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)   & June 24, 2000

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 indiscretion

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 have given up all my vices

from this week in June, 1973 (I was 28)

I have given up all my vices

and the day moves in a slow flat pace.

I have given up my glasses for repair

and I’ve found there is nothing to see.

I sleep sober and wake up healthy.

My dreams are innocuous haunts;

insignificant characters pull pranks.

I eat eggs toast and salad.

Maybe I’ll burn out my brain drinking tea.

Hollywood home of mythology

from this week in 2017 (I was 72)

Hollywood home of mythology

is how you answer the phone

How can I direct you is what you say next

Every moment there was a memory

I have tampered with ever since

re-lit the sets so to speak

remade the scary moments into spectacles

How can I direct you is what you say next

There is a department for everything

It is important to get everyone where they need to be

I didn’t know where I needed to be

a dilemma often encountered in a particular type of myth

and Hollywood had a home for it

Blunt Object

June 15, 2013  (I was 68) 

                   Blunt Object

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 a blunt stare from a woman with a big dog

Eyes turn askance from a lady with a little dog

Some puzzling grimaces I guess of exasperation

Of course many at their phones miss it

Someone my age passes by

eyes not good enough to read it

It would have been funnier in 1968

and if Nixon had seen it in ‘73

he would have said, “No shit.”

poems by freaks in zoo

June 14, 1971 (I was 26)

poems by freaks 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

  -written two days later…

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.

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