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The Terrible Truth

I have been marginally involved (as in marginalized) with the poetry scene in the Mendocino County area since about 2000. It’s strange how self-proclaimed anti-elitists tend to form their own little elitist circles. And their only bragging rights, really, are that they had enough money to be able to self-publish through a vanity press. Wow. Hmm. How impressive.

Several members of the anti-elitist circle of elites here in the area have tried to pin me to a particular school or discipline, which I’ve felt ambivalent about. On the one hand, this indicates that they’re at least aware of me and perhaps even respect some of my efforts. On the other hand this illustrates that they see my work as beneath theirs because it does not conform to their idea of what poetry should be.

Ah well. Reflecting on all this recently sparked this small write.

The Terrible Truth

Try not to confuse me
   with the Formalist
       the Classicist
           the Structuralist
               the Neo-something

                       I am merely an explorer
                   a piece of yourself left
               beneath the rain-soaked coals
           of a distant childhood
       campfire

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Father

I found myself writing this after dreaming about an encounter with my father’s ghost, I spent that day reflecting on his suicide—when I was ten—and its far reaching impact on my life.

Father

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. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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Recurring Nightmare

For about six months, as a 12 year old, I experienced what I now know is referred to as “nuclear psychosis”, a fairly rare condition where the afflicted is so terrified of nuclear holocaust that he’s unable to function or sleep. At the time, I lived in a residential home called Hillsides. I include a link to their site only because it was the one residential home I lived in as a child where I wasn’t subjected to some kind of abuse.

What’s interesting also is that it has always seemed to me that the nearer I am to Los Angeles in general, the more I am unnerved, and fraught with visions and dreams of some kind of nuclear blast. In some dreams I have turned my head to the blast only to be vaporized a moment later by ‘the light’, and to wake with my heart pounding just about out my chest. In other dreams I’m far enough away to actually feel the heat-blast sere and melt my skin before waking. And throughout my life, the further I’ve been from Los Angeles, the less unnerved I’ve been, and the more such dreams (dreams only in these cases) take on an air of news reporting.

Whatever the reasons are behind these dreams, they have provided me with more than enough imagery to draw from for this poem, my 8th hybridanelle.

Recurring Nightmare

I’ve seen the City of Angels struck with pain,
   her superstructures shattered from the sky,
      her creatures flashed to shadows etched in stone.

         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones,
            screams vaporized to whispers in the throat
         as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

      Cloudscapes dissipated from the air;
   a ruthless ring of fire seared the land,
her superstructures shattered from the sky.

            Shrieks of terror sizzled on melting lips,
         reduced to coals that sputtered in the heart;
      I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones

   to bubble with the asphalt on the ground
beside the scorched remains of human forms;
   a ruthless ring of fire seared the land,

      blasting through neighborhoods and urban woods,
         consuming all who ran or hid their face
            as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

Cars twisted into myriad molten shapes;
   the charred debris of towers rained down slag
      beside the scorched remains of human forms.

         Mothers pressed small babies to their ribs
            which turned to embers in their futile arms;
         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones

      of fathers bent in vain across their young,
   cremated by a lethal burst of light;
the charred debris of towers rained down slag

            throughout the ardent ruins of brick and steel
         where dead ambitions fumed upon their backs
      as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

   How could I smoke such visions from my mind?
I’ve seen the City of Angels struck with pain,
   cremated by a lethal burst of light,
      her creatures flashed to shadows etched in stone.

         Don’t try to tell me these are merely dreams,
            just troubled thoughts that haunt my sleeping brain;
         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones
      as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

Was I just traumatized by childhood events and re-experiencing that trauma through a fear of nuclear holocaust? Or was it something else—something more sinister? Only time will tell I suppose.

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To the Postmodernist

To my mind, postmodernism represents, above all, the birth of modern mediocrity, especially with regard to poetry. It has its points of interest, which I take and use in my own way and for my own purposes; but the rest I happily leave.

To the Postmodernist

your hands wave
       in a sea of swaying hands
   through cold dark waters
       kelp shifting under swells
lost in formation

your voice howls out
       against rocky cliffs
   drowned in the crashing parade
       of white-noise waves
lost in the drone

your words flash
       briefly into view
   on the tops of curling waves
       a moments notice
lost in the tide

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Hush

Residential homes and psych wards aren’t always the best place for a child, no matter how out of control he or she may seem. No, many of these places, with the Nurse Ratchets that work there, are little more than psychiatric death camps.

Hush

i remember silence
 walls made of glass
   mattresses of chain-linked steel
 even dreams were impenetrable
cemented in concrete

you dared tell me
 this is all i would ever know
   poison in my veins
 mold across my eyes
brittle cracked nostrils

one day strapped to a bed-frame
 i saw when i closed my eyes
   that you weren’t so formidable
 your skin fell off in ribbons
and you choked bubbling blood

years passed
 but i learned to quell your violence
   to relish the scent of tea leaves
 as i sit with the world
your silence only half remembered

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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Sunlight

For a woman with dark brown eyes, she had a surprisingly bright countenance. This is my 7th hybridanelle poem, written to the woman who became my first wife.

                                 Sunlight

                             For Jenna Joslyn

            It seems to me the sunshine in your eyes
        that burns away the glow of lesser stars
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

Since our paths have crossed, I’ve never groped in darkness,
  feeling my way by touch with uncertain hands and feet,
    startled every moment contact serves as vision.

            I feel the shadows fade before your gaze,
        those blurred recesses deep where dreads are stored;
    it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes

lifts an obscuring fog that would magnify my doubts
  and cloud my thoughts with mist until I walked in quandary,
    feeling my way by touch with uncertain hands and feet.

            Your view illuminates my mystic core,
        reveals a steady center in the storm,
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

I’ve searched for eyes like yours, filled full of jasper mystery;
  it often felt like folly; the hope would haunt my dreams
    and cloud my thoughts with mist until I walked in quandary.

            That dripping haze has drifted off my sight—
        each day I wake beside your loving stare;
    it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes

now lights the way before me, a path that once was dim,
  concealed beneath the drizzle with slick unsettled footing;
    it often felt like folly; the hope would haunt my dreams.

            I feel the strength increase within my heart
        because this narrow path beneath my stride
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

So long as you’re beside me, I’ll always trust my heading;
  you hold a gloom at bay that else would leave me blind,
    concealed beneath the drizzle with slick unsettled footing.

            Your smile clears a gray pall from my mind
         and vivifies the world in which we stand;
      it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes
   reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

Your presence parts the clouds like gentle golden beams;
  since our paths have crossed, I’ve never groped in darkness;
    you hold a gloom at bay that else would leave me blind,
      startled every moment contact serves as vision.

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Dreamscape

Reflecting on samsara, dukkha, impermanence, maya, and a recent dream, I found myself writing this rather abstract poem.

Dreamscape

splinters of lightning split the dark
   a billion thundering flashes
       lifetimes come and gone

       death has swallowed
   how many times
with its gaping fine-toothed maw

a suck of water
   a rush of loss
       oblivion

       don’t question me
   i have no answers
but i sense a certain permanence

the shape of lost lives
   enters into me
       splitting my sleep

       silhouettes flash in moments
   five shiny black claws tear past my ribs
and i wake bleeding anguish

did i know that loss
   those claws have taken something essential
       why can’t i name the sobs

       tissues harden around the tear
   even the wound is blurred with doubt
by midday

though the memory is lost
   the feeling remains
       swirling in blood-mist

       i know i am dead
   i know i am living
i sense they are inseparable

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Cocoon

I wrote this poem, my 6th hybridanelle, hoping I’d be able to give a copy to the person who inspired it, a National Parks ranger stationed at Grand Canyon National Park, which I just recently visited.

There is a story behind the poem. But first the poem.

Cocoon

It was like a dream, a nightmare spanning years.
I drifted through a world of predators,
my larval soul awash in rapid fears.

One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way.
You asked me where I went to and why my eyes were closed,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

So with your gift, this orange coverture,
I found peace in the night, but in the day
I drifted through a world of predators.

My life was filled with terror behind impassive walls.
My thoughts were pumped with poison. In time I fled those cells.
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way

and questioned me with care—I would not sway;
you could not know what I had just escaped from.
I found peace in the night, but in the day

my blood was mixed with shadows, turned to serum-waste—
you listened to my answers, yet sensed what I withheld,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

Your simple gift permitted me to travel,
to mend the fractured crystal of my mind.
You could not know what I had just escaped from.

I fled my own destruction into the fearsome world
to chance uncertain highways before my fate was sealed.
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way,

my fourth day on the asphalt running blind
with only pupal hopes—yet undiscerned—
to mend the fractured crystal of my mind.

Perhaps my eyes revealed the weight of iron woes.
You somehow glimpsed the quandary I would not dare expose
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

Those fibers offered metamorphosis…
It was like a dream, a nightmare spanning years
with only pupal hopes—yet undiscerned—
my larval soul awash in rapid fears.

In time I learned to fly erratic on the wind,
my dusty wings capricious upon the windblown fields—
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

As a fifteen year old, I had been a road-wandering runaway for four days when I found myself in the Grand Canyon National Park—hiking to the bottom of the canyon and back. This, I later realized, is something only an Olympic trainer or an uninformed teenager would consider doing. It was a grueling hike, thousands of feet in elevation, and through several climate zones.

A ranger stopped me about a mile half down the ten mile hike to the Colorado, when he saw that I wasn’t carrying any water. He was horrified, and told me there was no way I could expect to make it to the bottom and back without water, and when he realized he couldn’t talk me out of the hike, he shoved a gallon of water in my hands as he grumbled something about crazy youth.

I did make it down to the Colorado, where I watched the rapids boil for a bit before starting back. He was right about the water.

On my way back, he noted with some surprise that I was still alive, and ushered me into his ranger station, where he proceeded to express his feeling that I was a runaway and tried to get me to admit as much. I lied and lied and lied and he eventually gave up, but before letting me go he followed some instinct burning in his chest, and gave me a confiscated sub zero sleeping bag.

I lived in this sleeping bag for the next year and a half as I wandered a better part of the United States. It saw me through blizzards, wild thunder storms, silver cloth, hail, sleet and more. I’m pretty sure that if it were not for this random gift from a total stranger I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it today.

I wasn’t able to find the park ranger when I made it to the Grand Canyon. So late in the night, about 2am, I left a copy of the poem on a billboard beside the Bright Angel trailhead, the same trail I hiked so long ago. After this, I walked over to a point where I could look north over the Grand Canyon and asked god to look after the spirit that gave me that sleeping bag. As I did so, one of the brightest and longest shooting stars I’ve ever seen slid across the northern sky.

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ocean song

This was written to demonstrate to an acquaintance how a strong poem could be written that closely emulates the style and approach of another strong poem, using entirely different subject matter. The poem this is modeled after is “desert song,” also a tanka.

ocean song

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 Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

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A Moment of Joy

This morning I opened the front door to see something completely unexpected, a blossoming wild cherry tree. Since we moved in during the winter, we had no idea that the skeletal frame under which I often park my car was a cherry tree. It’s blossoms opened over night, turning its crown into a bright, puffy white cloud.

A Moment of Joy

through the open door
cherry-blossom raindrops
sprinkle my Geo white

suddenly countless concerns
are lost in a catch of breath

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The Man with the Scanner

There is an unusual personality who frequents one of the coffee houses I like to go to. His presence is always disruptive—Not just to myself, but in general. He brings a police scanner with him, sets it on the table while he drinks his coffee, and plays it very loudly so that everyone can hear from all parts of the store.

The Man with the Scanner

His face is smug, arrogant
    Ghoulish and gray against the high-backed café chair
He watches rain drool down picture windows
    Listens to the popping drone of a scanner

His features are fixed in a cold state of rage
    Bitter malcontent gouges grooves in his skin
This seems to make sense
    For one who brings a scanner to a public café

What tragedy has scarred his mind?
    No-one sits near him
Avoiding his belligerent gaze
    The harsh sound of his scanner

License plate numbers fight their way in
    To darken this bright little café
Calls to dispatch for ID checks
    Shoulder their way into the room

He is alone in this place
    His only companion a little black box
Hollow voices churned in darkness
    Poured like cement into the frame of his soul