The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

 

from this week in January, 1998  (I was 53)

 

The bottom of the hill resided in clear air

The ascending road climbed into cloud

The air wetter than fog and warmer

got under my collar as I walked

The sound of two rocks clapped together

hung loud and long

Someone else was on the way down

She passed by a hundred yards later

hurrying her pace to a clumsy trot

soon as I broke into her view

revealing her wordless fear

as if she had not also split my solitude

I knew the sound had been rocks

she plucked from a roadside land fall

Cracked together like experimental gunshots

I continued into my own invisibility

Rising deeper into thick illumination

the road undulated onto the invisible summit

The nearest oaks to where I stood were trees

The shapes beyond were something other

 

Some words hide in books

 

January 7, 1998   (I was 53) 

 

Some words hide in books

that hide themselves on less accessible shelves

in the darker parts of the library

Some words arranged in difficult combinations

seem never intended to find their way out of the dark

Beads of nearly foreign dna

rosaries of dead religions

non-sequential twists of syllables

Snakes of obscurity whose lairs are unknown

to even the chronic habitue of the stacks

and never once re-shelved by the oldest librarian

(whose only hobby is to make rice paper rubbings

from the tombstones of the unknowns

on her visits to small town cemeteries)

Risking the disrespect of their dead authors

I speak of their existence

Reclining Lady of Six-Eighty (2)

 

August 27 

 

   Reclining Lady of Six-Eighty  (2)*

The fabric of the canopy overhead

and lie of bed clothes around her

varies with the morning weather

and colored light dawning over her knees

 

I have turned to look upon her hidden

under a silvered veil of sheet

forehead, shoulder, knees in silhouette

slumbering in fog of sleep

 

And I moved that morning in sleepy fog

about my business with underlying hint

of familiar form beneath subliminal cloud

and rounded edges of reality

 

The perfunctory memory of the hand

working routine daily tasks

frees the mind to drift in search

of a familiar naked form

 

*From a series written from 1998-2001 (I was 53-56)

Reclining Lady of Six-Eighty (1)

 

August 26

  

   Reclining Lady of Six-Eighty  (1)*

Each morning the lady reclines

at the same angle of repose,

as I roll around the same curve

to bring her into view

 

I first see the left rear profile of her head

turned away from me in the pillow,

a curl on her forehead,

eyelash, tip of nose, satin cheek to chin

 

I turn upon her shoulder,

soft quarter of her breast

under which left hand has come to rest,

and other lies beneath, fingers over navel

 

The foliage suggestion of discreet bush

lies beneath and between thighs

which rise to smooth angular knees,

then pleasing drop of calf to feet

tucked under a verdant sheet

 

* From a series written from 1998-2001 (I was 53-56)

The perception of the act is the act

 

from this week in August, 1998  (I was 53)

 

The perception of the act is the act

The individual reality is the perception

Whether the act itself is an individual reality

is unknown beyond perception

 

Your perception of the act is one act

My perception of the act is another act

The perceptions involve physical equipment

light eye nerve brain

The perceptions involve intent

involve motive involve introspective capability

involve the weather

So the act itself

as a measurement of forces

is an unsettling exercise

 

Whether I acted out of obligation

Ignorance enthusiastic self interest

love self-defense regret or hope

is lost in the hard-polished stones of perception

in the blinding reflections off one another

It is necessary to know

 

August 16,1998  (I was 53)

 

It is necessary to know

the greatest Western religious truth

is the guilt of man

and the only sin is the sin of being.

We each change the environment

and our changes are unnatural

because we are aware of them.

Decisions made with self-awareness

are susceptible to contradiction.

The only redemption

is the oneness of all.

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).  

 

May 28, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Fatigue ought to be a reward, a gift

a welcoming offer of respite

when productive work is done.

It ought to be a surrender

soft as diminishing light

when the sun settles on the horizon,

acceptance of accomplishment

and promise of replenishment,

ache of muscles worked

toward more fine-tuned conditioning.

It ought to possess the mind

the way an artful poem settles

its sound and rhythm into wisdom.

 

It must then be a different weariness

I fight against to prolong the day,

unearned and unaccomplished

to feel so hollow and smell so dank;

my pores function differently.

I never felt this greasy

nor smelled so sulfurous.

If heaven is sought within

so must hell exude from same;

if I ask salvation

I ask in my own name.

Emily said there interposed a fly

 

from this week in May, 1998  (I was 74)

 

Emily said there interposed a fly

between her and the light

at a most inappropriate but perfectly ironic time

as if to let anyone who noticed know

the inconsequential accompanies the substantial

and only perception regards a difference

The fly detained by the glassy pane

cares less for the light than the freedom of flight

in the world beyond the bright barrier

awaiting the slightest opening to slip through

as did she to record the passage

foretold before the occurrence

I’m teaching again

 

from this week in May, 1998  (I was 53)

 

I’m teaching again

the little I know

about a few good poems

with enough disrespect

to get students to believe

they can do it themselves

and with enough love

to make them want to try

Nowadays I sit to write

 

May 11, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Nowadays I sit to write

with whatever purpose for initial motivation

knowing that it is only a game

to get me in proximity to paper

with a pen in hand

and that whatever will be written

has little to do with any thought

preceding the writing

It is a comfortable talent

something akin to navigation

by the seat of the pants

an aptly cynical metaphor

for an activity whose source

is conventionally considered to be

anchored in intellect

creation

 

March 26, 1998  (I was 53)

 

         creation

When no dog feels to bark

when phones are unanswered even by machine

when laughter is less than an echo

when the evangelical “Gees Us”

doesn’t do that anymore

when the silent internal voice

stops speaking

when the universe hums no wave

and nothing strives to call it music

when no tooth clicks upon another

no breath whistles

nor eye flutters

God may finally be

Once they begin to think about it

 

March 23, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Once they begin to think about it

all the poets know

the simple common images

make the strongest symbols

 

and they write about the dog bark

the rain and whistle of train in the dark

the brush of the cat against the pane

and a walk in the park to keep them sane

 

Once they feel the pattern of the scheme

and understand the stream of consciousness

is no more than the unconsciousness of dream

the image is greater than the theme

 

Making the boat emerge from the fog

is not figuring the because

but merely saying it does

What drives the boat is its chugging monologue

There must be a verb

 

February 25, 1998  (I was 53)

 

There must be a verb

situated between escapade and escape,

something to allow getting away

with a bit more seriousness of purpose

than frivolous adventure,

some search for perspective

where withdrawal requires responsibility,

a returning with the change in hand,

not merely with a picaresque travelogue

nor even a set of tactics

for springing the locks and riding the rails

to hideouts of abundant seclusion;

but with the change in hand.

Disgusted at the arrogance of the moralist

 

January 18, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Disgusted at the arrogance of the moralist

enraged with the smug elitist

surly toward the indecisive

perplexed at the protectors of the unjust

suspicious of the self-satisfied

bored with the indifference of the oblivious lovestruck

frustrated by hysterical paranoid young parents

exasperated by the pained and bashfully withdrawn

I wanna pull the plug on Rosie O’Donnell

put a bullet through Oprah

boil Geraldo in oil

and piss on the best of Jerry Springer

Who are these charlatan

flesh peddling Microsoft

bitches and bastards of the airwaves

Jesus saves product raves

that America obviously craves

Go down Hugh Downs

on Barbara Wahwah’s wah-wah

while waiting for Nicole Browns

and Katos to say

have you had your Juice today?

Non Parla L’Italiano

 

December 28, 1998  (I was 55) 

 

         Non Parla L’Italiano

The scattered sensibilities of long-distance travel

renewed realization that no one anywhere

speaks guide-book-slow

even the most obvious spoken words

are dialectically enunciated into in-coherence

In the fatigue and frustration

street signs disappear

behind ads cars people and onto buildings

Even compact luggage weighs heavy on the hip

while Rick Stev-ing the train and the metro

Immediate paranoia and embarrassment of cultural ignorance

Suspicions of being gypped because money

costs more than you think it does

eventually begins to yield to accommodations found

comfortable and reasonable and patient direction

a good meal and rest

Tomorrow we will not be tourists

We will be citizens of Roma

SPQR

The intolerable babble on pro football telecasts

 

from this week in October, 2012  (I was 67)

 

The intolerable babble on pro football telecasts

is easily muted and replaced with audio of choice

the Vivaldi channel off I-tunes for example

introduces a new amusing milieu

as does the big band jazz channel

Lyrical tunes may be apropos or juxtaposed

Nevertheless synchronous gems dazzle

more often than stale commentary

in stagnant format from tired announcers

and insipid remarks of sideline annoyancers

More remarkable the transformation of commercials

where carefully clipped images

carry context that doesn’t necessarily sell

My contribution to the talent gene pool

 

October 5, 1998  (I was 53)

 

My contribution to the talent gene pool

is marching tonight in practice

to the music of Zorro on the Amador field

senior Nathan and freshman Lauren

a week or so before the first field show

The band sounds strong this Indian summer evening

from our second story window three blocks away

I am proud to hear them define the moment for me

their public expression against my private reflection

During silences they receive criticism instruction praise

and the yard fountain resumes its melodies

a bus accelerates in arpeggio

the timpanic jet liner drones above Then the band

gallops out of the night under the pale moon light…

My 50% improvement by dilution is marching tonight

with a cadenced discipline and instrumental force

I hope will sustain heroic perceptions of self

Older vultures know

 

September 23, 1998  (I was 53)

 

Older vultures know

the invisible adversary;

lack of will makes the mountain,

and the updraft

once so exhilarating

brings fatigue of oxygen deprivation.

Missing wing feathers

destabilize flight;

beauty now,

a struggle for efficiency,

for continuity of thought,

physical resolve

against the strength of gravity,

shoulder tugging neck burning

weakness of heart.

I thought I was a town kid

 

August 24, 1998  (I was 53)

 

While I grew up I thought I was a town kid

not a farm kid or lake kid

not a highway kid

A town kid, though the town

was less than two thousand

and the closest city was eighty miles

and that was Duluth

A town kid didn’t have to know cows

didn’t have to catch fish everyday

didn’t have to hope a friend would hitch-hike by

 

Town kids knew sports

and hung out at the fields the rink

the bowling alley the Itasca theater

Everybody went to school in town

and everybody learned something about iron mining

The open pits are in town at the edge of town

along the highway ranging between towns and lakes

The pits  You do not imagine them vast enough

nor deep enough  The tires on the Euclid dump trucks

are taller than you  Looking from the edge of the pit

those big trucks look small traversing in and out

 

Sometimes it takes fifteen years to shift gears

even when you’re running without a load

I never had to churn the Guernsey nor convert a pig

into pork  I fry the fish if you bring it cleaned and scaled

The trucks were too big for me to fight

Hitch-hiking with a friend can be an adventure

You thumb alone out of love and off to school in Duluth

where there were town kids farm kids lake kids highway kids

and city kids  Some from Helsinki didn’t know anything

about iron mining but quite a bit about geography