Fading glow through an iced window
reminds of a day that tasted
of rosehips and sunshine,
sitting down to tea amongst the ferns,
lace, and cherry wood antiques.
A small exploration between semesters,
living on the kindness of strangers,
peanut butter and truck stops,
stopping for an afternoon
to taste a beer in a tiny bar and grill
tucked beneath giant spruce and coastal firs.
A chance meeting that led up a stone path
to a rough hewn cottage surrounded by rose bushes.
A girl. An afternoon dalliance.
A moment suspended in time,
in memory, forever rich
with the taste of rosehip tea
and winter sunshine through stained glass.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Back Again
Been silent for some time now for reasons unimportant. Hope to be posting again with some regularity (probably not daily though).
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Baby Left Alone
From a Photograph by Dorothea Lange
The baby had been crying for some time
his father drunk and off somewhere,
his mother sleeping in a ragged
flea infested tent, her eyelids shuttered
and ears deafened to the inconvenient world.
A child’s eyes shine,
even when crying there is a depth,
an inward glint of immense possibilities.
This one has cried so long, so hard
its face is no longer soft.
Dimples of sorrow are creased
in his brow as he clutches
the dirty burlap curtain
hung in the truck window.
His eyes are black pools
of empty longing.
The door isn’t locked, just shut,
but his confinement is no less complete.
A face hardly more than a year old,
with the expression of an adult
beaten down by life, or fate
or choices – not choices for this one, though,
just a baby, crying, alone,
adrift in poverty, his father drunk
and his mother asleep.
The baby had been crying for some time
his father drunk and off somewhere,
his mother sleeping in a ragged
flea infested tent, her eyelids shuttered
and ears deafened to the inconvenient world.
A child’s eyes shine,
even when crying there is a depth,
an inward glint of immense possibilities.
This one has cried so long, so hard
its face is no longer soft.
Dimples of sorrow are creased
in his brow as he clutches
the dirty burlap curtain
hung in the truck window.
His eyes are black pools
of empty longing.
The door isn’t locked, just shut,
but his confinement is no less complete.
A face hardly more than a year old,
with the expression of an adult
beaten down by life, or fate
or choices – not choices for this one, though,
just a baby, crying, alone,
adrift in poverty, his father drunk
and his mother asleep.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Blue Collar Blues
For those who are interested, what follows is a Renga between David Irwin and myself. The topic of our conversation: work, the working man/woman and the issues surrounding. Watch as it grows!
Bill:
Who am I, really?
Am I the sum of my deeds?
The man that I am?
Or am I what I have made?
Is my labor who I am?
Dave:
These hands and fingers,
how connected to me and
how attached to work.
Be the moment of motion
and the still moment after.
Bill:
The forest is cut
by the strength of my sinews
wielding a sharp saw.
Each tree that falls to the ground
Rises again as a house.
Dave:
In progress, wood falls
to steel, only to rise up
better, more useful.
And wood, burned brightly, gives rise
to steel from the ochre earth.
Bill:
I want to return
to the place of alchemy,
the factory floor.
Sweat and grime are nourishment.
Making is my religion.
Dave:
The body, a horse:
ride it gently when you can,
hard when you have to.
This paste of dust in my pores,
transformation's by-product.
Bill:
By horse, man and plow
The field was broken and turned,
The beast the engine.
Now the work of our machines
is measured in horsepower.
Dave:
Gear and cog fit well
by design; innovation
a love of future.
Water carries our boats first,
Later expands in pistons.
Bill:
Smokestacks reach skyward.
Rolling plumes of steam rising
mark transformation.
Fire, the tool of alchemy
attends the act of making.
Dave:
Smoke, the fool of fire,
dances in the air above
as we breathe deeply.
Shepherding toxins carries
the hidden costs far downwind.
Bill:
My hands are leather.
There is metal in my blood,
my back bent over.
Creation has byproducts.
The price of progress is change
Dave:
The price masks the costs:
the magic of numbers steals
what can't be counted.
The strong back organizes
for a fair share of pennies.
Bill:
Industry's captains
see men as less than machines.
Profit rules their hearts.
The gold and silver they gain
will mean nothing in the end.
Dave:
This circle of trade:
knowledge and pain for money,
though not that simple.
What is the purpose of work?
To create or to live well?
Bill:
When we stood erect
survival was our labor.
To hunt. To gather.
Is punching a time clock yet
another hunt for our food?
Bill:
Who am I, really?
Am I the sum of my deeds?
The man that I am?
Or am I what I have made?
Is my labor who I am?
Dave:
These hands and fingers,
how connected to me and
how attached to work.
Be the moment of motion
and the still moment after.
Bill:
The forest is cut
by the strength of my sinews
wielding a sharp saw.
Each tree that falls to the ground
Rises again as a house.
Dave:
In progress, wood falls
to steel, only to rise up
better, more useful.
And wood, burned brightly, gives rise
to steel from the ochre earth.
Bill:
I want to return
to the place of alchemy,
the factory floor.
Sweat and grime are nourishment.
Making is my religion.
Dave:
The body, a horse:
ride it gently when you can,
hard when you have to.
This paste of dust in my pores,
transformation's by-product.
Bill:
By horse, man and plow
The field was broken and turned,
The beast the engine.
Now the work of our machines
is measured in horsepower.
Dave:
Gear and cog fit well
by design; innovation
a love of future.
Water carries our boats first,
Later expands in pistons.
Bill:
Smokestacks reach skyward.
Rolling plumes of steam rising
mark transformation.
Fire, the tool of alchemy
attends the act of making.
Dave:
Smoke, the fool of fire,
dances in the air above
as we breathe deeply.
Shepherding toxins carries
the hidden costs far downwind.
Bill:
My hands are leather.
There is metal in my blood,
my back bent over.
Creation has byproducts.
The price of progress is change
Dave:
The price masks the costs:
the magic of numbers steals
what can't be counted.
The strong back organizes
for a fair share of pennies.
Bill:
Industry's captains
see men as less than machines.
Profit rules their hearts.
The gold and silver they gain
will mean nothing in the end.
Dave:
This circle of trade:
knowledge and pain for money,
though not that simple.
What is the purpose of work?
To create or to live well?
Bill:
When we stood erect
survival was our labor.
To hunt. To gather.
Is punching a time clock yet
another hunt for our food?
Friday, July 17, 2009
Pittsburgh Lament
The sound of a switch engine
working the stockyards at night
is like a lullaby humming in my ears.
My taste is for carbon and oil.
The burnt scent of an overheated clutch
is a heady perfume, as magnetic
as the musk of a woman’s desire.
The feel of polished ceramics
caressed by a calloused hand,
is sensuous, arousing,
like stroking the velvety tiny fuzz
along the nape of a woman’s neck.
My eye seeks the symmetry
of bolted parts, disparate shapes joined,
like petal, pistil and stamen,
into beauty.
These are lost now,
merely echoes.
Instead, some foreign hand trembles
with the torque of a wrench,
heart beating in rhythm with
the whirr of generators,
nostrils flaring with the pungent odor
of lubricated metal and friction.
There are metal shavings in my blood
and my soul withers, unrequited,
another man with a strange accent
making love to what once was,
what still should be, my job.
The title to this one is difficult. I first called it "NAFTA." The current title, "Pittsburgh Lament" is to pay homage to my origins and my father's generation. It's one of those "middle of the night" affairs - the memory of living next to a railroad stockyard, the sounds and smells of my youth, keeping me awake far into the foggy dawn last night.
working the stockyards at night
is like a lullaby humming in my ears.
My taste is for carbon and oil.
The burnt scent of an overheated clutch
is a heady perfume, as magnetic
as the musk of a woman’s desire.
The feel of polished ceramics
caressed by a calloused hand,
is sensuous, arousing,
like stroking the velvety tiny fuzz
along the nape of a woman’s neck.
My eye seeks the symmetry
of bolted parts, disparate shapes joined,
like petal, pistil and stamen,
into beauty.
These are lost now,
merely echoes.
Instead, some foreign hand trembles
with the torque of a wrench,
heart beating in rhythm with
the whirr of generators,
nostrils flaring with the pungent odor
of lubricated metal and friction.
There are metal shavings in my blood
and my soul withers, unrequited,
another man with a strange accent
making love to what once was,
what still should be, my job.
The title to this one is difficult. I first called it "NAFTA." The current title, "Pittsburgh Lament" is to pay homage to my origins and my father's generation. It's one of those "middle of the night" affairs - the memory of living next to a railroad stockyard, the sounds and smells of my youth, keeping me awake far into the foggy dawn last night.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Crybaby
Stop pushing me.
I have problems of my own
and your inability to face up to yours
doesn’t give you the right to push me.
See, your job sucks, I know,
and your wife (girlfriend, sometime lover)
is as true as my cat –
right, anybody that feeds this female
gets a lap cuddle for the night –
sure and the friend you thought true
proves false, hell, we’ve all seen that –
come up with something at least different
if not meaningful,
something I haven’t seen, felt, lived,
that will say, shit yeah, this deserves
sympathy.
Stop crying to me.
Stop pushing
or I WILL push back
and I don’t’ think you’re fragile ego
could handle that!
I have problems of my own
and your inability to face up to yours
doesn’t give you the right to push me.
See, your job sucks, I know,
and your wife (girlfriend, sometime lover)
is as true as my cat –
right, anybody that feeds this female
gets a lap cuddle for the night –
sure and the friend you thought true
proves false, hell, we’ve all seen that –
come up with something at least different
if not meaningful,
something I haven’t seen, felt, lived,
that will say, shit yeah, this deserves
sympathy.
Stop crying to me.
Stop pushing
or I WILL push back
and I don’t’ think you’re fragile ego
could handle that!
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Masochist of Love
She left her mark,
the ghost of her love
flitting between the trampled garden,
shattered crockery
and broken bedpost.
Sometimes, the weaker side of his soul
longs for her
when the songbirds at dawn
sing with the hollow echo of loneliness.
Memories of their wild abandoned
love-making fill his being,
swelling his heart,
deluding him with false hope,
until they pour out and evaporate
where her betrayal had cut him
like an assassin’s knife.
She left her mark,
but he considers calling her,
again.
the ghost of her love
flitting between the trampled garden,
shattered crockery
and broken bedpost.
Sometimes, the weaker side of his soul
longs for her
when the songbirds at dawn
sing with the hollow echo of loneliness.
Memories of their wild abandoned
love-making fill his being,
swelling his heart,
deluding him with false hope,
until they pour out and evaporate
where her betrayal had cut him
like an assassin’s knife.
She left her mark,
but he considers calling her,
again.
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