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Rain

This poem, my 19th hybridanelle, is inspired by a series of storms that passed through Southern California when I was in my early teens, probably ten or eleven years old. There were a series hurricanes blowing over Hawaii at the time, and they were so big that they spun off storm after storm into Southern California—And I remember them as waves of storms.

Rain

Come, lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground,
conceal the tragedy of broken years,
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind;
ease the pressure from the pressing blue,
dull the stainless cobalt’s razor hues
which vivisect perception like a blade.

Subdue the cubist concrete, the painted slats of wood,
the swaying glass and steel that mock the day;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
with a half-light suited best for ravaged hopes
and gray the glaring cruelty of the sun;
dull the stainless cobalt’s razor hues.

Gather up your mass and spill your shadows down
across the crawl of long distempered hours
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
dissevered from the rush of tragic signs;
raise from out the waves your phasing layers
and gray the glaring cruelty of the sun.

Immerse this arid air in contemplative mood
until the asphalt mirrors every minute;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
where seeds have rarely sprouted into life;
grant a brief reprieve from endless drought;
raise from out the waves your phasing layers.

Fill the world with stillness; play that quiet sound
which puddles every lane with rippled moments
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
electric bright beneath cerulean drapes,
the overwhelming crush of open skies;
grant a brief reprieve from endless drought.

Break this barren view with drifts of coiled wind,
and let your blistered vapors calm each instant;
come lend your rolling cover; shade this dry cracked ground
and dim the raging colors that siege a weary mind,
trapped within a frozen summer-scape;
ease the pressure from the pressing blue,
the overwhelming crush of open skies
which vivisect perception like a blade.

My childhood was dry and barren in many ways. Barren of education. Dry of hope and potential. I watched it slip away for lack of resources. And then my brain cracked from all the drugs I was forced to take since I was eight, and I ended up institutionalized as a ward of the court from twelve until I ran away at fifteen.

They don’t prepare you for life in these places. What they prepare you for is a life of utter dependency upon the system. If you break free from this in any small way, then this is a degree of freedom, escape, success. I pretty much had to chew off a leg to escape the steel-jawed bear trap of the system—so in a sense I’ve been twice crippled during the process of getting free. Needless to say, as a result, it’s not so easy for me to fit in and be a good little cog in the societal machine. But I’m told this is part of what makes me “unique”, as if this were a good thing.

Rain was my balm during these years, even as a runaway. Knowing full well my sleeping bag wasn’t waterproof, I’d welcome the rain when it came, with something like a sense of joy, or perhaps it was a kind of serenity. I usually found a way to shield myself enough to stay relatively dry, and thereby warm. Sometimes I didn’t and I became a shivering wet sponge by morning. Yet it was my balm, always my balm. Everything seemed so stark and rigid in the full light of day, overbearingly clear. So clear it scrambled my thoughts into confusion. In the half-light of the rain I’d find myself, even as an eleven year old, just at peace.

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blindspot

My 7th trisect poem. Segment one is focused on the thunderhead, or supercell. This is the metaphor for the “thing” that has blinded all sense of foresight for me my entire teenage and adult life, at least since I was 13. I’ve always been amazed by how some people can see a desk job, and through it “see” a four bedroom house, a Benz, and a paid-off mortgage in 30 years, complete with wife, kids, a dog, and a picket fence. All I’ve ever seen is this thundering cyclone. Similarly I find it amazing how some people can look at a pile of wood and see a shed, a new business, or a planter garden, while all I tend to see is just a bunch of wood—and the thunderhead. So, this is segment one, “Erubus”, the realm of darkness and obscurity personified (not to be confused with night—that’s different).

Segment two focuses on the narrow road—in this case the road of life, specifically my life path, or “calling”, as it were, which I do my best to follow.

Segment three focuses on my interaction between this road and the ever-present thunderhead which looms on the horizon (and often much closer in the mind’s eye), sucking “the long horizon from the mind”. So the process depicted here is that of obscuration, brought on by a life of personal defeat and dehumanization.

blindspot

erebus

a million million shades of gray
swim between the land and sky
absorbing every detail into mist

many-jointed shoulders haunch
hulking up against the dome
to scatter shadows out across the earth

amorphous legs traverse the realm
labored with colossal strides
gaping forth an omnipresent maw

and in its belly rumbles deep
the acids of uncertainty
which churn the world into obscurity
 

calling

laid with crumbling asphalt rock or dirt
a rarely traveled path meanders far
across the scapes of possibility

beneath the canopies of ponderosa
along the stony course of waterways
amid the yawn of jagged desert peaks

the way of freedom weaves by dusks and dawns
a twisted uroboros colored earth
wrapped across the contours of existence

boiled in the depths of crawling storms
it rises writhing sharply into sight
a tired trail of chance and destiny
 

presage

colors fold into a distant haze
an open road to somewhere fades from view
lost in many-layered nimbus plumes

long cascading booms convey
a wall of nearing emptiness
which sucks the long horizon from the mind

this narrow road unfolds and turns
to meet the turbid banks of doubt
which cling to every curve along the way

weary legs and blistered feet
lurch and falter on the path
yet swing forever onward toward the void

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Sakura

My 6th trisect poem. The first segment depicts the cherry blossom, by means of impressions. The second segment depicts the environments into which the cherry blossoms manifest and disperse. The third segment depicts the ephemerality of life.

In Japan the cherry blossom has long been associated with the ephemerality of youth and life, sometimes even painted alongside scenes of samurai harakiri and other scenes of mortal transition. In this poem I’ve attempted to depict these associations using mostly Western imagery. I’ve also tried to lace a sense of ephemerality throughout the entire poem.

Sakura

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.

What’s interesting about the trisect is that I often come to see more in the poem when I read it than what was there when I wrote it. Already I can see associations and connections in this piece that I would have been sure were intentional if I hadn’t written it myself. I find myself wondering if this isn’t some kind of connection to the workings of the unconscious. Trisects are dreamlike in a lot of ways

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The Dimming

This poem, my 17th hybridanelle, was requested by a member of the poetry community I participate at, Suzanne Smee, who lost her 16 year old daughter to suicide October of last year. When she read my last hybridanelle project poem, “Unbounded“, she asked me if I would write a poem in memory of her daughter. I was thinking about writing something inspired by the circumstances of her daughter’s suicide at some point, but this would have been in my own time and not written as a memorial poem—Just in reflection of the circumstances that I was aware of without having to pry.

As a request, this changed. I told her I would only be able to fill her request if she would be willing to answer any questions I had about her daughter’s life and the weeks, days, and hours just prior to her passing. This may seem harsh, but it really is the only way I could do the poem justice. It must be understood that although 95% of what I learned has not been used in the poem’s content itself, 100% of it has influenced the poem’s outcome. If any piece of information I had was missing, this would be an entirely different piece of writing.

The Dimming

for Suzanne Smee
in memory of her daughter Nicole (Nikki) Vance
(March 1989 – October 2005)

Clear waters meditate on hidden sounds;
a silver sickle sinks into the twilight
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind;
bright eyes search the heavens for distant hints of hope;
bare feet wade through shallow waves in silence
where oaks and tamaracks extend their fading hues.

Whispered prayers rustle unseen boughs
like spirits moved to trembling in the darkness;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds,
the rise and fall of cricket-song crescendos,
the muffled sobs of anguish, alone and undiscerned;
bare feet wade through shallow waves in silence.

A sort of vision quest for understanding
unfolds between a chapel and the night
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind
and falling stars leave traces of promise in the skies,
now powerless to dissipate confusion—
the muffled sobs of anguish, alone and undiscerned.

Dawn breaks pale on Erie’s inland sea;
the great blue heron lifts to meet the half-light;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds,
a rapid ringing tap that echoes clearly,
the rosy call of grosbeaks sifting through the woods,
now powerless to dissipate confusion.

A troubled psyche left our world to wander
among those planes that phase amid the shade;
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind,
gentle spirits join to keep a subtle wake—
the Chagrin River shares a song of mourning,
the rosy call of grosbeaks sifting through the woods.

Colors pale before the nearing winter;
a phantom half acknowledged walks the shadows;
clear waters meditate on hidden sounds
as fallen leaves are scattered by the wind;
yet still within the dream-space of the living
bright eyes search the heavens for distant hints of hope;
the Chagrin River shares a song of mourning
where oaks and tamaracks extend their fading hues.

There are a lot of allusive references in here that are particular to Nikki’s life and the circumstances leading up to her suicide, but I’ll point out just a few of them.

“Clear water” is what an old Amerindian word, “Shagrin”, means. The Chagrin River is actually a mis-transliteration of the original name of the river. Nikki would visit the Chagrin River when she needed time to herself to think and reflect. When she did this she would walk barefoot in the river. I understand she even did this at night, including the night before her passing. Hence the night imagery throughout the first part of the poem.

In Nikki’s notes found by the reviewing officer, she made heavy mention of the shallowness of our society. This was really bothering her. And this is part of the reason I chose the wording “wade through shallow waves” in one of the refrains.

I feel that Nikki had an animistic relationship with the Chagrin River itself, at the very least through spiritual blindsight. Much of the imagery used in this poem attempts to reflect this relationship.

Suzanne used to take Nikki to watch a great blue heron fish in a pond near where they live off the shores of Lake Erie, near the Chagrin River. The “rappid ringing taps” refers to the piliated woodpecker. It’s tough to use designations like “piliated woodpecker” in a poem like this without compromising the mood and impact of the poem, and this is why I chose an image reference rather than a proper designation. Nikki seemed to have some connection with this bird, as one would only come round to visit her grandfather’s home and feed from the bird feeder when she was visiting.

Last but not least, she once had a red-breasted grosbeak land on her hand as she was feeding chickadees by her home. I once had a wild sparrow fly out of a tree and land on my shoulder. It actually stayed there as I turned my head to look at it, cocking its head at me and flittering its feathers a bit before going back into the tree. That was an experience I have never forgotten, and I still feel very special for some reason when I reflect on it. And so I know that Nikki’s experience with the grosbeak had special meaning to her, hence the “rosy call of grosbeaks” being included as part of the animistic mourning process reflected in the poem.

Before starting the poem, I made an attempt to deepen my understanding of some concepts in Chinese cosmology around the nature of being because I don’t know of any way for suicides to have a chance at freedom or release in the dogmas of Western religion or spirituality. I did leave a way in the close of this poem for Nikki’s ghost (gui in Chinese cosmology) to hope for that release and clarity based on what I’ve learned and come to understand. I know I have much more to learn in this area, and I plan to continue working at deepening my understanding in relation.

There’s more, in fact each and every word and phrase in this poem has arisen from my investigation into and meditations on Nikki’s life and death along with connecting subjects. Writing this also caused me to reflect a great deal on my father’s suicide and the possibility of his eventual release from gui state.

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Ark

This, my 5th trisect poem, is inspired by the moon of Europa. The one in orbit around Jupiter. Some believe there could be something neat happening beneath the rind of ice surrounding that unique sphere.

Segment one depicts that rind of ice. Segment two depicts the underlying potential. And segment three depicts the evolutionary process proposed to be a possibility.

Ark

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.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — March 2006

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Architect

My 4th trisect poem, inspired by none other than the Lego building blocks system. Segment one depicts the building blocks themselves. Segment two depicts the various creations that can be made from those building blocks. And segment three depicts the imaginative play involved in making those creations.

Architect

The Elements

Modeled after brick and stone,
the cinderblocks and dolomites
that long have kept our ancient homes
half hidden from the crush of night,

a simple notion binds itself to form
in varied shapes of molded polymers
that—scattered out like remnants of a ruin—
tease the mind with possibilities.

Quarried from the realm of thought,
hewn from enigmatic veins,
abundant with the priceless ore
of nascent creativity,

each hollow cube is made to interlock
with all the many others of its kind,
magic puzzle pieces crafted such
that they will build whatever comes to mind.
 

Of Invention

Imagination rises up
to form a towered ring of walls,
ramparts crowned with parapets
that guard a nest of dens and halls.

Or simple village structures manifest
from deep within the wells of memory,
little homes around a market place,
a chapel standing quaintly in the midst.

Bridges arch above the spread
of nonexistent waterways;
modern superstructures scrape
against conceptions of the sky.

Even ships from other worlds emerge
to travel all throughout the universe,
forever redesigned in the docks
of varied moon or planetary bases.
 

At Play

Individual colors snap
together in a bold array,
absorbed into a growing sense
of cognizance and clarity.

Nimble fingers probe and rearrange
impressionist expressions of the mind,
each sculpture an accomplished masterpiece
comprised of cubist rectangles and squares.

Walls and rooftops recombine
as various disasters strike;
rigs develop stronger frames,
evolving after every wreck.

Experimental joists and joints explore
the art of bearing loads and distribution,
each new creation more elaborate,
expanding with the will to learn and grow.

When the segment subtitles are joined together, you have “The elements of invention at play.” This wasn’t by accident.

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Three Ravens

This, my 3rd trisect poem, is the second of four related poems that each connect with a powerful dream I had in 2001. The other three, in the order they were written, are “oak dream,” “markers,” and “oak touch.”

The dream itself is pretty well laid out in “markers.” Some of the experiences surrounding the dream are talked about in “oak touch.” This poem focuses specifically on the three raven representations that occur within the dream.

Three Ravens

Likeness

a shadow-figure bounces limb to limb
dropped from high within a lobe-leafed crown
to settle in sere blades of weedy grass

cast from a dreamtime archetype
with lifelike detailed lifelessness
the image shines absorbing light

motionless by roots that vanish deep
it stares face-up awaiting scrutiny
with all the passion of an obelisk

no hint of air disturbs its place
those steady strands that broke its fall
as if to catch a secret prize
 

Presence

concealed in part by leaf and limb
a single pair of talons scratch
against imperfect plates of bark

a shard of rough obsidian regards
the hidden topside of a sturdy branch
where unseen from the ground an icon lures

all that stirs the careful air
is feathered curiosity
that taps and probes a private find

shelled by billowed tufts of nimbus green
the living marker cocks desultory glances
working to unlock its mystery
 

Metamorphosis

human arms reach out to merge with wings
that beat and glide within a canyon formed
by sprawling concrete towers gray with age

human legs press back against the quills
that turn their flight down narrow lanes of stone
led by blindsight to a courtyard park

and here within there stands and spreads
the only living structure found
amidst this city lost to time
amid the dreamscapes of the mind

and in the shade of gaze and bough
one hand holds a figurine
that splits along its downy breast
where silver light shines from its depths

The three representations of the raven are as follows:

First, explored in segment three, was myself. In the dream I was part raven, part my normal human self. What made this especially intense is that I flew with those great raven wings from the outskirts of the city to its central park where the old oak grew.

Second, explored in segment two, was an actual raven, perched high in that same oak.

Third, explored in segment one, was a raven figurine, dropped by the raven from high within the massive old oak. Near the end of the dream, as I began to fly up into the branches of the oak to see what that raven was fiddling with, it nudged this undefined object over the edge of the branch it was on. I flew back down to investigate, and found it to be a raven figurine. As I studied it, in all its miniature feathered realism, its chest split open to reveal a light-emitting cross within.

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Oak Dream

This poem, my 15th hybridanelle, is the first of four poems that connect to a dream I had in 2001. The other three poems, in the order they were written, are “Three Ravens”, “markers”, and “oak touch”.

The poem “markers” does a decent job of describing the dream itself. Being a surreal dream, “markers” is a surreal poem. Some of the circumstances surrounding the dream are talked about in the intro to “oak touch”. This poem focuses on the oak tree that I encountered in “real life” about two weeks after I dreamed about it.

      Oak Dream

      random weaves of rugged bark
           writhe against the phasing skies
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

  roots extend throughout a dozen worlds
     winding deep into the plane of dreams
to brush the wayward mind like strokes of wind

     weathered plates of charcoal gray
           shift and slide into the air as
        random weaves of rugged bark

     tendrils cleave the mists from drought to draught
        driven to explore domains of light
winding deep into the plane of dreams

     vapors breathe against the moon
           raising plumes within the void
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

     solar cells fan out as emerald lobes
        along dynamic conduits of growth
driven to explore domains of light

     mosses clothe erratic limbs
         climbing toward inconstant heights up
        random weaves of rugged bark

     colors dance across elusive grains
        in gradual pilgrimage through subtle realms
along dynamic conduits of growth

     russet rustles greet the stars
           when cloud-breaks split the stormy nights
        that drift beyond capricious leaves

     like ripples cast by gentle drops of rain
        rings expand through time as branches reach
in gradual pilgrimage through subtle realms

     stardust rises from the earth
           to sing across the depths of space on
        random weaves of rugged bark
  that drift beyond capricious leaves

     beneath the spread of tangible mirage
        roots extend throughout a dozen worlds
rings expand through time as branches reach
  to brush the wayward mind like strokes of wind

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E merge nce

My 1st trisect poem. The trisect is my own semantically complex poetic form which I will use to help me with developing my use of depictive language.

E merge nce

Fortress

walls of paper kept the world at bay
cubes of indistinction none would see
where settled there within a watcher peered

the dusty brown a perfect camouflage
propped against a wall or by a hedge
passed a thousand times by reckless feet

corrugated fibers held the wind
so that the space inside was made to form
a child’s island haven from the storm

sometimes it was a spaceship among the stars
sometimes a moon-base on a barren scape
sometimes a roving tank all battle-scarred
but always it provided safe escape
 

Goliath

shaped from molten vats of ore
molded by a burning greed
riveted with violent force
pieces merge to fill a need

manifest from heavy silence
oils surge and slowly drip
uncertainty across the roads

power charges through its frame
explosions channeled in its chest
to serve a senseless master’s will

tires grind an alley’s dirt
shadows steer a ghostly wheel
the phantom grill athirst for blood
 

Impact

black lightning strikes the living clay
evaporating life from every limb
suspending consciousness alone
void of breath yet interfused with fear

tires spin throughout the dark
an engine roars above a twisted neck
inches from a lifeless face
psychic tethers anchored in vibration

a heedless monster lumbers back
the shelter shattered open like a nest
blood resumes its former course
and wild bones reanimate the flesh

a figure stands and staggers numb with pain
screams and scampers filled with terror
headlights rear and fade away
a child’s bones left fractured like his mind

The first segment focuses on cardboard. I used to create cardboard forts when I was a child—sometimes very elaborate—and hang out in them all day long. Some of them would be portable, and some would be built in vacant lots or alleyways blocks or miles from home. They were always very well camouflaged, so my little hideout would remain my little hideout. The portable ones I’d often setup at the edge of a busy parking lot, made to look like a pile of scrap cardboard, where I’d hang out and just watch people without them knowing. These simple forts were a safe haven for me, a private place to go and be away from troubles and worries. And I had my share.

The second segment focuses on the automobile, the car. I remember reading up on their manufacturing process and design, and the primary materials used in their construction, before starting this segment.

The third segment focuses on a little mishap I had in one of those cardboard forts as a 14 year old, which involved a car. It was in an alleyway a few blocks from home. City blocks. Los Angeles City blocks. About a mile away at least. I had some big fight with my mother that day and decided I’d just have my own space that night in a cardboard fort I and a friend had built a day or two before. It was a beautiful fort, with four separate compartments, each of which were big enough to lay out flat in. The whole thing was masterfully camouflaged with various sorts of debris from the area, including dead palm branches and branches of other sorts. In the end it looked like a slash pile, just a bunch of branches and other random materials tossed into a pile—but it was hollow, and there were access points.

That night as I slept a car slammed into the fort and ran over my right arm, shoulder, and neck, breaking the upper arm longways from near the elbow across to the top near the ball socket, and blew a piece out of the ball socket itself. My neck was severely sprained—which is of course a miracle. It was possible to make out the tire treads on my throat. How I happened to be aligned such that the tire didn’t snap my head one way and pop my skull off the spine like a bottle opener I have no idea.

This was my first NDE. I have no way to prove it, but I just know. I know what I experienced, and I was dead for at least a moment—and a moment is long enough to be dead. Sometime I’ll dedicate some poetry and discussion to that experience. But as I “returned”, after the car had somehow managed to back up off me without running over my neck a second time, I sprang up in a panic, and it came toward me again, then stopped, then backed all the way down the alley and around the far corner, as if in a mad rush to escape affiliation with the mishap. I’ll never forget the sight of those headlights.

I was near a series of hotels. And each time I knocked, with my left arm since right wouldn’t respond, the owners would come to the door and I’d ask for help and they’d slam the door on me. It sucked. In this manner I ended up up making my way half a mile to an apartment complex my mom had lived in a year or so before, where some people knew me, and an ambulance was called.

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On a Life Left Unfinished

I met Del Warren Livingston early in the Fall of 2003 online at a poetry forum called Poem Kingdom. He was one of the first people I met and talked with online who took me seriously as a poet, and he treated me like a scholar.

Del passed away suddenly in September of 2005. After more than two years building a friendship, which is something I rarely do, this was a loss deeply felt. He really liked the hybridanelle form I invented, and he wrote several poems using this form himself. Most of them were very well done, and a couple may be found on his memorial page linked to below. So it only makes sense that I write and dedicate a hybridanelle poem—my 14th—to his memory.

      On a Life Left Unfinished

      in memory of Del Warren Livingston (1944—2005)

      A full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
   new inspirations wrought from memories
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

   Your time had come to shed the mortal dream;
      although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber,
   your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.

And if you find yourself reflecting where you’ve gone
   on all you’ve left undone, well just remember:
      a full life’s never ended—it merely passes on.

      We who float within your wake can hardly help but wonder;
   we guess and grope for answers to our loss
although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber.

   Despair would not become you despite your waning moons;
      you strove instead to leave creative memoirs
   like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

The mystery conceals you like a shroud;
   now left with only memories of all you planned to do,
      we guess and grope for answers to our loss.

      You chanced that every evening would reproduce the dawn;
   unfinished projects bear the keen reminder:
a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on

   a sense of oak leaves newly formed and foals of chestnut hue
      to those who valued more than just your presence,
   now left with only memories of all you planned to do.

The minds you’ve touched remain to bear the human trance,
   yet still your essence drifts in memory
      like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

      Your intuitions leave prospective imprints
   and phase from tangibility as cloudscapes phase from view
to those who valued more than just your presence.

   So long as breath sustains, your friends shall hold within
      the insights you have offered as mementos;
   a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

   The blood that fueled your living form returns to join our roots;
      your time had come to shed the mortal dream
   and phase from tangibility; as cloudscapes phase from view,
your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.

I met Del about when I was starting to get a handle on expressing myself and my observations in fairly neutral, non-judgmental tones in poetry forums, and discussions in general. Not fully—not then, not now—but more so than before. When it came to discussing poems, poetry, and poetics in an online poetry forum, it has always been my goal to seek knowledge and understanding while at the same time freely sharing whatever I’ve learned up to that point. However, I’ve had to gain insight into my own ego and insecurities as part of this process, which hasn’t always gone smoothly. So I’ve ended up alienating a lot of people as I’ve struggled to learn how to communicate intelligently, openly, and unassumingly with others.

As luck would have it, Del wasn’t much bothered by my rough-edged, self-distancing gruffness, and he enjoyed batting ideas and information back and forth. I was also at this time finally becoming proficient in my understanding of verbal meter, so our early discussions included much talk of meter in poetry. As a result, he learned so much about this aspect of poetry, which had thus far eluded him, through our dialog that he eventually naturalized it himself.

Much of our dialog took place over his own poetry. He sought out my critiques of his poetry—And he didn’t want the light stuff. For the first time I was able to completely cut loose on analyzing and interpreting a living person’s poetry to shreds without worrying about hurt feelings. It was an educational treat for me, and he appreciated the time I spent critiquing his poetry so much that he actually sent me a check at one point for around $200, which he called “compensation”. Up until his death he also took the time to provide me with detailed thoughts and interpretations on every new poem I wrote.

I am by nature asocial and emotionally distant to people, so it took him some effort to cultivate and sustain a friendship with me. But he did so, and as a result I took an increasing interest in him over time, getting to learn a lot about him as a person.

Part of the reason he was studying poetry himself is that he knew his time above ground was limited at best. Years ago he suffered from a metabolic accident that caused him to very quickly gain and retain a lot of weight. In fact, the accident screwed up his biology in general, and his heart weakened over time from the strain on his body.

He wanted to learn how to use the medium of poetry to tell stories about his life and his inspirations so he could leave something behind that would feel significant to him. In fact, Del self-published a book about a year ago titled Writing into the Sunset, which I have a copy of. He passed away literally one day before sending a second book to print. Hopefully his family will be able to get that book published for him, too, at some point.

I came to consider Del a good friend, enough so that I took the drive down to Tuscon, Arizona last spring to meet him. I spent a week at his house with him, mostly entertaining myself with my reading as I’m wont to do, but the rest of the time having very long conversations with him. I’m glad I went; because if I waited, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet him in person at all. He was a wonderful host who made me feel completely welcome in his home.

One of his friends, Eric Lee, has arranged to have this memorial page setup for him online, which includes a short bio of his life and some of his poems. I hope you will feel moved to go have a look.

Posted on by EAT

Anima Cantus

This poem, my 13th hybridanelle, attempts to depict and convey one of the ways I look at ’being’, what a being is, and how it is connected with its self and other beings. The title is Latin for “mind song” or “psychic melody”.

Anima Cantus

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.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — November 2005