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Inhumation

This poem, my 2nd hybridanelle, reflects on what it was like for me to be “inhumed” at the Camarillo State Hospital between 13 and 14. There I spent a year on the children’s unit, a locked ward with cinder block walls and heavily grated windows.

The title is meant to convey the sense of being killed in spirit, mind, and soul as well as the sense of being entombed (inhumed), alive only physically. I also wanted it to hint at the sense of being dehumanized (inhume—inhuman—dehumanize—inhumation), though this is not a denotive definition for the word. The scheme of indentation is meant to mimic the way a column of bricks is organized in a cinder block wall.

Inhumation

locked wards cower in the distant gloom;
grated windows pattern all my dreams;
heavy haze distorts my heavy mood.

        my eyes are weary of watching faded lights;
        i wait throughout the dismal night to hear
        the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.

                silence is an ever-present drone;
                tempered springs betray my slightest move;
                grated windows pattern all my dreams.

these cinderblocks enfold my spirit in lime;
interred in tomblike walls of concrete halls,
my eyes are weary of watching faded lights.

        thoughts amid this broken darkness brood;
        restless motions lurk within the shade;
        tempered springs betray my slightest move.

                this is the crypt where my rotting soul is set,
                thus laid to rest beyond that twilight hail,
                the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.

time is fractured into mental shards,
strewn against the darkness of my view;
restless motions lurk within the shade.

        and the images betray my heart with lies
        that flash against my mind as crumbled hopes;
        my eyes are weary of watching faded lights.

                here i watch them phase in empty hues,
                omens of a future laid in brick
                strewn against the darkness of my view.

this lucid static is comfort of a sort
that’s lost with every sunrise when i hear
the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.

        black within the slowly rising brume,
        locked wards cower in the distant gloom,
        omens of a future laid in brick;
        heavy haze distorts my heavy mood.

                i dread the sound that will end another night,
                a sound that seals my fate within this hell—
                my eyes are weary of watching faded lights—
                the call of a rooster just beyond my sight.

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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A Christmas Poem

I spent Christmas Eve alone this year. A month ago I was direct witness to a tragic, ringing loss that had eerie parallels to my own father’s suicide when I was ten. This makes it difficult not to feel pensive, reflective, and melancholy.

A Christmas Poem

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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To the Parent Who Committed Suicide

As scary and abusive as my father was, I still think I eventually would have found a way to reconcile with him in adulthood, had he not killed himself when I was ten. Though I’m not the most successful of individuals financially, I still think he would have been proud of who I became as a person. Somehow I’m certain of this.

Like many who claw their way forth from disadvantaged backgrounds, I often felt the urge and impulse to throw it all away to drugs, thievery—and much worse—as a way of dealing with feelings of impotence and inadequacy, as a way of lashing out at myself and the world. But instead I somehow chose to self-cultivate, slowly but surely, over time. A never ending process of ever evolving fruition.

If I were my child, I would be proud of him, knowing the impossibility of what he had to overcome both internally and circumstantially. And so sometimes I wish I could show myself to the father who left my world, who left life when I was ten, and enjoy even just a moment of his acknowledgment, his praise. The proud father of a survivor who learned to thrive in his own way.

I wrote this poem, my 19th villanelle, as I pondered what my father has missed out on. I know that he would have wanted to be here for this, to see me find my way. So as much as I lost him when he died, it seems like he lost me even more. I think this is the way with the suicide of a parent—The parent misses out on everything. The child adapts and ultimately finds his or her way, but the parent misses out on absolutely everything. It is the ultimate loss.

To the Parent Who Committed Suicide

You’ll never know what they will come to be,
The children of your heart who live without your love;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You’ll never share their triumph or defeat
And smile when again they rise with new resolve;
You’ll never know what they will come to be.

You’ll never comfort them in times of need
Or feel the subtle joy that always comes thereof;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You’ll never see them strive to meet their dreams,
The hopes within their soul they struggle to achieve;
You’ll never know what they will come to be.

You’ll never beam a parent’s prideful glee,
To see them find their way and how they learn to live;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

You lost them as you swung your failing feet,
And now you’re just a void that they will always have;
You’ll never know what they will come to be;
At best, you leave behind but stings of grief.

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Pestilence

Faith and conviction are powerful forces of human nature. They can work to heal and sustain an individual in the face of terrible trauma and adversity. But there is a dark side to this force. In the hands of dogmatists faith and conviction become a pestilence, rained down upon those who do not share their beliefs or who cannot adhere to their ideals.

There was a man who committed suicide. He was deeply religious and he strove with all his might to be what he was told was a good Christian. But when his personal writings were found after his death, it was discovered that he was homosexual. Outwardly there was no way to know. He was married with two children. Inwardly he lived in shame and terror. Shame at being something the dogmatists told him god despised and terror at the thought of spending eternity in hell. Eventually this torment drove him to his end.

I was on the outskirts of this disaster as it unfolded, listening, observing. Eventually I found myself overcome with rage at those who sent him to his death, and so I wrote to them. This, my 19th terzanelle, is written to all those who would use their dogmatic self-righteousness to destroy the hearts, minds, and spirits of others.

Pestilence

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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The Phantom of Wheeler Camp

This poem attempts to describe an experience a friend had with a ghost while out backpacking on the Lost Coast Trail, north of Fort Bragg, California. After researching the old logging town of Wheeler Camp, the place where her experience began, and backpacking to the site myself a couple of times, I got the feeling the ghost she encountered was a child’s ghost.

Using what she told me, what I sensed about the area myself, and what I gleaned from my research into the history of Wheeler Camp, I managed the following.

The Phantom of Wheeler Camp

I

The Child’s Life

The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder,
Hauled to the clanging mill that pays for his evening meals;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

Each morning rugged hands awake from slumber,
Heeding a daily call to climb the canyons and kill;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

How can a child teach his father wonder,
Who razes pillared hills, destroying enchanted halls?
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

The sentient forest beings fade in number;
Heavy machines befoul and ravenous saws defile;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

He dreams of ending all this senseless plunder;
His hope decays and fails, for no-one cares what he feels;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

His world is carted off as squares of lumber;
Helpless, alone, reviled, he grieves to no avail—
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.
 

II

The Child’s Ghost

Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.

In death he holds a grief which never falters,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter.

The loss has crushed his heart till nothing can soothe the hurt,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout.

Two thousand years of forest-song, melodic,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit.

Visitors sense his ghost, a subtle and somber guest,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist.

His anguish grew as all he loved fell wasted;
Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.
 

III

Decades Later

Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest;
Alders emerge from sleep and conifers climb the slopes,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

She wakes and walks beneath the new-growth foliage
With heavy-hearted step on trails where, defined and steep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

Dismay beyond her own fell just for moments
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment.

Her vision blurs with feelings strangely foreign,
A pain she can’t escape that distorts her mental scope,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A grieving spirit groaned within the molested ground,
Responding to the aura of her presence,
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned.

She stumbles home—her limbs grow weak and torpid—
Hardly able to cope where, as the semesters creep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

The very heart of nature stands attendance;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose,
Responding to the aura of her presence.

So few would guess the ancients all were corded
To see these living shapes in place of their eldership
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

The air around her sighs the whispering subtle soughs
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose.

Her thoughts are framed with images emotive,
An endless foggy drip and trails where the branches droop;
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

Long after mists have cooled the campfire embers,
A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

There are three poetic forms used here: Parts I and II are my 18th villanelle and terzanelle, respectively; part III is my 1st hybridanelle.

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Balancing Hook and Pan

She has two pen-names and she loves the movies Hook and Peter Pan. As I got to know her, I thought I’d write her a Peter Pan themed poem comprised of acrostics—from her two pen-names and her given name.

Balancing Hook and Pan

For Jenna Joslyn

Hook

Bitterness curled his hair and turned it black
Enveloped in a lonesome burning rage
Zealously he fights to kill his youth
Obsessed with flying taunts that haunt his rest
Aboard his galleon pirate ship he schemes
Relentless plans to ruin his lighter half
 

Pan

Absorbed in endless play and make-believe
Begrudging any hint of love or care
Serene he plays in trees and cotton clouds
Inventing games with boys who have no home
No memories can haunt his innocence
The thought of growing up is but a myth
He toys with shadows and with pirate ships
Endlessly anguishing his darker half
 

Wendy

Just when she learned about her hidden kiss
Entangled in a nest of doubt and dread
Never-land became her place to learn
None other than the truth she held within
A way to hold forever dear her youth

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The Release

We drove to Yerington, Nevada to visit the site where her father had died many years ago in a tragic accident. It took hours in the local library looking through the microfiche of old newspaper articles, but we eventually discovered the name of the abandoned mine he was exploring when he fell down a shaft to his death. We also learned a few other speculations about the accident that surprised us. It took nearly two weeks for him to be found.

Once we knew the name of the mine, it was just a matter of finding out where it was located. We drove into the mountains and got as close as we could to the old abandoned mine. Then we hiked. To our surprise, the mine had been collapsed. It turns out that after her father’s death, the City of Yerington decided the mine was too great a hazard to leave intact, so charges were set throughout the mine and it was blown up. This left a wide crater more than three hundred feet deep at the location of her father’s death.

We had her dog with us, who was not able to navigate the boulders down into the crater, so I stayed at the rim while she hiked down to its bottom. Once there, she knelt down, pressing her left hand to her heart and her right hand against perhaps the lowest-set boulder in the crater. At that moment the interior of the crater flashed several times, as if reflecting a powerful source of light, and my body went numb with tingles and chills. It was incredible. She found him, and somehow she set him free from that dark cavern where he died.

Later I reflected on this experience and wrote this poem, my 17th terzanelle.

The Release

For Bonnie

His shade is drawn from the earth by the light of his daughter’s love,
From deep in the crushing blackness, where he left his broken body,
Free at last from the silence to wander the stars alive!

He lost his footing and fell, in a moment of fatal folly,
Lost below in a mineshaft where no-one could hear his cries
From deep in the crushing blackness, where he left his broken body.

In time they found his remains; they had ferreted many days;
His carcass was raised from darkness, but his ghost remained enshrouded,
Lost below in a mineshaft where no-one could hear his cries.

He stirred in motionless airs while his loved ones were left confounded,
Gripped by senseless bereavement; his presence could not be felt;
His carcass was raised from darkness, but his ghost remained enshrouded.

His daughter held to the hope that she one day could reconnect;
She called to him in her longing to in some way touch his spirit,
Gripped by senseless bereavement; his presence could not be felt.

Her sorrow numbed and distressed, as a part of her heart grew frigid,
Held too long in a stasis where time had no way to soothe;
She called to him in her longing to in some way touch his spirit.

We come to find where he died, and the moment she nears his tomb,
The canyon reflects his spirit, a release from dim confusion,
Held too long in a stasis where time had no way to soothe.

And now with a touched amazement, I gaze on their bright reunion;
His shade is drawn from the earth by the light of his daughter’s love;
The canyon reflects his spirit, a release from dim confusion,
Free at last from the silence to wander the stars alive!

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In the Shade of Suicide

This poem, my 17th villanelle, reflects on the conditions and spiritual aftermath of my father’s suicide. I wasn’t there. My parents separated and divorced by the time I was born, and though I lived variously with both of them, at ten years old, when my father ended his life, I was living with my mother 260 miles away.

Sometimes, as the years went on, I’d try to imagine the circumstances of his death—What he felt, saw, heard, and pondered. What crushed him? Was it truly just his alcoholism? Who knows. But it did end in the dark of the Monterey County Jail drunk tank, an old building used for the purpose since the days of the old west.

In adulthood I’ve visited the jail, just to see it. And I could swear I sensed his presence there, all unheeding—Lost in the abysmal trap of its own self-pity and sorrow.

In the Shade of Suicide

steel bars seal the concrete cell
dim lighting casts a haze on everything
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

here unheard there sobs a secret weeping soul
the air is weighed beyond all comforting
steel bars seal the concrete cell

some can sense a lost control
regrets cascade and crush in heavy throng
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

year by passing year brief glances rise and fall
a faded figure sometimes seen to hang
steel bars seal the concrete cell

wrenched within their drunken pall
detainees wake to hear a gasping lung
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

violence born of sorrow echoes through the hall
the final act of him who kicked and swung
steel bars seal the concrete cell
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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not finding

Reading about Chan Buddhist perspectives and philosophies affects people in different ways. As I explored one such text, I found myself writing this.

    not finding

“what is it?”
        i ask a gray-haired man

without opening his eyes
        he holds up a broom
    i walk away shaking my head

“what is it?”
        i ask a bearded sage

without saying a word
        he points to the sky
    i kick the dust from my heals

“what is it?”
        i ask a balding elder

without any warning
        he raps me on the head with a stick
    i wander off rubbing a welt

“what is it?”
        i ask the cold abyss

without a moment’s pause
        something rustles in the dark
    startling my heart

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Raven

This is my 16th terzanelle, and the longest one I’ve written. This is also my first attempt to alternate between four meters in a consistent fashion. You should find that, starting with the second tercet, there is an interlocking pattern of hypercatalectic iambic pentameter, iambic pentameter, catalectic trochaic pentameter and trochaic pentameter. They’re all pentameters, but four different types woven together in a sort of braid. I was curious to see what the effect of this patterning would be. For the most part, I’m not unhappy with the results.

Raven

rugged feathers brush against my neck
something perches staunchly on my shoulder
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

it seems an ancient being shrewd and sober
black as empty space between the stars
something perches staunchly on my shoulder

i sense a stern reproach to all my fears
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses
black as empty space between the stars

with rigid countenance it keenly watches
game to see me through each anxious qualm
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses

it came from somewhere in the subtle realm
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens
game to see me through each anxious qualm

this spirit somehow heard my lamentations
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens

they soothe my grief in smooth or raucous chords
offered ever since they found me wailing
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds

this spirit and their spirits ever sailing
pass to me a gift of light and song
offered ever since they found me wailing

with rough and yet a clear enlightened tongue
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
pass to me a gift of light and song

whenever all is still i feel and hear it
rugged feathers brush against my neck
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

Ravens have been special to me my entire life. Everyone who knows me for any length of time will eventually notice that ravens behave a little differently around me than they do other people. They still act like ravens, but they seem to show an awareness of me that they don’t of others. Maybe one day I’ll end up befriending one of these birds and I can study its behavior more closely. They’re fascinating beings.

Publication History:

Blue Unicorn — Winter 2004