The Hedge

In the spring a year ago, I was engaged with Irene Toh of Singapore in a poesy dance where she would write and then I would reply and off that reply she would write again and so on. This trading of poems was not really a conversation in any direct sense but in a deeper field it is instead a communion of sorts. We have of course remained friends as only the Internet could allow from Singapore to Oregon City on the instant.

Her poem was called Hills & Bamboo. Click on the title to see the poem.

The Hedge

I wear a cincture
on my craft. Should I call this
love? I must ponder
the old growth and ways
the new bamboo says to me
a gold coin safely
can be used, stipend,
it says, and by God coming
straight down from heaven.

Trying to rebuild
my holy place takes a skill
beyond all my days.

He said, keep the ruse
of my life a verdant hedge
and the art of it
divine in my core.
There I finish the touches,
then give it all back.

May 29, 2014 9:08 AM

How Some Dogs Must Feel - Collaboration

This poem was written spinning off the first line in Irene Toh's poem Rouge.

How Some Dogs Must Feel

How she sought me out
I will never know for sure
because I see how
her eyes dart sideways,
then to the ceiling before
she speaks some glib rhyme
about it all.
Sigh.
Something creaks up there rather
like giants moving
some comets about.
After that she looks at me,
back I should say at
me cringing as if a blow
soon will box my ears.

‎May ‎26, ‎2014 5:08 PM

The Merchant

In Asia, the barbed wire strands that Americans are used to at the tops of walls are replaced by shards of glass. This over the top example is apparently from Vietnam, a photo taken in 2010. Many compound walls will have at least a line of shards down the center of the wall caps.

My Dad, Mom and I lived in two houses in Dacca, then East Pakistan, now Bangladesh. This was August, 1967 - June, 1969. Both house compound walls had a centerline of glass shards. The compound iron gates locked. There was a gate guard on staff. Everyone had a staff. Ours (a Western family of three) was a butler, a cook and a gate guard. The school my Dad superintended had a driver. He was ours too. You had to hire a service staff or else risk consequences. That was what we were told. Anyone, local or foreign above a certain economic level had servants.

My poem was written in response to the poem moss & camellias by Irene Toh

The Merchant

I worked hard at it,
at erasing the scuff marks
in the ivy trails
on the outer wall.
A lookout told me you stood
on the glass shard top
face, the concreted
cap of that high wall and hailed
me but I was not
at home, not at all.
I guess that’s just the right thing.
I hope you got down
okay. As for me,
the trip went as it should have
and I made a pile.

May 8, 2014 11:15 PM

Do I Need A Woman, You Ask

This is an old blind and deaf cat. My old blind cat lay in the sun this way and unfortunately the last time was her undoing.

I wish now that I had some photos of my old cats. I have had several who basically died of being too old and tired through all my years. They aren't much fun when they get so old but of course by then they are so much a part of me that I am destroyed when they actually die.

Right now I live with a calico named Celeste who is napping somewhere in this house at this moment and six feet from me Stella the part Irish Wolfhound is waiting patiently and napping, waiting for whatever comes next. Oh wait... the woman who walks her for me just came so Stella is now out for her evening walk.

Do I Need A Woman, You Ask

That arrow you shot
went past my ear, one feather
cutting just enough
to draw my red blood
in passing.

I did reach out
to push you away.

I had to stanch both
that cut and the other near
my heart, a deeper,
slicing cut you made
because I twisted too late
to get off scott free.

If I lie about
needing a woman then how
is it I lived well,
so well for seven
years, happy to return home
to the old blind cat?

May 5, 2014 2:48 PM

This poem is written in collaboration as a response to a poem by Irene Toh called Dali & I where she stated
"You said you didn’t need a woman.
I think you lie." as the last two lines.

This is one poem to another.
In real life both the challenge and its response are murkier.
Gotta go - can't catch me!

Far Apart

Far Apart

They still say the cold
will increase this next winter
and then they suggest
the vultures stock up
carrion for icy days
certain to descend
from the frozen shield,
pushing all the marine air
back out west to sea.

Oh wait, that's true here
while I guess for you winter's
a different deal,
cooler and drier,
but still not frozen, not high
enough latitude -
though your vultures, vain
and otherwise do rise up
into stretchy sky.

‎May ‎29, ‎2014 10:31 PM
Modified March 16, 2015 6:55 PM

changed the title and two words:
the title was "Vultures Soar Above" while
"...vultures, vain" was "...eagles, bald"

Another of the poems that were written as part of last year's collaboration with Ms. Irene Toh. We are indeed far apart. Ms. Toh is resident in Singapore while I hang out in Oregon in the US of A.

What’s At Stake

What’s At Stake

My heart is laced up
with threads drawn from my fat head
and cinched far too tight
for comfort and joy.
To top that, the two get ups
the dog made me do
in the night because
her turgid gut ached and leaked.
The doggie tooted
in the key of F
and I felt distress and worse.
The fat head lacing,
the absence of joy,
the lack of comfort and sleep -
another fine mess
you got me into.
I will expect my wages
to be free of sin.

May 28, 2014 7:52 PM

Written last May in response to Irene's "gold threads"

Wherever You Go - A Response

Wherever You Go
There You Are

Getting more shit done,
that’s the name of this sludge farm
and I will join up
because there’s nothing
else I can find to do now.

You revise, revise,
again and again
you've revised your revision.

You know how I feel?
I feel like I am
the other guy all revised
shiny and sunny
and newly minted
but underneath it’s all sludge
you know – scrape the shine
and you find the crap.
Same old, same old, oh my God,
I’m just gonna die.

May 17, 2014 9:33 PM

Last spring we collaborated, Irene Toh and I. We wrote poems back and forth, mostly she starting and me responding, but then some of the work spilled over from blog post to blog post. Irene is of Chinese descent and is native to Singapore. I am of course a guy born in California, currently living in Oregon. Irene and I are in daily contact as is so easy to do these days.

If you want to see Irene's poem, then go here: Orange Is A Fruit

You’re Innocent

You’re Innocent

They do really name
you a freaking terrorist.
I heard one guy say
so anyway, think
someone caught your scent or sign
in the wreckage – not
the last one brought down –
the one blown up before that.
But I have your back.
I denied you went
anywhere near that cargo
hold late yesterday.

May 18, 2014 4:20 PM

Written in response to Irene's post. See Orange Is A Fruit

Encouragement

Encouragement

Feel the elixir
ooze on your tongue, down your throat.
Try to hold it there
by your strength of will
alone and don't think sad, mad
or other dark thoughts.
This magic will not
work then, will not grow your wings
for you and your air
will be like cement
slurry and damn it - I can't
get these thoughts to stay
on their own right lines.

(At least this ended rightly
slowing to full stop.)

‎April ‎28, ‎2014 10:33 PM

First appeared as a comment to a poem Irene wrote and posted on her blog Orange Is A Fruit

Encouragement

Encouragement

Feel the elixir
ooze on your tongue, down your throat.
Try to hold it there
by your strength of will
alone and don't think sad, mad
or other dark thoughts.
This magic will not
work then, will not grow your wings
for you and your air
will be like cement
slurry and damn it - I can't
get these thoughts to stay
on their own right lines.

(At least this ended rightly
slowing to full stop.)

‎April ‎28, ‎2014 10:33 PM

Written after reading Irene's poem eagle flies free and first posted as a comment there.

This poem appears as well as the second in the poetry pair on pages 73 and 74 in the Red Wolf Journal poetry collection Duet which can be downloaded from New Poetry Collections

I Have Stolen You

Let the mind be star,
you said, and let your heart be
lithe no matter what
your body might do.
No matter how I try to
form this up I grow
fur and snout and snort
into the easterly wind.
My velvet ears flare
and tremble. All four
legs push claw into the mulch.
Then I grip your soul
in mine and dash off,
headed toward my thieve's den
in the limestone rocks.

‎April ‎28, ‎2014 10:47 PM

Poem first appeared as a comment on Irene Toh's Orange Is A Fruit

My Second Attempt

The Death God Necros by Skinner, b. 1978

Skinner is a self-taught artist living in Oakland, California who has meticulously crafted a balance of extraordinary mural work, bizarre and antagonistic installations while maintaining a prolific commercial career. Influenced by 80’s pop culture, human struggle, myths and violence, dungeons and dragons and the heavy metal gods, Skinner’s mind is one of psycho social mayhem fueled by a calculated chaos. His work has been shown all over the world in various museums, universities and galleries. He has been an ambassador of the alternative arts movement in countries ranging from Russia, Cuba, Japan, Europe and all across the United States. Don't be surprised if you see one of his murals on a small side street in Scotland or some tiny village in Russia. Skinner has and continues to bring his own very specific weird art to anywhere in the world that can handle it. Skinner’s work has been celebrated in various publications including Blisss, Juxtapoz, Hi Fructose and Beautiful/Decay as well as numerous European publications. In the fall of 2012 Skinner launched his own art and apparel company called Critical Hit. Realizing that his art is better kept in the hands of people who appreciate it on a day to day basis, he applied his strange visions and humor to an affordable media where fans of his work can find giclee and silkscreen prints, his hardback book Every Man Is My Enemy, t-shirts featuring his one of a kind designs, custom toys and figures, patches, buttons, zines and more! Pay him a visit and see the chaos in action! http://shopcriticalhit.com/

My Second Attempt

I tried to rise up
and ended with a reject
and so here I am
confessing my shallow
heart – I have scrabbled my way
out of the hardpan
but need to dig dirt
out from under my broken
talons, shake the shit
off me and burnish
my gold leaf wings as I try
not to tear them up.

I wanted to call
God down from on high, something
like that, but all God
did was point at me
and titter gaseously
through my damp exhaust.
Damn.

‎April ‎26, ‎2014 8:18 AM

Written in response to a poem called You Speak Heart and posted on Orange Is A Fruit, Irene Toh's blog.

The Hunt

The Hunt

The fierce heart of birds
of prey take me into you,
into thoughts of snow
searching for your scent.

But now fall...

The eagle calls
your name after mine
and the aspens quake
beneath the force of that sound
in the hills while small
things dive into holes
and I am forced to open,
expose my secrets
to the clear fine air.

Someday I might be ready
for loving someone.
Someday I might get
my heart back, open my chest,
put it in its place.

‎April ‎25, ‎2014 1:48 PM
Modified September 29, 2014

This poem was composed in contemplation of a poem written by Irene Toh back in April of this year. As these things go, the call and response of poets to each other do not necessarily create direct statements and replies but the poems do move in some kind of tandem, however distant the connection may be.

See Orange Is A Fruit for the original version. To see more or less the whole series, go to New Poetry Collections and download Duet. It's free for the taking.

The House Finches

House Finch Eggs

Because House Finches use human habitations as nesting grounds, they are nearly tamed birds and their nests are often easy of access. This image is not mine but the story in my poem is something that happened to me.

I have been struggling to get my blogging feet back under me and some other things I am used to doing as well. Getting old is not for sissies.

On April 19, 2014 Irene posted on Orange Is A Fruit

a nest of finches

I’m fussing over a nest
of house finches. Over
the rambling roses, edged
in grasses and straws.
You asked me to hurry, get
dressed while I fluctuated.

So I dressed this verse
in a hurry, throwing on a
mint camisole over shorts.
You wore your welder’s cap,
fluffy curls peeking brown.
A small finch arrowed out.

A male and female House Finch.

The male has the color, of course, 

as is commonly the way with birds.

I replied in the comments:

The House Finches

The Jasmine bloomed thick
that year, full of white flowers
and that big perfume
and there, just above
eye line was the house finch nest,
angled out of sight
but I could hear them.

They wove it so carefully,
and there were three eggs,
I think three. I stayed
away from them all the while,
through the small hatching
and then all the flights
to feed the three tiny chicks
and they grew and grew
until one day that nest
tilted and spilled all three out
to the waiting cat
Hell Boy or perhaps
the stray who came from further
up our springtime street.

There was nothing left
but the nest all vertical
and old eggshell shards.

‎April ‎18, ‎2014 10:31 PM

House Finch Breeding Bird Survey Map

Image Credit: US Geological Survey

Daily Bread/Eschatology

On April 18, 2014 Irene posted

daily bread

My son did sit me down,
went through the holy
scripture. It all made
sense. I get it but my
heart doesn’t buy into it.
Faith is licking marble.

Jesus appeared to me
a white bearded man in
slippers, seemed more
a hippie confounding us
with spongy miracle bread
dipped in LSD fantasy.

I don’t like to be
mollycoddled. That’s
a cat walking on a tin
roof, my daily bread,
leavened in moonlight.
I’m just a cat shadow.

and I replied in her Comments section:

Eschatology

I caught you licking
stone as if you could change things
that way. What came next,
the wings and plucked strings
while golden eyes flashed brilliant
in the descending
armies of the Lord
and I said, "Oh shit" to that

(you know that terse phrase
is the most common
of last words men say)

spewing
time as it ran out.

‎April ‎18, ‎2014 7:19 PM

See Orange Is A Fruit

Hairy Story

Irene wrote this on Orange Is A Fruit

a period piece

I am perhaps, something
the cat dragged out of
the attic. A candlestand
in need of a shine.
Silvo or brasso.
An Aladdin’s lamp.

You’re as ramshackle.
Can’t decide what you are
except for all this pinball
energy, amidst dead timber.
Start up the woodfire,
we’re headed to the highlands.

To which I replied:

Hairy Story

I was the towhead
at five and curly brown mop
at fifteen, went straight
at twenty six years,
also moved to Oregon.

The curls, they came back
and I had to dry
out at thirty eight for her.

It's all been my hair.

I know why guys shave
it all off and use that fleece
to shine a chrome dome.
But me, I've gone long
and it's getting in my food.

Hey! My color's good.

‎April ‎18, ‎2014 1:41 PM

Rest in peace, old friend of my soul.

My heart still aches.

It's Probably Too Late

This is a bag of Apollo 11 trash left behind

This is a map of Apollo 11's landing site and its immediate area. The hatched area marked "Toss Zone" is where you can find the trash left behind during Apollo 11's stay on the moon. Keep in mind that to insure return from a Lunar landing that all unecessary weight is shed. While it is considerably smaller than that of Earth, the Moon's gravity well is deep enough to be a concern. It is not exactly smart to pack the weight of the trash back home.

Here is one list of objects that have accumulated on the moon. It is mostly complete, I imagine. Apollo 11's contribution is included. Not everything on the list is trash. Most is:

• more than 70 spacecraft, including rovers, modules, and crashed orbiters
• 5 American flags
• 2 golf balls
• 12 pairs of boots
• TV cameras
• film magazines
• 96 bags of urine, feces, and vomit
• numerous Hasselbad cameras and accessories
• several improvised javelins
• various hammers, tongs, rakes, and shovels
• backpacks
• insulating blankets
• utility towels
• used wet wipes
• personal hygiene kits
• empty packages of space food
• a photograph of Apollo 16 astronaut Charles Duke's family
• a feather from Baggin, the Air Force Academy's mascot falcon, used to conduct Apollo 15's famous "hammer-feather drop" experiment
• a small aluminum sculpture, a tribute to the American and Soviet "fallen astronauts" who died in the space race -- left by the crew of Apollo 15
• a patch from the never-launched Apollo 1 mission, which ended prematurely when flames engulfed the command module during a 1967 training exercise, killing three U.S. astronauts
• a small silicon disk bearing goodwill messages from 73 world leaders, and left on the moon by the crew of Apollo 11
• a silver pin, left by Apollo 12 astronaut Alan Bean
• a medal honoring Soviet cosmonauts Vladimir Komarov and Yuri Gagarin
• a cast golden olive branch left by the crew of Apollo 11

On Orange Is A Fruit, Irene wrote:
which phantom were you?
by Irene

I hadn’t yet known grief.
That will be six years later
whose long cawing vibrated
after my dad’s leave-taking.
The tenor opened a veil,
a trapping I never asked for.

That spring unleashed all
the phantoms. Mainly it was
sleep deprivation. By the time I
recovered, I was transfigured by
the eschatology of leave-takings.
I stayed in the grove with my baby.

To which I replied

It's Probably Too Late

I don't know which one.
Some phantom took me over
the gap between us,
me with my cold flame,
you with feathers and white cake.

I turned thirty so
long ago. No hope
for a return flight. I've not
the grit for take off.

I would hope I could
reach the moon despite
there's no air there and colder
than a marble bum.
Oh I'm lousy at
housekeeping so I would leave
all my trash behind.
They won't let me go.

‎April ‎16, ‎2014 8:33 PM

See Irene's Orange Is A Fruit

Juggling Crows

On April 14 Irene wrote:

Ode To Moss

Green and burgeoning, I leaned
toward the lichens and moss
against the cascade of leaves.
Crow nowhere in sight. My belly
full of butterflies. Ripples
clutching like a newborn.

When my boy was still sucking
a pacifier, I was writing
a paper and preggers and did
not imagine the pleasure it
would give, juggling like this;
all growth, stoney moss.

Not yet done with crows, I replied:

Juggling Crows

I watched you juggle
twelve crows at one time, then add
a glass of water
balanced on your chin.

(And you were pregnant that spring
with your second child.)

I thought how way cool
you are to so well train crows.
They hold still for you.

They eyed you but stayed
sleek on the up and the down
and you caught them each
without spilling a drop.
You started doing a jig
and the lead crow squawked.
Lovey, what a hoot!

‎April ‎15, ‎2014 1:37 PM

See Irene's blog Orange Is A Fruit

Holding A Newborn

Irene wrote "Rethinking Myth" and posted her poem on her blog Orange Is A Fruit on April 13, 2014:

Rethinking Myth

For a while all roads led to
him, it’s like that in love,
all branches joined to
a trunk. The shining
afterthought. Deepening
into bark. Yeast underfoot.

It’s like when my son cradled
his brother, newborn;
prefigures its own myth
that became true somehow.
I don’t know what else to say,
chainsawed, beautiful grain.

*****

This is how I responded in duet:

Holding A Newborn

So I see you hold
this poem like your son held his
bro’, newborn, fragrant.
That’s what I mean – just
like that – like moss in the mist,
such a green beyond
green, all flourescent
and deep and you are deep too
when you are like this.

April 13, 2014 2:36 PM

The Next To Last Line

Temperate Deciduous Forest World Distribution in green

The Next To Last Line

The shadows my words
may cast streaming quickly through
your tropical heart:
Oh, I'm temperate
and seasonal. Here spring comes
after ice and snow
and leads toward dry
heat, not monsoon, dust not mold,
nor humidity.
Spring itself rains down
on me and my short hair queen
while in the next block
a guy keeps chickens,
not me. See? Almost done now.

‎April ‎10, ‎2014 12:10 AM

Tropical Forest World Distribution in green

Note: A female cat is called a queen or a molly unless she is pedigreed in which case she is called a dam. Apparently there is no distinction between a fertile queen and a neutered one. Not so with males, who are toms if fertile and gibs if neutered according to one source. Gib is said with a hard gee.

Written in collaboration. See Irene's No Harm Done

Another note: Chickens are going away as images in my collaboration poems. Presumably, there will be one more chicken poem, with the chickens appearing in the last line.