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Potential

I’ve been working for a large organization in the Reno area for just about 3 years now. The experience has been unlike any I’ve ever had before in the workforce, and mostly ways that are positive and affirming.

About this time late in 2023, I learned that I had been nominated for my organization’s “High Potential Program” by my leaders, a program consisting of a series of classes wherein you learn various tools involving self awareness, emotional self-regulation, empathy, time management, and plenty more. I didn’t really expect to be accepted into this program, as I looked at the past graduates to find they all had college degrees. And, I’m barely a high school graduate with a GED (“Good Enough Diploma,” as Chris Rock once put it) from a Job Corps center. But to my surprise I was accepted.

The program required one blood sacrifice—we had to give a speech on graduation day before the department heads, the CEO, and a host of other bigwigs within the organization. I took this very seriously and wanted to deliver a speech that did two somewhat disparate things—One, told a little of my story including some of my childhood circumstances and two, noted some personal benefit received from the program while extolling the merits of the program itself.

I ended up writing about 5 speeches, and even toyed with writing and delivering a poem rather than a speech. The poem would have been this one, but I did ultimately go with a several times revised rendition of one of the speeches. Yet, it didn’t feel like the poem was half bad—just didn’t feel like the right venue for it.

Potential

A nascent thing
    a hope, a dream, an aspiration
            scarcely felt, entirely unrealized—
                         at least for now

There are times when
      this primordial promise is lost, ripped
            away before even its first bud
                         begins to form

Forces like providence—
      droughts of love and nurture, storms
            of fury, rage, and blows, floods of
                         terror and gloom

Brilliance tarnished
      by corrosive words and chemicals
            to disfigured shapes and shades
                         of matt despair

There are also times
      when something is salvaged, a slip not
            fully dead lifted from decay to settle
                         in soils of possibility

A force like renewal
      burgeoning forth, perhaps not the full
            of what was lost, but something
                         that refused to die

A thorn-wielding hybrid
      recognized by rare souls of renown
            character, and cultivated from withered
                         neglect to vibrant health

It is not a seed
      but the force from which a seed begins—
            a dream still coiled deep within the womb
                         breath before the lungs have formed

The way I understand “potential” as relates to the human condition has changed a lot over the decades, and I suspect it will continue to change. It’s tied into insights gradually gained into the nature of being, identity, cognition, and consciousness—insights that continue to shift and expand, hopefully growing and evolving.

Here in this poem aspects of these insights are expressed, ever so subtly, while also reflecting upon and tying them into direct experience, past and present, relative to the framework of this lifetime.

Like I said, not quite the right fit for a speech presented to department heads, the CEO, and other top brass within the organization. I sat on it for a while, continuing to make minor edits. And, now it’s here. A more appropriate venue, sure, but one that essentially lacks an audience.

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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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Specter

I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on over the past couple of years. My goal was to try to make sense of an unnamed trauma that has had a powerful influence on my state of mind and emotion for as far back as I can remember.

The work we did was forensic in nature, looking at what I do know and can remember of my life through the lens of various schools of psychology. It was attachment theory that led somewhere, as this revealed that I likely suffered extreme neglect during my first 3 years of life. I’m unable to verify this, however, because family who still live exist in a state of perpetual attempts to gaslight and deny.

Specter

She made me …
  from filaments of stardust
    mixed with the loess
      of broken dreams

She bore me …
  stark into the light of rage
    and left me naked, crying
      deep in an empty well

She gave me …
  poison fruit from a withered tree
    and i ate, having lost all hope
      of anything more

She made me …
  the imago of her darkest dread
    an ever present specter looming
      deep within her afterthought

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Convergence

Once I finished “Light” in March, my queue was finally empty. So I found myself looking in a folder I long ago named “Backburner” to see what was there. This is the folder where I put files for poems that I started working on, but eventually abandoned for one reason or other. Upon reviewing its contents, I decided the folder didn’t contain anything of interest to me. Inside that folder is another one named “Altogether Abandoned.” In there I found a few old ideas sitting in digital limbo. One was titled “hybridanelle—original marriage commemoration attempt.” I only vaguely recalled what that might have looked like, so I opened it.

The first 13 lines of this hybridanelle were already written. I tried to think of why I abandoned the poem, and then I remembered. It didn’t really feel like the marriage I was entering into. So I scrapped it and composed “Matrimony” instead, in large part inspired by hurricane Katrina. Much more fitting for my first marriage. The first 13 mystically abstract lines of this unfinished poem were actually more fitting for my current marriage. However, there’s just no way I could re-commemorate it to my second marriage. My wife deserves completely original poems, such as “Wild Cherry,” written a couple years—and not that many poems—ago.

So why bring this out of the mothballs? Well, I liked the language of these first 13 lines. I didn’t actually think I could make it work as a full hybridanelle poem, but I thought of this concept of life as a stream and streams converging into one another as they move through the fields of existence, and I decided I’d like to give it a try. So, no longer a marriage commemoration poem—just a poem inspired by the notion of convergent lives, hence the title.

    Convergence

       Consciousness emerged in swirls of color.
          The pliant void composed a shifting stream,
      an ever-changing song of rippling texture.
   Awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
     searching through confusion for companionship and trust
         eventually to join another stream for life.
           Two channels merged to share a mutual course,
          brought to flow as one by karmic forces.
       The pliant void composed a shifting stream,
     singing like a river that curves throughout the night,
    swelled with faint reflections of a darkness steeped in stars.
       Awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
            sent before the hidden crush of pressures
         en route to mingle matters of the soul.
     Brought to flow as one by karmic forces,
       each turbid swell of dream converged and realized
           harmony beyond the scope of individual strains.
              Eventually to join another stream for life,
             each flood progressed with all its sense of self
          through wooded solitudes and desert places
      en route to mingle matters of the soul.
 Condensed from engrammatic vapors, recondite,
     elements of being coalesced until in streams
         awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light
             amid the grassy sprawl of open spaces
          beneath the floating glow of moonlit clouds
     through wooded solitudes and desert places
  down long cascades past deep brown pools—where lithe
      recollection’s slender shadow below the surface stirs—
            eventually to join another stream for life.
                Like soft white rays refracted through high mists,
           consciousness emerged in swirls of color
        beneath the floating glow of moonlit clouds,
    an ever-changing song of rippling texture
that shimmered down from realms of dream, so faint and slight,
    time held no form and had no bearing until from out this trance
      awareness rose and surged in subtle shades of light,
           eventually to join another stream for life.

This, my 22nd hybridanelle, was a bear to compose. As I suspected, the refrains used in the first 13 lines were not easily remolded into fresh expressions. It also took me a good while to figure out what I was doing with the meter and end-line schemes. There’s one scheme that doesn’t use end-line prosody all, but related concepts, such as “color” and “texture,” “course” and “stream,” “pressures” and “forces,” and a few more. Pretty interesting.

The meters, it turns out, switch between pentameters, hexameters and heptameters. Being a bit out of practice, I actually found it difficult to wrap my brain around this complexity, and I kept forgetting to double-check and make sure I’m following the correct pattern. This gave me some insights into why poetry took a 135 degree turn toward gushy chopped prose a couple centuries ago. It can be bloody difficult, and a lot of times the end result is just not what you were hoping for.

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At the edge of language

The poet—the serious poet—spends considerable time walking the hinterlands of language, exploring that boundary between the obvious and the unintelligible. What the poet brings back from the edge may allow readers the unusual experience of ascribing as much, or even more meaning into the words than were ever actually inscribed. To say more would defeat the point of the poem itself.

At the edge of language

Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her
here, where uncertainty swirls into
     mystery, magic, meditation.

What few trees still stand are dead,
black, misshapen skeletons reaching
out through thick mists. This one
might have been an elm once, or
maybe an oak.
                    There is no way to know.

Boots sink into long dead leaves
and grass, submerged to the ankle
in brown, half decomposed meaning.
Every step is a matter of deepest
                                    contemplation.

Something slithers by, almost…
almost catching the eye, a thing
that feeds on detritus left when words,
thoughts, histories fade from memory—
all shapeless within its long, lean gut.

As I carefully lift one foot from a suction
that seeks to make me one with all
things forgotten and lean the other
into a slow, pungent belch, I’ll catch
a glimpse of her, moving in the mist,
part gleam, part shadow, part
understanding. I can almost make out
legs shifting beneath a gown, possibly
a face, and then she’s gone.
                                               I’ll pause
as my weight settles to a fading hiss,
and after a moment call out. There is
never an answer.

                            Still, I come seeking.

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Aural Borealis

This is my 14th trisect, by far the most challenging of them all for me. First the poem, then some thoughts.

Aural Borealis

Vibration

Her voice began in a furnace where blinding flashes of light
arced through scraps of metal until they swirled in a pool
of fiery molten fluid, drawn through a running cast
to red hot beams that slowly dimmed to a charcoal gray.

Her voice remained congealed within those cold gray billets
until at last they were moved once more into the fire,
reheated to a yellow that rivaled an alpine sunrise
then rolled into burning coils of thick unfinished wire.

Her voice emerged like a mist—heavy, cold and gray—
clanging anemic pangs with every shift and shock,
until it was drawn through the eyes of a series of shrinking dies
and thinned into tensile threads of spidery, silvery hue.

Her voice awakened at last, a vivid reverberation
borne aloft on the wind to dance over rolling hills,
chasséing amid the bunchgrass, jetéing through the sagebrush,
and pirouetting through the air with flying seeds.
 

Resonance

Her frame was born in the grip of weathered, ancestral hands,
leveled against the kill, for when the shaft was flown,
the hunter’s ears were piqued by a sound that yet remained,
inspiring him to hunt for a means to play the same.

Her frame took shape in the calloused hands of inspiration,
coaxed into living form from scraps of wood and skin
by ancient artisans who notched imagination
in ornamental bows that flew but melodies.

Her frame evolved in marble halls that harbored kings,
scales and chords expanding until resistance formed
a pillar to hold against the pull of hallowed strains
and serpentine harmonic curves to relieve the same.

Her frame outgrew the very hands that gave it being,
bursting forth a will that of its own accord
would volley out barrages of elegance and meaning
on airs reechoed over undulating lands.
 

Serenade

Her breath is a wind that brushes gently through the desert,
stirring the stained glass petals of Venus’ looking glass,
exciting wild bergamot atop green towers,
and swaying deep-throated harebells lightly on their stems.

Her hum is a feathery rain that tickles arid sands,
drifting down from downy skies until all ears
relax for a moment from the wary, watchful strain
that haunts and harries every living thing through life.

Her chant is the purl of a spring high up a narrow canyon,
wild mint and licorice gathered round the edge
of small, translucent pools wherein the heavens ripple
impressionist renditions of hawk and thunderhead.

Her call is a shower of light that streams over emptiness,
distant mountaintops and nearby shrubby hills
dissolved into a silhouette that circles round
beneath the shimmering flow of relativity.

The inspiration behind this piece is two wind harps, both conceptualized and created by New Mexico resident Bill Neely. Most people know the wind harp as a wide, narrow box with a few strings upon which one may close a window in order to force air past the strings. These two harps, however, are shaped like the concert harp and larger than life. The first, referred to by its sculptor simply as “the NFO windharp,” stands 20 feet tall and weighs 1600lbs. The second, called “Tempest Song,” was commissioned by the owners of the now defunct Traditions shopping center about smack in the middle of New Mexico and weighs in at 3000lbs at 24 feet in height.

“Tempest Song” was the first of the two wind harps I chanced to visit, in 2002, actually driving out to New Mexico to see and listen to this living, musical instrument after stumbling across some information about it online. The experience was somewhat ruined by noise from the close proximity of Interstate 25. Upon returning home, I sent its creator an email along with a copy of “Aeolian Strains,” a poem inspired by my visit, and I was invited to visit the first of the two wind harps on his private property the next time I made it out that way. I made it a point to take him up on this offer two years later, spending a night under the soundboard of this 20 foot harp—a wonderful and somehow enlightening experience. It has ever since been my intention to try to write a poem worthy of that first harp, remembering that night under the stars listening to her sing.

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Samsara

Birth. Death. Impermanence. Samsara. Samsara is a concept I was exposed to and learned about during my late teen years. At first, the notion of a never ending cycle of birth and death—coming and going—was somehow a comfort to my thoughts. But as I’ve meditated on the concept over the years, it’s become less and less of a comfort and I begin to grasp the value in learning how to find one’s way out of this never-ending stream of coming and going.

Here I reflect on the coming, the going, and the impermanence of it all. This is my 6th synthetic ode.

Samsara

i

Roiling coiling boiling
             beyond memory dreams
   phase and shift in amniotic mists
         swirl in the silence of pulsation
      swim in the stillness of song and dance

Slowly gently gradually
   sensations coalesce illuminating
shapes only somewhat guessed before
      till time takes hold and presses
long hard strained contractions
         bearing breath into the light
      where lungs expel a fluid reverie
   and struggle with thin arid vapors of life

Now spry pink fingers fan out
            new translucent maple leaves
      that ball and bob and grasp
         at each candescent moment
   each ray of raw potential
               emerging from the void

ii

Ailing paling failing
             beyond hope of recall
   yesteryears evaporate like mists
         drift in and out of apprehension
      drone in the absence of conscious thought

Fiercely surely naturally
   perception dissipates into a darkness
shapes only somewhat recognized
      as time slows down and shuffles
somber strained abstractions
         toward an ever shifting shade
      where lungs expand in fluid misery
   and struggle at each dim sensation of life

Here sun browned fingers curl up
            frail exhausted walnut leaves
      that twist and creak and claw
         at brief pellucid moments
   at dreams of lost potential
               returning to the void

iii

An old oak grows on the side of a hill,
the side that faces the afternoon sun;
on the ground in the grass, her litterfall
has collected around her ancient trunk,
its bottommost layers turned back to soil.

A short distance away the blanched remains
of a sister lies rotting in the grass,
her wood resculpted by late autumn rains
and frosts that covered her corpse with a glass
that deepened the wedges along the grain.

The old oak rises, the last of her kin;
her trunk is split and a third of her limbs
in perpetual winter scrape like bone
the progression of ever changing climes—
the blistering azure, the thunder’s groan.

In the shape of a crescent moon, decay
has collected around her knobby base,
the twigs and branches that once would display
a green that shimmered now turning to waste
where skeletal shadows reach out and pray.

Another third is beginning to wane,
the crown has turned to a light mottled shade
and the leaves have begun to curl and thin
where, before, a reflective glimmer played
like fairy folk dancing within the sun.

She is old; she was old when condors soared
in the skies that revolve above her leaves;
for centuries she has weathered the storms
that lumber in from the watery weaves
which pattern the sandscapes of distant shores.

Her time is near, as it nears for us all;
the vibrancy of her youth has been lost
to the powerful change that claims us all,
yet she faces the end and bears the worst
with a grace that exists within us all.

So here part i explores birth, or coming into being; part ii explores death, or going out of being; and part iii explores impermanence, or the stream of beingness. Most of the parallelisms in parts i and ii exist between the two segments. You may find it an interesting experience to read parts i and ii at the same time, line by line.

Another thing that may catch your attention as you read is that part iii uses an entirely different style than the first two parts. Everything about it is different. Parts i and ii read like free verse while part iii reads more like a piece of classical poetry. This is intentional. This is meant to jar the senses by jabbing a sliver of “impermanence” under the fingernail of thought.

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Maybe this

I am realizing that writing free verse is an integral part of my writing structured verse. In fact, I’m noticing that when I fail to spend some time exploring free verse, my structured verse suffers miserably and my overall creative flow backs up like a plugged toilet. Not a pleasant sensation.

I stumbled across some notes in an old composition book tonight and decided to flush them out a bit.

Maybe this

Maybe this is what I must do
  read tangible silence
    let my mind work over
      stories fables histories
        discoveries metered lore

                     climb
                  down
               ladders of
            thought
         line by
      line

until at last she stands on

         something
            soft
               forgiving
                  easy

      and is lulled to rest
   in the roaring quiet of

                           contemplation

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Spark

This, my 5th synthetic ode, has proven itself a difficult thing to write. I’m not really sure why. I think maybe it has to do with the insights behind the content being somewhat beyond the reach of words—Of language.

Spark

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.

The metaphor I’ve attempted to explore here is the coalescence of being and the spark of beingness.

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to rest

This is a complete rewrite of a ghazal written in November of 2002. For some reason, I titled that original ghazal “*poof*”. Yes, with the asterisks. Having entered every title of every poem I’ve written in my adult life into a database, I can safely point out that this is the only poem I have ever titled in such a manner. I must have been feeling apathetic the day I completed the original. I’m not making “*poof*” available here because it’s really not worth sharing.

This rewrite extends the ghazal by one more couplet and the meter by two feet. It extends the rhyme to include partial consonance while keeping the radiff (or refrain) and it trades the use of my pen-name for allusion to one of its meanings in the final couplet. And, of course, it is now something I feel more comfortable sharing with my readers.

to rest

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.

Since the original has been completely rewritten, this becomes my 134th ghazal.

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I’ll find you

I suddenly realized there was an entry in my large journal that hadn’t yet been transcribed to ASCII. When I read it over, I realized it might be worth turning into an actual poem.

I’ll find you

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.

The “you” in focus here is the creative self.