Watchin' the Wind Blow By

Waiting for the cold

2011-07-21T19:35:00.000-07:00

He is standing at the foot of the stairs
waiting for her to finish her preparations,
the inevitable abundance of grooming
that precedes an evening out in public.
Her disdain for his longing
has left him folded into himself,
filled with angst and anticipation
of yet another rejection.
The harsh truth tumbling through his mind
is the realization there is no grace left in their union,
just a cold and distant companionship.
No love can be found here now, he thinks,
wondering if, truly, there ever had been love,
or if he had been deluded
by the passion of their couplings
into thinking the emotions overwhelming him
were love, not simply a biological excitement.
The ferocity of their love making long gone,
and frequency a thing of the distant past,
he is left with only her beauty
and benevolent disregard.
The inward focus of his vision clears
when she suddenly appears
fresh, beautiful as always
and floats down the stairway
like a cold winter wind.

Author's Note: Another "jigsaw" poem from words given to me by my brother-in-law Dale Smith. The words are: here, now, love, disdain, angst, anticipation, longing, abundance, grace, vision

The Fiber of a Father

2011-07-12T14:53:00.001-07:00

The following was given to me by my daughter Megan for Father's Day. Aside from being kind, thoughtful, caring and beautiful she is also a very talented and artistic young woman. The depth of her imagery always takes my breath away. Even as a little girl of about 7 years she once said "it hurts like when a butterfly loses the powder off its wings and dies!" Wow, eh!? So here is her gift of prose to me for Father' Day 2011:

The Fiber of a Father

The sweet hum of your words brush against my newborn cheeks. A flurry of dandelion seeds flowing from your breath. They gently drift down surrounding me in a lullaby of cotton. Your soothing hum patiently spinning the cotton into song. A playful thread I keep clenched tightly in my protecting hands as I curiously stumble forward further and further into the unknown. Unsure of what lies ahead, I steal the occasional glance over my shoulder to see your encouraging smile reassuring me from the other end of the line. With an approving squeeze of the thread you send a hug shivering its way down, loosening my apprehensive grip. I push forward wishing for a brief moment that I might feel even the slightest tug reeling me back to the shelter and wisdom of your words. Yet there is no resistance, the thread slacks just enough to press forward another step. Pausing, I shake my wish off my mind, meanwhile twisting the thread around and around, watching it slowly twist into a braided pattern, subconsciously re-tracing my steps. Familiarities draw me back, weaving the thread thicker, as it becomes an intricate braid of memories. I inch closer to a realization I wasn't sure of - the gap between us closing in. I can sense your anticipation radiating from you, and begin picking up the suddenly heavy folds of the braid that now resembles more of a blanket. I wrap it around me like a comforter as I take the last few steps into your arms.

The sweet hum of your words tuck in around me as I drift into dreams, knowing that you were always with me, the fabric of my existence woven into my blanket's embrace.

Morning Fog

2011-06-23T09:35:00.000-07:00

Thick fog at dawn
softens the rising sun into
a pale yellow white glow.
As the new day erases the dark
he is content to embrace
the morning symphony of bird calls
as prescriptive medicine
against the unrelenting pain.
Dark, shadow, fog,
all of these obscure
both what is true, and what is false,
or, he thinks, do they mask the content
with blurring simplicity,
blinding the eye by softening clarity and form
into a mix of indistinct shape and shadow?
And, he asks, what is pain
but a fog over the soul?
Dawn, again, alone,
another vigil awaiting the first rays of sunshine
to come shooting through the trees,
but today the heavy fog has muted the sun’s
triumphant ascendance.
Is peace unreachable, he wonders,
surrendering to his torment.
The fog that blankets his morning world
cannot soften the harsh details in his vision.
Still, the birds trill busily
and in this one thing only
is he content.

Author's note: Another jigsaw effort. Words from my daughter Megan: Thick Blinding Unreachable Dark Embrace Symphony False Content Shooting Pain.

An Unfinished Poem

2011-05-26T11:39:00.001-07:00

The years have rushed by
like a small mountain stream
chortling through moss covered rocks.
It's hard not to see my life with my beloved
in the same way, rushing along as it should
ever changing, ever the same, timeless,
but moving so swiftly.

I cannot define love.
It is like trying to define the ocean ...
it is too vast, too complex,
the only continuity to its expression
is water, beyond that, everything else
is but a matter of degrees.

Such is love.
A man's love for a woman
has no comparison
to his love for his mother,
or his sister, or his daughter.
Each is love - each is different.
The only continuity to its expression
is that it is an emotion of caring.
Beyond that, everything else
is but a matter of degrees.

I have never written my beloved
a love poem.
Oh, I have written love poems
and their subjects were often women
I "loved." Still, I never referred to them
as my 'beloved' like I do her.
The images were usually drawn
from the language of desire, of lust,
things still so familiar
evan after all these years
of faithful monogamy.
But this is not my love for her,
only a part, like the great whate
that swims in the ocean
is only a part of the greater whole.

So how do I define my love for her?
No one image can express the depth,
the breadth, the breath of life itself
that is my love for her.
I think about her beauty
and any simile falls short,
or seems too cold, too static.
Her spirit has become something
almost palpable to me .
I can sense her being
even before I see her,
her energy washing over me
like cool scented air.

I am content to simply have her near me.
I need no words, only her presence,
to calm my fears and reassure me.

And this, then, is my love poem to her.
Simply being with her, my life with her,
these are the stanzas and rhyme.
An unfinished poem
of love.

Die Off

2011-04-29T09:09:00.001-07:00

Standing on the brackish shoreline
watching millions of fish float belly up
on the gray waters of the Chesapeake,
he worries for his childrens' future.
Poking the shiny bellies
with a small crooked branch from a Loblolly Pine,
he is looking for some kind of sign, or meaning,
knowing he has no science for the search.
He wonders if Captain Smith ever saw
this drowned valley of the Susquehana
in the same light?
Not likely, he thinks, or the Captain
would have penned it in his journals,
beseeching God for an answer.
Is this just another case of hypoxic waters,
he wonders,
or has some runoff brought
another round of Pfiesteria?

An Arakansas farmer watches redwing blackbirds
fall gracelessly from a cloudless sky
as familiar as yesterday,
and the day before,
no harbingers to forewarn of plummeting feathers.
He ponders the meaning of this dark shower
to the suckling baby nestled
in his frightened wife's arms.

The experts say this happens all the time,
mass die-offs are part of the natural flow of life
while these two men think,
"I have never seen the like before"
each offering a silent prayer of supplication
to a God with a history
of sending punishing pestilence and plagues.

For each, and neither
Science, nor God,
is providing an answer.

Mint and Rhododendrons

2011-03-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

Standing in the lawn,
a cup of hot coffee in his hands,
warm Spring sun on the back of his neck,
he looked at the dead rhododendron
sandwiched between two of its kin.
He was’t sure what had sickened the tall plant,
"Did I kill you spreading cedar chips
around your base,
their improper pH soaking into the ground,
poisoning you?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

But it no longer mattered.
The two adjacent trees were bursting with new growth,
this one a pale, spindly specimen,
a handful of leaves weakly protesting
“Not dead yet! Not dead yet!”
“Shut up!” he growled, thinking
"I’m finishing the job, today,
the chainsaw is gassed, ready,
the cutting chain filed and oiled."

If he has vision it is to see
growth in barren spaces.
Mint, he decides.
Spreading, pernicious take-everything-over mint.
Something that can be ignored
and if it grows too full of itself,
hack it mercilessly away
without any fear of killing it all.

Ignoring the pleas of the yellowing leaves
that life still remained
he perched his cup on the deck railing
and reached for the chainsaw
to jerk it into life
and deliver the finality of death.
I wonder what the other two
will think of mint, he wondered,
noting their vibrant Spring green leaves
seemed to have nothing to say.

How Dad's Mind Works

2011-01-29T09:28:00.000-08:00

“Life is not a movie,” he said to his daughter.

(‘Surely that is not my voice,
not me speaking,’
he thinks softly to himself
in an aside to his conscience.)

“There is no script. No plot.
The ending is not always happy,
neither is it hopeless,
as it often is in the noir genre.”

(‘Christ, are you a pompous ass
or what?’ His conscience replies.
‘Give her something useful,
some timeless bon mot
that speaks of life in harmony
or the perfection of love.
Something that says you’re sympathetic.’)

“What I mean to say is life is hard. It requires effort.
Participation.”

(‘That’s better, but find a positive
before you bring this to completion,’
he thinks, growing warm to his task,
‘You could knock the girl over with a feather
she is so fragile, right now’.)

“You cannot sit back and watch. You have to live it.
I know it’s hard to fathom that things can, let alone will,
get better. But they will, sweetheart. I promise.
You’re smart. You’re beautiful.”

(‘Boy, she sure has the best of her mother!’)

“Don’t roll your eyes! Everyone says that, not just me!
Just find that toughness I know you have inside.
Don’t let other people dictate your spirit to you!
Be who you are and true friends will flock to you
while false friends will fade away. OK?”

(‘Please be OK!’ his mind implores.

‘She will,’ his conscience confidently answers.)

Note: Same ten words from Katie: movie, hopeless, timeless, harmony, perfection, completion, feather, fathom. Similarities, yet different. This one was written first but I had forgotten about it. Surprised when I found it. I tweaked it a little. Beauty of jigsaw poems is the words can be revisited to see what else comes out! What do you think?

Pessimist's Creed

2011-01-27T09:04:00.000-08:00

The universe is not sympathetic to your plight.
It abhors perfection.
It always finds ways to deteriorate
in the harmony of chaos.
We small fragile creatures cannot fathom this.
Though we understand the concept of hopeless
We think our lives timeless
even as they hurtle toward completion.
We view it as some sort of movie
part fantasy, part documentary,
caught on the film of our memory.
A feather separated from the wing
and tumbling aimlessly on a crisp fall breeze
has more substance,
and perhaps more meaning,
than the ego of our lives.

Yes, another jigsaw. This time the words are from Katie Regan. Sorry, Katie. I stare at the words and then watch what comes out. The result is never a reflection on the word giver. The words this time were sympathetic, perfection, always, harmony, fathom, hopeless, timeless, completion, movie, feather.

The Truth of Love

2010-12-15T08:49:00.000-08:00

She lives her emotions within a boundary,
invisible, but set solid as a stone wall.

“The truth of love,” she says,
“is the fire has no empathy for the material it burns.”
She states this matter-of-factly,
carefully leaning toward the campfire
to rearrange the split logs
and help more air reach the fuel.
Her reward is an exponential burst of flames.

He lives his emotions as a nomad,
wandering like wind-blown sand.

His face flickering in the firelight
he foolishly begins to speak, to argue,
gently, perhaps, but contradictory.
“The truth of love is in the consumption,” he says.
“The fire caresses and changes the very essence
and matter becomes energy.
It is not a vicarious experience. It is direct. Personal.”

His rebuttal is a shock to her or
perhaps it is the surprise that her feelings
have hurdled her invisible wall.
But her face reveals none of this,
expressionless, grey eyes staring,
focused intently on his,
as if trying to peer even into his soul.

He stammers, somewhat slightly,
“I mean, ah, I don’t mean to be flip,
facetious. I’m not just tossing off
some witty remark,” he says,
turning his eyes from the fire to hers.
“Love by its very nature embraces,
envelopes. It is the consuming fire
that becomes one with what it burns,”
he finishes, his expression pleading
across the flames.

“I am lost,” she thinks, a smile spreading
like wind blown sand.
“I am found,” he hopes, a smile building
like a wall of stone.

Note: A jigsaw poem from words given to me by my son Stu. The words are material, empathy, fire, truth, exponential, air, foolishly, vacarious, nomad, facetious.

I am in a little anthology

2010-10-05T16:58:00.000-07:00

Please check this little publication out, available at most major booksellers. http://www.robertswartwood.com/hint-fiction/
You will note that I am a contributor

The Cyborg Gardener

2010-05-08T08:36:00.000-07:00

“I love the herbaceous in nature,”
she thinks, plunging her trowel into the rich dark loam
with the prosthesis that clumsily moves
where her right arm once danced with precision.
“I love eloquent stems that stand proudly erect
like the crocus, heralding the end of winter,
and the tulip, announcing spring’s arrival.
You are the colorful counterpoints to my scars,
delicate reminders of the strong, but fragile limb I lost.”

She knows in her heart that her garden has become
a refuge where she can speak her mind without fear.
with no one to hear and comment in disagreement.
“My life is plebian, not aristocratic,” she muses,
“but I surround myself with the trappings
of the patrician, with gardens and pathways
ringing a beautiful fountain, fed by an artesian spring
gurgling happily through the genitals of a curly haired boy
casually relieving himself into a lily-lined bowl.”
“This,” she speaks aloud,
“is where Pegasus rent the earth with his hooves,
and the fount of Hippocrene burst forth
to water my garden, and my soul.”

Pausing to wipe her brow,
she turns her gaze to a pair of witch hazel shrubs
and ‘the bramble,’ as she lovingly calls her dog rose.
“These beauties break the pattern,” she murmurs to herself,
forgiving them their woody stalks, and the rose’s rough thorns.
“It takes a cyborg like me to prune
my wild-growing prickly beauty,” she chuckles,
“the thorns can find no purchase on my marriage
of plastic and metal with the organic.
It defeats the assaults of your daggers”
she says to the pink flowered plant,
“and your friend there with the egg shaped leaves
and slender yellow flowers hanging like straps,
makes a wonderful salve for when you do get me!”

Her day’s tasks accomplished, she stands and sighs deeply,
thinking, “my flowers don’t care about my deformities,
my scars, my twisted patchwork of repairs to God’s handiwork.
My garden is my lifeline to the natural
lest the plastic and space age alloys taint my blood, fuse with my flesh,
and I become something more artificial than human.”
A pause, and she wryly comments out loud, but truly, to herself,
“I wonder if my solitude shows it may already be too late?”

Author's Note: Another Jigsaw Poem, 10 words given by friends Margo and Dave Klang. Words are eloquent, bramble, organic, witch hazel, cybord, artesian, Pegasus, herbaceous, tulip and plebian. Still needs some work, I fear. The picture is there but ...

Triolet Trilogy

2010-04-22T19:30:00.000-07:00

With Joy
With joy we take this chance to meet
to find a love we pray is true
and hope fate makes our lives complete.
With joy we take this chance to meet
two strangers passing on the street
about to find a love that’s new.
With joy we take this chance to meet
and find a love we pray is true.

With Doubt
With doubt our love has been denied
our faith in trust and hope betrayed
the fate that comes when truth has died.
With doubt our love has been denied
by secrets we could not abide
and games we both should not have played.
With doubt our love has been denied
our faith in trust and hope betrayed.

With Sadness
With sadness I must say goodbye
I wish that I could stay with you
But fate has sung time’s lullabye.
With sadness I must say goodbye
a searing teardrop in my eye
that shows my love for you was true.
With sadness I must say goodbye
I wish that I could stay with you.

Author's Note: A triolet is a one stanza poem of eight lines in iambic tetrameter. Its rhyme scheme is ABaAabAB. Tthe first, fourth and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines. I originally wrote With Sadness, posted earlier on this blog. I then thought it would be interesting to do a trilogy with a beginning, middle and end, following the same theme. Let me know what you think.

With Sadness - a triolet

2010-04-15T22:55:00.000-07:00

With sadness I must say goodbye
I wish that I could stay with you
But fate has sung time's lullabye.
With sadness I must say goodbye
a searing teardrop in my eye
that shows my love for you was true.
With sadness I must say goodbye
I wish that I could stay with you.

Every now and then it is fun to experiment with poetic form. A poet I admire very much (I have a link to the right - 'secret poems from the times literary supplement') recently posted a beautiful little triolet so I thought I'd try one. Interesting format. What do you think?

Flirtation

2010-04-14T20:44:00.000-07:00

For him, love is forever.
It is not some fleeting emotion,
but an absolute, an essential,
like breathing is to existence.
From the corner barstool
he watches with his peripheral vision
as the petite brunette with a pixie haircut
leans to her conspirator’s ear,
whispering what he hopes is a secret,
something fantastic, he imagines,
an item too important to express openly
in the usual barroom banter.
He wonders if this pretty girl
who appears, to him, to be
floating like a fresh white lily
above the brackish water of the tavern floor,
understands that he is ready
to share his deep passion,
his faithfulness, his very soul.
He hesitates before approaching her table,
worrying that it is no secret she shares,
instead, the giggles and sidelong glances
reflect her disdain for his hesitation,
or even worse, disgust
at the gin blossoms growing in his cheeks.
He settles back onto his barstool,
the hastily downed whisky no remedy
for the rosacea, nor his timidity.
The wince from the sharpness of cheap bourbon
conceals the brief expression flashing across her face.
Had he seen it, he would have wondered
if it were disappointment or relief
at his retreat.
For her, love is forever.
It is not some fleeting emotion,
but an absolute, an essential,
like breathing is to existence.
She wonders why
the cute guy with the delicate brown hair
and rosy cheeks has turned his back on her
when she thought he was about to approach,
thinking he must think I’m too plain
or...

Author's note: Another jigsaw, from words given the same night as Wedding Gift, this time by my niece, Kennedy (her fiance Ben gave me the Wedding Gift words). This time the words were "fantastic, absolute, gin blossoms, forever, remedy, lily, ready, secret, banter, essential."

Wedding Gift

2010-04-06T14:49:00.000-07:00

Age is never kind.
Reluctantly leaving the now fading dream
of vaguely disjointed memories from his long past youth,
of a bright-eyed girl in white silk
and cherry blossoms covering the lawn,
he rubbed the sticky goo from the corners of his eyes,
‘eye boogers’ is what we called them when I was kid, he thought,
wondering if they were some kind of infection of the lacrimal system
and possibly related to the bucktooth prostitute
snoring softly under the dirty bed sheet next to him.
Leaning over to rouse his companion
he pulled back, repelled by her Sunday morning whore breath,
stinking of whisky, cigarettes and semen,
muttering to himself, Ben, you retard,
it’s your Golden Anniversary,
50 years with the same faithful woman,
and here you are, lower than a deer tick
hoping a fifty dollar bill will breathe life
back into your wrinkled scrotum.
But he knew the old woman at home wouldn’t care,
had stopped caring decades ago,
when he would wander off for a Saturday night
of boozing, gambling and whoring.
He saw his life as kind of a Cajun James Joyce novel,
like one long run-on sentence
in a babbling stream-of-consciousness,
hard to understand, but rich with feeling,
filled with a monotonous sameness
accented occasionally by poor choices.
The dream whispered faintly in the back of his mind,
and he knew the girl in the white dress was his bride,
the dream the memory of a time
when her lips tasted of hummingbird nectar.
For a moment he remembered his vows
and dressed quietly in shame.

Author's Note: Another jigsaw poem, the words given to me by my niece's fiance during the 25th Anniversary Party my bride and I celebrated on the 20th of March. It was late into the night and after opening some monster (in flavor and alcohol content) brews when we discussed writing (both my niece and him are both writers), poetry and priming the creativity pump when it seems the well is dry. His words were: bucktooth, retard, cherry blossoms, deer tick, wrinkled scrotum, Golden Anniversary, hummingbird nectar, eye boogers, Sunday morning whore breath and James Joyce. Ok. Pretty strange collection of words, plus it's only supposed to be ten single words, not double words and certainly not phrases like Sunday morning whore breath (what the hell is he thinking?). Thought he would trip me up, he did, but welcome to the family Ben - you'll fit right in!

My Renewal Vows for our 25th Anniversary

2010-03-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

When we first met I was faltering, adrift, lost,
Slipping further and further into spiritual numbness,
without focus, or purpose, and losing my will to even care,
succumbing slowly, but surely, to the siren song of oblivion.

You came into my life like a thunderstorm sweeping over the desert,
Falling like rain onto my arid soul.
The brilliant light of your being chased the darkness from my heart
While the courage of your spirit and your deep, timeless wisdom
Gave me the strength to shake off the weight of despair
And brush away the clouds of disillusionment that were consuming me.

You truly saved me from destroying myself.

Now, when I look at you I rejoice in the reassuring knowledge I am loved,
Truly, completely, without reservation.
I am constantly struck with the realization that you are more beautiful to me today
Than that magical day when we first kissed,
sitting on a sun baked bench
beside a trail following the southeastern face of an ancient Sinagua Indian ruin.

I have grown incredibly comfortable and content with you,
But never complacent.
I am still filled with the passion of that first embrace.
My heart still races at the sight of you, the scent of your hair, the touch of your skin,
The sound of your voice, your laughter,
All these things drive me wild with desire
And each day I fall in love with you again,
And again, and each time feels new, each time
Reaching deeper and deeper into my soul
Until my joy overpowers me
leaving me breathless and amazed.

For me, there can be no other than you.
In you I have found true love,
The kind of love the poets have sung about
Since the dawn of time.
Endless. Everlasting. Eternal love.

I have given my life to you.
Let me give it to you again.

You Need Me On Your Team!

2010-03-10T09:17:00.001-08:00

My days off are today and tomorrow. Except I have a customer coming in this afternoon and my employer has cancelled my day off for tomorrow due to a "customer appreciation" event. Hmmmm. Hard working talented male with mad skills in writing, marketing, advertising, public relations and sales seeks employment where a personal life is permitted. Must offer competitive salary and benefits. Can start immediately.

Snapshot

2010-03-01T10:40:00.000-08:00

The ground is saturated with Spring,
the old tree stump a pedestal
lifting her naked body above
the spongy moss of the forest floor.
She is an amateur at the erotic.
Her exhibitionism reflecting
overtones of nervous shyness.
Although no one is around
to see her nude pose,
the act for her is so risqué
she is covered in goosebumps,
her nipples erect
as much from the thrill
of five minutes exposed
as from the crisp chill
of a pine woods morning.
She is just a city girl,
reveling in the here and now,
her full length outstretched
arms raised, palms upward, head thrown back
revealing herself to the universe
and a camera lens,
a visual snack with the sumptuous feast
of Mother Nature as her backdrop.

A jigsaw poem - 10 words from my friend Jenni Clark, risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur. This photo exists (sort of), the negative buried in a file cabinet somewhere. It's from back in the day, so to speak, many, many years ago when I was a photojournalist and my practice wife and I were camping and ... you get the picture!?!

Daddy's Home

2010-02-10T21:44:00.000-08:00

Cleaning the kitchen,
a toddler at her feet,
she dreams of escape…
her old cheap dress tattered, threadbare,
like the blank, expressionless mask
of her face, the faint memory of
her once-upon-a-time fairy tale beauty
hidden in the layers of emotional plaster
caked on from years of living with a drunkard.
Her eyes still live, though,
sparkling as she glances at the girl child
thinking, perhaps, something cheesy for dinner,
hoping, maybe, something better for her, than for me.
Her intensive cleaning becoming almost furious,
as if scrubbing the dirt off the shelves
will somehow scrape away the anguish of lost hopes.
She weaves fantasies of travel, adventure,
seeing wild herds wandering the plains of the Serengheti,
hearing the howls of odd colored monkeys
in the steamy jungles along the equator,
leaning over the railing of some luxury ship
crossing the expansive wild sameness
of a chameleon ocean,
a life without the familiarity of fear,
only wonder
and joy.
The sound of a slammed door breaks the reverie,
“Ah, poop!” she curses out loud, diluting the expletive
meant much more forcefully, but softened
for the sake of the child. She wonders,
“Is he drunk? How is his mood?”
Her wistful smile fades
and the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten
with each ringing clump of heavy foot steps in the hallway.
‘Poop’ echoes the youngling,
running to her bedroom for the safety of dolls and stuffed toys.
“Daddy’s home.”

Author's note: The above poem is another one of those jigsaw poems I seem to like. It was at the annual Hall of Foam induction party when during a discussion with Don the topic of jigsaw poetry came up. He challenged me, I accepted. He gave me 10 words - cheap, expansive, blank, drunk, cheesy, intensive, poop, shelves, drunkard and equator. poop?!? Cheesy? We exchange poems this Friday back at our watering hole - the Wine and Beer Haus in Seaside, OR. This is mine. Poop. that was a tough one - hope you like my solution. There's another one in the wings, 10 words from Jenny Clark - Risque, mother, overtones, now, snack, five, saturated, length, stump, amateur.

Rosehip Tea

2010-01-27T08:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Back Again

2010-01-27T08:20:00.001-08:00

Been silent for some time now for reasons unimportant. Hope to be posting again with some regularity (probably not daily though).

Baby Left Alone

2010-01-26T19:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Blue Collar Blues

2009-08-12T09:56:00.000-07:00

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?

Pittsburgh Lament

2009-07-17T17:03:00.000-07:00

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,
his heart beating in rhythm with
the whirr of generators,
his 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.

Crybaby

2009-07-14T18:57:00.000-07:00

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!

Masochist of Love

2009-07-09T12:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Pick Up Line

2009-07-07T08:21:00.000-07:00

(an old piece of erotica!)

We should love!
My mind approves and
blood courses in anticipation
swelling my penis until it stands
throbbing, a fountain of yielding iron,
a pipe that gushes creamy hot babies
into the incubating cup of your vagina!

Am I bold to say this to you?
Is it wrong to proclaim my desire?

The Gardeners

2009-06-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

A Renga by David Irwin and Bill Graffius

David:
White blossoms push out
from the wood. Wet dirt wisps steam
almost all morning.

Nothing worse than too much time
on one’s hands while the ice melts.

Bill:
The forest dances.
Blossoms fly from meadow trees.
Tall grass undulates.

Seize the moment to watch this
in the mists before the storm.

David:
A clutch of young grass
falls from your hand. Did the wind
take it as it fell?

Ahead, summer's horizon;
Today, sweat and more planting.

Bill:
Baskets on the porch
filled with trailing spring flowers
will bring summer joy.

Dirty hands, satisfaction,
Sense of zen captured in now.

David:
The dirt hands you your
meal - this is where we first taste
the too-young tartness.

Berries, when ready to fall,
are different, not better.

Bill:
When plucked before ripe
fruit and berry are less sweet.
Taste is the victim.

Life must fully gestate
or bitterness will prevail.

David:
There are still cold winds
to make us forget breakfast
and stay in our beds.

Blossoms are a memory.
The flowers do not make spring.

Bill:
Cold dew at daybreak
glistens on the fresh mown lawn.
Wake! And join the day.

Blossoms are the memory
and midwife to spring's rebirth.

David:
Clouds are not bleak or
joyous. Understand the rice
you bring to the meal.

Do these blossoms understand
how little time they have left?

Bill:
Time is circular.
Which season begins the year?
Which one marks the end?

The cycle is a circle.
No beginning and no end.

David:
The moon's white halo
is no sign of anything
but rain tomorrow.

A bicycle replaces
the ox. The field goes fallow.

Bill:
Preparing to change
with feelings of unfolding,
a sense of blossom.

Rain today, sun tomorrow,
life grows from the excrement.

David:
The verde blossoms
are already a carpet
here, gathered by wind.

Thus each gray morning begins
with the usual triumphs.

Bill:
Daffodils abound.
Yellow pollen everywhere!
Summer approaches.

Gaia is blessing us with
rain for our emerald world.

David:
Sweet morning chill is
disappearing. Open doors,
plain tea our pleasures.

The hills are changing daily
when I take the time to watch.

Bill:
Our labor brings joy
as the sun paints our skin brown
and backs bend weeding.

Hummingbirds thrum at feeders.
Ice water is our reward.

David:
Their furious wings
lift them through the warm evening
to sip one more meal.

Tomorrow, summer's journey
up the mountain will begin.

Bill:
The flowers offer
nectar to the travelers
in their migration.

Bees and butterflies partake.
My efforts are rewarded.

David:
Savor sun and growth -
not that there's a choice - because
the cold will return.

Endless vistas from the peaks,
but our crops need the river.

Bill:
Standing deep in green
our joy is restrained, knowing
fall follows summer.

Until the cycle renews
we celebrate abundance.

For those who visit this blog regularly, you have seen two previous "in the middle of things" postings of this poem. It is now officially finished.
For those seeing this for the first time: David Irwin, a poet, writer, musician and longtime friend (I hate saying old friend, even though we're both getting there) read one of my haiku poems and invited me to Renga with him. Renga is an ancient style of Japanes poetry wherein two or more poets collaborate to create a poem by writing alternate stanzas. It is also the original source of the haiku. It uses syllable counts of 5-7-5 and 7-7. In its strictest, original form it goes to 100 verses. Google it for more information. Here is the result of our initial foray into this form of poetic conversation. Hope you enjoyed it!

Native Moon

2009-06-14T21:20:00.001-07:00

I am nagual, my familiar is peregrine.
When the season is harvest full
and Ix Chel bathes the cooling desert
in her silver light,
I perch in the saguaro, watching,
until in a ghostly shimmer I see
the Surem rise out of the Yo Ania.
They unroll their shining lake
spreading it over the creosote plain,
for a feast at the place of the last dance
far from the modern, disapproving eyes
of monotheism and civilization,
all of existence still intertwined
enchanted, no duality,
no dichotomy of good and evil.
Passing gourds of balche spiked with morning glory
and slapping bones on stretched deer hides
coaxing a rhythm for the dance
the ritual of healing begins.
All the gods have gathered,
Klehanoai dances with them,
lightning in sheets rippling overhead
as Mama-Kilya keeps time.
Grandmother Metsaka sits at the edge of the firelight
warding away the darkness of Tokakami.

Tsohanoai calls, distant, a hint of gray on the horizon
and in a puff of smoke the celebrants disappear.
I am nagual, taking wing to begin the morning hunt,
a shadow outlined against the dust reddened orb
sinking in the western horizon.

Note:
Ix Chel is the Mayan moon goddess.
The Surem are nomadic precursors to the Yaqui People who chose to shun the rise of religion and civilization and live in a parallel universe, the Yo Ania.
Balche is a drink made from the bark of the balche tree mixed with honey and water and is mildly psychoactive, even more so when mixed with morning glory and other hallucinogenics. Believed to be used by ancient Mesoamerican cultures in religious rituals.
Klehanoai is a Navajo moon god who face is said to be covered with sheet lightning.
Mama-Kilya is mother moon, an Incan moon goddess important in the calculation of time and the Incan calendar.
Metsaka is the Huichol Indian moon goddess known as grandmother moon. She guards the huichol against Tokakami – their god of death.
Tsohanoai is the day bearer, a Navaho Sun God

Baby Boomer Son

2009-06-01T20:33:00.001-07:00

It isn’t so difficult.
I don’t lead a tortured life,
no longing for some sweet release
like a cold wind through a hot kitchen,
dad in his dirty white wife beater
pounding down another pony bottle
of Fort Pitt beer,
cursing the officers
who spent men like pennies
somewhere in a dark German forest
frozen forever in his memory
rising up through nightmares
to become midnight screams of terror.
There is nothing I have to fear,
nothing to drown in cheap alcohol
dulling the razor cuts of each monotonous
identical day of machinery
and mass production
cursing the white-shirted managers
who didn’t have to breathe in the ceramic dust
and metal filings,
who never had to sweat, just decide,
who spent men like pennies
somewhere in a dirty factory hall,
straddling some sickly yellow stream
belching sulfur and disease
winding its way toward the Allegheney,
the Ohio, eventually the Mississippi
and the freedom of the Gulf.
What I have to endure
isn’t so bad
that I can still mourn for my father.

Must have been an omen

2009-05-30T08:04:00.000-07:00

To me it was an adventure -
new city, new life.
Our home was a 1941 Dodge ambulance,
parked in a friend's driveway
where five people, 10 dogs, two cats
and a handful of chickens shared
a two bedroom house.
Our cat, whose life had been lived
almost exclusively,
in a one bedroom apartment,
lived in terror in the oleanders,
hiding from the dogs.
When the dogs ate her shoes,
my bride began to cry.

Garden Horror Story

2009-05-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

It promises to be a hot day,
tache de soleil in an altercation
with the electromagnetic spectrum
making the radio scratch and sputter,
has melded its intensified radiation
to high humidity and no wind.
Winged insects with bulbous eyes
and high pitched buzzing attack,
always around the eyes, nose and ears
like they’re seeking ingress,
spelunking for the liquid gold
they know pools in the mucous membranes
somewhere deep in the sinuses
behind the freckles surrounding your eyes.
Dahlias marinate in the humid sun
while the hostas and impatiens hide in the shade
ignoring the droning insects,
waiting for the crepuscular creatures,
when the fireflies rise to mate,
the signal that soon gastropods
that shun the sun
will creep out of their dark crevices,
antennae aloft like chopsticks seeking rice,
slowly, almost stately inching forward
a grand poobah entering the ritual chamber
to devour the acolytes.

Ok, this is a jigsaw puzzle using words provided by my daughter Megan and her friend Leanne Fawkes. The words were: marinate, altercation, freckles, bulbous, gastropod, grand poobah, chopsticks, fireflies, tache de soleil and liquid gold. Thought they had me stumped, they did. Little did they know just how bizarre (perhaps perverse) my mind is!

Woulda Coulda Shoulda

2009-05-23T09:31:00.000-07:00

Opportunities lost eat at the soul,
a cancer of ‘if only,’
a litany of despair at having survived
without having lived.
Warmth, content, these are the thieves.
Discontent, cold, pain, fear, all true friends
that give brief breath-taking gasps of life lived.
Once, risk was oxygen
and the faint scent of disaster
an intoxicating perfume.
Now, faced by what could have been,
perhaps should have been
had I courage to gamble everything
for the momentary thrill
that leaves a permanent memory
I am left to wonder
would my life, albeit different,
be any better?

Perchance to dream

2009-05-20T09:19:00.001-07:00

Daylight filters
through the curtains
of sleep chasing
the dream snakes back
into the dark depths
of the subconscious.
Thoughts born in
awakening
make lists of things
to do with the day,
locking the last barrier
between dream and reality
but knowng that darkness
and sleep
will bring the snakes' return

Summertime

2009-05-19T10:07:00.001-07:00

Summertime kisses our thoughts with a smile
that’s made up of flowers and walking for miles
down tracks stretching silver by clear water streams
or through evening forest with air perfumed green.
It whispers of lullabies played upon leaves
rustling, suspended, from moss covered trees
and dances with fireflies mating by lights
arising in meadows on nuptial flights.
The low drone of honeybees softens the noon
as bright colored butterflies follow the tune
that a summertime memory plays for our ears
a song that’s been playing for thousands of years.

White Noise

2009-05-18T19:10:00.000-07:00

There is a shushing noise
like the sound imagined as the ocean
when putting a seashell to your ear.
It fills the mind
until thought, even movement
seems in slow motion
with only the gentle susurrus
in the background.
The somehow amusing detachment
of mind and body,
consciousness no longer seated
in the physical
holds no fright
as sensation
becomes more like a whisper
than touch, taste, smell and feeling.
“This, then, is death,” he surmises,
the thought itself enveloped
in solitude,
rippling through the white noise
like a boat slapping through riffles
on water.

mirror, mirror

2009-05-17T20:36:00.000-07:00

Now, before your eyes
appears
dawn upon the shining
mirror
you perceive a brace of
flowers
color in a jar of
water
just before your thoughts
arrive
you can feel the room grow
hotter
summer falling through the
shutter
pictures dreaming in the
morning
on the pale walls of your
hallway
when, before your eyes
appears
me, waiting by the
mirror.

New Age

2009-05-14T10:34:00.001-07:00

Some say this is a New Age.
They believe something,
the air, the earth,
the fabric of the universe itself
has somehow been changed,
made new.
I wonder at this,
crouched aside a game trail
called a boulevard in this new age
watching canis latrans root
through the overflow
of a restaurant dumpster.
Digging through the rotting carrion
of another predator’s kill
or pawing through plastic and cans –
which of the two ages is New?
The new moon that does not shine
smiles the same for each.

This is a poem under construction. A little unpolished and in need of I don't know what yet. It will mutate and the original hard copy has sprung other ideas. don't be surprised to see it again - I'm not getting repetitive - just better, I hope.

Freeze Tag

2009-05-12T22:53:00.000-07:00

I can sense him sniffing around
like some working dog seeking a point.
I smell him, too,
in the taste left from
running the tongue over a decayed tooth.
He's seeking me, I know.
We've danced like this before,
a couple of times to be sure
but never with me this slow
and visible to his blind eyes.
The hackles rise at the base of my neck
and the white hot flash of ice
across my chest heralds his approach.
This time, caught in the open,
I can only freeze to immobility,
gathering each emotion that shoots
behind my eyes and soothing them into silence.
Will he pass this time? I wonder.

The Gardeners - Redux

2009-05-11T09:42:00.000-07:00

David:
White blossoms push out
from the wood. Wet dirt wisps steam
almost all morning.

Nothing worse than too much time
on one’s hands while the ice melts.

Bill:
The forest dances.
Blossoms fly from meadow trees.
Tall grass undulates.

Seize the moment to watch this
in the mists before the storm.

David:
A clutch of young grass
falls from your hand. Did the wind
take it as it fell?

Ahead, summer's horizon;
Today, sweat and more planting.

Bill:
Baskets on the porch
filled with trailing spring flowers
will bring summer joy.

Dirty hands, satisfaction,
Sense of zen captured in now.

David:
The dirt hands you your
meal - this is where we first taste
the too-young tartness.

Berries, when ready to fall,
are different, not better.

Bill:
When plucked before ripe
fruit and berry are less sweet.
Taste is the victim.

Life must fully gestate
or bitterness will prevail.

David:
There are still cold winds
to make us forget breakfast
and stay in our beds.

Blossoms are a memory.
The flowers do not make spring.

Bill:
Cold dew at daybreak
glistens on the fresh mown lawn.
Wake! And join the day.

Blossoms are the memory
and midwife to spring's rebirth.

David:
Clouds are not bleak or
joyous. Understand the rice
you bring to the meal.

Do these blossoms understand
how little time they have left ?

Bill:
Time is circular.
Which season begins the year?
Which one marks the end?

The cycle is a circle.
No beginning and no end.

David:
The moon's white halo
is no sign of anything
but rain tomorrow.

A bicycle replaces
the ox. The field goes fallow.

Bill:
Preparing to change
with feelings of unfolding,
a sense of blossom.

Rain today, sun tomorrow,
life grows from the excrement.

David:
The verde blossoms
are already a carpet
here, gathered by wind.

Thus each gray morning
beginswith the usual triumphs.

Bill:
Daffodils abound.
Yellow pollen everywhere!
Summer approaches.

Gaia is blessing us with
rain for our emerald world.

This Renga is an on again off again effort between David Irwin and myself. It's David's turn next but he has been occupied otherwise. For me, work consumes. I think we need to move on to summer, fall and winter.

Make it Pink, Make it Blue

2009-05-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

Each evening, after dinner,
scraping left over food from the plates
she invariably turns the discussion
to color, to hue and contrast,
which paint would look best
on the nursery wall.
It is a marathon discussion
but with no end in sight,
no cry of victory expected.
At first it was a simple entertainment,
he would sit, listen to the speaker,
marveling how she could spin
an entire web of plans
from a tiny strand of hope.
Now, it has become, almost,
a challenge, with her shopping
through the pattern of responses
for a pivot upon which
she can force an altercation.
Frustration from an empty womb
drives her until exhausted
with emotional effort
and his unyielding love,
expressed through approving nods,
relentless optimism
and a preference for blue
or pink.

Another jigsaw using the words food, wall, sit, marathon, spin, altercation, speaker, shopping, paint, entertainment – provided by a friend, Teresa Arwood.

Seeing You Again

2009-05-05T07:52:00.000-07:00

After such a long time
and so many reasons
imagined and otherwise
to feel bitter,
seeing you again becomes
a test of will
to not drink the poison
of regret and enmity.
The weave of two lives unraveled
seeks explanation, cause and effect,
but is best left a mystery
for the mendacity of blame
denies the truth of diverging paths.

Favorite Things

2009-04-30T08:28:00.000-07:00

Fresh coffee
The smell of pine trees
Fast moving trout streams
Full moons over desert landscapes
Planting flowers
The smell of mulch
Talking to mom (grandma)
___________________

A hard day finished
feet propped
sitting back in my chair
the nightly ritual
of jammies, brushing teeth
and saying goodnight.
A small being reaches up
"Goodnight Da-Da"
"Goodnight Sweet Pie,
I love you!"
"I love you too Da-Da!"
Another hard day finished
and made easy
as night falls.

There is something about simple list making... I do it all the time. I have also come to see the poetry within them. A grocery list. A chores list. These are the stuff of day-to-day life and if you listen, you will hear them sing.

Infidelity

2009-04-26T10:41:00.001-07:00

The rabisu are among us.
We know by the pricking sensation
at the nape of the neck
sensing something crouching at the door
but nothing seen, we enter,
ignoring potent warnings.
Such was his fate,
bearing water from the river channel
infidelity awaited at his doorstep.
He failed to see the demon
and crossed the threshold
to find himself bereft of wife,
of home, of sanctuary.
A wound dealt by a choice
he is unable to heal.
Such is the raw power
lurking at all portals,
especially the vulva.

Another God

2009-04-25T08:13:00.000-07:00

Change...
Now there's a god
worth worshipping.

Eternal mystery
with a constancy
that cannot be refused.

A Divorce List

2009-04-24T17:21:00.001-07:00

Bank accounts
Penney's charge
Shell charge
Mastercard
Credit Union
Mellon Bank
Insurance on car
Insurance on house
Insurance on lives
W-2s - tax time
The car
The cats
The divorce
Any other outstanding debts?
Financing records
Division of property
Your stuff - my stuff - our stuff
Anthing else?
Craig's car

This poem dates back to 1979. It actually wasn't a poem, just a list I had made to try to organize my wildly scattered thoughts as my practice wife and I separated. A friend, who had gone through a divorce himself, came over one day, saw the list on the kitchen table, and remarked, "good poem." I didn't disagree. I just titled it and have been passing it off as a 'poem' ever since.
If you have been through a divorce, perhaps you will see the poetry in it too.

"...the moose scored!"

2009-04-23T07:34:00.000-07:00

Woody Allen

He marvels at the blood stained sheets
remembering the tacit understanding
that in the morning
she would be gone.

In Defense of Love Poetry

2009-04-22T10:13:00.000-07:00

I have been a serial monogamist,
one lover at a time, no playing field.
Like the male of any species I have been led,
no, driven by my reproductive organs,
More than once, while still connected
to my practice wife,
I stopped far short of adultery,
yet well into the realm of lustful thought.
I have been wired since birth to faithfulness
and for this I must stand up for love poetry.

A poet once said love is exponential.
I agree.
While I think she meant our capacity
is to love more than one person at a time,
for a quarter of a century my love
for my forever wife
has grown from attraction, to friendship,
to lust, to passion, to adoration to such dedication
that for me there can be no other.
We have become, in a wonderful way,
a dyad that allows two separate souls
to live as one.

The same poet said monogamy is static.
I disagree. Even after all these years
we continue to discover each other
and rediscover, in ways only time
can gestate and grow to full fruition.

We, the combination of two Is,
have learned through our love
how to love others,
to open our hearts and cast aside judgment,
secure in ourselves,
protected by our communion,
to accept the potential of new relationships,
while saving true intimacy
perfect, unblemished,
for each other, for the poetry of our love.

Let the poets sing of love.
I stand for love poetry.

Sometimes, at least for me, the fun of poetry is to participate in a conversation - point . counterpoint. Dorla Morehouse posted a wonderful little poem Polyamory (you'll see a link to her blog at the right of this page). I felt compelled to speak. Watch yourself, though. Her piece is layered in meanings. I simply snatched one of them for my poem. There's more there with which to wrestle.

A Conversation Remembered in the Morning

2009-04-22T08:56:00.000-07:00

A Monostich

I earned the damage that was done.

Oops!

2009-04-21T10:41:00.003-07:00

Packing snow
to a consistency round
let it fly, then run
at the sound
of breaking glass.

Do You Know Belial

2009-04-19T21:00:00.001-07:00

The raspy whispering of Belial
hissing in your ear
comes with a warning
with just a hint,
the faintest touch of a scent
like a sensation half remembered,
the stench of sulphur and death
bloating in the sun.
The flicker of light
bathing the corner of the room,
in a welcoming yet eerie,
cold and artificial glow,
is dishonesty invited
into the family hearth.
We listen, we watch
and we applaud as he casts
his three nets into our lives.
The storm is the space
between the rain drops.
Everything we deem innocent
is tainted, only vigilance will protect us.
Do you know what is without worth?
The entanglement of wires and diodes
paints a phosphorescent sheen,
can you scent the decay?
Do you hear the cozening canard?
Do you know Belial?

I Do Not Understand

2009-04-18T08:14:00.001-07:00

I do not understand religious fanaticism
that twists a love of God
into hate for those who are different
in thought and belief,
or how a child's hunger
can be ignored by society,
or why possessions, wealth,
rule so many lives,
or why we resort to fear,
an expectation of ruin and danger
to mold our behavior and make our decisions.
The deepest mystery of all, perhaps,
is how I can see the truth, sometimes,
and recognize wrong,
yet sit idly by, like Hamlet,
wandering through the cold stone passages
debating with myself in protracted soliloquies
afraid to act,
or worse, like Chamberlain
facing the rising evil of Hitler,
unwilling to act.
Maybe Hamlet delayed picking up his rapier
because he understood revenge
albeit justified, may not be just.
And possibly poor Neville could only hear
the clamor of a civilian government
grown tired after centuries of war.
If I have a knowledge, an understanding,
it is that life is transient
while hate, hunger, avarice and fear
are unfortunately eternal.
I also know with absolute certainty
love, abundance, generosity and courage
are ageless, as well.
I do not understand men’s choices,
the allure of darkness.
I do not understand.

The Head of the Pin

2009-04-17T10:28:00.000-07:00

“I’ve bin sittin’ here watchin’ ya
and if y’ll stand me a beer
I’d be for asking ya a question
and, may be tellin’ ya something too!”

This is a familiar face, one I’ve seen
back when I hefted aluminum barrels
into the holes where tired and dirty
factory shift workers poured their wages.

I have smelled this same pungent mixture
of souring whisky, smoke
and men’s sweat brewing
in these social cauldrons
that change lives through
some strange alchemy of spirits.

It is here the golden hope for prosperity,
through a strange reverse metamorphosis
is transformed into the dross
of poverty and anger.

Tossing the correct coins onto the bar
I catch the keeper’s eye
and nod at the old man’s empty glass.

His rheumy eyes are dark,
the whites glazed grey,
the border between iris and pupil
barely perceptible.

He lifts the vessel of amber liquid
to his lips carefully, is if to caress,
not so much tio savor the bouquet or taste
but more from the hard knowledge
that the next glass
will be hard to find in empty pockets.

Wiping foam from his lip
he leans on the bar, facing me,
his head slightly cocked.

His gaze into my eyes is not entirely direct,
too sidelong fro complete honesty or trust.
He asks, “ ya Cath’lic or Protest’nt?”

“Neither.” I say.

“A heathen then!” he nearly shouts.
“Unless y’ve adopt’d the fashion’ble
taste for saffron robes ‘n past lives
‘n such, ‘n a heathen then, I’m sure!”

A little taken aback by his words,
delivered aggressively, a touch of beer spittle
flinging through the air, I lean back.

“No. No heathen.” I say.
“I’m a believer. I believe in God.
The same God, I think.
I simply have little time
for sects and denominations,
the way they confine, dim
and blur the Light of God.
My faith tells me God is One
with everything
and God loves the many,
that there are countless paths
up the mountain.”

“Then y’r a heathen,”
he pronounces simply, smugly sure.
“Wit’out the church
y’ kin have no abs’lution.”

I sip my own drink, feeling its burn
aglow in my chest, warming to the debate.
“No. I am no heathen,” I respond again,
a little more forceful, finding the itch
of irritation at the accusation.

Tavern philosophers do not listen.
They prod you to answer
and capture the first questionable
dependant clause,
hoisting it like a flag
demanding some kind of salute.

This one was no different.
Ruddy complexion, dying eyes
sunken into creased flesh.
He had stopped listening early.
“If’n ya b'long to no church,
then what do ya believe?” he asked.

I have talked to his old man before..
As a young man, driving truck,
delivering beer to the multitude of taverns
lining the pathways winding through
the various ethnic neighborhoods
surrounding the mills of Pittsburgh.

“I believe God needs no statement of faith,
no special incense, robe or collar,
no specific ritual performed and spoken
in a certain way.”
This I say to the mirror over the bar,
peering into the brown eyes staring back,
seeking that glint of certainty born of faith.
“God will judge me, if He indeed judges,
on what I am and what I do,”
I say directly to the old man.
“I can profess to anything.
But what I do is what God sees.
He is no fool.
Does this make me a heathen?”

“Stand me another ‘n I will answer,”
the empty husk of a person beside me
orders hopefully.

More coins rattle onto the varnished wood.
He accepts the fresh glass and drinks.
“What has bin done t’ me ‘n my kin
by the English landlord,
the divisions beaten upon my father
‘n my father’s father’s father
by the theivin’ damn’d protest’nt English,
this gives me joy t’ bow t’ the priest
whose vow of poverty is known.
Y’ must believe and y’ must pray
and y’ must bow down ‘n beg fer yer forgiveness
or y’ be a heathen ‘n y’ be fer HELL!”

The word ‘hell’ echoes,
the dark smoke-filled room suddenly silent.
He throws the rest of the amber brew
down his throat, slams the glass onto the bar,
stands, turns and lurches for the door
as the stool he was perched upon
staggers and falls noisily to the floor.
Pass out and into the night,
a slammed door claps finality into his departure
and argument.

I turn back to the mirror,
sipping again from my beer.
Another withered old man
crosses the room, righting the stool
and assuming a seat next to me.

“Ol’ Finney, the poor ol’ mick,” he declares.
“Ain’t got much of’n unnerstandin’.
I guess it’s th’ Rom’n Cath’lic.
Him’n th’ damned Dagoes.
They all think their incense don’t stink!”
Hey pal, buy me a beer
n’ I’ll tell y’ the truth,
how it ain’t the damn’d priest
but yer tribe ‘ats import’nt.”

“Barkeep!” I call,
pushing paper toward the well,
nodding at the short, stout, dark
and somewhat swarthy new philosopher
at my side.
Mediterranean? Balkan? I wonder,
asking, “tribes?”

Time

2009-04-16T09:51:00.000-07:00

Time is circular.
Which season begins the year?
Which one marks the end?

The cycle is a circle.
No beginning and no end.

This is a stray stanza from the ongoing Renga, The Gardener, previewed earlier in this blog and still under construction via, of all things, Facebook communications. (finally, a usefull application for Facebook!)

The Truth of Penmanship

2009-04-14T09:51:00.001-07:00

The truth of penmanship
is lost on me.
What can clean, elegant lines truly offer?
I have seen whopping lies
written in beautiful cursive,
script that flows so effortlessly
even Palmer would think it an opportunity
to peer into the window of the writer’s soul,
yet the writer is laughing all the time
knowing they have masked their intent,
two faces, one hidden, one revealed,
deftly, mild, so as to cause no ripple
that would reveal Janus in the illusion.
A keychain is neither the keys,
nor the locks or the car.
Such is pensmanship.
Is the meaning of the words
held in their portrayal?
I cannot write prettily
in appearance, but,
I can write prettily
in meaning, leaving,
the truth of penmanship,
a mystery to me.

My last jigsaw, for a while, at least – until someone throws this gauntlet down and offers up ten new words. This one came from a good friend, Jennie Clark. The words are offer clean, opportunity, window, two, keychain, laughing, whopping, mild, penmanship. Whopping proved a troublesome word, but keychain was amazingly difficult to fit in. Do you like my solution?

Meant To Last Forever

2009-04-13T22:27:00.000-07:00

A single dead tree at the end of the alley
behind the tenement row stood
like some ancient English highlands monolith.
Our young minds viewed it in an almost religious awe.
To us it seemed as if it had been there forever –
for our brief lives, at least,
a testament to nature’s endurance.
Transcending even life.
leaves gone and sap long ago frozen
it still stood sentinel, beckoning,
gathering young minds to its base
like a swirling wind gathers leaves.
When older brothers would lift us to the lowest branches
we rode the wind like ancient mariners,
climbing to the main mast crow’s nest,
to shout “sail on the starboard beam!” or “Land Ho!”
like the buccaneers we had seen
in the plethora of 25 cent movies
flashing in darkened halls on Saturday afternoons.
If no booster was available
hours were still spent beneath the gaunt limbs
studying the smooth wood
forever stripped of its clothing bark,
now marked with the cuts of neighborhood knives,
hearts and names entwined together
in pledges meant to last forever.
Though it was an escape from the boredom
of plastic toys and city sidewalks,
mothers would chastise for the climbing
with horror stories of broken limbs
snapped necks and untimely deaths.
One day when moisture began to fall
from an angry looking sky.
we ran from the stinging rain
to huddle on Tommy’s back porch.
A sudden flash left us wide eyed,
the air sizzling as a blue white streak
caressed the tree from crown to foot
and with a deafening crack
clove it in two, half still standing,
the second half lying across the alley.
An electric smell of burnt carbon
and sulfur rose in a steaming hiss.
With heart crushing certainty
we knew our ship had been sunk by
a single cannon volley from God’s long gun.
Later, when men quickly and easily carved
what we thought permanent into sawdust,
we stood amazed that someone had thought
to motorize a saw!
Perhaps this was the tree’s last gift –
that invention and ingenuity
could also be the stuff of dreams.
But first, Tommy climbed up upon
the flat topped stump
swiveled his hips in a familiar exaggerated gesture.
and pretended to strum a guitar while shouting
“Hey, look at me! I’m Elvis Presley!”

Yet another jigsaw poem - a friend, Jeff Kilday, provided the words plethora, lift, booster, alley, moisture, carbon, monolith, boredom, motorize and property. Plethora? Motorize? Did I mention I was trying to write a poem? Geesh! For guys, this old tree has been around since we climbed down out of them and started walking upright. But Beverly is able to relate too - and she spoke of how in her youth girls wore dresses and how she was often scolded for coming home with a burst seam or other tear, the result of "the tomboy" in her. There's a poem in that image too - but one the ladies will have to address for me! (let me know if you do!)

Persons Singular

2009-04-12T17:26:00.000-07:00

Were I
(the first person singular)
to approve the loss of syntax,
the order of words,
and heartily embrace the chaos
of prepositions stranded -

Would you,
(the second person singular)
agree to discard formality,
the order of behavior,
and tell the world
we love as we want to?

Poor Cow

2009-04-10T07:27:00.001-07:00

Noting how easily
she could be brought to tears
she exclaimed
"If I dropped a pen, I'd have a funeral for it!"
She needs other people
more than her self,
and that's just a mal(e)adjustment.

The Gilt Clad Night

2009-04-09T20:19:00.000-07:00

I wonder why she cries in the darkness?
The night has nothing to hide from the day.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

Emotions she works so hard to suppress
emerge in the sunshine to have their say.
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?

With song and laughter she will sunshine bless
Then darken with the light fading away.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

I ponder on the source of her distress
How can I pull her from this path I pray?
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?

I dare not with my concerned questions press.
Embarrassed, she will frightened shrink away.
I believe she has no sin to confess.

To this dichotomy I will acquiesce,
of nighttime tears, sharing laughter by day.
I wonder why she cries in the darkness?
I believe she has no sin to confess.

It was a poem Asocial by Dorla Moorehouse - http://dorlamoorehouse.blogspot.com - that launched this effort. Did I ever know what a villanelle is? Maybe. Somewhere back in my sex, drugs and rock and roll addled late 1960s, early 1970s. English Lit classes, T.S. Eliot, it HAD to have come up. Back then, however, it was content I worshipped – form was unimportant, restricting, confining – free the verse was my rallying cry. e.e. cummings was my hero for disdaining capitalization (I have tons of his books).

I’m not sure about this little effort. I do know it did not come easily. Kept me up late last night. I’m not sure I’m saying what I mean to say and the picture, portrait if you will, that is in my mind is not as clear to me in the words here as I think I would like. The flow is awkward, almost Hemmingwayesque (is that a word?). there is a staccato dissonance to the “I believe she has no sin to confess.” This was one of the toughest ‘word puzzles’ I’ve attempted yet. For good or ill, here it is.

Get Ready to Renga!

2009-04-08T10:06:00.000-07:00

David Irwin, a poet, writer, musician and longtime friend (I hate saying old friend, even though we're both getting there) read one of my haiku poems and invited me to Renga with him.

Renga is an ancient style of Japanes poetry wherein two or more poets collaborate to create a poem by writing alternate stanzas. It is also the original source of the haiku. It uses syllable counts of 5-7-5 and 7-7. In its strictest, original form it goes to 100 verses. We didn't get quite that far. Maybe David will pick it up again. Me I just have fun with words.
Google it for more information.
Here is the result of our initial foray into this form of poetic conversation (which, apparently, is only 1/3rd finished). I'm calling it:

The Gardeners
David:
White blossoms push out
from the wood. Wet dirt wisps steam
almost all morning.

Nothing worse than too much time
on one’s hands while the ice melts.

Bill:
The forest dances.
Blossoms fly from meadow trees.
Tall grass undulates.

Seize the moment to watch this
in the mists before the storm.

David:
A clutch of young grass
falls from your hand. Did the wind
take it as it fell?

Ahead, summer's horizon;
Today, sweat and more planting.

Bill:
Baskets on the porch
filled with trailing spring flowers
will bring summer joy.

Dirty hands, satisfaction,
Sense of zen captured in now.

David:
The dirt hands you your
meal - this is where we first taste
the too-young tartness.

Berries, when ready to fall,
are different, not better.

Bill:
When plucked before ripe
fruit and berry are less sweet.
Taste is the victim.

Life must fully gestate
or bitterness will prevail.

Break Up The Marriage

2009-04-05T07:26:00.000-07:00

Not the Card Game, Please!

Casually tossed
an ace preempts argument.

Jealous that power
has joined finesse
she scrawls "Pig!"
above the winner's name
and growls
"Shut up and deal!"

I was talking to a someone yesterday who is going through a divorce. He had mixed feelings. There were things he and his wife did together, like playing cards, that he would miss. I dug this old chestnut out of the archives remembering how it was for me when my practice wife and I split.

TV Dinner

2009-04-03T10:41:00.000-07:00

The TV and dinner have pushed me
far too close to the edge.
I have fled the house to stand on the back porch
gulping down as much fresh air
as my damaged lungs can consume,
trying to create that belch
that will relieve the turbulent indigestion
created by burnt minestrone soup.

Even the wind soughing
through the early Spring blossoms on the trees,
a sound that once soothed,
now grates on my ears.

Sour food and television politics
working in concert
have left me twisted and sickened.
Half truth, gleefully delivered as full fact
by smug pundits whose idea of argument
is shouting down the opposition
has taken an overdone dish
and angrily knotted it into toxic distress.

I will not be misled.
But I worry for all those who are,
who cannot see through the fire and bluster
and know that Oz is merely
an ineffectual man behind the curtain
jabbing rhetorical buttons,
and pulling emotional levers.
The epitome of charade,
yet, unfortunately, this is not a game.
Fresh air and nature bring calm
and it is easy to vow
never to eat dinner and watch
the electronic madness again.
But, it is difficult to hear
the poisoned words parroted
by coworker’s mouths the next day,
making a fresh, no doubt unsullied lunch
suddenly look and smell distasteful.

Today's poem is another jigsaw effort utilizing 10 words by my sister-in-law Janet Smith. The words are argument, concert, misled, epitome, curtain, minestrone, soughing, turbulent, indigestion, gleefully.

Her Epiphany

2009-04-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

To him, her heart was a piece of wood
to whittle into a new shape,
a form he could appreciate better
in his understanding of what
a woman should be.
Playing hopscotch games with her emotions,
careful not to step on the lines,
he would move her from square to square,
a gentle compliment lifting her to ecstatic happiness,
then a pejorative crushing her into absolute despair.
A touch of truth with each delivered comment
allowed him to absolve himself of guilt
at least in his understanding of what
constitutes shameful action.
One snowy day
she sat on the deacon’s bench
in a chill room,
bathing in the reflected sunshine
streaming through the frosted window.
Staring dreamily at the treasure chest
releasing tiny bubbles into an aquarium
she watched the lid open,
revealing the treasure,
and a stream of bubbles would
dance to the surface of the tank.
Then the lid would shut,
concealing the treasure
and stopping the bubbles.
In a sudden, emotionally lucid moment
the metaphor of her relationship
became clear to her.
As the bubbles rose to the surface
her understanding of what
a woman can be
chose a new path.

Another jigsaw poem - using words given to me by Kennedy Smith - whittle, lucid, absolve, tank (thanks for that one KC - it really forced me to find an image); John Toyooka - pejorative; Bill "Boomer" Preston - appreciate; Laraine Bugiski - treasure, ecstatic, snowy; and Megan Graffius - hopscotch (another toughie, thanks). Have you ever been in this relationship? And when you finally escaped wasn't the epiphany as oddly delivered and as fully certain. I haven't been on either side of this - but I've seen it enough to know it.

Streetwalker: another haiku

2009-04-02T09:49:00.000-07:00

The bleeding harlot
counts the crimson flow as cash
lost to queasy hearts.

"Jesus! I Paid Money For This!"

2009-03-31T09:00:00.001-07:00

For Allen Ginsberg - 1980 Recital, Bisbee, AZ

Sitting on a hard-backed folding metal chair
with today's sour lunch roiling
in my intestines,
I can really appreciate you Allen!

Wanting nothing more than a healthy shit
in a reasonably clean toilet,
I sit here squirming in pain,
marveling at the similarity
between my bowels' discomfort
and the sight of an aging faggot
masturbating his senses
with a queer rhythmic rocking
and twitching.

The Port-A-John outside
this deconsecrated church where you vomit
inane repetitious pathos
offers no sanctuary.
It has no lights
and some men don't care where
or on what they piss.
Much like you I'd say, Allen.

Perhaps my gastronomical distress
will produce an appropriate applause.
Perhaps this pain will be worth it
when a thunderous stinko fart claps
its response to your performance.

Now THAT would be a poem, Allen!

OK - I can see the torches being lit and the rope being knotted into a nice noose. Get over it. I wasn't a homophobe then and I'm not now. I was less intimidated to speak my mind back then, nor wasI afraid to use language that only those who were actually what was being named could use. This was written on the back of a paper plate on a Bisbee sidewalk shortly following Ginsberg's recital. After I destroyed the restroom in the Hotel Bisbee, actually, with a stench that probably still lingers today. The black bean burrito lunch consumed in some aging hippie granola-crunching restaurant nearly killed me. They probably never read the warning signs about washing your hands. But back to Ginsberg. Yes, I know how he strode like a giant acress the literary stage. He was the originator of rant as literature. Who am I to argue with the critics? There was a slate of poets that weekend. Two stand out. Ginsberg - who completely disappointed me - some poets just shouldn't be allowed to read their own work! Jared Carter - who blew me away. Then a bunch of others, some of which became famous - or as famous as poets tend to get these days. To be honest - I think Ginsberg himself would have liked this poem. If you are offended - sorry. If you like this poem because you think it bashes gays - you're an idiot and you didn't get it!

a Jigsaw haiku

2009-03-30T10:39:00.000-07:00

An ecstatic child
gleeful for a snowy morn,
memory’s treasure.

I have been playing with a poetry challenge suggested by the blog - Poets Who Blog - called Jigsaw Poetry. Looking for a creative kick start I have asked friends and family to suggest words. I ask for 10 total to put in a poem, with everyone suggesting anywhere from one to ten words. One friend from high school who just reacquainted through Facebook suggested 'ecstatic, snowy and treasure. ' here is a little haiku using them. They will reappear later once I have a full ten (actually I have three sets of 10 already!

God's Awful Judgement of Sodom

2009-03-29T19:44:00.001-07:00

Perhaps, I am told, it is me
Out of step, out of time,
Lost in a world changing
In increments too large for me
To accept willingly, spiritually,
Increasingly morally.
Call me a dinosaur (if you think it correct),
Anachronistic or reactionary, but please,
Leave me to cling to the values, the beliefs
Lovingly taught by my parents
Yet, I think, appropriate still in this new age.

In the course of time and society's seeming advancing decay
New attitudes and profligate behaviors
Chosen by a burgeoning licentious species
Obsessed with their libido
Rear in assault upon my beliefs, my values,
Reaching even further to my children,
Enjoining them to reject my teaching
Clamoring for me, my progeny, to accept
Tenets repulsive to me, to my ancestors.

Tyranny engendered of this new politic
Heeds little opposition, yet,
Intuitively I know preference is simply choice,
Not justification for parading peccant behavior.
Kindling for a cleansing fire will be found
Inevitable when conduct and rectitude clash!
Now, for my fathers, for my children, I will reveal
God's awful judgment of Sodom.

Read this one carefully. Look at it. See the Gestalt. Understand the argument. This is a specific style of poem but the reader must discover it. It is OK to disagree. In fact, that is the point of the poem! If still confused, contact me and I will give you the key.

Final Dream

2009-03-26T09:20:00.000-07:00

The gleam of sunlight on fresh fallen snow
conceals a lone broken syringe
at my frozen feet.
Ironic imagery, I think, for
seven years lost in alternating
pleasure and pain,
eventually numbness.
Even the bite of winter wind
fails to break through
and the blurring world becomes
A fantastic kaleidoscope of color
And light.
Across the park the old woman
feeds bits of burnt toast to the pigeons.
Death, albeit belated, has finally come
I think, for me, and I hope
I do not startle her in her daily
life giving ritual
as I sink into my final dream.

Note: This poem was inspired by Poets Who Blog who had a little challenge called "Jigsaw Poem" in which ten different words were offered up by ten different bloggers with the idea of constructing a poem around them. The words were gleam, lone, broken, syringe, seven, fantastic, toast, belated, snow and bite. Toast proved to be the hardest for me, and at the same time the most inspirational as the image of the old woman feeding pigeons gives a nice counterpoint to the junkies descent into darkness.

Daddy's New Alarm Clock

2009-03-25T10:14:00.000-07:00

It's some time around 3 a.m.
when a rustle, soft moan
and sharp cough
sit me bolt upright in bed.

Mom knows these sounds.
She stirs momentarily in her sleep,
then burrows deeper into the pillows.

But I am not connected as well.
I lack the internal psychic bond a mother has
to filter out the transient sounds
a newborn makes at night.

So I listen carefully,
energized with alarm
waiting for another noise,
any noise, to come from the crib.

When I hear my baby's intake of breath
followed by a soft exhalation,
only then can I lie back down
and drift back into peace -
until Daddy's new alarm clock
awakens me again.

In You

2009-03-24T10:18:00.000-07:00

In you my dreams teetered
on the edge of the wind
like a fledgling stretching
pinions virgin to use.

In you my hopes nurtured
at the breast of promise.
In you my faith resisted sacrifice
on the alter of fear.

In you my heart drank
at the well head of emotion
like a water-starved fawn
finding moisture in a shaded dell.

In you all things were possible.

In you my soul foundered
tasting the kiss of betrayal.

In you I learned despair.

This was originally a 'heartbreak' poem. Over time I came to understand that it can also be an expression of failed leadership. Consider the headlines that reflect fallen religious leaders, politicians and any of the myriad heroes we prop up on pedestals, only to be disappointed by their behaviour.

Loons And I

2009-03-22T19:29:00.000-07:00

As crazy as a loon am I
yet unlike loons, I cannot fly!
And when loons fly it seems they mock me.
Ya-honk! You fool! Until eternity!

O' upward would I sailing swing
and gracefully float high,
the clouds like rugs about my feet,
my room would be the sky.

Or would I swim in mountain streams
beyond the ken of man.
Or would I spiral to the stars
and try to know God's plan.

But no, I can't aspiring fly
to where my heart would play
and loons but mock with silver wings
as they pass by my way.

Nobody Home

2009-03-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

I've been calling you
and getting no reply.

If I was sure I had the wrong connection
it'd be time to quit trying.

The number always worked before,
now the phone just rings.

And if you answer, the number's wrong.
There's nobody home by that feeling.

In Search of Knowledge in America

2009-03-15T13:14:00.001-07:00

If you want to know
first you have to push
insist until the clouds tinge pink
behind their eyes watching you.

They won't like it (or you) much -
screw 'em, you need to know
so you push
insist until they grind their teeth and spit
at you hoping
maybe one molecule
of their diseased spittle
will fly into your throat
and make you more like them.

Why do they resist?
You only want to know
so you push
insist until they attack with denial
and subterfuge
dying before you
thinking they prosper and grow.

You only want to know
so you push
insist.

Portrait Of A Woman

2009-03-14T09:53:00.000-07:00

Raindrops splashing through the window screen scattered into a mist of fine drops lying on the window sill. Pressing her nose to the screen, the woman looked out of her room into the cool of the landscape and storm. The dry pungent odor of the screen mixed with the cool damp smell of the rain freshened grass and caused her nose and throat to tingle in an unpleasant way that was somehow hard to resist.
The gutter tapped softly as the rain finished its descent, pinging against the sides of the spout. The gurgling water rushing through the downspout began to rise in a cacophonous din of splashing and tapping. The woman listened to it as the mixed odors of metal and moisture brought her to the point of sneezing. Her eyes watered from the acrid scent and the memories of childhood, a time when she had trouble reaching the window sill to press her nose against the screen, smell the odors and hear the rain dancing and singing in the gutter.
Turning from the window, she took a small cloth lying on her bureau and sponged the screen-filtered moisture from her face. She walked slowly out of the room, giving a quick tug to the bedspread as she passed. She paused at the top of the stairs, wishing for a moment that she could perhaps slide down the bannister. Shaking her head sadly, catching a quick glimpse of age, she walked down the steps and through the living room, pausing occasionally to straighten and pick up. Reaching the front door, she went outside onto the porch and stood at the railing. Feeling the rain splash against her face, she lifted her arms in an almost supplicatory gesture, turning her face towards the sky, opening her mouth to taste the rain.
Her clothes became soggy as she stood there and they began to paste themselves with a gentle suction to her skin. Water trickled from her chin, splashed onto her chest and slipped lightly between her breasts to tickle her stomach. Her long hair grew stringy and plastered to her head and back. The woman laughed as the sun broke through the clouds and painted a rainbow across the meadow and trees before her home.
As if the splash of color across the sky were a signal, she kicked her shoes away, ran down the steps of the porch and out into yard and through the front gate. Crossing the narrow dirt road she leapt across the ditch and into the tall flowers of a broad meadow. Dancing and twirling through the soggy grass, she bean to sing as the rain slackened to a soft shower and the sun escaped the clouds further to brighten and embellish the vibrant colors of the rainbow.
Suddenly, she laid down on her back and watched the rainbow shift and shimmer through the misted rain. Shutting her eyes, she remembered how she had once laid in the rain, a shower of long ago, and had lain naked with a handsome young man who had loved her. She smiled gently, welcoming the memory and wished she could see and touch that young man again.
Rain mixed with tears, and she stood. Slowly walking back to the house, her arms gliding silently by her sides in a half-forgotten waltz, her face glowed with the deep warm smile that good memories bring. Reaching the house and sitting on the top step of the porch, she hugged herself, feeling the chill of the approaching evening. The memories, while pleasant, held a sadness and she began to grow cold as the sun set behind the dissipating storm.

Feral

2009-03-11T09:11:00.000-07:00

She's not mine anymore.

Nevery wholly domesticated,
her allegiance temporary,
she dealt out affection sparingly.

Pleasing her was difficult.
Complaint was not permissable
and she responded to indecision
with indifference.

With no leash other than love to hold her
she began to wander.
The newness of an unmanaged world beckoned
with a thousand things to explore.

She visits now and then,
curious, yet aloof.
Seeing little has changed,
her curiosity satiated,
she soon leaves.

She's not mine anymore.
She's feral.

Author's note: This is a poem about a cat. It could also be about a few love relationships who passed through my life. If you have ever had cats of the indoor-outdoor variety, you will see some of them in this poem. If you have ever 'loved and lost', you may see your lost love interest in this as well.

On The Cliff

2009-03-10T13:44:00.000-07:00

Standing on the cliff
with outstretched laughs rebounding
off the canyon walls,
over the train tracks
and into the river.
Wishing for a moment of calm
with upturned smiles reflecting
off a gnarled tree
over the clouds
and into the sun.
Standing on the cliff
with an empty bottle clinking
off the stones
through the weeds
and into the abyss.

Defiant Despite the Odds

2009-03-06T10:05:00.000-08:00

Carefully picking her barefoot way
across a river of emotion
she imagines his kiss
and seeks the taste of her feelings
in that moment.
In the midst of the swirling eddy
of her heart's desiere,
she stands her ground
as sensual tides overwhelm
the place she has chosen.
She faces him.
His eyes pierce her with promise.
His touch invites surrender.
No tears reflect the despair
that tugs at her balance.
She has learned to feel the undertow
as massage
and only succumbs to the promise
of reaching the shore.
They kiss
and she doesn't fight the current
that sweeps her resistance away.

An Old Mesquite

2009-03-05T10:26:00.000-08:00

Even as the snow frosts
the jagged edges of the mountain,
rain fills the valley sky
dancing a flamenco rhythym
on my roof.
I watch the river each day
waiting for the red muddy waters
to swirling rise above the haunches
of an old mesquite, gnarled and bent
nearly prone from previous torrents.
I watch the crows tuck their wings
tightly agains the driving wind,
almost sleet,
but no white flecks appear
to show the effects of winter
on their wings.
I watch the skies.
I watch the river.
And I listen to the staccato bump
of raindrops on the roof
waiting for them to soften
into snow.

Out Of Service

2009-03-02T08:32:00.001-08:00

There has been some kind of communication
breakdown.
Wires crossed
been have.
W brkn rods aig up
CLICK*

There has been communication
some kind of
break
down.

The Party of the First Part,
(hereinafter referred to as The Respondent)
categorically rejects the purious claims being made
by the Party of the Second Part,
(hereinafter referred to as The Petitioner).
Contending that differences are irreconcilable
The Respondent denies Paragraph A of the question
and rejects Paragraph B of the message,
submitting for the court's approval
that Paragraph C of the inference by the Petitioner
lacks substance and merit thereby
causing the union to be irrevocably...
CLICK*

There h been
so e kind of
com un ic ti ns
bre
k
d own...
CLICK*

This poem was written about the breakup between my practice wife and myself some 29 years ago. In rereading it, however, I see a view of today's political climate in the words. In fact, anytime anything goes into a court of law or a discussion (struggle) to determine who is right.

Made In America

2009-03-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

My stressed business demeanor surrounded
by the towering white cumulonimbus of Arizona monsoon
reflects in the polished fender of a Japanese import,
the paradox of an image much more,
yet much less than what I really am.

With red-rimmed watery eyes bleary
from long hours, I stare at the portrait,
sensing what is conscealed
behind the clouds' soft facades -
flash flood water, wind and lightning.

A quick focus to my distorted face hopes to find
beneath the clean-shave and tie
a poet's wild abandon.

Above all, I see the image of a father
lacking courage to risk finding shelter and sustenance
for his wife and four children
in verse, prose, and editors' opinions
of what the public will buy.

This is no Detroit image,
but it is an American portrait.

A Careless Remark

2009-02-28T18:21:00.000-08:00

Portions of the dinner sit untouched.
Wrinkled peas and crusty potatoes
even now begin to show decay.

The wine was dry, the salad crisp and fresh,
but somewhere in the middle of the main course
something was said.
A little thing.
A careless remark.

With bowed heads,
and forks aimlessly pushing food
across our plates,
we share a silence
and digest the hurt.

Thunder In My Heart

2009-02-27T21:39:00.000-08:00

Asleep in your mountainside bed
the sudden clap of a storm cresting the peak
rattles the windows.
I wake to find you beise me.
My thoughts, dream clouded,
run with the mists pouring
down the mountain's flanks.
With the same abruptness as the change
in weather announcing its arrival,
you lie quietly beside me
and your presence claps like thunder
in my heart.

New Moon Ghosting

2009-02-26T09:11:00.000-08:00

Awakened by the yodeling chorus
of coyotes gathering,
the dream image of your face
lingers in my mind.
The staccato yipping
and occasional sustained yowl
send shivers down my spine.
It has been long since I have seen you.
The image of your face haunts me.
Green eyes pierce my heart.
The memory of our love passes
through my soul
like the silhouette of a new moon
ghosting through the star-clouded Milky Way.
Another refrain from the song dogs stirs me.
In my sleepy reverie I wonder
whay are you in my dreams tonight?

Faces

2009-02-25T09:03:00.000-08:00

Where will you be
in this carnival of faces
when the calliope stoops hooting
with the last golden ring on the merry-go-round
caught?

Will you be in the House of Mirrors?
Or would it be the Tunnel of Love?
The Penny Arcade?

Or will you be but another vendor
selling balloons and pretty things
that break
sooner or later?

Maybe I'm Still Dreaming?

2009-02-23T16:07:00.000-08:00

I think of you
when the morning sun splashes
through the flowered curtains.

The textured patterns on the bed
bring the memory of your face pillowed
in thick brown hair,
lips slightly parted and moist,
breasts rising softly
in the muted breathing of slumber.

I rub my eyes
and the memory is gone.
Only dust motes dancing
in the shaft of sunlight remain.

Non-negotiable

2009-02-22T09:23:00.000-08:00

After all the plans are made, and
the faith is acquired to make hope viable,
the ability of youth to determine the world
as something manageable begins to fade.
Age diminishes one's bargaining power
with reality,
and death is non-negotiable.

Seeking Rhythms

2009-02-21T19:56:00.000-08:00

Finding a place to start
even though it has already begun
and looking for the ending
though it's never done
seeking rhythms
in a syncopated world
first one way
then another
it all comes unfurled
like a flag that's raised at dawn
another sign
another time
just another direction to be taken
knowing all along
that what is right
may also be mistaken.
Rhythms
silly repetition
like waves, a sign of constancy
that always seems to change.

Storm Coming

2009-02-20T09:02:00.000-08:00

Alone with the desert night
I hear the city rumble
breaking like waves on a distant shore.

The breeze is stiff, rain scented.
A dust cloud blossoming
at the base of a towering thunderhead
paints the horizon a pulsating
dirty orange.

Alone, I await your return
with dust-stung eyes searching
the lighted street.

No rain comes, just dust.
And you don't come,
only the storm.

Homecall

2009-02-19T19:44:00.001-08:00

Treebloom...
the river is fat.
And oh! The old lady next door is dying.

Child's call...
cold mud stands thick.
And oh! Yes she is, the old one is dying.

Kitefly...
the yellow sun burns.
And oh! There's an old man, an old man that's crying.

Homecall...
the silver moon gapes.
And oh! It's Spring!

Do Flowers Dream?

2009-02-18T15:52:00.001-08:00

I have heard the trees discussing
the wind's steady climb up the hill.
I have been startled by the exclamation of rock splitting
from oak roots carving pathways into granite
spotted with colonies of mustard colored lichens.
Growth shines in the excrement for those who can see.
Life lies waiting in the rotting carcass.

It is said our own death is implicit
in the consumption of fur, feather and scale.

The truth of this has not been revealed to me.
I do not pretend to know
which is higher in the scheme of things.
Is the food chain linear?
Is there a moral hierarchy with a line
marked clearly in God's handwriting
saying, below here you may
with clear conscience consume for food,
above here you may not?

Some say life is linear
and there is an ethical line drawn
at some indication of consiousness.

Do leaf and stone have knowledge without voice
(at least that we can hear and understand)?
Do the flowers dream?
(I think I caught a field of poppies dreaming, once.)
Should we refrain from eating dreamers?

Dogs dream, I know, a hind leg twitching
untethered chasing dream bunnies.
We do not eat dogs
except, I hear, in Korea.

Natural Selection

2009-02-17T20:12:00.000-08:00

Watching dark ash and dust devour the sun
was a hard lesson for Rex.
Strength, claws and incisors
were no match for the advancing ice
and his reign ended.

We were prey, not predator,
running bent, adrenals pumping,
hoping to avoid being supper for the tigers.
But, we learned, and knowledge became power,
a subtle, but awesome substitute
for sinewed muscle and sharp teeth.

Once life was a struggle for food and shelter.
Successful procreation was a clear measure
of the success of the species.

Now, Nature begins to stack the scales
in counterbalance as we foul our nest
and eat the seeds of next Spring's harvest.

New viruses are multiplying,
reproduction is no longer a hope for the future
but a gamble with extinction.

Like poor Rex our blood has betrayed us,
beginning to freeze.

The Morning News

2009-02-16T09:37:00.000-08:00

The sun rises in peach colored splendor, again.
A hummingbird hovers at a feeder outside the window.
A jackrabbit dines at the end of the lawn.

Newspaper headlines greet the sunrise with fear.
It seems tribes are warring...
The food we eat is poisoning us...
cancers lurk in the air we breathe...
abuse is rampant...
crime is up and the Dow Jones is down...

Last night I stood at the end of the pavement
where a long expanse of moon bathed mesquite
and prickly pear provided an amphitheater
for the crickets' serenade.

A stench of gasoline, burnt rubber and radiator steam
swept away the cactus blossoms' delicate odor.
A body lay covered by a faded orange blanket,
dark blood seeping through the makeshift cover.
Desperately trying to keep a second soul within its vessel
three men and two women worked feverishly
stemming bleeding, immobilizing shattered limbs,
forcing a rhythm onto an unresponsive heart.

I looked up at the moon, waxing full,
and saw written at the breakfast table
Two Dead in Traffic Mishap.

2009-02-15T13:12:00.000-08:00

City Sidewalk Whispers

A partially avulsed ear
loosely wrapped in dirty gauze
listens carefully -
the eyes have long ceased meaningful input
staring fixated to the steaming sidewalk grate.
Maggots devour the dead flesh,
tickling like a child's whispered secret.
He strains to hear, to understand,
jugulars distended like dark blue rivers
crossing an ashen wilderness.
Voices are gray tides blurring across the grate,
footsteps strobe consonants through the iron slats,
occasional sirens break in red waves, pooling,
draining into the blackened cauldron
rising back up again as a gray steam.
"What?" he exclaims,
throwing a displacement wave into the foot traffic
pattern around him.
"Stop!" he shouts,
as the memory of a slashing razor
swoops out of the indistinct night
seeking his neck, but finding his ear.
Another whisper.
He listens carefully
watching the grate,
a tickling in his ear.

Chasing Rainbows

2009-02-14T16:03:00.001-08:00

Every now and then I'll see him.

The sun will be just right

flaring through the trees,

diffusing the shadows,

bouncing glare from the water

in a cascade of sparkles.

He'll be creekside, crouching,

knees bent and sitting low,

his fly rod lying across his thighs,

his head leaning forward, eyes intent,

peering into the fast moving water.

Sometimes, chasing rainbows with my children

I pause, looking downstream

and I see him hunkered in the shadows.

"There." I hear him say softly.

"There the big fish lie hiding.

There is where it takes skill

to tease a fish from its lair,

catch it on the tiniest of hooks

and work it through the riffles

to the shore, into the creel

and onto the dinner table."

Even when the sun is lost, swallowed by dark clouds

and the first thin raindrops of a coming storm

cause thousands of tiny circles

to ripple onto the water's surface,

even then when the forest is filled

with the silent clarity that precedes thunder,

I see him by the water,

jeans, blue work shirt and hunter's cap,

a tan fishing vest, cigarette dangling

from a hawkish face squinting

through horn-rimmed glasses.

I wish I could hold these moments

and look at him closely, to see those strong hands,

the stubbled face, the mischievous grin

and piercing eyes again.

But, as with all visions, it seems,

any attempt at seeing clearly, focusing,

and it's gone.

Still, when I take my children

chasing rainbows along the stream

I'll catch a fleeting glimpse

of a short, wiry man crouching creekside,

and I point, saying softly,

"There. There is where the big fish

lie hiding. Where it takes skill..."

And my son and daughter hear the voice

of the grandfather they never knew.

Demons

2009-02-11T09:52:00.000-08:00

A blanket and old cotton robe
draped from her teenaged sister's top bunk
help keep out the monsters
that haunt my five-year-old daughter
alight with a keen imagination.

They're a blossoming warrior's shield
through which none but family may pass.

There is nothing in the dark
that isn't there in the light, I tell her,
remembering how like her
I would pull the covers over my head
to hide from ominous dark shapes
lurking in the night-light gloom.

I wonder if some day,
will she stand where I now stand
watching the milky way slip silently
across the desert sky?

The film of stars is like a blanket
that somehow shields me,
an aging warrior alight with a keen imagination.

I wonder if my sweet daughter
will also wrap herself in the comforting march of stars
exorcising life's demons?

An older poem but I still gaze up toward the nighttime sky and take comfort in its vast possibilities.

Your Presence is Electric

2009-02-09T18:52:00.000-08:00

Your presence is electric!
The curve of your buttocks
and the soft swell of your breasts
send a blue fire sparking through my veins!

My nostrils flare and tingle
with the scent of your body.
My mouth waters in anticipation
of the taste of your lips.

Fuses blown, circuit breakers tripped,
the back surge of power generated
courses unchecked through all my connections
entangled in a web of hot wires fused
to each nerve charged with desire.

Your presence is electric!
Your being a dynamo, and I
short circuited with lust
wait anxiously for your voice,
for a touch,
for the power of lightning
alive in your flesh.

Love poem, lust poem, even after all these years my bride does this to me!

Where My Love Finds Denial

2009-02-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

Tracing the gentle curves of your breasts
and running my fingertip across your belly
in the teasing tickle of love making,
my finger pauses at the tip of a long scar
stretching from below your sternum
to the coarse thatch of pubic hair.

We are beings of light.
The strength of our souls emanates
in fine tendrills of luminescence
from our navels.

Your scar, cold and white,
belies the black strand of despair
that eclipses the glow of your being.
It is here my finger pauses
touching the source of darkness
I have sensed in you.
It is here where my love
finds denial.

This is a true poem or should I say a poem of truth, perhaps. It happened. There was a scar. We are beings of light. All of this. And because of these things, these true things within the poem, I have had many tell me the poem spoke to them in some manner about a failed relationship. There is something deeper here, I think, than love denied. You decide.

Philosophy

2009-02-07T23:17:00.000-08:00

Each day contains a wealth of sights and and sounds,
of joy or sorrow, of pleasure or pain.
Each day reveals a secret of the gods
in this wondrous world of sunshine and rain.
We are alive! We can think! We can feel!
It is these things and nothing more we need -
To bathe our toes in sun-warmed ocean sand
or run to catch a floating thistle seed.
Philosophy upon life's wonders fed
will seek no answer more, but pause and stare
at what marvels a searching hand may find
and all the inherent mysteries there.

There you go! A sonnet!

Desert Kill

2009-02-05T13:58:00.000-08:00

Burdened with the weight of fresh carrion,
feathers struggle in the dead air
seeking the elusive updraft
that gives an easier flight to aerie.

Soon there will be a patient stand at guard
as the present and future meet
in the yaw of hungry beaks.

Each year the shells grow thinner.
Each year more of the destroyers
pass by on the muddy river far below.
Each year there are more beaten paths
to every arroyo and promontory,
trails lined with stumps where mesquite once grew,
trails dissolving from the summer rains
into unwelcome canyons of the next millennia.

Some day the rodents will run riot on the mesa,
their fleas shrieking plague and hallelujah!
the eagles are gone, the coyotes are poisoned.

Only the fire ants will partake
in the desert kill.

Fear of Fire

2009-02-04T22:58:00.000-08:00

Color floating on the breeze
has caught my eye, a butterfly,
And no, I may not try to run
and capture her, I must not try!

For if we touched the spell would break,
She'd never fly again.
And I would have to bear the blame
for causing such an end.

My love for her must be content
to mark her flight among the trees
and take my joy in watching as
she dances on the sun warmed breeze.

But oh! Such colors strike a flame
that burns within my heart
and fills me with a crazy need
to tear my world apart.

For want of something I can't have
do I follow my lust and run
the risk of losing what I have
for colors flashing in the sun?

No. I just stand here helplessly
imprisoned by my wild desire
to touch and hold the dancing flame
yet fearful of the fire.