Where are the stories of animals

June 30, 2011 (I was 66)

Where are the stories of animals

struck by lightning?

Bolts down the throats of giraffes

flattened elephants 

Sparks arcing between the poles of elk antlers

Dogs peeing on split trees

Animals electrically altered

to become more or less of what

they originally were

I hear of people getting hit

all the time

Any who survive are life-shaken

What in this life are you preparing to do elsewhere

June 29, 2013 (I was 68)

What in this life are you preparing to do elsewhere

What of interest but not of occupation

do you regard as unformulated pursuit

Artists in stone paint and glass define enchantment

Do you feel an inherent connection

a recognition that your presence fits

into a realm you’ve never visited

Where are those semi-familiar places

some part of you intends to occupy next time

This time team sport lost to individual endeavor

after a dedication to unity others did not share

Public dance gave way to secluded solo

I sat along borders of self-realization

watched visions pass behind closed eyes

breathed and hummed serene accompaniment

opened eyes to glimpse the sparkle of the mutable

Now I shall catch the attention of talented youth

who will become my great-grandparents

Wild Wing –Avocet

from this week in June, 2000 (I was 55)

Wild Wing –Avocet

         A return to the course after a year’s layoff.  It is a sculpted

landscape with towering mounds and deep traps framed by thick

woodlands.  Molded obstacles traverse the fairways at unusual

angles.  Barrancas of native grasses, marsh growths and pond

crossings make for visual deception and difficulty gauging distances.

The Bermuda fairways held the ball high on a light bed, easy to divot,

but causing some fat hits especially with high irons and wedge shots.

The large greens, often 40-45 yards deep, were tiered and undulating.

The challenges are fair because options present themselves, and

occasional easier holes provide breathing space.  I felt fortunate to

card a 90 though I knew I could improve both strategy and execution.

The course has a fabricated beauty of elegant human design artfully

imposed on the natural landscape.  I like the course, especially the

fairways, and we will return to experience more of this four track

complex.

Marsh Harbour

June 27, 1998  (I was 53)   

Marsh Harbour

         This Dan Maples gem is a fair test that plays through the

whole bag of clubs.  It’s a perfectly designed combination of six

holes on each nine that require a variety of shots leading to the

real test of similar, but more demanding shots on the finishing

holes.  Even the scenic beauty is increasingly intense to enhance

the demands of more skillful play.  The well maintained fairways

and pine straw rough in the marshland and waterway setting,

provide a stunning contrast of color.  Just a well-conceived,

logically planned build up of drama into the final three holes on

each side.  No wonder that it has become the choice to both open

and close the two week trip, nor that other Maples courses have

become annual favorites (Oyster Bay, Willbrook, Sea Trail and Pearl).  

loose ends

from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)

loose ends

unfinished work

what happened to the maps

maybe they got left on the road

what the hell

all roads go somewhere

don’t they

show me your badge

say where and how for now

build the first cupboard in the chaos

where do you want the cheese

Is this a landscape or a portrait

open another pack of cigarettes

I never could strike a match on my ass

the fog is thicker than London

I’m tired of trying to cut it

where’s the wind

where are you

I’ve been out of touch so long

I look in the mirror

I step on the scale

I assume my pulse

I don’t know how Karloff does it night after night

In the heat and light the bright seek shade

June 25, 2015  (I was 70)

In the heat and light the bright seek shade

One thousand words can replace a picture

It was tough going when the tough got up and left

It got the grease and was never heard mousing around again

There is only a little bravery in indescretion

This man’s trove is that man’s rubbish

There was over-salted soup in a kitchen full of cooks

Next to God everything is clean

It wasn’t gold but it was gAUdy

We knew how big they were by the sound of their collapse

We knew what to do in Rome but not in Constantinople

It was the best laugh I ever had but it had to wait

Listen to the emanations from your empty shell

June 24, 2011 (I was 66)

Listen to the emanations from your empty shell

to the howling of those airless winds

There are voices that call only when you listen

Listen with the window open to the songs

of birds that may not be in the trees

though their songs have been for centuries

On your rock sit and listen to the streams

streaming over rocks then they flow

flow wider sound deeper and the light

plays through wet surfaces to shadow

invisibilities across the river stones

The invisibilities dance to music only you can hear

emanating from your empty shell

At Happy Isles in Yosemite Valley

from this week in June, 2004 (I was 59)

  

At Happy Isles in Yosemite Valley

This morning I took a hit

contemplating travels of an entire year

a big year of geographical movement for me

I sat smoking in mid river

to realize again a truth of successful travel

Allow possession of self to place

See what the river is doing

what the trees are doing in relation to the river.

For a time be possessed by the river

the meandering the eddies the rills

the cataracts the swells the roar and trickle

of the moment sharing the this of it

The life of my wife is a grand success

from this week in 2013  (I was 68)

The life of my wife is a grand success

she pushes the forward button

with determined persistence

moves things out of the way

or drags them along with her

She has a fear of finishing things

until she has begun two or three more

She sees the simple solution to complexity

but also draws out infinite detail

to explain nuances she has found

in any unanimous agreement

What are these strange gifts

from this week in June, 1972 (I was 27)

What are these strange gifts

that man leaves behind

as conspicuous as silver bullets?

Most are tickets to a Magic Show

which does not exist except it seems

in the memories of those who have been there.

Other times he leaves poems

which read like invitations to a Magic Show.

He has always just ridden out of town.

But for these we’d never remember he’d been here.

River’s Edge

June 20, 2000 (I was 55)

                           River’s Edge

         A scenic but painfully demanding Arnold Palmer Course with a

variety of narrowing fairways, large waste areas, thickets of trees,

unusually shaped greens, hidden traps to create apprehension, doubt

and indecision.  Excellent greens but spotty fairways and off-course

sections that need more time for landscaping to mature on this property

open less than a full year.  Still, in comparison with Thistle in its first

year last summer, it is lacking. 

         The holes are separated and secluded one from another, a nice

feature.  The front nine was relentless and unforgiving. The puzzling par

five ninth ended on a narrow green on a thin peninsula extending ninety

degrees and 120 yards into the marsh from the direction of the first two

shots. Hit as short as I do, even from the middle tees, and end up with

a ridiculously short lay up before crossing to the peninsula on my fourth

then leaking into the marsh approaching the green on the fifth. Do you

see that quad bogey coming?

         The back is also difficult and elusive but with three straight-

forward holes to offer some reprieve.  All in all, an exasperating under-

taking that would require multiple plays to solve and more to

appreciate.  This is the second Palmer course I’ve played, and neither

would I consider enjoyable challenges.  My impression of River’s Edge

is that a replay would not lead to improvement, but more likely, to new

ways to find trouble.  I shot a 93.  I have some tight muscles, but not

enough to blame them for bad shots and lousy putts.  Some courses

(Oyster Bay and Caledonia) took a while to love.  I don’t think it will

happen here.

Heritage and Willbrook Plantation

June 19, 2004 (I was 59)

Heritage and Willbrook Plantation

         Love and frustration define holes at Heritage, a superb plantation

course.  Some difficult forced carries and deceptive shot choices, puzzling

even after a number of plays.  Bermuda greens with subtle breaks right

at the hole are a part of the test here.  Three hundred year old oaks,

emotion-laden plantation history, lowland humidity, cobalt sky with drifting

puffs of cloud, alligator ponds, a killer course with deceptive shot choices

and potato chip shaped greens in the burn of summer.  A genuine taste of

the South Carolina low-country golf experience.

         Willbrook is another definitive plantation course with moss

laden oaks, meandering stream and dark reflective ponds on grounds

replete with historic markers to recall details of the old plantation life.

You don’t want a ball in the sweaty, snaky, insect-infested wetland.

Nor do you want to miss the feeling of a golf round in the setting golden

sun on the idyllic last day of a great pair of weeks.  I played nineteen

full rounds and nine more holes in twelve days of golf, not a trip

record, but more than satisfying.

Dylan is as Dylan does

from this week in June, 1978 (I was 33)

                          Dylan is as Dylan does

         Bob Dylan just finished touring Japan and Australia.  From what

I’ve read, he was well received, particularly in Australia where he

featured new arrangements of old works.  Rolling Stone reports he

has three albums ready for summer release (two in Japan) and will be

launching a European tour after completing a seven night warm up in

Los Angeles.  New music is to be introduced on the tour.

         I find all this entirely appropriate.  As much as I’d like to hear

that he had pulled up his Winnebago next to the little bar in Sunol, and

that his crew was unloading equipment, and this guy had been sent by

Dylan himself to tell me to come down the hill for the little show, I think

it good that he has chosen to assert his international stature instead.

People are going to listen to Dylan a hundred years from now, so there’s

no reason they shouldn’t listen to him now.

         I have not heard, however, that he has planned to join the Bill

Graham tour of the Soviet Union.  It is obviously important that he play

there.  Certainly ambassador William G. has thought to annex Robert Z.

for the Moscow connection.  After all, we already know how well Jimmy C.

likes him.

I went to the zoo today

June 16, 1971 (I was 26)

I went to the zoo today

first time in awhile

I even walked the midway area

and was attracted to a side show

IKON THE INCREDIBLE

An Electrifying Emotional Experience

it said and I paid my money and went in

Pitch dark

and there was a hairy guy

huddled in a glass box staring back at me

and I didn’t know what to do so I left

The sun made me squint

and I felt somewhat hollow

and people were looking at me

like I looked at him.

-see zoo freak’s piece June 14

Metaphorical Weapon

June 15, 2013 (I was 68)

           Metaphorical Weapon

My grey T-shirt pictures a stand-up Royal

typewriter with the inscription “Blunt Object”

It’s from the Newseum in Washington D.C.

On the paths of the sports park

I get blunt stares, eyes turning askance,

puzzling grimaces I guess of exasperation

Many at their phones miss it

Someone my age passes

eyes not good enough to read it

It would have been funny as hell in 1968

and if Nixon had seen it in ‘73

he would have said, “No shit.”

poem by freak in zoo

June 14, 1971 (I was 26)

poem by freak in zoo

They come to see me not by plan but by style

and their faces look so sickly

hidden behind a struggled smile

Betrayed by Curiosity hurriedly they pass

and I try to show them a soul

with my face pressed against the glass

They follow the call of Calliope out the canvas door

and they forget the wasted ticket

lying on the sawdust floor

I sit alone again now in my corner of the zoo

and wonder if there is anything more

a freak can hope to do

  -coming June 16, response from zoo visitor

The essence of memory recreates the details

June 13, 2014 (I was 69)

The essence of memory recreates the details

as needed to sustain the story

nuance to ensure the progression of events

will lead to an understanding

of whatever the memory meant

Chips cashed so we can see the money

the pony in the corral at sunset

a reason for the life beneath the tombstone

There is the lost trail in the woods

and there is the bright view from the mountain

I had thought the world moved smooth

from this week in 1973 (I was 28)

I had thought the world moved smooth

but it’s all fits and starts.

Oh it probably pirouettes on its axis

and it probably takes a year around the sun.

What I’m talking about is progress.

When I was young progress was our important product,

and it was never an old product.

It had just been invented yesterday

or it had been improved today.

it started in a barrel,

proceeded through various cardboard boxes,

plastic containers and now comes in an aerosol can

which explodes if you heat it

poisons if you inhale it and irritates if it contacts.

If it doesn’t do it better, it is more convenient.

You would think all this would make movement smooth,

but it just seems to make standing still more comfortable

or un-noticeable.  Some even say we’ve digressed.

Now I hear Perfection is our most important product,

and when things are perfect, people will be happy.

Imagine that.

Wild Wing Plantation, The Falcon course

from this week in 2005 (I was 60)

                  Wild Wing Plantation, The Falcon course

    The front nine is okay, some repetitive, back and forth holes in seemingly typical Rees Jones style.  Fairway bunkers in series on either side and sometimes in progression from one side of the fairway to the other.  One trap leads to another if you’re not out cleanly.  The course was in very good shape considering last night's warm rain that dissipated during our first three holes.  My game also had a dreary start.

          Don Brown’s witty chatter in an Irish brogue (as real as magic) and the diminished showers, brightened my demeanor and put me into the game.  Clouds parted to blue skies after the third hole.  The back nine had interesting mounding that created a stadium effect on a number of holes.  The course also moved through some scenic wooded areas of pine in a nice atmosphere of seclusion.

         We rode up to the 18^th tee box to see four large birds perched near the markers.  At first I thought they were statue replicas; the four courses here are named for birds.  But, here there was a falcon (or large hawk) and three turkey vultures.  Soon we realized the hawk had a squirrel pinned to the ground.  The vultures were looking for an opportunity.  They held still until we stepped from the carts.  Then the hawk flew off with the squirrel dangling from its talons.  It evaded the vultures maneuvering through the pines far off into the distance.  This round of golf instantly moved into the realm of the memorable.

Volume on the classical station is minimal

June 10, 2012  (I was 67)

Volume on the classical station is minimal

Debussy’s Saint Sébastien dies quietly

Deflated puffs of musical notation

escape like bird notes from a tree

or like the wind chime of leaves and twigs

delicately differing tree to tree

I recollect and recount another

variant of my walk in the park

where I interrupt the lustful chittering

of a pair of brown squirrels in a cherry tree

They cease their coquettish flittering

to perch and watch me watching them

I see them wonder if I will keep them subdued

in this blossoming tree or if I will preferably please

move on to leave them about their cherry business.

I drove to the library

June 9, 1975  (I was 30)

I drove to the library

past a kid squatting at the roadside

surrounded by tools and the rear flat

of his ten-speed.  At his age

I’d have never got it together.

I returned some books

scanned the headlines of the papers

and drove back thinking I’d load the bike

into the van and give the kid a lift.

There he was tightening the last nut.

I stopped anyway and told him why.

I asked how long it took him.

He smiled and said he didn’t know.

I said good-bye, he said thanks anyway.

Early on I knew I was on Earth

June 8, 2013  (I was 68)

Early on I knew I was on Earth

to learn humility

I’ve been given so many opportunities

early on I suspected

I’d never quite get the hang of it

Over the years I’ve grown to accept that

We are all limited in our talents

No matter the effort the perseverance

there are some goals

that remain unattainable

The problem is my perception

that what’s missing was of essence

Heather Glen and Glen Dornach

June 7, 2006  (I was 61)

Heather Glen and Glen Dornach -Little River N.C.

         Heather Glen was a challenge in an enchanting setting.  It

was in excellent condition in spite of last night’s lightning that

literally exploded a tree to shreds all over one fairway and green. 

In testimony to the maintenance, most of the fairway, and all of

the green had been cleared by the time we reached them at

9:30. The greens were as good as I’ve seen here, true rolling

Bermuda. The twenty-seven hole layout is secluded and woodsy,

no houses on the entire course.   

         Sister course, Glen Dornach is supposed to be the premier

track of the Glens group, but for me, it’s second-fiddle to Heather

Glen.  Still, it’s also a scenic course, and it’s a win-win discussion

of preference.  It was a sun-filled day with great coastal waterway

views, lots of boats and jet skiers.  The front nine had a few

low-lying holes that had some musty Bermuda greens and soggy

spots in the fairway.  The layout is quite original, a few holes

bordering on the diabolically tricky side. What a pair of courses,

with surprises in vista and architecture, and especially pleasing

if aesthetics are as important as scoring!

D-Day

June 6, 1969  (I was 24)

D-Day

Men met in bars

to again take up

the question of why

they did not die.

Their sweetest eyes

were not punctured like purple grapes;

they were not buoyed-up

by lungs knotted at the throat.

Now beads of sweat crystal

in their few black hair;

they nod and muscle shut their lips.

Between tender sips of old-fashioned

their eyes clank among the cubes.

My mother was on the Village Council

June 5, 2011  (I was 66)

My mother was on the Village Council

She first ran when I was twelve

I didn’t know she was going to do it

My wife is on the City Council

Been married twenty-five years before she ran

I didn’t know she was going to do it

I know I did not cause it

Forget the psychology of the subconscious

or purposeful co-incidence

It was not my fault

Really

I could never stand to sit

so long in long meetings

my mother to decide where the one

new street light would go

exactly

my wife to study survey consider

cross-town routes with freeway access

and judicial zoning to include affordable housing

but both of them mostly

to confront the guy whose pit bull broke

through the fence again

That man invented the clever light

from this week in June, 1977  (I was 37)

That man invented the clever light

because he could not hear the wires sizzle

The lady danced because she liked

clothing trailing the wind she made

Tough guy wrote books with and about

the shrapnel in his crotch

Paintings are painted of horses and violins

because they taste good to him

The caveman heaves a rock

Ponderous duck with broken foot

swims circles in the pond

The significant scare themselves out of it

That man will light it 

That lady danced it in a breeze

That pug put it in prose

That horse has splinters in his teeth

That primitive retreats hungry to the rocks

to learn a new technique

Within the dark crevice something crackles

Over his head the first bulb goes on

without a sound and weak as it was

anything not dark was bright