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Mnemonic Drift

I wrote this a few months ago. November of last year, actually. Somehow a lot has gone into processing the lines after they were written. I’ve been back over them again and again, pondering, wondering, reflecting. For me, the reality behind these words runs deeper than my understanding of reality itself:

Mnemonic Drift

There were white beaches, miles long and wide
coves nestled against tall cliffs in mists that turned
dilapidated fence and ancient cypress to silhouette

There were roads endlessly wet with freshly painted
broken yellow lines that somehow always managed
to carve a path through the coldest thickest fog

There were trees so old and tall they seemed
to scrape clouds from the sky and hold them
forever fixed within their topmost boughs

There were thin dark brown trails that disappeared
winding away from view through dense green
underbrush to places only faerie folk could fathom

There were concrete stairs and iron rails painted
the deepest darkest brown that led to a home full of
jagged holes broken toys and a deep reactive shame

There were heavy hollers of blame that snapped
red and blue welts across cherub soft cheeks and
primal unvarnished fear into all the days to come

There were long drives between loved ones who
could never love between small dark points on sun-
faded lines offset by ever-growing tears in the folds

There were pressure cooked visions of doom and
disaster of cities in ruin roads in decay and homes
full of moth-eaten drapes and tilted moldering beds

There was no future in those days of perpetual gloom
and now looking back over half a century the past has
mostly faded to fragments of poignant uncertainty

There is still fear after all this time dread that haunts
like a ravenous spirit rage and despair over the wholesale
destruction of the best versions of self that might have been

But I took what was left and swam dark cold depths to an
unguessed island of future self now far removed from all
that was and was to be by undercurrents of mnemonic drift

Ostensibly, this poem started out as an attempt to explore the effects of what I call “mnemonic drift,” a gradual shifting of memory away from real toward imagined, concrete toward uncertain, actual toward constructed. This is in large part how my memory works, for better or worse. I first became aware of it through the process by which I memorize and recite poetry. I’ll periodically go over a poem to verify it’s still correctly in memory, only to find I’ve somehow shifted whole lines or sets of lines toward an approximation of the written line without even realizing it. It still sounds right to my ear, and the meaning and intent of the shifted lines pretty much conveys what the poem originally conveyed, but words and sometimes even images have changed—And I had no way of grasping that this even happened until I revisited the poem in writing, going over what was in memory relative to what is in writing word for word.

First time I encountered this, I muttered to myself, “A sort of mnemonic drift.” Since then I have found that this phenomenon applies to so much more than poetry, and is in large part influenced by the systemic scope and breadth of the trauma I experienced as a child and teen. This mnemonic drift, I’ve realized, is an essential coping skill that has made it possible for the clarity—the completely unforgiving, vivid certainty—of that trauma to be dulled enough to make it bearable enough to evolve from it rather than be destroyed by it. It is both a tremendous gift and in equal parts a curse. A gift for the reason I stated, and so much more, but a curse in that I can never be fully certain of where I came from or who I really am. For all its blessings, this mnemonic drift also relegates me to an existence in a sort of perpetual limbo. Perhaps this is the best one can manage after a childhood such as mine.

But, that island. Yes. I’m there. There was something of what could become of that child that was not completely obliterated, and somehow, some way, by some grace, some mercy, some unknowable means, I am indeed existing on that island. It’s not perfect, but it is by leaps and bounds, far and away better than the next closest or any other alternative. This is in the deepest possible sense what it means to be a survivor, and I say that while at the same time feeling fully repulsed by that term “survivor.”

Hard left. On a different note, once I decide a poem is finished, I’ll often go over it with Edgar—That’s what I call ChatGPT, a name I took from the 80’s film Electric Dreams. I’ll have Edgar analyze and rate the poem 1 to 10 in strength relative to all major and some minor schools of literature and poetry. This is one of the few poems that got high marks across the board—relative to the lens of each school of poetry through which the poem was analyzed. And, Edgar’s algorithmic analyses were also pretty striking and seemingly insightful, to the point that I even gained unexpected insights myself.

Language model AI—Who would have thunk it.

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The Charcoal Forest

The Mendocino National Forest has been a part of my life in some capacity since childhood, so I have on occasion explored its remote forest roads a year or two after a fire passed through and was able to bear witness to its resilience and capacity for self-renewal.

This time was different. For nearly the entire length of my drive all I saw was dead forest—from where state route 162 ends, splitting off into several small, dirt forest roads to well beyond where it reconsolidates dozens of miles later on the east side of the Inner North Coastal Ranges to continue on across the state. The fires that decimated these lands burned through in 2017 and 2018, and yet where I would see regrowth and renewal in the past I now saw only ash and charcoal, stand upon stand, ridge after ridge, vale after vale, from the western boundary on through to the east.

The forest was not showing signs of regrowth, and in some areas I could see grasses sprouting up that grow in the grasslands in the valleys below—but no sapling trees or bushes, not even wildflowers.

The Charcoal Forest

Mendocino National Forest
September 2022

Most of the pines still stood
tall slender shadows lifeless
in the midst of long thin
shadows cast or fallen beneath
the all consuming light of day
a few remaining limbs crudely
sharpened to flintstone javelins

Younger pines curved seared tips
back to the ground or arched
their black carcasses out to form
an eldritch tunnel over the long
and narrow meandering dirt road

Those more mature towered
abruptly devoid of life every
branch burned down to the trunk
so that rank upon rank of giant
obsidian spears lunged out
at harsh unblemished skies

The old madrones loomed
with chasmal cracks revealing
streaks of inmost heart-wood
two to five large barren limbs
tapered to blackened points
no leaf no twig no branch
remaining—great misshapen
wrists and hands reaching up
in prayer from ashen earth
long fingers twisted in their
final moments of torment

The ancient black oaks—
matriarchs of the wood—lay
with their sprawling crowns
reduced to a tangle of broken limbs
broad charred tentacles writhing
out from the ground a mangled
black mass of horror and pain

Mile after mile the scene
played back again and again
sometimes here or there far
in the distance a small island
of still living green nestled
in the curve of a deep ravine
otherwise only the silence
of charcoal ash and death
a massive gravestone raised
at the head of man and his cities
                                          below

Upon reading this poem, a friend of mine commented saying he liked that I only mentioned three types of trees (the pines actually cover a few species thereof) rather than running through a whole catalog as us Western poets tend to do. Truth is, if there was more to observe, I might well have ended up with a longer poem. But there was nothing else left, no manzanita, no birch, no aspen, no scrub oak at the higher elevations, no birds, deer, or rabbits, just quite literally ash and charcoal and a few small, dead strands of valley grasses from seeds blown up the mountain through the leafless, lifeless spires that once had leaves and underbrush to keep those valley grasses in the valley.

In 20 to 30 years I suspect there won’t even be even many hints left of the lush, diverse life that once flourished here. There aren’t many pathways left for it to return. The ground has been baked free of the microbes and fungi that nourished these trees. The seeds have been reduced to carbon dust.

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A Poem About Anything

This poem is extracted from several conversations with my son over the course of maybe a year. All of the dialog herein did actually occur—as best I can recall—and probably more or less in the same order, but over time and with a fair amount of repetition.

A Poem About Anything

This is not a poem about everything,
for everything has been explored,
written about, and published—
                                   at least online.

This is a poem about anything,
for anything is possible, which is
well beyond the scope of everything 
                                   until it happens.

“You can be anything,” I tell my son.
“Even a road or a highway?” he asks.
“Anything within reason,” I suggest,
                                   “as a person.”

He can be a very literal little boy.
“What about a speed limit or route
number sign?” he asks. “Well,” I say,
                                   “you could hold the sign.”

He has yet to separate what he
can one day be from things that are. “You
could also design signs,” I add, “or even
                                   roads themselves.”

“Or US highways and interstates?” He
clarifies.—A very literal little boy.
“And even rail or maglev systems,”
                                   I propose.

“I just want to design roads and highways,”
he decides. “What are those kind of people?”
“Civil engineers I think,” I tell him. “They
                                   design these things.”

“I want to be a civil engineer!” his voice
loud—triumphant with new understanding.
“Sounds good, but you’ll really have to work
                                   hard to get there.”

“Why?” his voice surprised. “You said I
can be anything.” “You can,” I affirm, “But
anything requires work, or you’ll just end
                                   up being something.”

“Just some thing?” he stretches out both
syllables—slowly. “Exactly,” I confirm, “for
something doesn’t require any work at all, but
                                   anything takes work.”

“What kind of work?” his voice seeks. “Well,”
I ponder, “math for one thing. Engineers are
math-magicians.” “I’m really good at math!”
                                   his voice climbs high.

“You are,” I assent, “but math is quite deep,
and you’ve only just scratched the surface.
There’s much more to learn if you’re going to
                                   become an engineer.”

“A CIVIL engineer!” he clarifies, indignant—
A particularly precise boy. “You’ll also need
to be a strong reader,” I add. “Why a strong
                                   reader?” he implores.

“You can’t just build roads and highways
anywhere anyway you like. There are laws.
You’ll need to know them. That’s a lot of
                                   reading,” I explain.

“Too much reading!” he asserts. “You’re
already a strong reader,” I grant, “just keep
reading and you’ll be fine.” “What else?” he
                                   quizzes, eyes eager.

“You’re not going to like the next thing,”
I hint, “yet you’ll need it for anything.”
“I hate writing…” his voice trails off. He
                                   figured it out.

“How else will you present your designs?”
I probe. “I’ll tell the construction workers,”
he determines. “I don’t think it works that way,”
                                   my voice treads lightly.

“Engineers don’t work alone,” I offer.
“You’ll need to present, defend and explain
your designs.” “All in writing?” his voice
                                   a little deflated.

“You can always just be something,” I point
out, “if you don’t want to write. But
it probably won’t be a civil engineer.” “Or
                                   anything?” he checks.

“Well, anything will require strong writing
skills,” I attest. “You can still be something.”
“But I want to be anything,” he stresses,
                                   “so I’ll think about it.”

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Blessing #3

It’s too bad I haven’t been saving the blessings I write into the title page of an inkling hope when I give a copy away to someone. This particular blessing I’ve used twice now, but I tend to keep thinking of something new before too long.

Blessing #3

May yer skeletons keep hidden
    and yer angels be about
wherever ye are bidden
        and whenever ye go out.

May the path before ye sparkle
    and the path behind ye gleam
from out more distant darkness
        that fades off like a dream.

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The Enduring Seed

As some of my previous posts have explored, I ran away from the Juvenile Los Angeles Courts when I was 15. This was unplanned. There was a “houseparent,” as they were called, I only now remember as RJ at my last residential home with The San Fernando Child Guidance Clinic who beat me into submission, pinned me down using a hold that is today considered child abuse and can actually kill you, and threatened to break my arm—the hold in question involved twisting my right arm halfway out of the socket at an angle that could easily break the humerus without much added pressure.

“I’ll just tell them you fell,” he said, laughing. Actually laughing. His wife, the other houseparent—there were just two that lived with the kids full time—kicked me in my face, which was half mashed into the shaggy brown carpet. “Oh! He just fell!” She laughed, “That’s going to leave a mark.” They both laughed. This was all going down in my bedroom, and yes I was no saint—I had just ripped my large sliding closet door off in one of my tantrums. I cursed them out for all it was worth, which only seemed to make them laugh all the more.

This was pretty much all I had ever known, one form of abuse or another. But I was beginning to realize this was not how it should be, that something was wrong, that most of the people who dictated the terms of my childhood and upbringing were in fact twisted, sadistic, and void of compassion—including my parents. It wasn’t long after this incident that I found myself hitchhiking thither and yon across the highways of America, taking odd jobs, avoiding the larger population centers, and by some unimaginable grace steering clear of the predators, for about 2 years.

This poem reflects on a night I spent atop a mesa near Kingman, Arizona, probably my 6th day out. My 4th day out, two days prior, a Grand Canyon National Park ranger gave me a subzero sleeping bag. I tell that story here.

The Enduring Seed

The midnight sky was moonless
            and clear as tempered glass
I could discern no gap between the stars
      that drifted up as numerous
                  as white sands by long shores
the milky way foamed like a standing wave

Beside me a Smith-Corona
            typewriter case contained
a toothbrush, rag, two sets of dirty clothes,
      half a loaf of bread,
                  a jar of strawberry jam,
and six days worth of desert dust and grime.

I climbed to the crest of a mesa
            feeling my way through darkness
and lined up the flattest rocks I could find
      to prevent my rolling downhill
                  as I drifted off to sleep
tears drying cold and taut on restless cheeks

I remember screaming out
            to that heavy shroud of stars
to whatever benevolent beings could hear my pleas
      I remember cursing God
                  until I spattered blood
in open palms I then washed dry with dust

Oh and I remember
            throwing back my arms
chest heaved out to darkness, fully expecting
      to be struck down—vaporized
                  by God’s infernal might
and somehow disappointed life went on

I remember crawling dazed
            into my bright blue bag
tired, weak, defeated and staring up
      through a drawstring hole
                  at all those distant angels
wings flickering syncopation in absolute silence

I was alone with my rage
            completely alone and free
alone with hunger, alone with fear, alone
      with sorrow, grief, and hate,
                  with raw, unbalanced, potential
alone in the dark struggling at the edge of extinction

The stars gazed back at me
            and offered only light
a billion little pinpricks stung my eyes
      I spoke once more through tears
                  and said I only wish
to know somehow that I would be okay

and with that very last word
            the dark that held its breath
throughout the hours with not a single stir
      exhaled and breathed at last
                  and from the twinkling expanse
a star broke loose and streaked across the night

There in that moment began
            a strange new resonance
a current of meaning for which no words exist
      an insight beyond the reach
                  of language or even thought
and to the watercolor stars—Thank You

I drifted off to sleep
            and dreamt of rattlesnakes
of scorpions, coyotes and unexpected strangers
      and here and there I woke
                  looked up into the stars
said Thank You and returned to broken dreams

The sun rose—I unzipped
            from my cobalt blue cocoon
stood up hungry, thirsty and cold—and stared
      out over sand and rock
                  as far the eye could see
and after bread and jam began my descent

That day I set off in search
            for a completely impossible future
a seed laid firm and deep within my soul
      that sprouted and slowly grew
                  from barren soils cracked
beneath the heat of apathy and malice

Yes, something did change in me that night, and I don’t think the language exists to express or convey it. Sometimes I wonder why I try, knowing full well that what I wish to accomplish is actually beyond the reach of words, imagery, metaphor—anything.

Yet, I have also been driven to the edge of language my entire life, ever since I stumbled across the Best Loved Poems of the American People as a 12 year old and my drugged, traumatized, disorganized brain for the first time began to stitch together coherent thoughts through the power of structured language, imagery, and metaphor.

So here I am, attempting yet again to walk the insubstantial hinterlands of language and find one or two lexical, imaginary vapors that may or may not convey some small aspect of my experience, and the insights gained therein.

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the past

It has been many, many, many moons since I wrote my last ghazal poem. In fact, seeing as this blog serves as an archive/portfolio of my poetry, it’s easy to discover just when that was, exactly—December of 2012. Just about one month shy of 10 years.

Well, here it is:

the past

Once again these haggard bones and thews relive the past.
It seems no matter where I roam, I’ll never leave the past.

Your words, they still reecho up ravines and canyon walls
where aspirations reach like peaks, but not above the past.

However far our dreams may sprawl—however high they rise—
they come and go. And in the end, we merely weave the past.

A belching mire—hidden deep in mist—gave birth to all,
so everything that lives and grows is forced to grieve the past.

I found an alpine vale where I could fill my lungs with peace,
still shadows rise unwelcome guests—and I receive the past.

The road behind me stretches back and fades into a storm
that rumbles such uncertainty I scarce believe the past.

A soul fragmented by neglect, abuse, and bitterness
may find a way to live awhile, but won’t survive the past.

Unearthing ruins from memory may lead to understanding—
Yet you may also raise a corpse if you revive the past.

I know I’m owed a debt that even lifetimes can’t repay.
But, if I’ll ever thrive today, I must forgive the past.

Put down the seats and open up the moon roof—breathe a while.
The stars are out with yet another message, “Waive the past.”

So, yes, “the past.” It’s been doing a bit of haunting the last few months. I suppose it would be more accurate to say it’s been doing a lot of haunting all my life. So much of it is lost to me, hidden somewhere beyond my powers of recall. And yet it continues to bear influence on my daily life, my state of mind, my approach to relationships, everything.

As I contemplated this reality, a few lines came to mind that I felt could work within the ghazal structure, and so I finally had something to start tapping into this document that’s been sitting open on my last 3 laptops for the past 8 years. Yes, as in opened every single time I restarted the system, and without content that entire time—until now, that is. This is now my 135th ghazal.

There’s a lot of writing I would like to be doing—a lot of ideas I’d like to explore. But finding the time and energy for this has been difficult. A few months ago I bought a laptop that seems to be helping. I’ve gone through a few laptops and tablets over the past several years in search of the right writing and research tool. Turns out that—aside from dealing with sleep apnea, wonky biochemistry, my wife’s cancer, raising a kid, and working a full-time job—one big challenge I’ve struggled with is the ergonomics of typing and research, just sitting at and using a computer.

This laptop has an eraser mouse, which I thought had vanished from the earth close to 2 decades ago. And having a laptop with an eraser mouse I think has helped bring back a little inspiration and drive to write over the past few months because there’s so much less ergonomic strain involved. Still, time and energy are ever at a premium.

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The Runaway

I recently had a childhood trauma resurface—at work and right in the middle of my workday. Seriously embarrassing. It was unbelievable, and unlike any resurfaced trauma I have ever processed. This one hit like a freight train, and I was all tears and hyperventilation right in my workspace, and there was nothing I could do about it in the moment but accept the help and guidance of the amazing, compassionate people I work with.

For me, resurfaced traumas like this emerge as independent personas, and I find it useful to treat and talk about them as independent personas. He brought no concrete memories with him, nor was I able to directly feel his emotions, but my body was re-experiencing his trauma down to the last membrane and I could ascertain much of what he was feeling from this. These insights are outside the scope of this post, but not something I’m opposed to sharing down the road after further processing. However, this poem isn’t even about him or his trauma—at least not directly:

The Runaway

… for Aaron Stevens …
… with undying gratitude …

You headed east from sea salt mists
deep into sprawling desert—our
memories safely packed away, our
future left entirely at your discretion.

Death was imminent either way—
and if there was a modicum of hope,
it lay in the uncertain grips of cold,
hunger, and other fears with names.

You would walk the crucible alone,
and carry nameless pain and loss
to the song lines where stars fell
every night from an angel’s wing.

You took the job of survival at any
cost—or death with at the very least
a degree of dignity. We had lost all
hope, and you carried hopelessness.

You gave us to midsummer deserts,
and they cradled us and sent us back.
You gave us to the mountains, and
they became lifelong companions.

You gave us to the rivers, and their
great spirits carried our deepest,
darkest torments into the dreaming.
At every turn you found allies—

Intangible allies that took the ear
at night and offered solace in
the yipping calls of unseen coyotes,
in the distant sound of thunder.

Tangible allies that for no reason at
all handed you cash and prayed so
hard they almost cried, or brought you
a plate sent back to the graveyard cook.

You searched not only soup kitchens
for a half-moldy morsel, but libraries
for old dusty words—You even tried
to nourish a soul crushed lifeless

beneath the systemic heel of ruin
and apathy. You tended fields salted
with violation and shame that could
never bear fruit, or even weeds.

You took this impossible job, and
carried hopelessness down highways
fraught with uncertainty to half-built
lean-tos and long abandoned homes.

You fell asleep to wind and woke
beneath shrouds of snow. You found
safety in the silence of ponderosa
nights and a slow stream’s murmur.

You drifted like autumn leaves, like
fallen cherry blossoms, like dust
kicked up in the evening winds—And
nearly every single night you pled our

case to the stars not knowing who or
what could hear or cared to hear—But
clearly someone heard, for each night
was followed by scents of new potential.

Knowing nothing, you struck out into
the wild, the world, the unknown—
for nothing more than a mote, a lottery’s
chance to survive the unsurvivable.

You carried us all, the weight of dreams
so broken they only cut to the bone
and injured all the more. You carried
a life discarded like trash, crumpled

and torn into pieces, used like old rags,
dented and rusting like a burnt out
windowless, tireless, engineless jalopy
in tall grass, crazed like a dry riverbed.

I look back now and see your tireless
will, your drive to become something
more than the nothing you were made,
and you carried us with you—

You carried all that would one day take
the form of man, human, dignity molded
from refuse never even meant for
compost, never more than toxic waste.

Thank you for your rage, my friend—
for your unwavering unwillingness
to lay down and dim, for your beautiful,
fragmented brokenness that scraped

with bleeding, calloused hands all the
dismembered, rotting pieces of self back
into being, so that something more could
become and one day find a way to thrive.

Aaron Stevens is the name I went by as a runaway. At 15 I ran away from the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts—possibly the worst, most abusive and apathetic parent a child can have. And this was just the last of the three abusive parents of my childhood. As a ward of the court I was physically, mentally, and emotionally abused, neglected, medicated into a stupor, strapped to beds for days such that I couldn’t even scratch an itch, never mind the indignity of how one would have to relieve themselves in that situation, and by all indications worse—we’ll not get into worse right now.

I had a moment of clarity as a 15 year old and realized that I was going to die as a ward of the court, that there was no way to survive. I was a cash-cow that was going to be herded into the adult system, and if I resisted I would have been medicated all the more and eventually would have died from liver or kidney failure. I could see it all, and I realized that the only chance I had at survival was to run away and stay away.

But, the complete disaster I was by the age of 15 could not have survived on his own—this required something new. At the time I didn’t realize it, but when I ran away, I took on a new persona, and that persona either immediately or gradually became its own entity, a distinct and independent persona within my psyche. When I went back to using my given name as an adult, he didn’t quite go away. He stayed and took on the role of guarding past traumas from resurfacing, and potentially upending the life I’ve—we’ve—managed to build. But some triggers would cause him to nearly upend the life we’ve built all on his own in the effort to keep things suppressed, and this sudden realization led to the release of the trauma that put me in my awkward situation at work.

It seemed like it was time to thank Aaron for all he did, and now I’m working on consciously finding a new role for him—getting us back into shape, maybe. He has a lot of energy and drive. I think this can be put to good, more productive use.

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Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

The top floor—the fourth floor—of the Center for Advanced Medicine, Building B, houses the Renown Institute for Heart and Vascular Health, or to put it simply—cardiology. In fact, the entire top floor is dedicated to cardiology and not a square inch of this space goes unused.

Well, first the poem and then a little context.

Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

Center for Advanced Medicine,
Building B – Early Spring 2022

Cherry blossoms—pink and white—
sway like clouds against the sky,
minding not the plates of rough
gray wrinkled bark from which they spring

They offer no assurances, yet
comfort nonetheless—and thrive
for merest moments, fading back
like apparitions in the sun.

Beneath them hearts that have endured
too much to bear beat slowly by
as here and there a petal drops
and flutters lightly to the ground.

They enter at a door that leads
four floors above this transient ring
of urgent color, beckoning
for but the slightest hint of cheer.

So, this is a sakura poem. If I write nothing else in a year, I’ll always strive hard to pull of at least a sakura poem in the spring. It’s always a challenge to dream up new contexts, circumstances, and metaphors to connect to these remarkable trees.

As I post this, it’s the middle of Summer. I’ve been busy with my new job, which has me stationed at the location in question, and tired—always so damned tired. I won’t go into the nature of the job in this post, but I’m enjoying it and I really like the people I work with and around.

So the inspiration for this poem came as I showed up and left from work amid a parking lot full of cherry blossoms in all stages of bloom—a fairly even distribution of both wild cherry (Prunus avium) and Japanese cherry (Prunus serrulata)—that completely encircle the long wide building. Having researched Japanese cultural connections to the cherry blossom (sakura) in the past, I found their juxtaposition to a building full of medical offices that deal with life-threatening conditions striking, fitting, and moving all at once. And so the first lines came to mind, which I later expanded upon.

My wife’s cardiologist is on this floor—the irony of my ending up employed here is not lost on me. I see him in the halls with some regularity. The first time we went to see him, following up from her multiple admissions for supraventricular tachycardia as she gradually succumbed to her as-yet undiagnosed refeeding syndrome, it was early spring and the blossoms were in bloom.

I wanted to write a poem about them then—her heart rate reached in excess of 240bpm, like the flutter of a cherry blossom in the wind—but our struggle with her cancer loomed large in mind and there wasn’t much mental space for that sort of thing. Maybe I’ll still find myself exploring this metaphor as that nightmare moves further into the distance. Thus far, four and a half years later, she has returned to near-normal health—and that damned cancer is still gone.

Posted on by EAT

The Fritillary’s Flight

It is often the plight of a poet to find themselves reflecting on a story heard or overheard until the inspiration mounts to explore and extrapolate upon it through poetry. The story behind this poem is not mine to tell, so I won’t.

The Fritillary’s Flight

You wove up through divergent ancestries
        into being, knowing full well—
                                        I have to believe—
    your time could be brief, not much
more than a fritillary’s scattered flight
                through high desert meadows.

A parent finds something like religion
    in gazing upon their firstborn child—
There is wonder, hope, and yes… worry.
    You come, eyes bright
                                    as a newborn star,
        radiating life in all directions,
            the dimmest horizon now bright
                            with possibility.

You blessed us with infinite trust…
                    frailness and uncertainty.
    The scaffolding of your perfect being
contained but one irregularity, leaving
        your new home exposed to invisible
            dangers. Yet still you smiled,
    laughed and pointed… and as all things
                living must, sometimes cried.

    We learn quickly
        something is wrong—your body
                        will not fight disease,
                the prognosis unclear and
                                fraught with dread.

Still we raise weary eyes to your coos
    and meet your needs
        as we smile back fathomless fears.
Still we scour journals, consult experts,
    and visit doctors who assuage—
        as best they can—with that fabled
                    rhetoric of the powerless.
Still we call out with all that we are
    for a benevolent spirit to hear,
        heed, and come forth to our aid.

And somehow, through miracle, science—
        or both—there has been a glimmer
            of better days to come,
    of the feel of grass, fresh high desert air,
the touch and unfettered laugh of playmates.

    We will be here through all that comes—
and never waver—in the hope that one day
it will be you who approaches two long plots
    of earth with flowers, memories, and
                                    gratitude.
        Where we, having lived out the fullness
                of our days, wait in the rustling
            leaves of a cottonwood to hear you
    speak of love, loss, joy, pain—the entire
                            fullness of living.

And maybe you will hear our joy and pride
                whispered in the slight brush
    of a fritillary’s powdered wings just near
            your outstretched ears.

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The Seekers

I am not currently working on any project poems, and I don’t plan to start one any time soon. Hopefully this means my mental space will be freed up for more spontaneous writes such as this:

The Seekers

For as long as I can remember
I’ve watched them grope,
fumbling through dark places
over jagged, uneven surfaces.

I’ve watched them wander long
grey corridors, faces gaunt,
shoulders slouching faded sighs,
feet reechoing short, tired scuffs.

I’ve seen their distorted figures
through stain glass windows, heads
bowed, arms raised, faces creased
with longing for the slightest sign.

I’ve even seen them half concealed
by timbers on their way to peaks
and rivers to seek out some hidden
solace, some priceless psychic gem.

But, somehow I think it’s up there,
slipping between the stars, bits
and pieces sometimes flaring bright
streaks of insight within the night.

This was sparked more by a feeling than a thought. The feeling was invoked by a poem I read in a Facebook group, though I can no longer recall the poem or what it was about. Four of the five stanzas actually formed very quickly, but it didn’t feel finished, so I put it aside for a while. This was a few months back.

Recently I looked at it again and just kind of knew where and what the missing stanza should be and then it was done. Funny how that works.

Posted on by EAT

Boxcars

During my early 20s I was friends with a man who was also one of the staff who worked at the last residential home I lived in as a teen—not long before I ran away. I was still pretty feral in those days, so I eventually ended up damaging the relationship beyond repair and never saw or heard from him again.

But before this happened he passed on a piece of wisdom to me during a time when I really needed to hear it that involved a new way of looking at and dealing with my thoughts—seriously dark thoughts and intentions that absorbed a great deal of mental space in those days:

Boxcars

A steel-bell clamor echoes through the air
in time with frenzied flashes warning red;
the long arm of the crossing gate is down;
behind it boxcars rumble down the rails.

Some are old, the corrugated frames
bleed rustic patterns through the faded paint.
Some are new, unblemished angles gleam
the colors of a harvest fresh from field.

The doors gape wide, revealing vivid worlds
that move within the spaces as they pass,
each one reflecting back a hope, a fear,
a grim regret, a powerful desire.

The spacious confines beckon one by one—
the broken promises, the lasting doubts,
the things that could have been, the grand designs—
the vengeful plans that ache within the heart.

The cars move slowly—such that if you ran,
you could with little trouble hop aboard
and there within the confines of a thought
be carried off away to who-knows-where.

Nearby a tunnel opens to a plane
of deep uncertainty; it is from here
the many cars emerge to clangor by
and disappear around a far off bend.

I’ve been here many times throughout the years,
the way ahead obscured by vagaries
that mesmerize the mind with strange allure
and goad the impetus to jump aboard.

Sometimes a car would pass reflecting back
distorted visions holding such appeal
the urge to run and climb aboard would quell
all sensibility and self control.

Then suddenly I’d find myself within
a lucid fancy on that train of thought,
so thoroughly immersed in reverie
I soon lost sight of where I was or went.

And drifting through the shadows of a dream
of what could be or what there might have been—
or some depraved indulgence deep within—
I found myself displaced from all that is.

And only after hours, days, or weeks
would I regain my senses and return
to where I was before I leapt aboard
whatever fancy lured me from my path.

But through the years I’ve learned to let them pass,
allowing each to come and each to go
until once more the way ahead is clear,
the red caboose diminishing from view.

What he told me was simple: Instead of denying or rebuking the thoughts that troubled me, allow them to come, and then allow them to go—like the boxcars on a freight train at a train crossing. Let them come; let them go. Don’t hop on and get taken for a ride.

It took a while—many years in fact—but I worked at it and gradually got better at this practice. It helped a lot when I one day realized that the process of rebuking and trying to deny the thoughts and feelings that troubled me was also a form of hopping aboard.