A Chinese lacquered bowl

from this week in July, 2011  (I was 66)

A Chinese lacquered bowl

            passes from one to another

old men with bony hands

            from which they measure

spoonfuls of white sugar

            She enters with swift grace

a blur of perfume

            the blue porcelain teapot

blowing plumes of steam

            From the veranda she hears

water slapped onto the dry stone

            and she imagines the dark boys

smelling of hair oil and talc

            beaching their boat on the rocks

in the deep black under the trees

            stirring an unmeasurable sweetness

Professional Care

July 30, 1970  (I was 25)

            Professional Care

Report all exclusions, transgressions and intrusions.

Replace that used for your transfusions.

Refrain from fried foods,

but retain sense abilities for future use.

Don’t drink fortified juice of any kind.

When you speak, be sublime

and you’ll be fine if you take one yellow pill

and a blue four times a day.  Still

you’d better see me next week

and I’ll peek down your throat

examine the sclerotic coat of your eyes-

just to be sure, you understand.  I’d be surprised

if the condition doesn’t completely dissipate.

At any rate, there’s no need to worry.

We’re in no hurry.  All the tests have shown

it hasn’t grown and couldn’t possibly be malignant.

The pain is psychosomatic, purely a figment

of your imagination.  Listen, I’ve got to be at the station

by four o’clock.  I lecture your case tonight,

and I’ve got to arrive for dinner at five.

Oh, and you probably shouldn’t drive.

Get some rest; try not to get depressed,

be thankful you’re alive.

And remember, if you don’t feel great

in a couple of weeks we can operate.

I’ve been back maybe six times

from this week in July, 2017 (I was 72)

I’ve been back maybe six times in fifty years 

Family buildings changed hands 

The one owned by my grandparents torn down

replaced by an empty lot 

No relatives live there 

None there likely to remember any of us 

Totally forgotten history leaves no mystery 

Petty distinctions that separated the citizens

accompanied them into extinction 

Not even the prominent ghosts leave the cemetery 

Five hundred feet of snow has melted through their souls 

The place I refer to as my hometown

a mere skeleton of the one I occupied

Bob Dylan has bad breath

from this week in July, 2017 (I was 72)

Bob Dylan has bad breath

used to be fresh as a new thought

now as stale as any old man in the park 

Quite some time ago he wrote his mother

to say he still brushed his teeth 

Now she’s gone and he may have stopped 

The newspaper on the bench has an ad for dental implants 

Every old item could use an extraction

stuffed with a wad of newsprint to stop the bleeding

before another toothless song mumbles out

The brief times I’ve done day labor

July 27, 2014  (I was 69)

The brief times I’ve done day labor

I was underpaid unless hired by a relative

and soon I learned to labor relative to the pay

If you bought my time to bore me

I accepted because I thought the job needed doing

If the work benefited only you

I never took the contract

Never found anyone who could afford me

Teaching was never like that

I often did it for nothing

and that was everything

Do first time smokers still laugh

from this week in July, 2017 (I was 72)

...It's been so long I don't know

Do first time smokers still laugh

uncontrollably at the absurdity

the shock of recognizing

preposterous perceptions commonly held

in every philosophical aspect of life

the hypocrisies ethical lapses

need for absolutes and absolution

so suddenly revealed in shameless nakedness 

Back in the day that initial burst of laughter

was first the relief of wondering

am I about to do something stupid

replaced by its opposite and wonderment

that you waited this long to try it 

The laughter of creative possibilities

billowing before us in aspects of artistry

insistent upon our attention

Dinner at Jackie Reys

July 25, 2006  (I was 61)

            Dinner at Jackie Reys

Another great dinner in a restaurant of price

If you can afford it retirement is nice

I can remember being happy to have rice

And a few vegetables to stir fry

was too a great dinner no lie

Keep a perspective don’t cry

I hope you have time to make it work

a chance to rise above the mire and murk

or else the option to go berserk

A fraction of satisfaction is fact

July 24, 2014  (I was 69)

A fraction of satisfaction is fact

tis a syllabic fracture of an action

an act that’s a type of truth

a faction of veracity I sat on

until it hatched here

What Can I Say, Read Bottle Imp First

from this week in July, 2006 (I was 61)

What Can I Say, Read Bottle Imp First

So now I have a Bright House

upon a hillside somewhat north of Hononau

Where Stevenson’s Keawe had his

Though Hibiscus Halè is less lavish

with a veranda but three quarters round

and fewer toys within

still it brings me joy to share with my Kokua

and it was not purchased from the bottle

with wishes expressed to the imp

It is nevertheless luxurious enough

by most standards of the world

to challenge the righteousness of ownership

It seems to want to share itself

in a hot land often coveted by personal greed

the contagious cause of the Chinese Evil

that spreads to devour all it touches

an isolation of complete abandon

unless one gives back in the spirit of Kokua

Misunderstanding your soft shape

July 22, 1971  (I was 26)

Misunderstanding your soft shape

under thin summer blanket stirring

and the delicate murmuring dream

into which I so easily slipped beside you,

my smoothest hand

drifted across the cover of your possible curves.

I believed the cooling lie

of my warmth against your thigh

and breathed your rhythms in colored currents

flowing from each sigh.

Then as the first bird called warning

into some distant morning,

you turned to deeper sleep

and I turned to philosophy,

hand stroking cheek unshaved this week.

more...Ballad of Johnny Mesabi

…more from the continuing

Ballad of Johnny Mesabi*

On the path of least resistance

Smooth downhill takes less persistence

Johnny soon knew his life’s station

Was to be one of pre-occupation

Johnny Mesabi stayed out of his war

Began to knock on perception’s door

Giggled in 3-D saw the bones of his wrist

Tumble into place as he gave it a twist

Johnny Mesabi hard alloy of iron

Forged in that cold steel environ

A skillfully crafted durable tool

Educated to shape a facet of our jewel

Inefficiently he read really good books

(How appetizing really good food looks)

Devised lessons in creative exploration

Tasty dishes of linguistic sensation

a series from journals 2001-2005

...more Ballad of Johnny Mesabi

…from the continuing

Ballad of Johnny Mesabi*

Johnny Mesabi child of ice

If he liked it once he did it twice

Knew if he exhaled he’d soon be old

Johnny Mesabi sucked in the cold

In the winter ya paid and paid hard

For summer escapes out of the yard

Deep in his head he always knew

Jumpin’ the fence’s the only thing to do

Blue lake pinewoods skate around the rink

Hollywood premier stars in mink

Back to the ore dump for a keg of beer

And on to Berkeley to tap a mystic seer

Johnny Mesabi was raised on The Range

Left twice to avoid being strange

When you leave people warn ya

“You’ll never stay in California”

But leave often enough and you will

Johnny did and he’s livin’ there still

You gotta settle where you feel strong

Then you can stay where you belong

Johnny Mesabi headed for the freeway

The Golden State gives ya the leeway

Disney Yosemite summer of love

Where the hawk flies the same sky’s the dove

Johnny engaged in the politics of hair

Taught in suburbs but couldn’t buy there

Started a family with less skill than luck

Planted rhymes so he wouldn’t get stuck

*a series from journals 2001-2005

The poetry of urgency

from this week in 1973 (I was 28)

The poetry of urgency

lives in an instant

flashes one life

in a single metaphor

at a singular moment;

a quick breath

at high altitude

in a land of no second choice.

On the forested trail of a moonless night

7/18/17   (I was 72) 

On the forested trail of a moonless night

cautiously ushered by dim flashlight

to emerge under the overwhelming dome of stars

on the open precipice of Halemaumau crater

where fuming pillars of volcanic smoke

rise a thousand feet in fiery spectral colors

and shapes to illustrate any imagined epic 

Down deep in the firepit caldera

demon monkeys leap over bubbling lava

and a distant hiss is part of the silence 

The spirits of many writers here in the past

still sizzle and their accounts spiral again

Though he may not have thought it

it may be Ferlinghetti’s rebirth of wonder

That man climbed his mountain

July 17, 1971 (I was 26)

That man climbed his mountain

with a prayer for a pack

and the peak rising in his eye.

He walked easily, rested where he sat.

On the first night he exhaled poison

resolved to be reborn every moment

and gravitated toward universal sleep.

Ascending winds of space cooled his feet,

rose with him up cold stones

to unconscious climbs,

each step exhaling past moment,

each moment a frozen blossom.

And as he breathed his sacred hum

under stars bursting from pulsing darkness,

the third day dawned on the summit

hot to melt his tingling skin.

Echoes of his roaring essence

entreated admission for his presence.

And as he viewed the peaks below

the mountain let him go,

finest powder with wind and snow.

That man’s gold

July 16, 1974  (I was 29)

            That man’s gold

All the nuggets collected by that man

as a form of insurance

a security against prospective boredom

and held in a leather lung

a breath away from a fear of suffocation

All these he carried back into the mountains

to be replanted one by one or sprinkled in the current

His comfort grew and his joy flashed downstream

A Few Notes on Tropical Birds

July 15, 2012  (I was 67)

   A Few Notes on Tropical Birds

In the prattle of the palms

above the general cheep and chatter

one bird says Achoo Achoo

or It’s you It’s you

You know what the rooster says

Another bird rants can’t can’t can’t

so dove does do do do

Two converse  Did you weld it up

I welded it up  Did you weld it up

I welded it up  Third says Well did

Did you see what Cerise eats

She eats cheese she eats

More specific listening delineates the general

into subtle individuality

Branches make me itch itch itch

A whole week’s worth of work if we stay

Eat eighty-three seeds eighty-three

Geeeeeze  Geeeeeze

Walk the talk walk the talk

delicious but all so repetitious

Oh for the love-a Oh for the love-a lava

Tom Taken

July 14, 1971  (I was 26)

            Tom Taken

Cross-legged on the porch at dusk

surrounded by trees and even the sky is green

Just now got the point of a blunt joint

A jay informs me and leaves

air so soft I don’t know whether it’s wind

or trailing breath of an extended limb

Mosquitoes shoot up on my arm and ankle

Randomly I kill them or let them bite and fly stoned

Kaleidoscope of leaves and vestigial branches

Calliope of dogs music and laughter in the canyon

Meditative melt from shadow play to star show

I’m perplexed and I just don’t know

how the rest of us just go on with the flow

after you’ve gone  And all of us still

taking you along

Medicine man mind your apothecary

from this week in July, 1970  (I was 25)

Medicine man mind your apothecary

your manners are atrocious;

your father knew better,

respect.

He’d never leave a customer

to stand unattended in some corner of the store

without so much as a good morning

or how can I help you today.

And you could see him mix the potions

and package them himself.

And you point, “Top shelf, middle of aisle D.”

When you left the store in the old days

it was known who was sick and what he had,

and you felt better

because the prescription was for someone,

even while he was preparing it.

Where the hell is aisle D anyway?

Yes.

You did feel better, and another thing,

small to you maybe-

you use these imprinted slick bags.

Your father used green paper

tied with string that came up through a hole in the counter.

Secure,

a package recognizable on the street.

A dollar seventy-three,

God, it used to be forty-nine cents.

Nobody calls you Medicine Man either,

do they.

We all called your father that.

Apothecary-

that sounded mediciney.

Pharmacist.

Sounds like a farm worker. 

Did you get my change right?

Oh, and don’t forget the Green Stamps.