When the self-addressed stamped envelope

from this week in 2015  (I was 70)

When the self-addressed stamped envelope

returned marked Rejected

or so stated in curt form letter language

I thought they meant the enclosed manuscript

But I was young and it was so much more

They rejected the very idea that it was worthwhile

for them to take the time to put it in the SASE

distasteful to moisten the glue to seal its fate

But they did it because it was their job

In the end they felt they had the final word

from some anonymous writer even if they had not

I may have learned to repay rejection with rejection

It is an easy thing to learn

At the farmers’ market an unsavory acquaintance

is easily ignored among the selection of peaches

The committee to draft a mission statement

doesn’t miss a missing member

The syllabus should not require dinner at the professor’s house

It is a presumption beyond the scope of course description

Reunions should be as brief and meaningless

as the memories they rekindle

From a balcony on the 5th floor

June 29, 2010  (I was 65)

From a balcony on the 5^th floor of Keauhou Beach Hotel overlooking tidal pools, fish pond, restored heiau and lava coastline:

         A native cultural activity is in progress, a small group, most moved like locals.  They brought bundles of green reeds into the water to soak, then pounded them with rocks at the shoreline.  They peeled them lengthwise into long strips.  Two young Hawaiian girls washed an assortment of gourds inside and out and left them on the grass in the sun.  The man leading the group, guiding what they did, was possibly the young girls’ father.  As for guidance, the group though mostly haoles, needed little, and each was soon engaged in their particular task in proximity to the others, but with plenty of individual workspace.  None of them saw me smoking on one high balcony among so many others. 

         At one point the leader, lying prone on the lava with his lips near the water’s edge, seemed to stare into an opening or possibly into the tidal pond.  Then his quiet voice could easily be heard chanting Hawaiian syllables even at my three to four hundred yard distance.  I realized his voice was resonating through a chain of mini lava tubes.  Some from the group lay with ears on the rock, obviously to experience the reverberating acoustic effect.

         The chanting ended, some settled into serious braiding and weaving with their strands of reed.  Others tired of the project or the heat and wandered off with their materials.  The leader carried his stuff up the lawn past some hammocks toward the parking lo-.  Did I forget to mention the interesting feeding display among the schools of tropical fish in the clear tidal pond directly beneath me?  I must have been preoccupied.

Marsh Harbour G.C.

June 28, 2000  (I was 55)

Marsh Harbour G.C.   Calabash N.C. -morning

         Another great round at a course whose attraction is natural beauty unadorned and tamper free.  It is interesting that most guys in the group find this the most appealing course after playing such a variety of modern sculptured ones.  Architect Dan Maples’ best work seems to create interesting avenues for fairways among the trees and waterways with minimal disruption.  I like the thinned trees that define borders with scattered pine needles underneath as the primary rough.  Even with some spotty greens, apparently attacked by some type of fungus,  the scenic variety and the build-up to dramatic finishes on both nines makes this the best we played in terms of bang for the buck.  Sparse summer play by locals makes for the seclusion of a private club.

Sea Trail –Reese Jones Course  -afternoon

         Dan Bachelder and I stopped into the real estate office to pick up some brochures and spoke to an agent for less than 15 minutes.  When he learned we had a tee time, he called the pro shop and compt our round.  Nice.  After all the golf in the past weeks we were too tired to focus on serious play.  The day was warm, we were relaxed as we recalled memorable moments of the trip.  Dan Stevens came upon a six-foot alligator that eyed him from the lip of a fairway trap he was in.  After ignorant re-assurances from the rest of us, he hit the shot (quite well) as we took pictures.

rhubarb poem

June 27, 1970  (I was 25)

        rhubarb poem

Each summer in a neighboring yard

rhubarb stalks folded their green umbrellas

to squeeze through the picket fence.

I followed the dry transition from leaf to leather

and awaited a moment of divine inspiration.

Rhubarb is swiped alone.

There’s no camaraderie in it

not like the apple trees watched by gangs

in anticipation of darker raids.

This is spontaneous crime, second degree

decided just after dusk, too light to go home

but night enough for fear,

a shock to make fence jumping easier.

Two three four stalks snapped and out

and up the alley before a thought of freedom

so sweet and tart, sour celery dipped in sugar. 

If I were editor

June 26, 1974  (I was 29)

If I were editor

I would have no friends

I’d stick ms’s together with gum

and send them home to papa

My rejection notice would say

Fuck You

-don’t waste our time

If I were editor I would have no friends

I’d read with teeth

clenched and pores open

Then when something blew my jaws

I’d know and I’d lay the thing out in Braille

and touch it completely   

We can easily imagine because we’ve seen

from this week in June 2013  (I was 68)

We can easily imagine because we’ve seen

the film running backwards

The diver emerging from the pool

to somersault upward and delicately

landing on the tip of the springboard

The full bloom rose withdrawing to bud

A poker dealer plucks cards out of the air

to snap them back on top of the deck

Though as readily available on the reel

we don’t do as well to mentally picture

the baby restuffed into the womb

feet first

And how many redirected images

swarming ants feet doing a jitterbug

breathing the pianist the drummer

in fact the whole damn orchestra

even orbiting planets and drifting stars

congressional speakers

seem not to change at all

no matter how we run the film through the projector

Ordeal number one

June 24,  1973  (I was 28)

Ordeal number one

life is a terminal disease you say

who cares says I

I am tired of your crying

The woman you left says Who the fuck cares

just quit coming back

I’ve got this life to live while you die

And you say Oh if someone only loved me

Oh if someone only chose me

Oh I should have been a priest

So go sit in a confessional

and turn brown

No one will see or smell the beer

behind those heavy curtains

Maybe you can find it in your heart

or in your religion

to forgive us all

Emily Dickinson in Pleasanton

from this week in June 2013  (I was 68)

   Emily Dickinson in Pleasanton

I’m somebody.  Who are you?

Are you somebody too?

Could there be a pair of us?

Nobody told me so.

How dreary to be no one

how rural, like a lout

with a name unheard the livelong June.

The very idea makes me pout.

Yosemite Valley

June 22, 2004  (I was 59)

Yosemite Valley

Entering the valley down highway 120

upon reaching the floor and the Merced River

Dylan sang Forever Young

in both versions from Planet Waves

We stopped at the chapel

Where our small marriage began to grow

twenty-five years ago 

I left the car windows open

We entered the building

wept smiling                 

and reaffirmed a vow

that needed only eye contact and hands squeezed

We found another couple

to take our picture on the chapel steps

where the view of Yosemite Falls

is a natural reminder

of the power and fragility of permanence

In a plain envelope

June 21, 1969  (I was 24)

In a plain envelope I received

a ten-dollar bill  A note said

Here is ten dollars If you

don’t want it send it to some

one else  I suppose it was

from a rich person but I hope

a car mechanic sent it

I burned Veblen’s Theory of

the Leisure Class

The People’s Market opened

You get a punch card when

you buy your groceries  After

you spend $600 a family

of four is entitled to a

really fantastic meal in

their restaurant

Rampant socialism

-Smoke along the window playing…

June 20, 1994  (I was 49)

         -Smoke along the window playing…

First came the smoke of self discovery

         The electricity of mysticism has dissipated in the length of the wires

         No spark jumps from the finger of God.

Then the smoke of creative expression

         Creativity is not knowing

         who thought of it first let alone who did it better.

Smoke in political conviction

         Focusing on the work of a small planet is feasible to the young

         who can’t see the size of the system nor feel the heat from the center.

Smoke as artistic movement

         Repetitive habit is called virtuous by the kind

         the patronizing and the blind.

Smoke of social service

         The tolerance of age is not so much wisdom as it is

         fatigue impotence and indifference.

The sun was shining behind me in the morning.

June 19, 2005  (I was 60)

The sun was shining behind me in the morning.

I drove the wagon down the dim low spot in the road.

What rains had been were not here now.

The descent was not steep, the shade was cool,

the mud not deep, I tracked us steadily through.

The sun promised itself on the slope ahead,

warmed our backs; sweat beaded our hair.

Forward the bright inclination soon glared in our eyes.

The wheels threw dirt then clay; the hillcrest lay in shadow.

We got stuck in my ignorance; the sun is setting.

The path behind is golden, our destination dark.

It’s a cool despondent night of frustration and fear.

With cold resignation we gather wood for fire,

eat canned food with plenty to drink.

The stars perforate our thoughts with light,

recognition of our comparative good fortune and a plan

to push the wagon to higher ground at dawn.

The world is so designed

June 18, 2011  (I was 66)

The world is so designed

to provide little beyond need

that may be gained sans treachery

Gold panned cold from mountain streams

is more surely attained by thievery

Easier to polish an idea than think it

How to be cheated a first lesson learned

to swallow pain in the heat of shame

to know rust is the heart of trust

The teacher teaches how to take

from any with any to give

and to learn our best gift is hunger

If you buy groceries in Sunol

June 17, 1978  (I was 33)

If you buy groceries in Sunol you buy them at Ben’s

it’s a lesson in the cost of convenience

to learn to pay his prices gladly

Time is the main thing Ben deals

When Ben does business quietly

he is out of sorts

One uncharitable might say disinterested

Still most often he’s flashing gold from the teeth

Knowing you Ben will joke and flirt with your young cousin

and ask how things are with your work

And when someone calls to him

Hey Chink, where’s the beer?

he hands over your bag and thanks you

before showing him where

Tiger’s Eye golf course at Ocean Ridge Plantation, NC

June 16, 2006  (I was 61)

                Tiger’s Eye golf course at Ocean Ridge Plantation, NC

         After last week’s wet play the fairways and greens have firmed up, cut to quickness with punitive subtle breaks. The maintenance on a course of this caliber for under $55 is incredible, a truly superior value.  I partnered with Dan.  He shot a 70, two under par from the back tees, beating his previous best by five strokes.  Awesome, five birdies.  All of us present were in agreement; we’d rather shoot 70 than have a hole in one. 

         Later Dan said he would never have done it if he was cart-partnered with JD, as it is JD’s style to talk trash and get inside a competitor’s head.  Instead, he appreciated my realization I ought to just play my game, maybe with more subdued commentary.  In part yes, but Dan’s play re-awakened me to a most satisfying pursuit in golf, to attain a meditative state through precision in physical action.  I bettered my front nine 53, with a back nine of 42; not a great total score but a valued lesson.

         In the afternoon, TP’s foursome traveled to Avocet at Wild Wing to cash in a rain check.  Four played Heather Glen in the usual golden warmth and magical light of late afternoon.  Four relaxed and packed for the morning flight home.  A most memorable trip. 

When I was told so long ago

June 15, 2011  (I was 66)

When I was told so long ago

Appreciate your youth it will not last.

I believed and did as I was told,

lay on my back to look at the blue

and the clouds and appreciate.

Loved what I had and so valued it

I put some of it on deposit in the bank

Now so long from then I still withdraw

beneath contorted cloud, that boy to thank.

Every action shrinks the noun that made it

from this week in June 2014  (I was 69)

Every action shrinks the noun that made it

as Genesis shrunk the god to creation

quite a price for recognition

a defining of the Word

by saying what it did

Once that story starts

you can blame the author for anything

In every incantation is a mispronunciation

Every testament a singular perception

Turn the corner or come round the bend

June 13, 1994  (I was 49)

Turn the corner or come round the bend

to feel wind in the face blowing a pace

not felt from behind.  Disconcerting to find

our movements of skill and grace

were artificially aided by wind at our back, 

Like the buoyancy of water

a levitating wind we were carried upon

and ran upon by choosing the path of the current,

the path of gravity unimpeded

until a friendly eddy brings us about

against the surprising force of the flow.

Facing the wind, fronting the wind

breath is filled with what is in the air,

lungs full with the forced inspiration

as when faced with an uphill climb.

But there is no hill, only the passage of time

a change in direction and the resistance of wind.

Wind builds strength in the body 

but each new turning toward resistant direction

requires an energy of unexpected intensity,

causes a pained exclamation from the thighs,

acknowledges in wry recognition less than surprise

the spiraling passage pulsing in sinew.

I watch migrant workers tending crops

June 12,1972  (I was 27)

I watch migrant workers tending crops

row upon row they are bent over

strawberries cauliflower or cabbages

They arrive in buses condemned by state schools

The fenced fields are crowded by housing developments

Beyond the chain link is an apartment swimming pool

The last furrow borders a shopping center parking lot

These will be the final seasons here

The sun bakes dust  The workers wear straw hats

and neck cloths  Eight sheds with screen doors

stand in the center of the dry acreage  The bus

is parked there  The workers move

up the rows without straightening their backs

Local women wheel produce from Safeway

to their station wagons  Cars laugh by and leave fumes

If I stand here long I’ll feel suspect and dizzy

I can’t quite believe the mix  Business as usual

I Call My Name

from this week in June 2016  (I was 71)

         I Call My Name

Chachalacas with maracas

Out of sight Bob White

Never fear the imperative Killdeer

as he rarely does

Odd wit with Godwit

Not still the pill-will-willit

Self-accused cuckoo

Whip-poor-will poor Will

Flick flick flicker

like an old lighter

Chickadee dees from chickadee

and warbles from the warbler

Kiskadee kiskadee flycatcher

Feebly Phoebe calls phoebe

Pewee pee-widi Pee-oo

Hey hey Stellar Jay (who can talk hawk)

Where pipit flies pipit cries pipit

So doth the flock

Practice writing exercise

June 10, 1985  (I was 40)

Practice writing exercise #2. p.202

from John Gardner, The Art of Fiction*

a.         The aluminum Greyhound pushed the fog from the curb, the air brakes discharged, the door swung open and a thin man in a faded trench coat paused on the step over the curb.  Her red skirt, her red wool jacket, and the red square hat, accessorized by her lips her nails, leather bag and red shoes, caused him not to see his own feet miss the step.  He fell forward toward her then caught himself with a quick stutter step, extending his arms toward her as a minstrel might to end a song.  And she laughed once and clapped her hands together to realize the fall and appreciate the recovery all at once.  He looked up to her and red heat spread across his forehead down his cheeks and neck.  He straightened and walked past her.  Fog spiraled before him, red morning sun burned above.

b.         He held onto the vertical hand post above the step to descend to the door.   The bus swung to the curb; the air brakes hissed.  As the door opened he skipped down the step. He saw her standing there, red figure in the lifting fog.  He missed the step and fell toward her, arms thrusting toward her; he recovered with a quick step. She laughed.  She clapped once.  He stood erect and looked at her.  His lips moved like an echo and she looked at him.  He stepped past her to walk up the hill.  He moved quickly.  Red fog rose from the street, lifting off the morning.

c.         There is the transference of the red color.  There is the falling off the last step of the bus.  It is morning in the city with the fog burning off.  She is the woman attired in red standing in the lifting fog at the bus stop.  The bus is stopping, the brakes are wishing, the door is opening and it is seeing her standing there in red that is not seeing the last step.  There is the diving forward at her laugh and her clapping hands, and there is the transference of the red color with the recovery and standing before here with nothing to say.  And there is the sun on his neck becoming a halo while he walks and does not turn back.  
         *Vintage paperback, 1985, © 1983

In this time of electronic takeover

from this week June, 2013  (I was 68)

In this time of electronic takeover

my sense of reality is reduced

to non-human nature

The prevalent electronic self-construct

of manipulated image

to intentionally create false impression

reinforces my ingrained mistrust

Nobody believes the advertised message

Often its opposite is more truthful

It is a distasteful reality of social identity

Without an imposing mega-nature

I might get caught up in dialog

of what we have electronically become

The universe has ultimate implications

Other planets come out of hiding

but I exist on this one and it is breathing

in the woods at the lake on the hill

down in the valley near the river

at the sea on the island hiking the volcano

that always convinces me to acknowledge

an identity that defines itself here

Caledonia Golf Club Myrtle Beach SC

from this week in June 2009  (I was 64) 

           

                   Caledonia Golf Club Myrtle Beach SC

         Today the course was the most scenic we’ve ever seen it.  It was vibrant in floral colors against lush greens of the forest and the fairways.  The creeks and ponds were varied shades of blue under the changing skies.  The maintenance crew had it in impeccable shape.  New Tifdwarf Bermuda greens were in excellent condition and very fast.  Seeing it again refreshed the memory of a layout with an impressive variety of holes and challenging fun play.  It’s obvious that the steady diet of evening rains have benefited every course we’ve played this year.  No carts allowed in the parking lot was a minor aggravation.  I skipped afternoon play but Dan went out alone to play Thistle, always a treat during the golden hours of dusk.

If you do

June 7, 1972  (I was 27)

         If you do

If you have it

put it out there and let’s have a look

step away and let me hold it

in my own private hands

Experience is an energy transfer

Intimate transfers are immediate exchanges

an understanding is reached

The foundation of universality is the intimate bond

and it don’t take much mesh to make a net

From a distance it looks like a blanket

The artist is not judged with his art

he’s got to fish tomorrow

no matter the catch today

So set it out and let’s have a look

Eng. 225 3cr.

June 6, 1968  (I was 23)

Eng. 225  3cr.

The too young professor of English

PhD Stanford

studied cynicism in tweed

now professes Shakespeare polysyllabically

and organically of course

abhors the theatre

and women educators

of both sexes

fluctuates between

Tillyard and G.W. Knight

Flying Dutchman and Newports

and discusses The Winter’s Tale

the night of Bobby Kennedy’s death.

Notes for an Undelivered Address to Class of ‘86

June 5, 1986  (I was 41)

Notes for an Undelivered Address to Class of ‘86

You have had taken from you

the idealistic belief that your country

exists to do right and to support freedom

both collective and individual at home,

and by good example and good faith

to support it abroad without intervention;

to support the right the good and the free

to any disadvantage, cost or accusation of naiveté;

to uphold the principle.

You have had taken from you

the belief that your country

values the individual of its citizenry

values the equality of humankind

beyond political advantage or mere expediency

beyond bartering with the natives or for the natives

beyond class distinction and cultural rape

beyond archeological digs through ghetto squalor

to plunder historic splendor

You have had taken from you

the expectation of quality in all

but the most conspicuously expensive;

you have settled for overpriced fashion.

Religions are fashions;

Sunday aisles are fashion runways.

You have watched and listened

with the open hearts of youth.

You have had taken from you.

And I am too complacent

to tell you what to do about it.