Spoonful: A Gathering of Stone Soup Poets

An extension of Cambridge's Stone Soup Poetry Venue.

For Mike Amado

Photo by Chad Parenteau


White metal fury
Diva drying tears
Sound mime

Pantomime of Pan
Singer at cemetery
Gates, Keats

Was on your side
And Wilde,
Wilde was, too.

--Gordon Marshall

The Holy Fool

Tapping congas in a red shirt,
he brought music to all of us
from ordinary life
where magic does not rule.

Non-listeners did not challenge him
when he uttered his poems
directly from an open heart.
He was wiser than his years.

A transplant failed
and years in dialysis taught him
how to blur out time
when needed,
how to fly like an eagle
above his body.

He brought me back to youth
when animals and gypsies caught fire
and those who witnessed
became Holy Fools.

He was one, too,
turning ruin to beauty,
his mortal pain soaring
on careful wings.

--Carolyn Gregory

Praise (For Mike)

You would have wanted us to praise the golden sun
That shines its way through white glazed branches of winter
Singing hymns to the coyote, bear and possum

You would have wanted us to sing, dance and write poetry
With our hearts and souls, making medicine from music
And producing music from life, too surreal to memorize

I remember how you made me some earrings, rainbow
And you braided them just so and you mentioned
That most Native American people made things with their hands
They were beautiful reminding me of the wheel of life with feathers
Wings that fly without restraint into the expression of your being

So instead of saying good-bye to you, Mike, I want to welcome
Your spirit into the bright, welcoming clouds of heaven
Where the most glorious light is there neither to guide or define us
It just blesses our being with ultimate love,
And you would have wanted that too.

--Deborah Priestly

mike amado
jan 2, 2009

mike wrote, “no galaxy is malformed:
even trampled flowers pose with dignity.
I have shed all hostility to fire…
an arrow of light.”

we hold mike in our hearts, especially jack.
while we converse, jack drives mile after mile,
making sure mike is wherever the bards are.
their friendship a proverbial circle

when all else burns down to embers
and all the poems the piles of poems
and all the people who read and published
mikes’ work, so we might never lose

our own worth and I, like you, loved mike’s
tinted glasses, his black rock and roll shirts
his smoke signals, drum beats, his constant
bottle of green juice

his patience amid the ridiculous indifferences
the predictions of six months or six years to live.
mike’s courage like an invisible shield, protects everyone
he knows. the spoken word warrior rebuilt the pyramids

healing himself in a sick world
his smile slips past me into eternity
the second day of the new year

if only to say how brave, mike wrote,
“I know I walk with death, three blocks away
or three steps behind. shadow on my shoulder,
breath on my neck, he sneaks around in my note book.”

mike wrote, “ with nothing to fear, I jump out of myself,
fill the grand canyon, feel the vastness envelope me
until “me” is greater than myself. I’m not as big as I thought.
I persist in human form, an arrow of light”

mike wrote, “with the impact of gentle down
gratitude spirals outward.” and I, like you, loved mike

--Irene Koronas


as much as you can
as much as you can
as much as you can
as much as you can

Make your voice heard
Make your music heard
‘Cause you only got one chance
to live in this world
Make your note last
and permeate the sound
Make your laughter last
and you’ll never really leave
Make your voice last
and you’ll be immortal
like Elvis or Beethoven
The clouds will dance forever
The music will sing forever
until the last breath
of anyone alive

We know you sang
‘cause we heard your true song
Rhythm reciprocates
the dance in our memories
Don’t forget to laugh
Be joyful
Be youthful
Be alive
We only want to hear the rainbows
when they sing in the sky.

--Shannon O’Connor

Wait No Longer

Waiting for death, but without resignation,
Conjuring magic with bold syncopation,
A no-holds bard brought heavy-metal thunder
Down on demons and tore asunder
Worship of a plastic conformist choir
That tries to build a New Roman Empire.
Adding his part to the Muse’s symphony,
Wistful being defied ultimate malady.
Keeping his spark will make us stronger.
Reach for life; let’s wait no longer.

--Chris Robbins