January 20
from this week in January, 2007 (I was 62)
Think back to a time you believed in myths
were a part of the myths you believed
The place you lived then was your true home
and home was another myth
the warmth and safety and assurance
That someone knew what to do
and someone understood why it was done
was something you believed
and the belief made it true
until you knew better
November 20, 2007 (I was 63)
Is it the command over another’s decline
that makes one age? It seems so.
Deciding what is to be discarded,
what was written that will never be read,
what in the closet will never be worn;
it makes one more than the specter of death.
I have discarded wardrobes of the soul,
eliminated expressions to a savable few.
The Grim Reaper is a heartless editor,
humility a byproduct of playing that role.
Where is the repository of life?
How careless of any Grand Design
to leave it to those left behind,
to one who may have read Sound and Sense
but survived only through expedience.
from this week in November, 2007 (I was 62)
Genius is not obvious in so many of us
and we know it before anyone else
So many of us adopt the guise of expert
which is what geniuses would become
if they focused I might be an expert
on licorice if I knew my anise from my extract
Many are those whose expertise is liquorish
The expert craftsman sells his craft
The expert sailor sails his craft
for the expert wholesaler who crafts a sale
and delivers the goods fit for the gods
to the expert and deserving do-gooders
among us focused but not obviously genius
from this week in May, 2007 (I was 62)
I don’t tell stories well but would like to
I either meander around the shrubbery
or blow the plot with immediate revelation
of anything relevant with nothing left to tell
I’m not keen enough observing details
of mechanical workings to teach the reader
the mechanism while showing how it works
Too impatient to know too eager to tell
And it takes me a long time to read
the life of another’s seamless fabrication
I inevitably ride some implication
right off the page in a reverie
that reveals the author’s genius
and forces me to pull the beast back on path
April 15, 2007 (I was 62)
Where Our Taxes Take Us
Somewhere April is the bitch of months
new snow whines to ice underfoot
sloppy spring stays coyly undercover
I have lived there and chose to leave
Now tax day
the sidewalks of Pleasanton fill with flowers
lavender blown from fragrant trees
I am royalty strolling the royal path
in the vernal warmth of prosperity
In the green zone of Baghdad
a roadside bomb blossoms
calyx of concussive smoke
odor of purple flesh scattered
over the stones in deranged disorder
across a path none would choose to walk
where one could bless a land frozen pure
and never comprehend a path of petals
March 17, 2007 (I was 62)
Yosemite -Under the bridge
water sounds wash away the years
rivulets into streams into river
waterfall falls falls down sheer rock
creasing at last the stony face
the rising spires rising rising
the domes snow capped and encapsulating
the valley below the meadow the forest
the thick trunked trees trees trees
whose needles whistle then whisper
Wind plays above and behind sounds of children
Dad Dad Dad look Dad look calls
the voice of my own son twenty years ago
and I look to see him poised on a rock
in the stream about to jump to another
but waiting for another dad to look and calling
Look Dad and I look for Dad to look
thinking he’s going to make the leap anyway
and you’re going to wish you had watched
March 4, 2007 (I was 62)
The string anchored at the entrance
ecnedifnoc rof saw htnirybal eht fo
awayto getbacktow here wewere
nufrof tsol tegot dedic edew ero feb
tub ydaerla ew wonk ll’ew reven og kcab
pointless more becomes it turn every with
to make ass umptions oft I me ord est I nation
…~llub eht tuob alla sti dne eht ni
February 13,2007 (I was 62)
non-participant
Spent so many years being the expert
It feels good to shrug and say I don’t know
I won’t touch a lottery ticket the state sells
to fund education (hah!) and crooks
I won’t pay for bottled water
no better than from the city tap
I won’t watch a commercial
with the remote in my hand
I won’t advocate pre-emptive military
strikes to secure oil
I won’t believe testimony procured
through torture and mental duress
I won’t trust an administration
that lies as a matter of policy
December 7, 2007 (I was 63)
thank god that’s over
There is a time when so many things can kill you
the walk to the clinic for a polio shot
or the smell of no germs in the waiting room
no girl looking at you at the dance
or worse yet the wrong girl looking at you
nice enough to sit next to in science
but not one you’d name your pillow after
tripping over second base trying to take the throw
her father answering the phone when you call
not knowing what the carburetor does
finding the head on the trout you ordered for dinner
Father Mc Ornery seeing you third in line for confession
as he strides from the sacristy smelling of holy water
to his half of the booth to hear half of the truth
The math teacher who says he feels like he’s failing you
when in fact he is failing you and at night
the infinity of stars making you sick
feeling each heartbeat counting each breath
nausea and insomnia rhyming with death
There is a time when so many things can kill
but fatigue brings the dream that only one will
December 2, 2007 (I was 63)
legacy
World War II excessively bent perception
as if war were an institution of right
where evil incarnate is defeated
and universal seeds of freedom are sown
It was hugely expensive
an awesome imposition on consciousness
Millions and millions in positive passion
became parents and their children came to know
the war ended the depression
It was the war to justify all wars
Hitlers lived in Asia Central America the Middle East
Chamberlains in long coats lurked in Congress
Fear itself is plenty to fear
Fear of dissent begot fear to dissent
Peace is seen as complacency
Proponents of divine prophecy expect Armageddon
will be disappointed if they don’t live to see it
Among the chosen they can point a final finger
at the fallen in their ultimate I told you so
November 18, 2007 (I was 63)
Kilkare Woods Cabin
Because we were young
we could live in a rented split log cabin
that leaked heat and sometimes sewage
from the jury-rigged joints of plastic pipe
strapped under the house in a decline
to settle underground into the septic tank
I’d reattach them and rake out the muck
Up a no-exit winding road into the woods
it most often seemed an adventure
in Sleepy Hollow or Sherwood Forest
an affordable daily vacation
a rural retreat for the kids and cats
too secluded for poverty
too exclusive for the rich
November 16, 2007 (I was 62)
Robert F.
It occurred to me to try to write
something playing off indifference
and desire. As soon as the idea
formulated, there was “Fire and Ice.”
Never mind on that one! It’s a poem
easily tossed into jr. high anthologies
but brilliant anywhere you encounter it
and for as long as you encounter it-
a precise bit of surgery.
I think I remember Frost was a pitcher
with a fast ball and a deceptive curve.
November 13, 2007. (I was 63)
global Illiteracy
I’ve never read your country
nor found it on a map
never seen a travel video
don’t know what religion restricts you
what politics suppress you
what customs you inhabit
or foods you will not eat
what resources you hoard
the prisoners you keep or kill
for the currency you coin
the neighbors you cannot trust
and all the others whom you fear
what artistry is attempted
ideas sanctioned to discuss
If I knew this about your nation
I could tell you were like us
October 27, 2007 (I was 62)
Other peoples’ children praise the Lord
with no sense of his humility
pass judgment knowing they are judged favorably
Other people’s children have body piercings
They wear hindrances through every sensory organ
and cut-away clothes to expose their tats
Other people’s children withhold their opinions
Their restrained considerations
Produce an impeccable silence
Other people’s children know the value of art
is determined in the auction house
The true critic is counted currency
Other people’s children realize introspection
creates the illusionary devil of self-doubt
and can lead to self-denial
No child of mine was ever like this
because other people are the parents
of other people’s children
from this week in September, 2007 (I was 62)
the king
It wasn’t like keys to the kingdom
It wasn’t owning Disneyland
more like a lifetime pass to one of the lands
admittance to a generational denomination
in the vast league of the arts
finding a representational voice of self
before the self had found its voice
finding a groove in the surface of time
that spiraled toward a positive future
and the first signpost on the vinyl road said
“Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true”
September 7, 2007 (I was 62)
Grandma’s Minnesota garden was done by mid September
July August were tending picking cleaning canning steamy months
long twilight evenings of joyful work filled basement shelves with jars
beans tomatoes corn on the cob pickled cucumbers raspberry jam
banana peppers green peppers red peppers and chow chow
Leaf lettuce carrots green onions and radishes were summer gone
Dry corn stalks still stood purchase for cold complaining crows
maybe a few potatoes yet to be dug Lilacs a patch of bare switches
dormant gladiola bulbs buried against the sinking frost
From the porch Grandma surveys the devastation
I don’t think I be able to do a garden no more
She said that for at least twenty years
The first frozen crystals ripple the surface dirt
grey as lake water before it all whitens for the longest of seasons
All winter the bright vegetables come up from the basement
empty jars stored on the bottom shelf along with the mud boots
to be worn when she tills away the final snow in May
July 31, 2007 (I was 62)
I’ve lost some of the prolific solitude
the Island has formerly imbued
the slow breath of summer surf
cautious steps on wet stones to Akaka Falls
to cast intent on flower and fern
and darkening damp deeper view
where from insect rhythms and volcanic drums
inspired lava flows onto the page
I’ve made the invitations
cleared the runway and opened the door
become a bus driver and tour guide
a distributor of discount coupons
purveyor of geography and revisionist history
turned love of place into a place others love
left tart tropical fruit in the sun
to taint and over-ripen until
only hovering bugs can enjoy it
I have not found a way
to dissipate the rush or stall of traffic
to point out the off-ramps that lead
to the back roads of the right side of the brain
to the calm of the hinayana harbor
where each small boat drifts on its own quiet current
toward the mahayana cruise ship of common purpose
July 3, 2007 (I was 62)
The designs for the contraption
so numerous as to confuse use and use
to find a contraction losing neither actor nor action
finding the sound while sounding the find
beat the progression of thought to mind
knowledge of meter not its name
attempting the shot is part of the aim
May 13,2007 (I was 62)
Last night during innovative fireworks on San Francisco Bay our party of 18 in a charter fishing trawler booked for the occasion, floated directly under the spectacle while KFOG wafted musical accompaniment over the boats. Many gathered for the luminous event. I had never before seen fireworks carried aloft by miniature hot air balloons. They rose among other bursts showering downward. All was choreographed to fit the musical selections. I hoped some young couple newly in love, was crossing the bridge to the city for the first time, while hearing Tony Bennett sing about losing his heart. And the night sky burst golden sparkles continuously all around them in wondrous frivolity.
March 4, 2007 (I was 62)
The string anchored at the entrance
ecnedifnoc rof saw htnirybal eht fo
awayto getbacktow here wewere
nufrof tsol tegot dedic edew ero feb
tub ydaerla ew wonk ll’ew reven og kcab
pointless more becomes it turn every with
to make ass umptions oft I me ord est I nation
…~llub eht tuob alla sti dne eht ni
