Posted on by EAT

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

Posted on by EAT

Guardian

This poem, my 2nd trisect, reflects on my experiences on the Yukon River in Canada during two river trips, the first when I was 18 and the second when I was 27. Segment one depicts the modern canoe. Segment two depicts the river itself. And segment three depicts the animistic interaction between the paddler (myself) and the wilderness around.

Guardian

Cradle

Fiberglass for birch tree bark,
a coat of paint for resin pitch,
and plastic trim for cedar wood
compose the modern wander-boat.

Nonetheless there’s craftsmanship
in building plugs and curing molds,
sculpting sand to form a shell
that tumbles life down waterways.

A ghost of the old ways filled with gear
caressed by ancient subtle hands,
appraised and held in fair esteem,
the new unnatural ways aside.

Like driftwood on the open surf,
the fiber-foam cocoon is cast
and swept along on buoyant waves,
tossed by every twist of wind.
 

Meridian

Fueled by swollen alpine lakes,
mirrors to the craggy peaks,
countless glaciers, ponds and streams,
sprung from clouds and hidden springs,

an everlasting thunder rolls
that carves an everlasting path,
a stormy rush of living things
that slakes the stormy rush of life.

Firs collapse and boulders plunge
into the undulating surge,
swept across the winding earth
to strike with titan force the sea,

and clutched against the serpents back
a fleck of lost humanity,
immersed in sprawling majesty,
grips the currents deep and black.
 

Spirit

Black bears peer from root-filled banks;
ravens watch from stands of spruce;
eagles gaze from sudden bluffs;
a bull moose stares from out the wash.

All the dreamtime creatures wake,
bodied forth like smoky signs—
deep claw prints in frosted mud,
fang marks on the aspen’s trunk.

Each regards the floating soul
that wanders broken in their midst,
a well of rage and twisted grief
that echoes through the howling wind.

And each respects his long release
until the blood cakes on his lips
with massive silence like a mist
that rises up to steady him.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — June 2006

Posted on by EAT

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.

Posted on by EAT

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

Posted on by EAT

Matrimony

For the unity of marriage I used Katrina as the metaphor for life’s struggles. And for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina I used matrimony as a metaphor for unity. This is my 12th hybridanelle poem.

Matrimony

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.
Posted on by EAT

An Invocation

To me, inspiration is a sacred thing. Without it, the creative soul experiences nothing but frustration and dismay. Some ancient poets were known to incorporate an invocation of the muse or muses into their epic poetry, such as Homer, Virgil, and Dante. I do not plan to write epic poems during my lifetime, though it could happen. Still, I would like to try to invoke the muses for the epic journey of my writing process, which I hope will last the entirety of my life.

              An Invocation

          O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        and flash against the backdrop of my thoughts
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams
  and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

  Release creative flow like prismed floods
    that sweep stagnation from my standing sense.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Lift the heavy doubt that cowers thick and close,
          a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray
            and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.

          Reach through this cacophonic mental din
        and seed within my harried understanding
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Sweep a translucent wind throughout my psychic planes,
  infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray.

  Defrost the ice and snow from all my fields,
    the winter-scapes within that numb perception.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Return decayed ideas to elemental drift
          so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath
            infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist.

          Connect me to the place where light is born,
        from where it swells to crest in consciousness
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Part confusion from conceptions fallen dead,
  and draw its suffocation off my faculties
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath.

  Restore the waters of my inmost lands,
    so that my springs will flow with apprehension.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

          Sing to me invention, and help me learn to heed.
            Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams,
          and draw its suffocation off my faculties.
        Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

This is my 11th hybridanelle.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — August 2005

Posted on by EAT

The Sophistry of Prophecy

There have been apocalyptic Christians somewhere in my life as far back as I can remember. These folks love to reflect on the signs of the end-times and such. Yet every sign reflected upon, I eventually came to realize, has been going on not only since the death of Christ, but clear back to the origins of man. This stuff might even be universal to sentience, wherever its manifests.

So I got to thinking on the sheer sophistry of apocalyptic prophesy—It just can’t work if it’s going to focus solely on earthly and celestial changes and humanity’s tendency to make really bad decisions, for this has all been going on as far back as human records reflect. If a prophecy is going to hold any water at all, it has to be entirely specific, and concrete—none of this wishy-washy, highly interpretable, metaphoric stuff.

So I got to thinking about it further, and ended up writing this poem, my 10th hybridanelle. I studied the types of prophecy commonly focused upon—around ten—and ultimately came to dedicate about one stanza to each of them. These were: Wars and rumors of wars; Apostasy; Earthquakes; Famines; “Fearful events”; Lawlessness; Persecution; Plagues; Celestial signs; and False messiahs and/or prophets. Stuff that has been going on since time immemorial.

The indentational scheme is intended to create the effect of reading bits of unraveled scroll.

The Sophistry of Prophecy

        when was there never famine, never war,
      no bloody battles fought for real estate
    with every nation harmonized in peace?

  when have the heavens paused like polished stone,
motionless across the fields of space,
  to pass a single year without a sign?

    what season never yielded plague nor blight,
      with all the divers cultures steeped in bounty,
        no bloody battles fought for real estate?

what age has seen the quaking earth hold still,
  her ever-changing contours locked in place?
    when have the heavens paused like polished stone?

      which hour never saw men gaunt with hunger
       nor ever shook men from their chosen path,
      with all the divers cultures steeped in bounty?

    when have conditions failed to vex the soul,
  and terrors slept enchanted with the grace
to pass a single year without a sign?

        what creed has never suffered purblind wrath,
      nor punished those who hold a different faith,
    nor ever shook men from their chosen path?

  where has the climate never loosed a storm?
what river never leapt beyond its base?
  when have the heavens paused like polished stone?

    what people never felt the touch of crime,
      no greed nor malice wasting human hearts,
        nor punished those who hold a different faith?

when have diviners ever granted sway,
  allowing humankind some minor space
    to pass a single year without a sign?

      since time began to crumble written thoughts,
        when was there never famine, never war,
          no greed nor malice wasting human hearts,
        with every nation harmonized in peace?

      was there a time impostors never sought
    to stage themselves as some important face?
  when have the heavens paused like polished stone,
to pass a single year without a sign?

Posted on by EAT

Burning the Flag

During a recent cross-country drive across several states, I noticed how many yahoos sported the American flag on their cars and houses, but never bothered to honor it by taking it down at night (it should never be left in the dark) or retiring it once it fades out, cracks to bits, or wastes away.

It dawned on me that this must be how these Americans actually feel about their country and the constitutional ideals upon which it is founded. They may boast and brag about how great America is, but actions speak so much louder than words. You show me exactly what you think the ideals that founded this country are worth when you let the flag that represents them waste away in plain view of the world—Something that once upon a time would win you a citation.

Burning the Flag

Cracked and faded in the sun,
        sported emblems lose their hue,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Exposure to the elements betrays
        emotional and mental negligence
        to burning disregard for heritage.

                Bumper stickers age too soon;
        paper pride is left to wane,
cracked and faded in the sun

        on well-kept pickup trucks and long sedans
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent;
        emotional and mental negligence

                flies atop the roofs of cars—
        sooty clown-ears deeply stained,
unretired and weather-torn.

        Support is shown as mere velleity,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent,

just another brittle sign
        taking on a dirty tinge,
                cracked and faded in the sun.

        What shone for Francis Key one failing night
        is treated now like any corporate logo,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought.

Freedom flails on autumn winds,
        half-remembered, growing pale,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Abandoned to an apathy’s pollution,
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
        is treated now like any corporate logo.

                Banners rip on plastic stands,
        unsaluted dawn to dusk,
cracked and faded in the sun,
        unretired and weather-torn.

        As mildew rots the fabric of the States,
exposure to the elements betrays
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
                to burning disregard for heritage.

This is my 9th hybridanelle poem.

Posted on by EAT

Stardrift

Written for Mahmud Kianush, a poet from Iran who used a couple of my ghazals in part of a BBC radio series covering the history and evolution of the Persian ghazal. It was a 12 or 13 part series, broadcast in Persian, and my ghazals were included toward the end as examples of how the ghazal form had found its way into other cultures and languages.

Having my work with the ghazal recognized by an Iranian scholar in this manner meant a lot to me. Thus was I moved to write and dedicate this ghazal to him. Most of the imagery is derived from his book of poems, Of Birds and Men, published in 2004 by The Rockingham Press.

Stardrift

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) — July 2005

The Ghazal Page (web-based) — April 2006

Posted on by EAT

Recurring Nightmare

For about six months, as a 12 year old, I experienced what I now know is referred to as “nuclear psychosis”, a fairly rare condition where the afflicted is so terrified of nuclear holocaust that he’s unable to function or sleep. At the time, I lived in a residential home called Hillsides. I include a link to their site only because it was the one residential home I lived in as a child where I wasn’t subjected to some kind of abuse.

What’s interesting also is that it has always seemed to me that the nearer I am to Los Angeles in general, the more I am unnerved, and fraught with visions and dreams of some kind of nuclear blast. In some dreams I have turned my head to the blast only to be vaporized a moment later by ‘the light’, and to wake with my heart pounding just about out my chest. In other dreams I’m far enough away to actually feel the heat-blast sere and melt my skin before waking. And throughout my life, the further I’ve been from Los Angeles, the less unnerved I’ve been, and the more such dreams (dreams only in these cases) take on an air of news reporting.

Whatever the reasons are behind these dreams, they have provided me with more than enough imagery to draw from for this poem, my 8th hybridanelle.

Recurring Nightmare

I’ve seen the City of Angels struck with pain,
   her superstructures shattered from the sky,
      her creatures flashed to shadows etched in stone.

         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones,
            screams vaporized to whispers in the throat
         as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

      Cloudscapes dissipated from the air;
   a ruthless ring of fire seared the land,
her superstructures shattered from the sky.

            Shrieks of terror sizzled on melting lips,
         reduced to coals that sputtered in the heart;
      I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones

   to bubble with the asphalt on the ground
beside the scorched remains of human forms;
   a ruthless ring of fire seared the land,

      blasting through neighborhoods and urban woods,
         consuming all who ran or hid their face
            as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

Cars twisted into myriad molten shapes;
   the charred debris of towers rained down slag
      beside the scorched remains of human forms.

         Mothers pressed small babies to their ribs
            which turned to embers in their futile arms;
         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones

      of fathers bent in vain across their young,
   cremated by a lethal burst of light;
the charred debris of towers rained down slag

            throughout the ardent ruins of brick and steel
         where dead ambitions fumed upon their backs
      as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

   How could I smoke such visions from my mind?
I’ve seen the City of Angels struck with pain,
   cremated by a lethal burst of light,
      her creatures flashed to shadows etched in stone.

         Don’t try to tell me these are merely dreams,
            just troubled thoughts that haunt my sleeping brain;
         I’ve seen flesh run like liquid from the bones
      as burning cinders burst from countless frames.

Was I just traumatized by childhood events and re-experiencing that trauma through a fear of nuclear holocaust? Or was it something else—something more sinister? Only time will tell I suppose.