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markers

This poem follows a dream I had many years ago. I talk about the experiences surrounding the dream in my introduction to the poem “oak touch”.

markers

i was half raven
   the city long since dead
  gray as the silent sky
 streaked with granite

i held the air with
   long black feathers
  in cobblestone canyons
 carved from history

i felt the old walls
   brush my wingtips
  high above narrow lanes
 stretched empty below

then the buildings gave way
   and i soared free
  through an open square
 orange with age

in the distant center
   tall as the canyon
  towers there grew
 an old black oak

its crown was full
   contrast to the lifeless
  city frozen forever
 to a moment in time

it grew from a circle
   closed in limestone walls
  where long sere blades of grass
 rose perfectly still

its scaly roots
   swam beneath the ground
  like coiled serpents
 half risen for air

and there i landed
   near its broad round base
  and rustled black feathers
 neatly behind me

high in the crown
   on a long thick branch
  a large raven worked
 at something unseen

its obsidian beak
   puzzled probed and cocked
  ’til i found myself lifting
 to see what it saw

and as i rose up
   it studied my approach
  then tossed its small find
 from the edge

it settled deep
   parting long thin blades
  as i drifted back
 to the ground

and about me there gathered
   creatures of every kind
  as i knelt as in prayer
 near the trunk

all kinds of creatures
   from all kinds of spirits
  half-mooned around me
 to see

one stood behind me
   covered with stern brown eyes
  which gazed down upon me
 and in all directions

its skin was the bark
   of all the old black oaks
  returned to the dreams
 of the earth

and i held in my hands
   like a soft feathered stone
  the black figurine
 of a raven

whose breast split in two
   its soft downy breast
  where a glimmer of light
 shone within

Over the years I’ve written a couple of poems inspired by this dream and my subsequently “meeting” the same tree in “real life”. It grows by Orr Springs Road, several miles West of Ukiah, CA. I already provided a link above to “oak touch”. The others are “Three Ravens” and “Oak Dream”.

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final thought

An out of season sakura poem. This is a tanka. I think the cherry tree could be a lifelong source of inspiration for me.

final thought

cradled in new growth
a single cherry blossom
trembles in the breeze

below the rain has gathered
petals into bright white pools

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Echolalia

As I read an in-depth article on the differentia of Verse, Prose, and Poetry, I stumbled across something called echolalia. A beautiful sounding word. Too bad it’s more or less useless outside pathology, educational psychology, and the trivia of obscure definitions. Still, I wanted to play with the concept, and so I ended up tapping this out.

Echolalia

Stars are falling falling through the dark
and through the dark a strong wind thrusts and parries
a strong wind thrust and parries like a sword
thrusts and parries like a long broad sword
and like a long broad sword your words cut deep
your words cut deep and disconnect the tendons
disconnect the tendons of my trust
my trust which slacks and falls like quartered meat
which slacks and falls like quartered meat for sell

I reminisce on stars for some strange reason
for some strange reason I remember stars
I remember stars which fell and faded
which fell and faded in the long dark night
and in the long dark night we held each other
we held each other by curling sea
and by the curling sea our toes were curled
our toes were curled with broken ecstasy
in broken ecstasy we slid to sleep

And stars are falling now from baring skies
from baring skies which deepen like a flood
which deepen like a flood of blackest water
of blackest water spread throughout my soul
spread throughout my soul like acid loss
an acid loss that eats away my trust
that eats away my trust until I’m left
until I’m left like bleached and barren bone
like bleached and barren bone devoid of life

The content is more or less inspired by actual feelings and events. And despite the silliness of the poem, the impact of the echolalia is kind of surprising.

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Company

Playing with some thoughts of romance. I’m always loath to take the mainstream approach to romantic poetry, if I approach it at all. And I’m learning, through my practice with the trisects and a study of the interpretations they elicit from my readers, how to use depiction to lead the mind in the direction I’d like it to go without my having to cram explicit thoughts into my reader’s face like a tangle of rotting guts.

Company

come
   join me here in darkness
   let your lips speak back
     long thin shadows
   let your touch brush away
     tendrils of haze

come
   let us meditate on stars
   fixed in double panes
     which fade to the slow
   approach of opal hues
     the zenith moon

come
   we can listen to the sudden
   rooftop rap of acorns
     as they call out their
   little reminders of towering
     greatness outside

come
   let us study the red
   diodes of time together
     silent motions that
   push with magic force
     toward nascent dawns

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Thanksgiving Night

Normally, I avoid writing poetry that’s focused on things like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday. It’s just not the sort of thing that tends to interest me. However, as Thanksgiving day approached, I found myself pondering what Thanksgiving day, a day when most families come together and reconnect, would be like for the kids who live at the group home I work at.

I actually had my own Thanksgiving days in group homes. In fact, group homes not unlike the place I’m working at. Then there were the two Thanksgivings I endured as a runaway teen. So I have my own memories to draw from in trying to bring the hidden voice of these kids to the world. This is my 21st terzanelle.

Thanksgiving Night

A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

We AWOL through our dreams and greet the faces
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces.

Outside our doors the floor creeks from the tread
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight,
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.

We’ve eaten much, and yet there looms a hunger,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight.

We stir the darkness in our broken rooms.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom.

The heater drones, yet chill seeps to the marrow.
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

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sea dog

I was reflecting on how Robert Service, a favorite poet of mine, would write poems in various Scottish, British, and other dialects. Some of these poems are very moving. For instance, “Bills Grave” and “Pooch”. If you read them, you might suspect that Service was well acquainted with the dialect used in the first poem, as well as the mindset, and that he more or less guessed at the dialect used in the second poem. I believe the first uses a Northern England dialect, where he grew up, and the second uses the dialect of a Black American, possibly Southern.

I was also reflecting on this book I had just finished reading, The Whereabouts of Eneas McNulty by Sebastian Barry. The nature of the story was such as to cause me a lot of after-read reflection, and there was some life at sea involved therein.

So, with all this stirring about in my brain, I found myself tapping out a few phrases, and shortly thereafter, my 21st villanelle fell out thus.

sea dog

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.

Writing poetry in various dialects is something I plan to explore over time, so it was nice to have this experience. The title was suggested by Chris England, an acquaintance I run into at the cafes here in Ukiah.