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happy deathday

I guess my “holiday” poems tend not to be so festive. It was a phrase from Joyce’s Ulysses that somehow got me going: “Must be his [Smith O’Brien’s] deathday. For many happy returns.” (pg. 93).

Thought this a curious twist on the phrase. And found myself jotting down a note in my composition book… which expanded into a quatrain… which expanded three more stanzas. At which point I looked at it and thought to myself, “Why am I writing something like this this early Thanksgiving morning?”

Why indeed! But with a little reflection, it came to me.

It’s the forth anniversary of a father’s death—suicide—which I can’t help but feel some responsibility for. Our most tragic mistakes shape us, hopefully into better beings. But they also scar us. And sometimes others.

I’ve been told again and again that I shouldn’t accept responsibility for this suicide. But… leaving circumstances untold here …It’s difficult not to. I hope his shade some semblance of peace there at the edge of Styx.

So, this realization in mind, I found myself focusing the last three stanzas more tightly.

happy deathday

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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birch

A small set of haiku inspired by late autumn in Ukiah, specifically the turning of a few tall birch trees growing in the front yard.

birch

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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Transmogrification

My second synthetic ode. Parts I and II represent antithetical aspects of a child’s development, first the creative wonder and exploration all children seem to enjoy, then the addictive violence and desensitization of modern video games. Part III presents the synthesis of these two, the soldier on the field of battle, ready to kill without hesitation or remorse.

Imagine, as you read, one voice—say a soft-spoken female voice—reading part I and a second voice—say a harsher male voice—reading part II. Then, as you read part III, imagine the two voices reading in unison.

Transmogrification

        I

Hazel eyes absorb a world of wonder,
    cities floating through the sky
  half concealed among the clouds,
    mermaids dancing in the sea
  half revealed among the foam,
    and camouflaged away from human sight
        elven nations thriving all around the world.
            Nimble hands explore
    paper wood and plastic,
          creating new inventions week by day.
        Supersonic aircraft zoom through hallway canyons
          and out across imaginary bays;
        coffee table cities rise among the couches
          busy with the sounds of industry; and
        stellar ships and space ports emerge from bedroom closets—
          precursors of a future yet to be.
 

        II

Stormy eyes absorb a realm of slaughter,
    cities rotting with the dead
  overrun by demon hordes,
    Gothic townships ever dim
  overwhelmed by zombie mobs,
    and everywhere, apocalyptic doom
        drowns imagination with visions of the slain.
            Frantic hands control
    pixels bent on trauma,
          with implements of every kind of war
        wielded to the hymns of personal damnation,
          gentleness made mad for battle-scores,
        shooting hacking slaying, all discrimination
          lost amid a growing thirst for more. And
        steadily the will to think and learn is narrowed
          to morbid rivulets of combat lore.
 

        III

                Steel gray eyes survey
            silent flesh and burning bone,
        columns pluming black against the darkness,
            cities rubbled with dismay,
        broken homes where broken mothers moan,
    brick and mortar scattered through a halflight
fraught with holy terrors lurking deep in shadow
and sensor-tripped explosives stashed along the roadways.
        Steady hands take aim,
    crossing foes between the rigid hairs
        of righteousness and training,
    a firm belief that killing in the hallowed name is fair
        ingrained through years of subtle inculcation.
            Calloused fingers stroke the edge of death,
    forever tense, prepared to deal
            the fatal strike that leaves the twitching dead
        left glaring up one final supplication.

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revelation

I found myself thinking about the story of Adam and Eve. It has always seemed odd to me that god would place his newborn creations in a garden of ideals, and then stick a tree in the middle that grows fruit you’re not supposed to eat. Then, on top of that, toss in a snake that gets off on lying to people and convincing them to do what they’re not supposed to do. Never mind that Eve didn’t know anything about lying, so imagine her confusion when god tells her one thing while the snake tells her another.

This is like putting a small child in a room with a great big bar of chocolate, telling him he’s not supposed to eat the chocolate, then leaving a recording behind that repeats over and over, “You can eat the chocolate. It’s okay to eat the chocolate. Go ahead and eat the bar of chocolate.” Well, what do you think is going to happen?

Naw man, if you take the story at face value, then the whole thing was a setup from the start, like a really bad practical joke. So thus this experimental poem.

revelation

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.

Sometimes I just feel like experimenting.

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valley dusk

I found myself enjoying a cloud mural painted in the skies above Ukiah’s western ridges this evening. I felt it deserved a tanka.

valley dusk

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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Alchemy

In this poem, my 13th trisect, segment one depicts steel. Segment two depicts the skyscraper, in which steel is the most essential component. And segment three depicts the effects of modern industry upon earth and humanity, which includes mining for and smelting steel and the development and movement of all those resources that lead to the creation and maintenance of the skyscraper.

Alchemy

Ore

Forged by myriad million years of light,
        cast against eternities of night,
elemental embers collect amid the void,
    pooled in glowing clouds of dust and rock.

Particles accrete through time and motion,
        condensed to monumental orbs of molten
crystal moods, amassing alloys mid the darkness,
    cooled to form a rind of raw potential.

Fertile soils rise from ancient stone,
        animating shapes of wood and bone.
Nimble hands evolve and grope the ground for clues,
    scratching for a means to reach the sky.

Fires smelt a future from deposits
        quarried from a realm of veins and pockets,
charged into converters from out the depths of reason,
    hatching alloys cast as new potential.
 

Corpse

They rise as if from out the earth, a maze
        of beams and columns stretched against the haze,
looming like the relic frames of ancient beasts,
    massive specters moaning on the wind.

Reflections slowly seal each giant carcass,
        body bags of alloys mined from darkness
closed around the ribs of tall decaying monsters,
    ghastly shadows cast across the landscape.

They cantilever labyrinths of gloom
        hard against an ever present brume,
where wander human wraiths yet bound to living breath,
    faces filled to silence with dismay.

Like mausoleums raised to mark the open
        graves where hopes lie wasting in corrosion,
great facades reflect with every sunset whisper
    traces of the hollowness within them.
 

Course

Canyons wrought from concrete steel and glass
        soar above an ever seething mass,
heads and fenders tossed within a frantic flood
    swelled from centuries of strong desire.

Arteries of lava, veins of phosphor
        circulate through fields of psychic squalor,
where great malignant tumors feed upon the current,
    welled from out the heart of mass confusion.

Discolored patches stretch and fade from view—
        membranes taking on a sickly hue—
an ever growing quilt expanding abstract themes
    flung beyond the grasp of human thought.

Filaments of culture weave a madness
        shimmered from the dark side of a canvas
suspended deep in silence against abysmal backdrops
    clung forever to the soul’s awareness.

The prosody is pretty complex. If you’re curious about it let me know and I’ll respond with an explanation.

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rainbow

I had no idea where this was going when I started it, but I thought I’d just go with it and see what happened. I’m kind of surprised. Perhaps even pleasantly so.

rainbow

i traced its edge
through deep green fields
over pine tree hills and higher
till it scraped the desolate
snows of nowhere

and still i followed
on through alpine vale
and florid glen and down
jagged canyon ridges past
island mountains that rose
as if from seas of sand

and still i followed
past mesas lined with crows
and sere grass ranges
where lumbering cows rid
the world of diversity

and yet still on
along wide slow rivers filled
with stench fish floating lifeless
on bloated sides and
by pillars of smoke that
chased blue from the skies

and yet still on
through lifeless mountains
painted green to please the eye
past springs that bubbled poison
and wells that oozed dismay

yet still i went
following those faded hues
amid a web of tall marble
monuments each depicting
through stains the long neglected
dreams of liberty

yet still i went
along shores littered with
death where rag-worn poor rake
thin pale fingers through filth
for remnants of life

and finally there in a long
white plaza it ended
all its color drained to sooty
shades of gray that flickered
out from the last remains

of a once great constitution

now but a distant hope for
greater souls to strive toward

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strange disease

I normally don’t approach topics of this sort. But hopefully I can pass this off as a sort of pen-portrait and not as any sort of political commentary. I don’t actually know or understand enough to comment on American or World politics. But, regardless, this is the undeniable impression I get when I see Bush and certain members of his administration up in front of the microphones.

strange disease

your face looks somehow
    slack

        not with age but some
    strange disease

            your tongue slithers in and out
        slicking greasy lies
                like rancid butter
    across rows of microphones

your cheeks spill out
    over insect jaws that work
            mindless as mandibles
        on flickering teleprompts

            your eyes are toxic
    squalid little pools of terror leaking
        shivers from soft busy glows
sea to noxious sea

            your ears have rotted gray
                    deaf as battleship decks
    slack as the torn and tattered flag
        silenced behind you

            your voice is the sound of gravel
    shoveled from the backs of trucks
        with dirt and lime into
long shallow graves

            your hands grope out trembling
        as if overcome by pressure
tapped from ancient soils long ago decayed
                    to putrid pools of loss

                and your head swells grotesque
    to bursting from your dark black suit
        pumped with agendas too fetid
                for the heart to endure

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“He loves me.”

As I got to know my future wife long distance, I found myself wanting to assure her that my love for and dedication to her will never change.

“He loves me.”

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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Glance

When I go backpacking, I tend to my bring my journal along, or at least a little composition book. Here I’ll record any thoughts I have, or poem fragments. I should do this more often, since it affords me an opportunity to really sit with my thoughts, undistracted. Later I’ll go through the poem fragments and see about expanding them into actual poems (though I’m told a poem fragment is usually itself a poem).

Of the five or so recorded during my recent eight day walk, this one feels the most complete.

Glance

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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Provision

If I have a child one day, where would he (bold assumption I know) come from? I think we rain from the void into awareness. I think we drift in a sort of sleep, locked in the watery depths of consciousness and are eventually lulled by the rhythmic sounds of promise into life. From dream to dream we sleep our way through eternity, connected by an ever expanding web of condition—or karma.

Provision

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.