Michael G.

Though most of what’s left of my hair
has turned to silver and gray . . .
my mind and heart remain young and full of life.
It’s like hearing an oldie Goldie song
with the newest electronic gadget.

Michael Greenway
Dec 2014


(Below, is the introduction to the book, Beyond the Boardwalk, by Mr. McKuen. I find it important reading for any and every poet. In Mr. McKuen's own words, what he feels a poet is, should be, and isn't. Even if you don't read my work, read this.)



Beyond the Boardwalk
By Rod McKuen
(1975 - The Introduction)


A poet is a keeper of the language. He must repair but never rape the words that form his native tongue. He should improvise but never bowdlerize, invent but in no circumstance add or help to make indelible the b*****d words that advertisers coin. Nor should he be an advertisement for himself. The euphemisms used by men treating syllables as soldiers should be killed by every poet’s pencil. Murdered by his inattention.

Poetry is personal, or should be. When a poem isn’t heard a different way inside the head of every man who reads it, it is not a poem. Poetry should let some light in where there is darkness, but it should never cover up or hide despair, human misery or suffering. Rather it should be a ladder leading those who suffer out of the pit and up the well. A bridge is what a poem should be. From the poet to the people - traveled both directions.

Here are a few things a poet isn’t. He is not a minister, a prophet, a politician, a pessimist, a peacock, an ostrich, a guru, a god, an isolationist, a tightrope walker or a mechanic.

Here are some things a poet should be. A saver of things, a neighbor friendly without forcing it, a musician who knows that words are orchestrated the same as notes on paper, a farmer, free, fundamental but not unbending, sure but not unyielding, childlike though never simple minded, sorry, straightforward, honest, humorous, happy-sad, sad-happy, and silly when he wants to be.

Poetry is no excuse to lie, nor is the making of a poem just an exercise of words. Each poem should begin, have a proper middle and an end - much the same as every man ( and Everyman’s life ) does.

Poetry should live, bouncing off the printed page as needed. Poetry should promise and fulfill.

A poet is a keeper of the language, little more. That is responsibility enough.

The words in this book were started in Oakland, California more than twenty years ago and finished at The Pines in New York in September, 1975. Some of them will be a premiere of sorts for those who think I write only of the lonely and the loner.

Having said a poet is not meant to be a seer or a crystal gazer, how can I explain that I wrote the poems in Campaign Promises nearly a full year before Watergate ? And A Message to Those Leaving with it’s reference to ‘The Quadraphonic Oval Office’ was read by Roy Leonard in Chicago to his radio listeners a full eight months before the tapes were publicly known to have existed in the White House, and published in a magazine several months before that. I consider an explanation irrelevant and I don’t have one.

The poetry in To the Last Man Carrying the Last Gun has had very little re-writing since its inception in 1953. It is an excerpt from a much larger work entitled ‘Elephant in the Rice Paddy’ written about my experiences in Korea and Japan.

The Safari poetry was written on my first trip to Africa in the fall of 1975.

Most of Love Letters is very new especially the Eldon poems and Juan. Through the Autumn Field was recorded as part of the album ‘The Earth’ and Body Surfing with the Jet Set, as part of my ‘Sea Trilogy’.

Southern California seems to contain my most native poetry ( the subject matter and style people associate with me ).

Boardwalk II was the last poems written for this book and like the traveler in it I feel I have journeyed some distances since writing Boardwalk, I.

It’s hard to let go of a poem, but some of you by caring have made it easier.

Rod McKuen, The Pines, 1975






As you probably can tell, my favorite author is Mr. Rod McKuen. If you don't know who he is... go to
"A safe place to land"
and find out. You won't regret it.


R.I.P. Rod McKuen. April 29th, 1933 - January 29th, 2015. You will be missed.


In the Author's Note, I have placed music in a lot of my poems. It is my hope this music when played while reading the poem gives the reader a more enjoyable experience.


I wish to thank all my friends for their patience and help this past year. I feel satisfied with the work I have put into the projects I've been working on and now have, for the most part - completed. I am looking forward to being back here a little more often than I have been.


I try not to read too many stories, ever. When I give a review, I will be honest with you.


You are welcome to share my music. Enjoy!


Thanks, Mike



The Cider House Rules - Rachel Portman and David Snell


Cast Away Soundtrack