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The Holy Ranger Poems

On, in reference to THE HOLY RANGER: HARLEY-DAVIDSON POEMS by Dr. Martin Jack Rosenblum, a reader from Florida wrote a Customer Review that gave the book's Ranger Evopoetic Poetry a Five-Star rating, which is the highest. Here is that unsolicited Review:

"Martin Jack Rosenblum in this collection conveys the thrill of owning and riding the pride of America - the Harley-Davidson. The reader also gets a glimpse of a childhood and a life in America's heartland, and frequently draws parallels between the modern biker and the horsemen of the old west. In the past, Harley lovers have fallen back on the old saw, "If I have to explain, you wouldn't understand" as a way to avoid putting words to something embraced so passionately".
Now they can say "Read Rosenblum; he explains ... and you will understand!"

Last updated April 3,2004.

Praise Our Ladies

these Harley women
straddle their choppers
with lustrous precision
& when packing behind you
with hands tucked under the
belt buckle at your waist a
man rides amidst powers of
awesome potential & the
bike actually lathers
like a stallion
bulging at the

Ranger Visionary

when I was not a teenager the Harley newsletters
would come by subscription even though my father
did not permit any talk of motorcycles
& the photos in these of those Highway
Patrol rifers remind me now
not a teenager either : of the
sofa I called
my mount when I would either
ride a horse as a Texas Ranger
or a cycle but on both there were
my chaps & holsters & with cap guns
blazing the living room would contain
dead bad guys especially when I pulled the lever
-action from the scabbard
father had been in the Swedish Palace Guard Corps
& then a marksman in the U.S. Army but no members
of his household could talk of motorcycles beyond
finding them as he did once in a sidecar that was
driven by a drunken Swede through Norwegian roads
so I collected those newletters that
started in elementary school fantasy.
hell, now I
have the chaps
once again & while
I can't holster my Colt
Peacemakers in Wisconsin
I sure have nice saddlebags
slung over the back fender for
then and no scabbard but that Winchester
might knock against either horn or carburator
as I dig my still imaginary spurs (as these would
certainly be unnecessary with forty-five degrees
worth of horses to throttle) into "Ranger" --close
enough to the name I had for that old green sofa
in my father's house to keep being grown-up more
useful than it would be if I wasted childs play

Balance (Required Off Motorcycles)

our dog wanders
in a circle tracing
on the kitchen floor
before settling down .
this does not
do much but cause
her dismay as she

bumps into our
daughter on the
floor as well staking
out territory for toys .

Sarah Terez moves over the surfac
with a stuffed reindeer which might
be a moose heading for the dollhouse
where assorted rubber people watch the
dof finally flop down on a bracelet & two
rings . Sarah pats Marta
now old & white muzzle draped with
silk scarves as she is part of the
game to deserve space this Sunday
on the head as if
to congratulate
for making it
a safe place
in this wild
place & then kicks her nose playing
with a truck . the leaves

begin to fall.
there is colder
air along floorboards
& earlier arainst the
sharp sky geese flew
honking stirrings
to divided years my
garden finally felt
its first frost
last night & my

ability to listen to a new
recording master of untamed
music made before last night
an instrumental version is altered
by visions
of beast nearing a family dwelling &
I am wondering at the edges of our
housed autumn in dismay.

I open a window
& let weighted air
in or out : I do not
know which will help

I come up after the hall
light went back on so she
could sleep she said &
entered our own room &
was a
witness to the lady
on the corner turning
on her overhead bulb that got
spliced by
blinds into light
edges contoured

by your hips
in the dark
they went
onto the carpet arranged

by a dog breathing now in hot
weather & I patted her onto me
they came & when I got to where
they rose & fell or your long legs
did by morning another bright source
through blind slats less artificial but
the familiar impact of entering this
southeast division etched relative
to neighborhood & planetary
resources placing something
over my eyes as I get up
with which
to see
I look at your sleep
faling up the
pillow against shelf items away
from a bed I will be in again &
again with you traced

a different dog now
since I watched Marta
go with shoulders down
in compliance to surgery
& death this one pedigreed
quite willing to slaughter
those unwelcome to a
widening circle but
within narrowing
clamping a blueprint
to scale my
arms resting on a sticky
maple table as the Waterman
nears the end of its reservoir
& I would get
more ink but there is no
emergency path cut from
kitchen to study.

there is another child
now pulling in Maureen
so I will just watch.

before I
am out in
Downer's Woods ample
Canadian Geese in unison their
clock feathers
mark earth for
none wanders.

once in the Northern Wisconsin

forests I heard the Loon
in morning fog
a ghost flight
to the water & its sound

a genuine dismay over the firelanes, not mine

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