Saturday, April 19, 2014

In Your Orbit


In Your Orbit

I look back on times
like the way we cooked chicken
from scratch, killing them,
plucking them, cutting
them all up in choice pieces,
then frying them in
the gold green sweet oil
pressed from our own plump olives.
That was another
lifetime, not this one.
You chose that time for us both.
I agreed of course.

Now you like the way
I love as if we were new.
It's our tenth return,
at least. I can tell
that's true from the time scented
trace you leave on things.

‎April ‎4, ‎2014 2:47 PM

Written in collaboration. See Irene's Orange Is A Fruit

Friday, April 18, 2014

Two Meter Chickens

Never ever piss off the giant chickens...

News Item: dateline Friday 13 December 2013. Maoba Village, Qingchuan County, Sichuan Province, China. "A prompt evacuation when the nature of the sinkhole was realized prevented any loss of human life, though a large number of Chickens are believed to have been swallowed by the hole inside the farm buildings."

Two Meter Chickens

I am no longer
too sure which side possibly
could hold me up now.

If I could get me
some giant chickens I would
ride into the void,
or some bland sunset
before I hear what comes next.
Got to get this sand
out of my damn ears
where the grit roughens my lobes.

In it all, there's you
grinning away on
demon heels sinking straight on
past my cataract.

April 8, 2014 1:00 PM

In collaboration with Irene's "call of the wild"

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Annie And Me

Annie Sheekley, aka Mother FUF, ca. 1967. Annie looked quite like this when I met her in January of 1972.

In January of 1972 I was kicked out of my previous life in a very serious way. I hunkered down at the Hotel Ste. Claire, in San Jose, California, where I briefly found a graveyard shift job that included a room. Soon I met a girl who worked the front desk on day shift. Things happened and I shortly lost that job but got the girl. I wasn't in the hotel workers' union and it was a union house. The boss thought that as a college student doing part time I was exempt but the boys thought otherwise. I needed somewhere. She took me home.

I got another graveyard job and started a new life. When she found out that Portland State University accepted her in the Social Work graduate program, I decided the right thing for me was to back her play as best I could. That's how the rest of my life started. This was scary for us both. That was 1973. Two years later, I had started my life's career in engineering design, she was an MSW social worker working for the state, and we had my mother who was a bonified minister marry us seven days after my birthday, Nov. 21, 1975.

Eventually we did all the things that families do except we both agreed that we would not have children. Annie was in child welfare work and she raised kids for a living, involved in the lives of several from very early until college and in a couple cases beyond that.

The nineties were a horror for us. I took a bad hit in my career and she broke apart after struggling with health issues from the mid eighties. We divorced in the mid 90s trying to save lives. She became so ill that when the century turned and then 9-11 happened in 2001, she died. We did not save her life. We did save mine.

Annie Sheekley, I miss you and keep a piece of you near me still. This is your birthday. You would have been 67. I too love you all the way to Dougie Peeple's house and back.

Death On My Shoulder

I'm waiting for death.
It seems like that though maybe
not exactly that.

Carlos found his guy,
a brujo, or desert mage.
Don Juan told Carlos,
"Carry death, your friend
on your shoulder to whisper"
and I heard Caesar
wanted trusted men
to tap him, "You are mortal!"
I sometimes still growl
defiance and grin.
But I have been practicing
for decades now.
This is my merry way.

‎April ‎17, ‎2014 1:36 PM

My thanks and undying gratitude to her younger sister Betsy, ever my friend whom I love with a big love.

Written as part of a collaboration with Irene, see her orange is a fruit

Death is not my enemy, though pain, misery, and inconvenience still frost my corn flakes.


Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Passover - Three Word Wednesday

This image is of the Passover Seder I attended at the home of my friends. I am at the upper right corner. I am told this is only half the family and that this will be the last Seder in Oregon for my friends. They intend to move to Hawaii.

"Perhaps we all carry an immemorial wound, an infinite loss, a self-exile we perpetrate on ourselves. It turns us into isolated entities stalking the earth in search of what we think we need—the temporary stays against ennui, despair, loss, and terror. But sooner or later, the wound can carry us toward its own remedy, if we only let it."
—Henry Shukman, Beautiful Storm

Perhaps then what divides us is not so much how poorly or well placed we are on the planet but instead within ourselves. However, it is always possible that I know far too little to write such things.

My friend had never told me he was Jewish. Attending Seder was a first for me, and further. I had no idea I would ever attend one, and mostly no idea there was such a thing, so far am I from Jewish traditional practices. It was a family affair, and they obviously enjoyed themselves. One of the participants was a pro musician, tatooed and pierced, just to add some variation to it. He performed after the ceremony was complete. We truncated the ceremony a bit. It still lasted over two hours, and the feast was great. I always welcome well prepared lamb, whether Paschal (sacrificial) or not.

animate; impassioned; pervert.
Three Word Wednesday

Passover

I would not call you
that, not pervert. I would not
impassioned demand
of you submission.
Nor would I then celebrate
with the Lamb of God
killed fresh and layed out
on some animate altar
before the servings
are cut loose for us.
But I will drape my gold plate
with fine woven cloth
and then dance naked
as did the king in his love,
as I will in mine.

‎April ‎16, ‎2014 2:05 PM

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Insectivory

Hornet

What would I say to
your face? I am so used to
speaking behind you,
then sneaking away
to discuss you further with
like minded gossips.

Yellow Jacket
You look like Hornets
do to me, ready to strike,
ready to take my
meat right off my plate.

September 10, 2010 8:02 PM

Late summer evening picnics can be a pain in this part of the planet. Around here there are many Hornets, carnivorous and somewhat nasty critters who live under rocks, in patches of ivy or under bamboo thickets, or in piles of junk. I have found colonies in all those places. They have excellent skill at following scent trails in the air and better than average sight for insects too. They also seem not to care at all who is around.

It does not take long for the first one to appear near a plate, especially one that has some savory meat on it. If you let them they will land and begin serious work at dismantling some edge they find the right shape to work on. If you walk away at that point you will get a crowd of Hornets.

Or are they Yellow Jackets? My cursory research, even though I wrote Hornet in the poem, I believe I am describing Yellow Jackets because Hornets don't eat meat it seems. They are virtually indistinguishable as per the images I have posted. Also, it is Yellow Jackets who are always found in colonies.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Peace Within The Storm

Job

Peace Within The Storm

Back in whenever
bee cee a guy they called Job
found himself in dutch,
dumped in a tough shit
test and exposed in a book
to show what is true
in the way of things.

Sometimes I wonder what gives
with all the people
who think after all
it is a matter of mind
set straight rights the wrongs
that lay siege to life
as if there's no thing outside
us with another
flipping agenda,
or inside either, by God.

Be grateful for breaks
in the hard weather
that may come to us or not
under the long sun.
Accept the changes
in the soft weather as well.

No news is good news.

April 14, 2014 3:57 PM

written in collaboration with Irene. See Orange Is A Fruit

Now to be fair and balanced, this picture offered through the Book of Job is not the only view of life that registers, either in the Bible or beyond it. I find these pictures of life on the planet are not exclusive even though they seem so in the draft of them. There are more positive views (positive is not the right word, really) and also even more negative views.

This is the realm of philosophy, even though in the biblical sense things are more religious than philosophical. But these pictures are not exclusive. If you are a minority person in Nazi Germany and you are sent to a death camp, the Book of Job may seem too kind. On the other hand, if you grow up in upper middle class North America, then that same vision may seem unduly harsh. It is possible on the planet that people with both experiences are living out their philosophies on the same day. They will both be correct. The world is very much bigger than we are and contains these contradictions easily. I am sure that "positive thinking" is not a livable posture for me. That does not mean it is not the way you can and perhaps must live.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

The King Of Cats

Offered by Tess as a Magpie Tales writing prompt.

Wiki says: "In 1921 Mitsou, a book which included forty drawings by Balthus, was published. It depicted the story of a young boy and his cat, with a preface by Balthus's mentor, the Bohemian-Austrian poet Rainer Maria Rilke who at the time was Balthus' mother's lover. The theme of the story foreshadowed his lifelong fascination with cats, which resurfaced with his self-portrait as The King of Cats (1935)."

No other cat king has such long legs. However, there are many other kings of cats. I am one as well.

Wordle 156 offered by Brenda as a Sunday Whirl writing prompt.

How I Got To Be
The King Of Cats
At Age Five


My mother made love
to poems way back in the day
but outgrew that hook
and chose a football.
I was raised by a football
who transformed into
a high school admin
from teaching mathematics.
He dreamed of goal posts.

I often will chant
as I sit with my call backs
and then tumble down
off the porcelain
which is what I get thinking
how a football raised
me. The papers prove
it though. I swear it. Briefly
in limbo which turns
my wrists, I cover
my humming with hot water
feeling deeply at
a loss, and gaudy
too, even though Mom would love
all my moonlit dreams.
I think. She's gone now
you know and the football's flat,
at peace in the grass.

‎April ‎13, ‎2014 3:51 PM

Friday, April 11, 2014

Posting Along



Posting Along

I ride an old horse
as best I can warmer days
as I watch the road
crack open beneath
the clip clop of trotting hooves.

Day is done, sun gone
down, the afterglow
is just beginning to fade.
This is fine with me.
My work too is done.
I am laying down last words.
That is what I do.

I call on people,
hold them close for no reason.
I smile at the moon
with no plans at all.
The goddesses give me songs.
Daddy god conducts.

‎April ‎11, ‎2014 2:09 PM

Written in part as a reply to Irene's Not Your Body

I spent a summer at a camp in the hills east of Santa Cruz, California. This was the summer of 1958. I was headed into eighth grade, my sister into sixth and mom and dad were earning our presence in this camp by being counselors there. We were moving after that summer to Santa Clara where my dad was going to be a brand new Vice Principle in a high school and my mom was going to teach English in another high school nearby.

It was at that summer camp I had my introduction to horses and learned to ride. That's why posting is part of my vocabulary. We rode English saddle, mostly but Western saddle as well. They were training us as broadly as an eight week experience would permit. I loved being able to join with the horse in his, or more usually for me, her rhythm. I remember I had a favorite horse, Nugget. They wouldn't let me ride her all that much because part of the training was to become familiar with many different horses and learn many different gaits.

Since I never rode again in my life, I guess the training was not very important as a skill set overall. However, I remember horses very well and I remember very little else from that camp experience. I go into my memory and find there I love Nugget as much as any cat I have ever known and more than most people too. It is easier to love the four footed. They are less conflicted.

That camp is still going strong but perhaps is not the same as it was then. Here is Kennolyn Camps, Soquel, Ca.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Spring Cherry, The Girl Who Broke Free

This picture is part of the display of a google+ user who names herself Haru Sakura.

Haru Sakura

I got a good job
voice acting your latest part,
the one you wrote for
Spring Cherry, the girl
who broke free of winter ice
by her own power.

I stand on the side
with a screen between my voice
and the microphone
and speak falsetto
as comes easy as ever
and I don't allow
any more pictures.

Haru Sakura can't be
a bearded fat man
of sixty damn eight!

‎April ‎10, ‎2014 9:58 PM

Written in reply to Irene's "Spring"
Not a chicken anywhere. Also in response to We Write Poems

Voice acting is an actual job and people build lifetime resumes in the work. There are commercials, announcements, phone answering services, and of course acting jobs, in radio style drama and comedy and in cartoons. This poem references Japanese Anime. A person can get really busy if they are good at the work.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

They Aren't Chickens - for We Write Poems


They Aren't Chickens

Is coastal shame worse
or embryonic in its
jagged roots borrowed
and unseen even
though the fighter calls pine songs
of the sap foot turtle?

The hatching of snakes
is an emerald color,
a snapshot record
I would hope to keep.

Munching on almonds
and marshmallows, books
unread and half lame,
toothpicks torn apart, slivered,
I'm leaf and earlobes
concerning fatness
hoping ripples at sea's edge
will keep lemon rind.

The microscope hums
a homing tune, dissecting
my cotton stockings
while I'm unwrapping
the gassy eggs left
by the grunts of beady eyed
sharp beaked sad old birds.

We did think they were chickens.
I feel foolish saying so.

‎April ‎7, ‎2014 11:50 PM

Written for We Write Poems, Wordle 13

The last dodo was sighted before 1700 and the dodo was doubtless extinct by 1715. The bird lived on the island of Mauritius, an island found east of Madagascar. Flightless and fearless of man, nonetheless it is unclear exactly what happened. The sailors who landed there were not in the habit of recording everything. However, it seems they may not have been that good to eat. Apparently there were many non-native animals introduced who may have competed directly with the dodo for their food supply and other things may have happened too.

Each of the following words of Wordle 13 can be found in my poem.

Monday, April 7, 2014

The Back Tattoo


Suspended In The Garden

I noticed hand prints
beside the tat on your back,
darker markings on
the smooth lighter planes
I know so well, twenty years
of real touch and go.

I thought I might stray
at that but instead I dig
up tubers looking
for sign that all's well
and at least there is no mold
turning our food black.

The moist mounds of mulch
that once were mature plantings
I leave, signs for you.

‎April ‎3, ‎2014 4:53 PM
Modified to match the image April 7, 2014

In collaboration with Irene's poem Peonies

Sunday, April 6, 2014

A Change Of Scene

Image by Kelsey Hannah,
provided by Tess for Magpie Tales Mag 214

Wordle 155
provided by Brenda Warren for The Sunday Whirl

A Change Of Scene

Talking to the tide again
like talking to air
or to the blue moon,
courting tough chicken power
and then you suspend
the zip detail strap
in the waterfall to wash
away the feathers
of all the dead birds,
a barrier found, a pleat
in the swing of things.

A diamond stream,
your hand raised as a true sign
of the hope you've gained
while the sun's unit
of bright starts to trace your hair.

‎April ‎6, ‎2014 2:09 PM

Also written in collaboration, see Irene's Orange Is A Fruit where the flipping chickens come from. To be fair, I started the chickens a few poems back but dead chickens seem to hang around somehow. And to be fair to me, the image of killing chickens has been with me ever since I heard a woman I have loved tell the story of killing over one hundred chickens to process them in one day and what that did to her hands.


Saturday, April 5, 2014

Dealing With Tigers


Moving Right Along

It's all so feudal,
this change of my livery
and I guess yours too,
as if you could just
tell the tiger to change his spots.

I heard some guy say
(trying to stay dry)
he could hold his finger up
a tiger's ass for
one damn day. I doubt
he really meant to try
such a stupid thing.

And yes what of ghosts
and goddesses for all that?
What of mud and wind
and the winnowing
of souls? You are not guileless.
That's far from your shape,
not in the hills nor
down here in the fertile loam,
nor the final sea.

‎April 1, ‎2014 10:15 PM

See Irene's Orange Is A Fruit

Friday, April 4, 2014

Nibbled Half To Death By Geese

Snow Geese Flock

It's Always Like This

The geese took me down
then nibbled my edges off,
all of them on me
as if I was some rock
or pile of mud packing worms.

Off a ways, there's you
dancing without care
as if it's all the same thing
rain or shine, moon, sun
haloes of rainbows
and pots of wee folk spun gold.

Not a single strain
to separate us
this music of geese and dance
and twirling discord
but I've no more bread
for geese - and just words for you,
dancer in the day.

I'm far too smelly,
in need of a wash. Those geese
were not ready for
this no more bread shit.

‎April ‎1, ‎2014 2:55 PM

See Irene's Orange Is A Fruit

Thursday, April 3, 2014

Walking The Fat Rabbit


I saw you approach
with our rabbit in harness
and three cats trying
to figure what that
fat white hopping thing could be.
They circled around
you both and came close
one by one only to go
out of range again.
I could see their thoughts
in their twitching tails and eyes
and I thought, we are
like this, dealing with
this new creature between us
even in harness.

‎March ‎31, ‎2014 3:50 PM

See Orange Is A Fruit

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Squatting On My Heels

A recent view of the gate Holy Family Hospital

Long long ago and far away, when I was 21-23, I spent a couple years in what is now Bangladesh. This was in 1967-1969. I used my time there well, doing independent study in my college subjects, writing in journals, intensively learning to play guitar.

I got a job after a little while in country working for the Medical Mission Sisters as they ran Holy Family Hospital, the only hospital in all of Dacca, now spelled Dhaka. I was in charge of handling their cash, a position they named Financial Secretary. They wanted a Westerner's hands on the cash as they felt I would not want to steal from them. I answered to Sr. Yolande Landry, who gave me this financial part of her double job while she kept the hospital outreach and community placement for herself. I was to review the charity cases and sign off on them (something I had no idea how to sort out) and I was to go to town and come back from the bank (on public transportation, mind you) with the correct denonminations and amount of cash to make monthly payroll. The safe was in my office. There were other things to do, and theoretically, I was the head of the accounting department. That was totally beyond my understanding and skills. They knew that.

In fact, that was when I resigned. They were visited by a competent manager tasked with revising their accounting system. Both the sisters and I knew I had no business remaining on the job. They were right. I did not steal one paisa from them. They paid me the equivalent of $45 a month for a six day week, seven hour day. I did not have to support myself at the time so this was walk around money, but there wasn't much for me to buy either, just cheap but strong legal ganja and rarely illegal hashish.

I only got too stoned to do my job one day. On that day I found a room off to the side that was sequestered and slept it off. On another day I had gone home for lunch as was my habit and when I came back I met a praying mantis about four inches high and bright green swaying on the middle of the blotter on my desk. On a third day near the end of my time at the hospital I left the house to go back to work only to discover that soldiers were shooting and chasing rioters at the end of that Dhanmondi street. I went back home that day.

They were taking Ayub Khan down and replacing him with General Yaya Khan. That was happening in the west, in what is now Pakistan but was then West Pakistan. Dacca is in what was then East Pakistan, but is now Bangladesh.


Squatting On My Heels

The last thing you would
call me is gaunt. I don't mind.
If I was all bony
then could I squat like
the rest of the world does, flat
on my heels and butt?

Even underweight
I could not do that.

I guess
I'll just decompose
and shed radical
weight, leave vile puddles of me
all over the place,
become skeletal
(though I am big boned) and gray.
maybe then I can.

‎April ‎2, ‎2014 6:57 PM


Written for Thom's 3 Word Wednesday

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

The Flock

Down in Clackamette Park at the confluence of the Clackamas and Wilamette Rivers where I have had occasion to feed the geese, the view is similar to this image. As mentioned in the poem, there are more geese than this in the flock.

The longer the feeding goes the more geese show up and you can end up with a hundred geese around you, maybe more. They argue among each other as to who takes precedence but if you feed one over the other that doesn't seem to matter all that much. They do slobber, so that if you feed them directly you will get slimy fingers. Their beaks will press a little hard on you but not really a bite. It is quite an experience to be surrounded by a hundred geese. I like it but not enough to repeat all that often.

The Oregon City area is a stopping place for the flocks of Canada Geese who hang out in many of the parks and in many large grassy areas including alongside highways. The flocks will go about their business, everybody head down except one or two who are on sentry duty. The dogs love to chase the geese who are quite impressive as they part the flock for the dogs and for people too. If the alarm is given they all take off. That's even more impressive and noisy with the sound of wings if you are close enough.

The Flock

The geese took my hope
but handed it back
demanding bread, yellow beaked
with slobbering rims,
goose tongues loose, pointed
my way and I'm glad
I have some old crumbs.

I count over forty geese
all lined up aiming
at me with coal black
(I should say obsidian)
eyes.

Why they gave me
back my hope, I don't
know. But it smells of goose oil,
of warm mother geese
and I find I don't
mind the feathers, not at all.

‎March ‎30, ‎2014 7:39 PM

This poem written in reply to Irene's poem a cumulus dream


Monday, March 31, 2014

Apples In The Light


Irene is a name derived from εἰρήνη—the Greek for "peace". Irene, Irina, Irini, Eirene, Eireni, or Ireen may refer to: Irene

Eirene: Greek goddess, traditionally the goddess of Peace. Also one of the Horae and/or daughter of Poseidon, god of the Waters.

As one of the Horae, Irene presides along with her sisters in one of two different triads of goddesses. Not only of peace, she is also the goddess of wealth. In this triad, the other two goddesses are Dike (Justice) and Eunomia (Order).

Apples In The Light

I'm no messiah!
Talk about purgatory.
I take no leap now
nor did I, I say,
puffing all up about it.

Peace: How can I show
the cotton rose clouds
what lies above my green scene?
Clouds do yearn for us.

Oh you sleek of pelt
and flash of eyes - suns and moons
adorn your twisty
ways with sweet apples,
your far curves with drops of gold
called down from heaven.

‎March ‎29, ‎2014 9:56 PM

Written to Irene's poem, Heaven Is A Beacon

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Of All The Things

Image offered by Tess for Mag 213


Wordle 154 offered by Brenda for The Sunday Whirl

Of All The Things I've Lost
I Miss My Mind The Most


I am shivering
and hoping I shall soon heal
and the rows of spots
will fade on my root.

It's all been a pack of lies.

That shining razor
was not in my pouch,
not this time, I growl.

You burst
on the scene less one
tooth (I have it here),
your tats exposed, your red shoes
gifted from heaven.

I need a damn plan.

Mending socks, that might be good.
I needs me some socks.
The moths have been in
my drawers and I found one
lying dead in there.
Overfed I guess.

Maybe not.

‎March ‎30, ‎2014 1:55 PM

Written for Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales
and Brenda Warren's The Sunday Whirl



Saturday, March 29, 2014

William Blake, Irene, and Me


William Blake wrote:

This image is Blake's actual hand drawn work and calligraphy. It is isolated here from the middle of the page of three poems. I have seen it. You can too. Google Ah! Sunflower.

Irene wrote:

Ah, Sunflower

Would you die again, and again?
Mending that aftermath–shiver
your toes? When the bowl turned to
face the sun, then I remember.
After Blake, I followed a stream,
packed liquid gold; heavenly sill.

Mortals wish to burst time.
Do I need ask why, you fly?
Kiss upon my brow so I sigh
and root in you as if it’s
some divine plan brought to
heal this growl. Kneel I will.

I write:

Find God In Sunflowers

What were his quatrains
increased by two, two hexes
of lines. They nearly
rhyme as you call Blake
to your side to build your case
and show me my love
in spite of my rush
for the door.

I shall burst time.
I meant to do that
long before we met.
I don't fear your kiss, nor mine
but confess I fear
the hot lips of God.

‎March ‎28, ‎2014 10:54 PM

Wiki writes: William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827) was an English poet, painter and printmaker.

Considered mad by contemporaries for his idiosyncratic views, Blake is held in high regard by later critics for his expressiveness and creativity, and for the philosophical and mystical undercurrents within his work. His paintings and poetry have been characterised as part of the Romantic movement and "Pre-Romantic", for its large appearance in the 18th century. Reverent of the Bible but hostile to the Church of England (indeed, to all forms of organised religion), Blake was influenced by the ideals and ambitions of the French and American Revolutions. Though later he rejected many of these political beliefs, he maintained an amiable relationship with the political activist Thomas Paine; he was also influenced by thinkers such as Emanuel Swedenborg. Despite these known influences, the singularity of Blake's work makes him difficult to classify. The 19th-century scholar William Rossetti characterised him as a "glorious luminary", and "a man not forestalled by predecessors, nor to be classed with contemporaries, nor to be replaced by known or readily surmisable successors".

In 2002, Blake was placed at number 38 in the BBC's poll of the 100 Greatest Britons.

Friday, March 28, 2014

The Apparition's Regret


Irene Toh wrote:

my heart went up in flames

What did you want me to say?
That we had barely touched.
That I heard a frosty roar
and all that remains becomes
an act of alchemy–grafting
grief which none called for.

That the light has come after
doused fire. My hair aflame.
Amongst the rocks and waves,
two bones, cerebral white.
He wiped my wet calves flecked
with grit. I felt whole again.

I reply:

The Apparition's Regret

That we barely touched
seems odd to me now
and the jet way's roar through glass
was not that constant.
Neither then was I
for you were too hot, all fire
and me shrinking back
from your smoky hair.
I was at a loss that time
though usually
I knew how to treat
my lovers. It's a strange thing
but I flew off. Then
the bottom dropped out
and I smacked surface tension.

‎March ‎28, ‎2014 2:10 PM

By the way, the two bones found in Irene's poem links this post back to "Malaysia Air", my previous poem.


Thursday, March 27, 2014

Malaysia Air


I So Very Much Love You

So which secretion
is yours, from ripeness and sun
and which mine from sour
grapes all in a bunch?
Can I tell the truth at last?
Or is it likely
I will fabricate
yet another cloudy light,
a foggy fable -

(Interrupted: found
in the rocks and waves within
soggy wrack, two bones.)

‎March ‎27, ‎2014 2:26 PM


The plane went down. Mystery remains. Grief remains. Almost certainly there was one lover among them all.

I may have a new writing buddy. We shall see.

Wednesday, March 26, 2014

The Older Brother - 3 Word Wednesday

Three Word Wednesday

Cunning; Degenerate; Emaciated.


The Older Brother

You slipped around trees
and climbed vines to get up high
while we searched beneath.
We search urgently
because your mother screams, screams
I tell you again.
You are so cunning
for five. Already you are
a degenerate.
I would call you black
hearted and evil but you
are not old enough,
emaciated,
a red dwarf of a bad boy.
Still your mother screams.
She can't quit loving
your ass, but I quit, oh yes.
I have plans for you!

‎March ‎26, ‎2014 3:47 PM

Sunday, March 23, 2014

Modern Art

Tracey Emin's My Bed,
writing prompt offered by Tess

Wordle 153, thirteen words
offered by Brenda

‎Modern Art

What a job we were.

Bought the bed on sale - still cost
plenty, a warning
and a grind of course.
A natural sting response
shapes the detritus
during rival nights.

You should be so blunt
as all that broken
glass rolled down by the river
to smooth rock like forms,
green and misty shapes.
We were a good quartet.
Once. In addition to that,
you are so juicy.

March ‎23, ‎2014 1:49 PM

Written for Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales
and Brenda Warren's Sunday Whirl

Saturday, March 22, 2014

Indelible

Sacred Embrace - Jeff Kahn

Indelible

We have not even
lost one hope, one sigh or snort,
one wink of an eye.
No, we have not lost
anything so important
as all that and more.
When you wash away
all sign of us this does not
matter for you are
pressed into my eyes
and I am spread all over
the house, in crannies,
in nooks, on steel hooks,
and other places you won't
ever find, ever.

March 22, 2014 9:46 PM

Friday, March 21, 2014

Resting Orders

The view from the Willamette Falls Overlook, a rest area with an inviting view but little to keep a person for long. At the extreme left across the river in this view the part of the bluff which hides the house I live in might be seen or perhaps the foreground trees cut off the line of sight too soon.

Mary Catherine Bateson (born December 8, 1939) is an American writer and cultural anthropologist. Bateson is the daughter of Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson. Mary Catherine is a noted author in her field with many published monographs. Among Bateson's books is With a Daughter's Eye: A Memoir of Margaret Mead and Gregory Bateson, a recounting of her upbringing by two famous parents. She has taught at Harvard, Amherst, and George Mason University, among others. Mary Catherine Bateson is a fellow of the International Leadership Forum and was president of the Institute for Intercultural Studies in New York until 2010.


I saw a quotation today, penned by Bateson, that spurred me to offer this poem:

Resting Orders

It is obvious
this life is a trek from star
to star, from birthing
to dying, mostly
trackless but sometimes well paved
with awesome rest stops.
When you find places
you love please ask if you will
want to soon move on
as well as take ease.

Else please do not stop, she trilled.

Remember the tale
of the captain tied
to his mast so he could dare
the witchy voices
calling him by name.
You will never be stronger
than the last false call.
If you've mastered them
all so far you have not yet
heard that last false call.

God willing, you never will.

‎March ‎21, ‎2014 2:43 PM

I, along with so many others, encountered the work of Margaret Mead in Sociology and Anthropology classes in college. She was a pioneer in her specialties. Outside of college I became interested in Systems Theory and Neuro-Linguistic Programming, including the work which led to it and its companion speacialties, grouped together in what are called the Brief Therapies by some. You cannot spend much time in such matters without encountering and respecting the work of Gregory Bateson.

Google them and find a mountain of material. On Amazon you will easily find books they wrote. Imagine growing up with such parents, or perhaps read Mary's book.

For my part, both my parents were highly accomplished and lifted themselves out of complete obscurity into more than modest success. I suspect my mother had the drive for even more. She could have finessed her Hollywood screen test and made a movie career out of it. She told me she didn't want to sleep around, basically is why not. Apparently the casting couch was offered to her but also a required nose job. Instead she went to university and became Valedictorian of her graduating class. She shared her stage and speech with remarks by Harry Truman, who was POTUS at that time.

Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Migraine Weather - 3 Word Wednesday

Three Word Wednesday

Authentic; Enlist; Phobia.


Migraine Weather

Lord knows, authentic
displays of prowess are hard
to seek, much less find
these sorry ass days.

You enlist my help as if
I am so trippy
despite the crusty
ooze I have to slog back through
to get to your door.

Phobia does rule.
I saw her just the other
day ensconced on pads
of stuffed green velvet
where she was waving hot signs
in the ruddy air.

‎March ‎19, ‎2014 4:24 PM


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