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Cathedral

There is a redwood State Reserve about 30 miles west of Ukiah called Montgomery Woods. The woods are a series of groves which have been purchased and set aside for preservation by various parties, most of which have been involved in the logging industry one way or another, oddly enough. A friend and I used to visit this park on a regular basis, and we came to think of it as being much like a cathedral. In fact, we referred to the entry into the first large grove as “The Cathedral”. Thus my 8th trisect poem.

Cathedral

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.

As I wrote this poem, I read up on the history and architecture of European Cathedrals, dating back to the Roman Empire, and looked for visual relationships between them and various points of interest within the Montgomery Woods. As I did so this poem began to take form with the first segment, “nave”, which is to say, the main hall of a cathedral. This segment focuses on the redwoods themselves.

Then I tried to think of a more complex object of focus for the second segment and thought of the Catholic Liturgies, so “vespers”. But as I finished “vespers” it dawned on me that this was describing a process more so than an object, and as I struggled to find a process to focus on for the third segment, I eventually decided to make “vespers”—the prayerful sounds of nature—that process.

I decided to focus on the “understory” of the woods for the second segment, which can describe anything found beneath the crown of the redwood forest. Slowly but surely, when I closed my eyes and visualized my walks through Montgomery Woods, I began to see relations between the understory and cathedral designs, and so segment two took form.

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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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Surrender

This poem, my 18th hybridanelle, began to manifest in mind about three weeks ago as I walked through the Montgomery Woods near Ukiah with a friend, utterly panic-stricken and overwhelmed by an irruption of fragile emotions. I had at this point been experiencing varying degrees of the same for about a week and a half.

There comes a point with extreme anxiety—panic—where life not only feels and seems unfaceable, but on all applicable fronts is unfaceable. The only way through this sort of thing is to resolve, or have resolved beforehand, to live through it, no matter the torment. And since I had made a deal with myself as a fourteen-year-old, after my first NDE from a car accident (see my first trisect, “E merge nce”, for a poem inspired by this experience), not ever to submit to death while in a non-peaceful state, I was grimly determined to ride it out despite some serious impulses to do otherwise.

When the car hit me as a fourteen year old, I was in a state of extreme mental, spiritual, and emotional unrest, and the horror of this state “carried over” in such a way as to become tremendously amplified in the absence of spiritual impedance, my body. And on returning to my body, I understood that I can never go like that. My life has been about cultivating peace of mind to the best of my ability ever since.

Up to that point in the Montgomery Woods, I had been trying out various mantras to fend off the anxiety. Each of them would provide me with some level of distraction from my panic and emotional distress, but none offered any sense of comfort, reprieve, or peace from this turmoil. I told my friend who walked with me that my prayer-mantras were only providing some limited distraction, and that it seemed impossible find something that would overcome the sheer strength of my anxiety and doubt, my tendency to perseverate and fret. And then I asked him if he had any ideas on what I should ask god for in my prayers that might provide this offset.

He then told me that I was going about it all wrong; that I was going to god with my hand out like a beggar on the sidewalk. As he said this I already began to realize my mistake, but he continued. He went on to point out that the various religions of our Western societies have produced a race of people who go to god with a shopping list, and who become very resentful of god when certain items on this list aren’t granted. This could only be called ego-based prayer, and this is exactly what I was doing. So he aptly made it clear that I was asking the wrong question, and for the wrong person—myself.

And it’s funny, since I have been a member of twelve step programs most of my life you would think that I would already know that the most peace comes not from trying to manipulate god toward my own will, but in humbly seeking out god’s will for me, along with the willingness and strength to carry it out. Whenever I’ve done this, I’ve been led right, toward personal freedom and peace of mind, and in a way that magically contributed to a few other lives around me, oddly enough. Whenever I’ve done otherwise I’ve slyly managed to land myself in a brand-spanking new life tragedy that ultimately ends up sucking time and energy—peace of mind—out of my own life and the lives of those who care about me.

Once this understanding comes, it’s kind of a no-brainer—Just a matter of coming into contact with this understanding and internalizing it… Yet again.

Surrender

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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List

I have been reading The Aeneid of Virgil, translated into English by Allen Mandelbaum. Yesterday I came across a passage in Book VI, the prayer of Aeneas to the twin doves which landed in front of him at Hesperia; he knew them to be those of his mother, Venus (Aphrodite).

Be my guide if there
is any passage, strike across the air
to that grove where the rich bough overshadows
the fertile ground. And you, my goddess mother,
be true to me in my uncertainty.

And so, with the final phrase of this passage ringing in my head, I found myself writing:

List

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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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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Unbounded

I was inspired to write this, my 16th hybridanelle, after listening to a recent edition of Coast to Coast AM, where the radio show’s original host and creator, Art Bell, dedicated an hour to describing his experience with the recent loss of his wife. I’m not sure what motivated me, but it was a very strong sudden urge, and I pursued it to the creation of this poem. Hearing him talk about his experience was very moving to me—Made quite an impression.

I was actually about to start reading up on an entirely different subject that I felt was suitable to the hybridanelle form. But after listening to this broadcast I changed my mind and reoriented my efforts toward dedicating the next project poem to him and the memory of his wife, Ramona Bell. She passed away without warning on January 5th. Although I sent a copy of this poem to him, I doubt he’ll ever see it since he’s pretty much drowning in emails from his listeners.

Unbounded

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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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.