track Not enough, money, to go around
Alternative Services Washington DC Was I suggest Peer, This time, Education in coming here, did nothing for, Teaching those of us, me with mental illness
There was no, What we have where to go How to live, Where I had not, with mental illness been Pull groups of, I sat in the room, people with, with crayons mental illness, together Finished my, pictures Let us share our, experiences, I enjoyed the, and learn from, time each other Watching the Capitol
From car window, I am reminded, that we are in, Washington
Through the, Hotels mist of rain, clouds More gets done, by conversations Across the, river In the hallways The Capitol, Than at the meetings can be seen
We spend time, We are in, brainstorming the heart of, American decisions Trying to figure, out what we can, In the distance, do together the white rotunda, sticks out, Advocates and, as the dusk, policy makers comes 47 Poems by Implementer of, Moe Armstrong policy I am able to see, the light is on Under one roof, we have time, Congressional, to get together session, going on, Maybe, we should, late tonight do this more often
Get all the people, who disagree
Rent a hotel for, a couple of days
Just spend time, with each other
Some problems, might begin, to iron out Looking
“Voted to inquire, about impeachment”
Headlines, while I was in, Washington
My life is, saving lives Down Here So far removed, “There’s these from Congress guys” I’m the other side, “Blacks” of punishment
“Bad element” All the mistakes, I make everyday “They live over there, Things I said, just on the outside never wish I had said of Old Alexandria” Things done, “Wouldn’t want 48 never wish I had done to leave your Through car, the Seasons Stabilizing my, where they live” mental illness, depends on, “When they forgiveness come over here, we take them in I got to let myself, the alley” be forgiven
“The police, Learned to be, beat them up” forgiving
“We take care Learn to go on of problems”
Taxi driver was, telling me
Late night in Virginia
This conversation, I called
“The Alexandria Solution”
Sad, we still treat each other this way All Night Drizzle
If this was winter, we would be, in trouble
This rain, doesn’t stop
This could, be snow
The city would, stall shut
This fall, more moisture, Going Home and cooler air Bags of stuff All signaling, packed as, get ready for personal baggage, winter on the way out of, Logan Airport We can plan ahead, So much, all we want manufactured, clothes, 49 toys, Poems by If winter hits, Moe Armstrong with the moisture trinkets, of the fall electronics
And brutal cold, Packed, of a special winter as luggage, in the hand, We are in trouble over the shoulder, under the seat, in the overhead
As duffel bags
As cardboard boxes
Anyway to get, this stuff on the, plane
Everything they could, buy, was leaving, the United States
Going into, the Caribbean Take Off
On the tarmac, the Boston, skyline, stands out
State street, buildings, Questions seen from afar What will, The whole, Cuba, skyline seen, be like across the harbor What faces, Shining lights, will I remember in pre dawn hours Will I know, We pull out how to get, around Take off I’m supposed to, I’m able to, meet Alexis, look back down at the airport
50 See the skyline, I’m staying, Through of Boston outside of town the Seasons One last time I’ll try to get into, Habana Before Miami Find my way, into town
What will be the, transportation
Will the streets, still be safe
Will I be able, to dip into, the corner store, and buy something
Can I sit on, the streets and, have a conversation, in Habana To an Ex Wife
Joannie, I’m sorry
Sorry that, Became in Boston you got me, after the war Thinking of, Boston After Vietnam
How I have, Sorry that, learned to, I was uptight, love this city and angry, when we were, Ride my, together bicycle, through these, Years later, downtown, I’m with someone, buildings in Cambridge
I think that I, Naomi loves me, can overcome, a great deal anything I love her Just by riding, 51 my bicycle, She comes from, Poems by through, our generation, Moe Armstrong downtown our times
In Boston, I’m trying to, I stay, make our life, on the ground better, here in Cambridge I keep thinking about what, I wanted you to know, I want to be that I am doing OK
Who, I’m continuing on I have actually, become. I’m sorry for what, I put you through A mental health, outreach worker, So many years ago who writes
Someone who is, mentally ill, who works
Somebody who, enjoys living, and writing Ducked Inside
Sun so, hot
Day, so still
Hard to believe, tropical storms, hit this, Florida coast
These storms, hit with a wallop
Things can, cool down, around here Gershwin Special On the Airplane I left Boston, in the fall air Big Broadway, show Still feels like, summer here 52 The splashing, Through rhythms the Seasons The sunlight, George Gershwin, strong wrote the music Can’t find the, Ira Gershwin, shade wrote the words People duck, There never was, inside, this kind of mix, the airport of every kind of, American music, Ducking from, all together, sun and heat until Gershwin Just like, Rhapsody in Blue, people duck, plays on from the rain
100 years since, the birth, of George Gershwin
Listening to hours, of Gershwin music
on the plane ride Musical Daydream
Brush strokes, on the drums
Hop the bop
Was out on, a wing
On an, airplane
When I Bongo Time got into, sky groove Crazy, man, Puffs of, crazy clouds I’m the, Underneath last of, the beatniks Piano music Riding on, Swings in, the horse, my head of my choice 53 Poems by I’m all inside, This big Moe Armstrong myself silver, airplane My thoughts, are passing, Love of life, through Digging, This music, the scene is letting, my mind roll Swinging, through the, air
Now, don’t, let this get, to you
Just about, the time, you thought
The beatniks, were gone
I pop up
Dig it This Music
Arturo Sandoval, comes on, the airplane, music channel
Blowing that horn
I heard him, at the, Late Show, Hotel Riviera The Church Is Open
Habana, Cuba Late at night, after Jose Marti, Now, he lives, Airport in the United, States I’m walking, in Habana Blowing his horn There is, Has a Record a church, called, close to hotel “Hot House” 54 People praying Through He is playing, the Seasons what he could’ve, Filled with forty, been playing, people while in Cuba Praying Blow, man, blow Singing
You got your ticket, I thought, out of Cuba how strange, people come here And, you know, and see, how to blow, the scarcity your horn See the lack, of material goods
Miss the people, in the church
The action is, in the church Outside Habana
Rush hour, traffic, sweeps by
Not bumper, to bumper Alexis and I One by one We discuss, -I’m out by, theater by, the beach people who, are deaf Playa I will meet, Trying to work, the director, my way, in old Habana into Habana- Understand, More cars, what is, bicycles, being done motorcycles, than ever before How deaf people, see themselves, There is a steady, through drama 55 hum of, Poems by people going to, Take Alexis, Moe Armstrong work with me
Traffic in the morning So he can write, plays about, I sit on a fence, people who are, looking across, mentally ill the street We need our, At the all night, own theater burger joint, “Abierto 24 Horas” People with, psychiatric conditions I cross the, street We have a story, that is not just, Take an up, disaster close look, at the burger joint, We have hopes, maybe, I’ll end up, We fall in love, here tonight, We are people eating French fries Alexis and I, meet people
Talking mental health theater Cuban Prayer
The church, down the, street, is open
People come, to the door
“Rejuvenate, our souls”
The sign outside, the church, door reads In Cuba I’m on the streets, Pizza Cubana passing by
Walked by, Thinking, a person, I’m in the need, eating pizza of prayer
Pizza in, Say a pray, Habana 56 for the well, being of others Through I thought, the Seasons that I might, Well being of Cuba stop Saying a pray, Eat a pizza that people here, will rejuvenate, What is Cuba, their health, without pizza and well being Stop and get, me a bit to eat And, I will rejuvenate, mine Have a conversation, with people gathered, around the pizza cart
Get to know the, people of Habana,
While eating Pizza What?
Watching, Cuban, movies
Drinking, As I Walk By Cuban, soft drinks Selling plants, by the side, Smoking, of the road Cuban, cigars Pushcart, with iron, Walking in, metal wheels Cuban, streets Cigarette cart, off to the side Everything here, is Cuban One push, cart passes, Completely, another Cuban Now, there’s, cold soda, and beer 57 Poems by Being sold, Moe Armstrong everywhere
From, push carts by the side of, the road
Capitalism meets, Socialism
By the side, of the road Two Strong Women
They were, two strong, women Cubanas y Cubanos Catalina, The world, stayed behind, of Habana when the revolution, swept over Cuba Dark skinned, light skinned, She was left, mixed with a little, apartment in, People and, Buena Vista more people Scrambling for food Moving into, Habana Occupying, rebel soldier More people than, Took over the, ever before other apartment, in the building The musical, 58 group Van Van, Tried to boss, Through sang, her daughter and, the Seasons “Habana can’t Catalina around take any more” They took no, Bicycles, gruff automobiles, motorcycles They lived in the, same building, Filled with, for thirty more years people They saw the, On the move Cuban Revolution, pass by I’m here, 5:00 PM , They believed in, rush hour the Revolution
The streets, They were, are filled, two strong, with traffic, women and people Isabel, the daughter, stayed with, her mother
Catalina, was a scientist Developed medicine, with Che Guevara
She only got, paid, No transportation, her salary at all Isabel, Made no extra money gives most of, her food to, Gave her time freely daughter
Isabel, Isa, grew thinner grew up, went to, Today, the University, her daughter, graduated has six years
Did her volunteer, The years, work in, of scarcity, Pinar del Rio still aren’t, gone Came back, to Habana Isabel, and, her daughter Lived with, her mother Catalina, and 59 her daughter Poems by Back in the, Moe Armstrong small apartment, Two strong, Habana, Cuba women
They were, Continue, two strong women to live with, the Cuban Revolution One day, Catalina, was murdered
Isabel, left, the apartment
Went to live, in another house
Had a daughter
They live with, nothing
Material life, was dismantled, by the loss, of the Soviet Union
No food, at all Your Tender Eyes
Your tender eyes Your tender care To live better
You work in, Your tender eyes Hospital, Cira Garcia You see the world
Healing the, You are present. psychiatrically, with the people wounded You are needed You pass by, you stop So, you help
You spend time, in conversation A Delicious Yellow Fruit
Healing Mango juice, every morning, Your tender eyes, for all week look into the, humanity Mango juice, every night, for a week 60 See how you, Through touch, I could be, the Seasons with your words called You ask your, questions El Mangero
You discover their, answers Sip some juice, smoke a cigar You are a real, doctor Watch Fidel, Castro on, You are healing television
You see the suffering, You intervene, Start and end, You reach out my day
As a psychiatrist, Juice you are ahead, Water of your time Cigar
You care, without pretension
As a healer, you assist, the wounded Cuban World
Sat waiting, for a bus
Old Car In Habana To take me, into Habana Two guys, low slung, The night has, sitting in, started, a fifties Chevy to come in
Cruises this, There is a, avenue, mist, in Habana from afternoon, rain They are looking, for pasajeros I sit down, thinking Passengers Hotel life, 61 They make, leaves me this route, Poems by Moe Armstrong several times, Looking for, a day the stars, and rides, Belching black, to Habana oil from, their exhaust Out of this, room, They are trying, and into the, to get, streets extra pesos Every face, While they, and every, cruise the, street corner avenue Different from, Person on, the United States the corner
Holds up a, finger
They stop
Gave the person, a ride, for pesos Morning Waking At The Ready
Sounds of, Lanky, footsteps, Caribbean, on the way, walk to work, in the morning With a, swing, A dog’s bark of the hips
Rooster crowing That just, rolls Someone, lights up cigarette, You have, under the window to learn, this walk The smell of, boiling milk, to dance for cafe con leche This whole, Estoy en, population, el Campo of rolling, of walking, The countryside, hips 62 in the tropics Through Cubans, the Seasons Another Cuban, on the street morning, begins Start to swing, when, A truck starts the music starts
Has a hard time, maybe morning, humidity
Yesterday, I moved too fast, through this heat
I haven’t learned, the tropical walk
I’ll try to learn, the Cuban rhythm Ten Days In Cuba
The dog, Talked with, barks Isabel, remembered, The guard, past events talks Started three, Behind the, support groups hotel, outside of, Met with the, Habana, Cuba mothers, of son’s and, I wake, daughter’s, before dawn with schizophrenia
Just like always, Met with, wake up early mental health, professionals There is such, humidity, All day long, that my hotel, every day, windows, I was out and, are drenched, around with moisture In the clinics, 63 Light a cigar and in the streets Poems by Moe Armstrong Think for a moment Then, at the end of, I’m returning, the day, to Naomi came home
To the United Smoked a cigar States Called it a day Ten days of, Cuba are Today, this day, Coming to an end is my last day, in Cuba I walked the, the streets
Talked to, the people
La Gente
I met Henri, another person, with schizophrenia
Met Concha, the psychiatrist, with eyes of, tenderness Another Planet
Big snow storms, in Nebraska and, below zero
This La Nina, was supposed, Slow Fall to hit us, with snow In Cambridge, the leaves, There is no, keep hanging, cold and snow on In the air Never change to, autumn, Here and now, red and yellow in Boston
Kind of yellow, We are waiting, green and don’t know it
They never quite, There is something, fall about the way, nature is acting 64 They never quite, Through become autumn Almost like if, the Seasons saying enough The street cleaning, will go on, “I’ve had enough, to December of you people, and your civilization.” Trying to get up, the leaves Blizzards, in the North, The crisp air, and Hurricanes, wakes me up in the South
Off to the Zen, This is almost, Center like being on, the face of, After traveling, another planet in October Nature is, I come alive and, reclaiming, awake this planet
Back in Cambridge
In the morning air
In the crisp morning air Lives and Leaves
Under the, trees, of Wernersville, State Hospital
The grounds, of this hospital, are filled, Anger Costs with fallen leaves
Praying, I’m sitting, last night on a bench
Prayed, Looking up, that all, to the mountain, would be, behind the hospital forgiven Behind this, And forgotten big red brick, building Swept away, by and, Thinking about with this, the lives, 65 brain fever that have passed, Poems by through here Moe Armstrong I yelled, at you Like these, fallen leaves Filled the, house with, are.... anger now... Threats and, terror Scattered to, other parts, Now, I’m, of Pennsylvania paying, the price
Paying and, Praying
Praying today, to have the, pain of my, mistake
Go away Here at Wernersville
Uphill Yellow
Leaves, crunching, underneath, Life at Wernersville my feet
Corn fields, I was buried, surround, in yellow this hospital The whole, Once people, mountain, on the inside and, swallowed, worked outside me up
In these, I was walking, corn fields uphill, sliding on, There is no, loose earth returning to, times when, There is, person could, earth under, stay here, the leaves 66 forever Through I kept climbing, the Seasons This day up the side, of this mountain I talk to one, woman Going through, this yellow, Twenty five, autumn years ago Pennsylvania, She was here, autumn as a patient
She remembers, a staff person, who was here
Long ago, and still here, today
They talk with each other for, the first time, in twenty five years Sitting In the Woods
Cracked the, log, I was sitting on
Broke the branch Mouse House Moved to, Looking directly, rock ledge into the home Sat back down, Of the field, to watch, mouse the scenery, below Down below, his home There I am, left to unwind In civilization I go back, He would be, to the woods seen, as a rodent To think things, through An animal to, get rid of There I am, 67 taking the time, Poems by Here in, to get back, Moe Armstrong these woods to nature
He is a homemaker Look for some, small animals Some left over, morsels of food, Like birds, are outside his, and field mice doorway To see how they, In this hollow log live in the middle, of this woodsy pocket I’m lucky, that I stumble, I have made for myself on his nest In these, Not many, Pennsylvania woods humans stumble I get peace of mind Past here
In the hills, of Wernersville NAMI Ohio We can only, Speaking in, work toward Ohio Sanity We talk about, how to live, Stability with, mental illness Sobriety
How to live, Go home, with, get some, someone who, sleep is mentally ill Start again, We discuss, the next day sleep
We talk about, Global Warming the rest, for this brain, Light winter fever No snow, yet We talk about, planning our day, Went by, 68 for living around, a willow tree, Through mental illness in Quincy the Seasons We talk to, each other, Filled with, about our hopes green leaves
Our hopes for, Only three days, our brothers, before Christmas our sisters, our sons, Why have the, our daughters, seasons changed ourselves Are we so out, We plan and, of step with nature brainstorm That we don’t notice How to live, with this, That we don’t ask psychiatric condition
The day to day Has the whole, disillusionment, globe, discouragement changed
In the end, there is, no cure
We can, not, cure anyone Working and Learning
The life I got, is living in the, city
All Over the World Thinking like, the country I work hard at, self monitoring, I learned long, self maintenance ago
I’m learning to live, From, with my, living out in, psychiatric condition mountains of, New Mexico
Learning to live with That before, this mental illness, human beings, like a physical, there was, disability the earth
Love myself Interaction between, Love my life skies, land and water, can guide us I can go, 69 forward Watch the, Poems by way the wind, Moe Armstrong Living with, blows this weirdness, in my head Leaves drifting, up in swirls Weirdness, that surfaces The movement, of clouds And breaks out The way rain comes, Every once in, and falls awhile The course of the stream Be good to each, other I work every day, in the heart of, Care for each the city in and around, other Boston, with nature, We, as my teacher the mentally ill, are all over the world
We can live, with mental illness Ties Make A Difference
Two guys in stripped, shirts, wearing ties
Come down, the halls, of Northeastern, University
They meet, in the bathroom Real Movies
Don’t really, Movies don’t, know each, have much, other about, regular people They are just two guys, I ride my bike, in stripped shirts, through town and ties The people I 70 Who are coming, see, Through through this University, off to the side the Seasons taking classes, and going to, While I ride come out of here, looking the same Look like a, motion picture Knowing how to dress I got to ride out, Having nice jobs every day
Thinking about careers I can drift and, dream, They are going, in this modern civilization to school, while a conference, Come home and, about how to, write down, end homelessness about the movies, that I have seen Goes on down, the hall Just being on, the streets
Keeps giving me
My visual, motion picture Screenplay
Wanted to write, a movie script, about my life If I Could Remember
Lost for words, I tried to xerox, I went to a, a magazine television studio with stories, and pictures of, Recorded the, me in Vietnam history of, three years Two months later, I was still, Before the, trying to get, war, to a xerox machine and during, the war Couldn’t bring, myself After the war, Haight/Ashbury To see the, 71 pictures, Poems by Then, mountains, of the young, Moe Armstrong of New Mexico soldier
Historical pieces, In that country in place I had loved, I go out, Vietnam, to remember, so much details Spent time, Someday, with the people somebody, might be, Finally, I only, interested, got to know, in what happened, the Vietnamese, to me as future deaths,
I’ll just have I couldn’t make, the copies, The script ready of these articles, written in 1965
Articles and pictures, of times, that I was trying, to forget We Are
The way, the singers moved, in Black Nativity
Peace Time I had a flash
The life I had, Saw for a second, in the Marine, people back, Corps, in Africa thirty four years, ago All part of the, tribe I had, this little, All moved together office Like a village, I would, working together lock myself, inside The music starts Write poems People start to, Listen to music, move side by side 72 Through I was in, With all hands, the Seasons charge of, clapping at once maps and, medical supplies Like maybe, the people who, I stayed there, were in unison on the weekends Hundreds of years, Would only, ago come out, at night
To go to sleep
Saved my money, bought a typewriter
Would write away
Was so happy, with my life
Books Poems Music
One small, room Uninterrupted
Years later
Today
Struggling
I had come, Better this way, before Crossing, over This way Promised, There is not, Land, a physical, never, trail came
I had to find, Just, out, promises everything within There was, I was always, a time being rebaptized That, Looking for some, I wanted, 73 kind of salvation to believe Poems by Moe Armstrong There was nothing In myself
Just another cycle, Now, of life that, I know, I’m going through I will see, better, I thought I could, tomorrow, get out of this, for others cycle of pain I can, Continually, live, I go through the, with, same pain myself
Trying to find Who, out I am
How to live Keep, this life trying, to get, it right
Get it, better, every day Living Close To Paul Revere
Came to, North East
Didn’t know, much about, Boston
Learned, Boston history
Walked, in parks Zen Didn’t Help
Discovered life of, What’s to write, Charles Sumner about
Saw architecture Sitting in, the Dharma, Loved the people Room, and breathing Could understand, why the American, The still morning, Revolution, with traffic, 74 started here outside Through the Seasons These folks give, The talking, you the razzberry, inside my head, when they don’t, rages on like something So there I am, Been here six, trying to get, years peace of mind
The North East, There is no, is gradually, peace becoming my home Inside or outside
A warm cup, of tea, in my hands
I have come home
To write about, what I I haven’t, experienced
Clearing my mind Caring
Mental Health
Not how many, beds
How many people
Do we care?
How we treat each other? Won’t
We are there, I will, for caring never be, drunk, We care for again people I will, Caring is the, never be, thought and, high, action needed in, again the mental, health system Learning, how to, 75 That I want to, be happy, Poems by see without, Moe Armstrong taking, We can hospitalize, anything everyone, still not be good, I get up, to anyone in the, morning If we don’t start, to implement, Wake up, more compassion early
With people Sit meditation
There will be no Recovery Read poems Write poems
Fill my head, with memories
Fresh in my, mind
Not swirling, confusing, thinking
Like getting, high Coming Back
Had, thought, about
What is, wrong, with me Lights of Christmas
How I, Christmas came, ended, this time up This year Trashed, out Silent Night
Building, Kind of, myself, time back Kind of, Has, year been, hard Christmas, sign of, 76 Every, the end, Through day of a year the Seasons I work, I go out, at rest into the, crisp night Set aside, time, Walk through, to renew, the morning myself Home lights, Several, dressed up, times, for Christmas a day Sparkle, Several, in the air different, ways Every winter
Rest and renewal We can count, on Christmas, and cold air
And lots of lights Then
Knox College, brick structure
Out in front, on the steps
I was
Little kid, New Ideas me, New Places in a reindeer sweater Back country, roads, With my, of Illinois, mind, that I knew dreaming
Are gone More interested, in playing, The people, than studying who I knew, from my youth Kept crawling, under tunnels, Are gone by the railroads, 77 and under street bridges Poems by Left at, Moe Armstrong mid fifties, Then, would, to learn to, come out, discover, into the day, all over again and sunshine
What I have Rode my bicycle, between places Where I am Going to, Have started, downtown, to learn, Galesburg again Hang out In Massachusetts around those, old brick structures In homeland of, Emerson, Like Knox College and Summer Left over from, Living out my, the Civil War life in North East
With new people
New terrain December Autumn
There is, green grass, still on the, ground
The seasons, haven’t changed, December autumn
In Washington, DC
Airport Images I look out, the window Outside in, the night, To see from Iraq One lone, The green lights, oak tree, of the night, with browned, scopes leaves
Look through, Still, 78 the Baghdad, hanging on Through night the Seasons Is there a I watch bombing, as, going, grey skies on build
What will, With no rain, be, warm nights, the price, and Christmas lights to pay
We watch, this breaking, video image, at National Airport
There is no sound
We leave on our, flight
While a war might be, going on His Soul Is In Cuba
Ricardo Died
Two days, before, Christmas Went to the, All the times, hospital we spent, together Died of, heart attack Came through, my mind I came to, the door We went, to the free, To his house, meal an hour, after he died In Lawrence Stayed for, Had talked, a couple of, about his being, hours peer educator Talking to,
He wanted to, his room mates 79 work with the, Poems by church at the free meals I cried all the, Moe Armstrong way home The people who, needed him, Back from Lawrence, he knew, from the streets The night Ricardo, died He talked with, them at the meal
We talked about, a room, with the church
He could do, groups
He talked, about going, back to Cuba
Asked me questions, about my trip, to Habana
He could’ve, done it all
Last days, of December, had a diabetic, reaction Light White
Light dusting, of white
Christmas Eve
Woke up, with visions, of mistletoe, through my, head Washington, DC. Looked, December 15, bright white 1998 Not the whitest, The day, of Christmas Congress, decides, White enough to impeach, Bill Clinton Going for walks, through this white Same bunch, that can’t, Couldn’t kick up, 80 get it together the fluff Through the Seasons To plan a Said, dig the, budget, white white stuff for schools, for hot lunches, I dug it for social security And, it was white, This same, this Christmas bunch
Is going, to bring judgement, on Bill Clinton
I’m here on, this decision, making day
There is a sense, of history
As, I begin, to move through, the city Meditation With You
Crisp clip, walking, with you
To the, Zen Center
Thinking, about what, The Morning Poem I like to do Tea, How with, in the, not drinking, morning not doing, drugs Over, poetry My life is, meditation, With, and writing the, window, The morning, half, air, a crack 81 is what I need open Poems by Moe Armstrong To be with, The, you dim, light We have this, conversation, My mind, about the real, wanders us While We go, I live with fold our hands, sit, Head full, breathe, of thoughts and come home I write this, The day, to myself begins Starting my, day with, poetry
Isn’t such, a bad way, to live This We Are
People who, hear things
See things,
Think things, in delusions
Left alone, doesn’t seem, Cold Snap to get us, better Today, the weather, Taking away, will go, the anxiety and, from 40 above, pain to 30 below
We seem to, I wait, find a way, for winter to stability Will go out, There is no, on New Year’s, easy path, Eve 82 to sanity Watch movies Through the Seasons Stop Get Calm Think about, Rest how I could, be a street, Heal artist
Learn to, I sit at home, put ourselves, draw pictures, together of bearded seals
After falling, While I grow, apart a beard
Learn to live, I am gradually, with what, rebuilding, we got myself
Who we are Through healthy living
What do I do, once I am, rebuilt
Have satisfaction, with my life January, 99
The first, Lived This Way big snow, of the year New Mexico Memory
I sloshed through, By the side, light snow to, of those old, the Green Line, mountains with Richard Sheola I had a porch, We talked about, off to the side, what could be, of the trailer in mental health Built out in, Can we understand, the bushes the way people, live with a psychiatric, Trees all around condition Singing my songs, So that we can on that porch bring people, back from mental illness Before the trailer, I had this small, Can we, room where, I lived have a room, 83 in a house, Paid $150 in Poems by with someone, Moe Armstrong looking in, rent, some times poor part of Santa Fe
I’ve been crazy, My big step up, most of my life was the trailer, I bought That’s all, I ever needed, Life for me, a room and, has been, someone to talk to on the edge, of town This very morning, This very day, Space to write, flipped out, read and sing I walked outside, walked around, With an old porch, by the evening, to walk out on I was back together
Taking the Green Line, back to my apartment Anger
Spun around, the old stuff, came around, that night Wayne from Boardwalk The old rage, came out Kind of bug eyed, staring out at everyone Was left for days Looked right at, me, To pick up, saw me the pieces, of my anger Wayne was, dead If I were to think, Wouldn’t growl, about the mistakes, out, with, I have made that voice, of his Through the years, I would be up, Wouldn’t laugh, all night so coarse 84 Through Most mistakes, Wouldn’t hear, the Seasons made through, the stories, angry decisions trails and tribulations, of the people, I go forward, who he lived with with my eyes, on the past Wayne was, dead Saying that, I can’t live, Dave and me, like this talked that afternoon
I can’t get angry, Of death again How each of us, will die, someday
Let us die in peace
With peace of mind, finally
Wayne died with, peace of mind Digging It
So here I was, kicking around, end of January
With snow under, my feet
Cold air, Got A Home on my ears
Walked through, My eyes straight, the snow, ahead last night I could groove, With my face, out on dime covered with, light dusty flakes Still struggling, with sleep The snow, hung on, Learning how, my coat to live with, mental illness All the snow, that fell, This time, was manageable 85 I didn’t rebound Poems by Moe Armstrong I walked home Each night, is long Thought about, how happy, When I get, I am with, my days my home I seem OK Thought about, living in my, So I head back, place to the streets
With Naomi See the city
Forever Feel the weather
Let my mind, Dig the scene drift, like the snowflakes Try to sleep later that night No Peace of Mind
I keep thinking, disaster, is around the corner
Whole world will, fall apart
There will be, personal and national, economic collapse
I will be, Searching cast off, cast out, The snow fell again January, 1999
No work, This wasn’t, Out of a job a winter like, last winter Crazy in my head Wasn’t like, 86 Left to wander any other, Through winter the Seasons I have to fight back, these thoughts There was, sunshine These thoughts, are eating me, light cold, alive light snow
I enjoyed, my time, out on, the road
Came, back, home tired
Tried to find, the quiet, way, to live
Daily