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A Strange Anticipation

One of the poets to reach me as a teen is buried near Rutland, Vermont. Not sure why I have this itch to visit her place of rest, and to walk by the home where she once lived. It’s been nagging at me for a few years now. On Wednesday I begin my long drive to the other coast, where I will pay my respects.

I think I’ll sing a couple of her poems by her plot.

A Strange Anticipation

How is it I feel the slight wind even now,
          almost breathing on my thoughts, and
the gentle green resistance of grass
          beneath my tennis shoes?

How is it I sense a partial shade
          across the hairs of my neck,
cast by the whispering arms of a fir
          planted long before my time?

How is it I see through surrounding trees
          small white clouds, folding in silent
contrast across clear blue depths, and there
          your weather beaten stone?

Though I have yet to pay my respects, I feel
          an approaching familiarity.
I don’t know what compels me to drive so far,
          just to stand by your grave.

Maybe I hope to find a touch of your presence,
          still lingering behind.
Or perhaps some small piece of inspiration,
          left twinkling in the grass.

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dishrag

There’s something remarkably freeing about the complete and utter abolition of idealized romance. Disillusionment is only bitter when, for some reason, it is still believed that the original ideal could have or should have been realized. When it’s understood down to the last fiber that it couldn’t have and very likely shouldn’t have been realized, then disillusionment gives rise to a stillness of spirit, peace of heart, and ease of mind.

dishrag

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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Perfect Moments

My first terza rima. So far as I know, terza rimas aren’t generally divided into parts like this, but the end-line scheme does follow the aba, bcb, …, yzy, zz format. However, I’m using end-line alliteration here instead of end-line rhyme. Is that wrong?

Perfect Moments

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.

Also the lines are all pretty much perfect pentameters. I haven’t cared too much whether or not they started off with a soft foot. So it’s a mix of iambic and trochaic pentameters, strictly speaking.

What inspired this? Well my ex-intimate creature talked of these “perfect moments”, and claimed to have had more of them during her time spent with me than she had known over the course of her life. Well, I liked the idea and wanted to explore it. So I’ve thought back through the time we spent together and tried to figure out where and when she could have had these perfect moments, and to capture some of them—hopefully all—as best I could.

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black hole

And what made the outdoor security light stay on for a moment longer than it normally does? What made me look down when I normally don’t? I’ve never been able to grasp such moments of fortune.

black hole

hung in the darkness
darkness moves eight spindly legs
amassing darkness

But there it was, its strong erratic web strewn across the narrow path, just above ankle height. And she in the middle, upside down, about twice the size of a silver dollar. I swear I have never even heard of a black widow reaching such size.

The security light went out, and the large creature returned to darkness. I stepped backward to trigger the motion sensor, slowly, and after a few steps it came back into view again, unmoved.

Suddenly I felt a fear of unpredictable things. I felt a spider’s web when I opened the gate to the backyard I walk through to reach my cottage. And now I wondered what sort of creature might have spun it. How many of these large black widows might be lurking about the pathway? I’ve walked down this path in the dark without a light so many times with never a thought of such hazard.

That will never be the case again.

The odd thing is, I can’t easily bring myself to kill a black widow.

Once when I spent the night at a little known hieroglyph site in a California desert, a large black widow appeared above me in the night. I was sleeping on the floor of a body length recess in a rock outcropping. This rock and those around it possessed many hieroglyphic symbols inscribed long before the white man came.

Something bade me stay put and face my fear of the darkness–the darkness of night, the mystery of the hieroglyphs, of the spider that appeared above me in the night, the future. And so I did. I turned off my flashlight and stared at its silhouette in the darkness, the slightest hint of starlight reflected off its enameled abdomen.

I drifted in and out of sleep dreaming of long black legs, a twitching abdomen–dark gray chevron wide across its front, fangs and mouth parts. Each time I awoke I shone my light up and there it was, still unmoved.

In the pre-dawn light I saw it still. And after a few more times in and out of sleep, before the sun broke free of the valley’s west edge, I opened my eyes and it was gone. It returned to its place of mystery, to the dreaming. Even its web seemed gone.

And now I wonder where the connection lies between the circumstances surrounding my visit to that hieroglyphs site and the black widow last night. So many coincidences have been taking place lately, some of them of a dark, mysterious nature.

But the darkness doesn’t frighten me as once it did. It is the place from which we came, to which we return. It manifests all forms and is the well spring of infinite creativity.

I’ve been told that such coincidences may indicate that one is walking his songline. They are not ends in and of themselves, but indicators of what is–what already is. And what is can’t be expressed or grasped, but merely hinted at by these curious projections, these salient expressions of the dreaming.

Well I got some pictures of last night’s black widow. I’ll plan on moving it now that I know where it lives (under a domed piece of tiling that borders the pathway). But for the time being I’ll leave it alone and plan on having my light with me whenever I leave or enter my cottage. I might get a chance to take more pictures of it.

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On the Lost Coast Trail

I recently backpacked the Lost Coast Trail in the Sinkyone Wilderness State Park. It was a peaceful, invigorating enterprise that spanned four days and led to new insights about myself and abilities. Upon returning I found myself tapping out some reflections and revising them into this poem.

On the Lost Coast Trail

I’ll walk now, on my own.
My legs are strong,
  my back sturdy.

I’ll heave this pack and learn.
The trail ahead is long
  but I understand now.

Each day out I’ll greet the dawn,
cook my meal in stainless steal
  and drink strong black tea.

The past is over.
Nostalgia is but a hollow wind,
  and I a new-grown wood.

My soul was never in your arms,
but in the high up leaves
  of swaying alders,

and in a stone moved loose
as I strode to rustle,
  roll, and bound from sight.

And again in the call of an eagle,
soaring below as I hiked
  into the haze of its canyon.

At night the stars will sing,
and I’ll listen. In time
  no thought will come of you.

I feel now my heart purling
down ferny creek beds
  to join the widest freedom,

and sifting through branches,
up storied hillsides,
  each rooted thing alive.

I’ll never pass your way again,
for I have unlocked my cage,
  and the trail unfolds before me.

Up until now It’s always taken someone else to motivate me into going backpacking. This isn’t because this isn’t what I wanted to do. I’m not really sure why this is. Maybe a lack of confidence in my abilities, that I could go out into the wilderness on my own lugging around a heavy pack and actually enjoy myself.

And enjoy myself I did. In fact, I went a lot further and with greater ease than I would have guessed possible for me. It looks like my several walks a week over the past year of no less than 2.5 to 3 miles has changed my biology some. It used to be very difficult for me to hike even two or three level, or soft grade, miles with a pack, but now I find I can hike six rugged up and down miles, pressing through underbrush and crawling under and over fallen trees with relative ease. I’ve changed in the past few years, and until now I couldn’t have grasped how much.

On my first night I stayed at Little Jackass Creek, about six miles in using a fire-road shortcut I know about. Turns out this is a hot spot for week-enders all around. When I got there, there was only one official campsite left (flat with enough cleared ground to safely operate a camp stove without setting everything ablaze). And a few more sets of people showed up after I did. The second night I spent at Wheeler Camp, four plus miles north of Little Jackass. There is a great lookout between Wheeler Camp and Little Jackass from the top of a flying buttress cliff face called Anderson Point that would terrify an acrophobe senseless. From here you can see for miles both up and down the coast, and of course several hundred feet just about straight down to tidal rock reefs below. The third night, about six miles south of Wheeler Camp, I spent at Anderson Creek, which was satisfying because I was the only person in the area that night. And the next morning I hiked the long way back about six miles to Usal Beach.

And so begins a newness of life that I hope will thrive vibrantly even in the face of certain death.

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Front

A friend asked me to write her sister a birthday poem. So after getting some information from her about details pertinent to the birthday person in question, this is what manifested.

Front

for Rachel

In the distance clouds amass
thunder rolls faintly through the air
In the fields an apple tree lifts
jeweled leaves anticipating dew
In the afternoon sun a rosebush lifts
buds to greet the coming storm
All around a whisper rises up
as oaks and pines chant the nearing rain

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embrace

For some reason whenever I want to illustrate a point about imagery I find myself tapping out a haiku or senryu. This would be a senryu since there’s nothing of nature or seasons illustrated.

embrace

warm skin slides between
shoulder blades and pulls to join
parted lips and tongues

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water

Was just looking through some of the posts in a Poetry group and came across a ‘haiku’ titled “water”. It was basically a statement saying water is water, and isn’t water great? Nothing really visual or haikuy. Found myself responding to the post with my own “water”. The only way to explain what a haiku is to someone is to just make one.

water

beneath the full moon
darkness licks a thousand stones
between reflections

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cash-crop

Some women don’t see men as people, but as crops to be harvested or weeds to be destroyed. They don’t see them as companions, partners or even equals, but as assets to be used and ultimately discarded. These are emotionally dangerous creatures who manipulate and undermine honest, loving men who would have done right by them if they didn’t turn out to be callous, backstabbing hos.

cash-crop

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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Emancipation

I am feeling pretty good about life. It’s odd. I guess once you get the knife twisted up in your guts a few times too many it begins to dawn on you that maybe it’s better not to give people knives, or your guts. This realization can be very freeing.

Emancipation

I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
chucked about with nearly careless ease,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
to any fool who offers up his heart,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion
that every man must have a missing half.

I think I’ll just delight in moonlit walks and sunsets,
the playing of the wind in bamboo reeds.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
the momentary love, the counterfeit devotion
that lures a man into a sense of calm,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion.

I suppose I’ll just enjoy my own good company
instead of putting up with all the grief,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
with every promise planted with a kiss,
with every tender touch and every supple motion
that lures a man into a sense of calm.

I find I much prefer my solitary freedom
to walking over eggshells field by field.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers
and all the broad assortment, weapons of emotion
balanced on the fingertips of love
with every tender touch and every supple motion.

I imagine days are smoother without the crazy weather
that comes with intimate affinity,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
the sorry sap who seeks a loyal lover,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection
balanced on the fingertips of love.

I reckon now it’s time to meditate on vapors
rising from the stream of life, and breathe.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
as lightly as they offer their affection
to any fool who offers up his heart,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection,
that every man must have a missing half.

This will be the last hybridanelle, villanelle, or terzanelle I write for this project. I’ll be closing the project with a handful of terza rimas, probably more experimental than traditional. Then I can dive into my next project, which I’ve already been phasing into with the trisects.

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mirage

Millions of years of biological evolution drives us; the mind rationalizes and justifies this compulsory insanity. Lucky is the soul who somehow finds he or she is at peace without the need of an idealized intimacy.

mirage

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.