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In the Shade of Suicide

This poem, my 17th villanelle, reflects on the conditions and spiritual aftermath of my father’s suicide. I wasn’t there. My parents separated and divorced by the time I was born, and though I lived variously with both of them, at ten years old, when my father ended his life, I was living with my mother 260 miles away.

Sometimes, as the years went on, I’d try to imagine the circumstances of his death—What he felt, saw, heard, and pondered. What crushed him? Was it truly just his alcoholism? Who knows. But it did end in the dark of the Monterey County Jail drunk tank, an old building used for the purpose since the days of the old west.

In adulthood I’ve visited the jail, just to see it. And I could swear I sensed his presence there, all unheeding—Lost in the abysmal trap of its own self-pity and sorrow.

In the Shade of Suicide

steel bars seal the concrete cell
dim lighting casts a haze on everything
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

here unheard there sobs a secret weeping soul
the air is weighed beyond all comforting
steel bars seal the concrete cell

some can sense a lost control
regrets cascade and crush in heavy throng
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

year by passing year brief glances rise and fall
a faded figure sometimes seen to hang
steel bars seal the concrete cell

wrenched within their drunken pall
detainees wake to hear a gasping lung
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

violence born of sorrow echoes through the hall
the final act of him who kicked and swung
steel bars seal the concrete cell
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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Raven

This is my 16th terzanelle, and the longest one I’ve written. This is also my first attempt to alternate between four meters in a consistent fashion. You should find that, starting with the second tercet, there is an interlocking pattern of hypercatalectic iambic pentameter, iambic pentameter, catalectic trochaic pentameter and trochaic pentameter. They’re all pentameters, but four different types woven together in a sort of braid. I was curious to see what the effect of this patterning would be. For the most part, I’m not unhappy with the results.

Raven

rugged feathers brush against my neck
something perches staunchly on my shoulder
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

it seems an ancient being shrewd and sober
black as empty space between the stars
something perches staunchly on my shoulder

i sense a stern reproach to all my fears
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses
black as empty space between the stars

with rigid countenance it keenly watches
game to see me through each anxious qualm
dreads that formed from countless gripping losses

it came from somewhere in the subtle realm
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens
game to see me through each anxious qualm

this spirit somehow heard my lamentations
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds
skies abruptly filled with calling ravens

they soothe my grief in smooth or raucous chords
offered ever since they found me wailing
cries of savage pain that shook the clouds

this spirit and their spirits ever sailing
pass to me a gift of light and song
offered ever since they found me wailing

with rough and yet a clear enlightened tongue
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
pass to me a gift of light and song

whenever all is still i feel and hear it
rugged feathers brush against my neck
subtle caws resounding in my spirit
croaking wisdom through an unseen beak

Ravens have been special to me my entire life. Everyone who knows me for any length of time will eventually notice that ravens behave a little differently around me than they do other people. They still act like ravens, but they seem to show an awareness of me that they don’t of others. Maybe one day I’ll end up befriending one of these birds and I can study its behavior more closely. They’re fascinating beings.

Publication History:

Blue Unicorn — Winter 2004

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a simple prayer

A friend was telling me about some of her personal challenges. This imagery came to mind as I pondered them and her faith. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

a simple prayer

for Jenna Joslyn

boldly she walks into the mist—the cold gray mist
entrapped and overwhelmed she prays, “please save my soul…”
zephyrs with reverent care brush past her kneeling thoughts
only the grasses sense the weight, her heavy heart
above she sees a few faint stars burn through the haze
riven from heaven’s depthless shores, one parts and falls

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dichotomy

As a friend told me about some of her personal challenges, this imagery came to mind. This is an acrostic of one of her pen-names.

dichotomy

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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The Lotus Tree

I was inspired to write this poem after one of my full moon visits to a particular redwood tree that grows near a place called Usal Beach, north of Fort Bragg, California. It’s a remote beach, accessible only by six miles of dirt road, after driving at least 60 odd miles of remote highway. Most redwoods grow straight up, a single spire swaying up to the clouds. However something has inspired this tree to grow very differently. About fourteen feet from the ground it suddenly spreads out into about thirty individual spires, each of which have grown over the years into mature redwoods. When seen from a short distance, the effect is that of looking upon an enormous chandelier. I call her “The Lotus Tree” because of the whorl-like pattern of her individual spires.

This tree has a strong presence about her. And judging by the path that winds up to her knees through a grove of similarly twisted redwoods—though none so spectacular as herself—it would seem that she has connected with quite a few people over the years. Knowing her has been one of the great blessings of my life.

The Lotus Tree

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.

This poem was incorporated into my villanelle/terzanelle project, so “the grove” and “full moon visit” are my 15th and 16th villanelles, respectively, and “the sagess” and “astral visit” are my 14th and 15th terzanelles, respectively.

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Ephemeral

Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.

Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.

Ephemeral

Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?

Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

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Pulp

Psychology has its merits—That is when the psychologist is knowledgeable, experienced, and compassionate. But, to my mind, psychiatry has very few merits, no matter how well-intentioned its practitioners may be. I have watched the infusion of psychiatric drugs destroy the minds of those around me, and it has also destroyed most of what potential I was born with and began to develop as a child.

Very, very few losses inflict as much pain and despair as the loss of ones own potential. I know. So, thinking such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th terzanelle.

Pulp

they made his mind a molding mess
a slow and solemn nest of thought
a brooding storm of deep distress

confusion ruled his darkened heart
enraged at what his mind became
a slow and solemn nest of thought

as reason weakened and decayed
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh
enraged at what his mind became

his anguish flared a bitter flame
when it would surge with burning force
he bashed his limbs and tore his flesh

he wished for death with yearnings fierce
a wish he never could perform
when it would surge with burning force

he longed to leave his broken form
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a wish he never could perform

the poisons flowed within his blood
they made his mind a molding mess
destroyed by psychiatric drugs
a brooding storm of deep distress

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007

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Helpless

My infatuated fascination with the opposite sex began very early. There are many possible reasons for this, but I can remember even as far back as age four or five absolutely craving for the attention of a beautiful woman. If I had a class with a pretty elementary teacher, it would be impossible for me to concentrate on anything beyond fantasizing about close contact. Not “sex”, that didn’t enter into my thought process until much later, but intimacy nonetheless.

So this set the stage for a life of desire for that which cannot be realized—Or at best realized for only a brief period. For people change. No-one stays young and retains a youthful countenance and physique forever. I even find the plastic “beauty” of older women who have changed their features artificially to be utterly creepy and unsavory.

So why? It is a curse I have not found a way to lift. I would give anything to be able to just appreciate a woman’s beauty as it changes through age, seeing only with my heart. But, sadly, this has never been possible for me, however much I may hope for it. I envy those who have this ability or natural inclination. So, as I reflected on all of this, I found myself writing this poem, my 13th villanelle.

Helpless

My heart is moved by that which wastes away;
My soul is rendered incomplete by beauty
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

An urgency eclipses simple joy,
And caught within its raging rush unruly,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

How often I have heaved the heavy sigh,
A heedless hope that heats within profusely
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

Today, as when a half unconscious boy,
Enslaved by aches that govern absolutely,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away.

My sense is charmed by figures slight and spry,
The fairest features doomed to rot unduly,
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

I’m plagued by wonton wants that just destroy,
That urge with fiendish force until, all gloomy,
My heart is moved by that which wastes away
And yearns in vain for that which cannot stay.

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A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

This, my 12th terzanelle, was written as I struggled to process and accept the inevitable marginalization every poet experiences who takes a keen interest in prosody and structured forms.

A Modern Troubadour’s Lament

A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

Imposters seized the Poet’s name with rough and savage noise,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption,
And egocentric demagogues stepped in to fill the void.

A few sang random songs of self with hearts full of presumption,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept,
Demoting prosody to verse with ignorant assumption.

The ones who wrote evolving verse, now looked on with contempt,
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded,
While others clipped and nipped at prose, indignant and inept.

An art emergent and alive had simply been discarded,
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains
Were robbed of all integrity and broadly disregarded.

So it became unpopular to work in magic frames,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations
For poets wont to learn that art and dream in measured strains.

The masses heard the demagogues and heeded their frustrations,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Thus stunting art’s development through future generations.

The name of Poet once was rare, not for the average born—
A schism rent the quiet past and left behind confusion,
And poetry itself became subjected to reform,
Which brought about the gushing flood of poets in profusion.

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Transmigrant Memory

She has a connection with horses that is difficult to understand or explain. I’ve met people like this over the years, including my friend Del. Maybe they’re remembering something from a previous existence? Following this train of thought, I found myself writing this poem, my 12th villanelle.

Transmigrant Memory

For Bonnie

Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth,
Where laughing neighs are echoed up the canyons to the peaks;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

She storms amid the thronging herd; all the valley holds its breath,
Where jays watch from the aspens, ravens from the elder oaks;
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth.

Billowed sepia-colored mane whips across her chestnut cloth
And dances in the ether, blown in long unfurling arcs;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

Each passing nimbus rains a mist, morphing like some giant wraith,
And shadows cast below them briefly dim the verdant brooks;
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth.

Feelings flood her human heart; karma wrought a human path;
Where deep within her nature something equine rears and strikes,
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

A knowing broods within her soul, welling up to issue forth,
And somehow she remembers; visions fill her heart with aches—
Horses race upon the fields; thunder rolls within the earth;
Lightning flashes in her eyes, dark eyes full of silent mirth.

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Presence

For most of my life I have felt a presence, always near. And though I have never heard its voice, I can sometimes feel its influence on my thoughts. I’ve often thought that it could be an angel. This, my 11th villanelle, reflects upon this lifelong presence and its influence on my existence.

Presence

A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind,
Behind the din and chaos, where subtle voices speak,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Although I faced the world without a friend,
Among the thronging masses, alone within my grief,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

A being came from somewhere far beyond,
Beyond this realm of vision, a place we cannot see,
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

My heart was pulled to view the spaces grand,
Where filled with awe I trembled, while always there unseen,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind.

Where dreams and waking vision merge and blend
A shade has often offered encouragement discreet
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

I ventured far and wide a vagabond,
And when I ached with hunger or shivered in the breeze,
A gentle guiding whisper touched my mind
And counseled with a wisdom firm and kind.

Publication History:

One-In-Four — May 2004