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A note from Adam

A moment came to my mind, clear as an ocean sunset. In that moment I saw Adam on his deathbed, speaking somewhat randomly up to the roof of his hut. Next to him were his many children, grandchildren, and great great great great great grandchildren. They listened to his words, and after a time they realized he was speaking to his creator, having seen or realized something about the generations to come.

A note from Adam

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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Ode for Joy

My first synthetic ode. This form hybridizes the near-original Grecian ode form of Pindar and the dialectic of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis. I will eventually write an article about this form and what I hope to accomplish through its exploration. For the time being, I hope you’ll find this an enjoyable, or at least interesting, read.

      Ode for Joy

      I

  Her eye was caught by a distant name,
    unfamiliar and yet not quite.
  Inspired, she followed a dream that came
    from somewhere deep in her quiet heart,
a link that led to an unexpected hope,
      born of intuitive sense
      cradled in bamboo song,
confirmed by a kindred voice that helped console
      the reign of a keen unrest
      that troubled her, unconfessed.
   Canticles from another time
         settled near
      in the curve of her ear,
   bringing a dark horizon light,
         raising the sun
      where a half-moon hung,
until her soul, embraced by vibrant hues
of promise, once again became her cherished home.
 

      II

  He felt the touch of a silken tongue
    brush his mind from across the world
  with observations and thoughts, half sung
    in accents cast from a dreamtime mold.
Intrigued, he listened to every tuneful word
      whispered with delicate breath
      soft as a moonstone breeze,
expressed from a place of enigmatic birth,
      where steady Pacific rains
      sang life in refined refrains
   straight to his heart through lays unknown
         to his ear,
      just abolishing fear,
   welcoming home forgotten hopes
         faded within,
      but arisen again
like morning rays on cloudscapes scattered far,
igniting new horizons to vibrant shades of faith.
 

      III

   Their pasts unravel thread
         into a bright new tapestry.
   They’re both reborn and dead
         to what was once and what will be.
      Visions leap before their view,
            revealing possibilities,
      and each is clear on what to do
            to make them actualities.
                     And so begins
                  the recreation of their lives
               as deep within
            a transformation of their minds
         reveals the way
      to stand forever side by side.
        The best thread of their days is used
             in the shuttle of their unity
        to weave a scene they know by trust
             on a loom of shared serenity.

Joy is my fiance, whom I met online purely by chance. She, from her life in the Philippines, one day stumbled across a poem I had posted elsewhere, “Perfect Silence”, and found herself researching its author. On one profile she found my Yahoo Instant Messenger ID, and on another she read that I work with children but don’t want to have any. Then she popped me a message out of the blue, “How could you work with children and yet not want to have any of your own?”

Needless to say, I was puzzled by this note from a complete stranger. I responded with one word, “Overpopulation”. This sparked a conversation—or perhaps debate—that lasted four hours. The next day we talked on the phone. The day after that, Skype. And we’ve been talking-talking ever since.

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Phases

My 2nd terza rima. I got the idea for this poem as I fell asleep in the mountains a little east of Wyoming’s Devil’s Tower. If anyone has ever been a true and constant companion throughout all the phases of my life, she would be the moon.

Ah, yes. The moon. The ever-present moon.

Phases

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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End

Yes, the end. The end of a life-altering journey by road to the East Coast. The end of a pilgrimage to pay my respects at the home and at the final resting place of a poet who touched my heart from over 100 years beyond her grave. The end of a trek that walked me past a whisper telling me there was something still ahead, something still to look forward to. The end. And here it is, the End.

End

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.

Well, I left Rutland, VT around 2pm on Wednesday the 15th, heading west on Hwy 4/SR (State Route) 4A through Whitehall into New York to SR 22, where I headed north through Ticonderoga to SR 74, west to I 87, north to SR 84, also called Blue Ridge Road, west to SR 28N, also called Roosevelt-Marcy Trail, west again through Long Lake and south on SR 28N/SR 30 through Blue Mountain Lake to SR 28 west through Inlet to Limekiln Lake Road, south to a State Park Campground at Limekiln Lake, where I spent the night. Limekiln Lake is in the southwest quadrant the beautiful Adirondack mountains.

On waking up I continued west on SR 28 to SR 12, south to I 90, west to I 481, south to I 81, south through Cortland to SR 13, southwest to a delightful little city called Ithaca, NY, which is situated on southern shore of the miles long Seneca Lake. Here I found an unbelievably cool coffee house and hung out there the rest of the day. At around sunset I got back in my rental and continued southwest on SR 13 to I 86, west to Hwy 15, and south into Pennsylvania to Mansfield, where I pulled off to sleep in the back seat for a couple hours.

Around midnight I continued south to Hwy 220 at Williamsport, and southwest to I 80, and west into Ohio to I 76. Somewhere along 76 I pulled off just before dawn and slept in the back seat for about eight hours, waking up just before noon. Realizing how long I slept when I awoke, I bolted west on I 76 to I 71, and southwest to I 70 via I 270, which skirts Columbus, OH. And now, finally on I 70, I shot west into Indiana to Hwy 27 at Richmond, and south about 30 miles through Liberty to SR 101, and a couple more miles south to Whitewater Memorial State Park, where I camped the night.

Upon waking up the next morning, I got myself together and got back out to SR 101 and headed south a bit to W Dunlapsville Road, which I guessed, and correctly, would take me across the northern end of the nearby Brooksville Lake. However, on the west side of the lake the road was closed, and I followed a scattering of “Detour” signs, starting at S Hubble Road, north and then west to S Mt. Pleasant Road (I never noticed a mountain out there), north to SR 44, which is a road I knew what to do with. On SR 44 I went west through Connersville to SR 1, and north through a series of townships back to I 70, and west through a strange place called Indianapolis to I 74 via I 65 north and I 465 south. On I 74 I went west into Illinois through Champaign to I 72, west through Springfield to Jacksonville, where I stopped for a sandwich. From here I decided on going north BR (Business Route) Hwy 67 through Jacksonville to SR 104, and west to a little one lane road called E 2873rd Lane, north about three handfuls of miles to Siloam Springs State Park, where I found a good campsite and pitched my tent for the night after taking a walk down by the state park’s Crabapple Lake with my bansuri.

In the morning I woke and continued north on E 2873rd Lane to N 1200th Ave, and west back to SR 104, west through Quincy to Hwy 24, west over the Mississippi into Missouri to SR 6, west clear across Missouri through a scattering of small towns into St. Joseph, where I washed my clothes and watched a movie, “Stardust”, before finding Hwy 36 in the night and continuing west over the Missouri River into Kansas, and west on Hwy 36 to a little town called Washington, where I spent the night at a motel.

I woke up late the following morning, around 10am, and stayed on Hwy 36 west the whole day into Colorado. Just inside Colorado I went south on Hwy 385 to Bonny State Park to pitch an early tent and relax for the rest of the evening. What really struck me as unusual about this park is that you couldn’t tell once you were in the park that you were literally surrounded on all side by countless miles of corn fields. The water from the tap, however, smelled just like turpentine. I drank probably a gallon of this funny water during the evening and following morning.

I woke at about sunrise and went back up Hwy 385 to Hwy 36, and west to merge with I 70, west through Denver up into the Rockies to Frisco, where I found a coffee house and stopped for a bit to eat. From here I continued west and magically became very weak, dizzy, and feverish by the time I reached Riffle, where I pulled off and found a motel. When I checked in they could see I was in terrible shape and they tried to talk me into going to the ER instead of checking in, but I told them I’d rather die debt free than live the rest of my life in debt to a for profit medical industry. This sobered the man at the counter and he checked me in and had a friend of his who worked there help me up to my room, where I crawled into bed and watched my mind wander through fever delirium and sort of accepted the potential of dying during the night. Around dusk the man who helped me to my room showed back up with Gatorade, Ibuprofen, and Aspirin, all of which I gratefully accepted. During the night the fever broke into a soppy sweat, and by morning I was more or less back to myself.

Marveling at my survival, I continued west on I 70 into Utah through Salina to Hwy 50, which I stayed on all the way through Utah into Nevada. Just inside Nevada I went south on SR 487 a few miles to Great Basin National Park, where I drove up to a campsite nearly 11k feet up, where I went on a four mile hike before setting up my tent. During my walk I met a couple, who asked me about a good place in the redwoods along the coast to visit. I told them about Usal Beach, north of where I live in Mendocino County, and mentioned I wrote a poem inspired by a grove of redwoods near there. They wanted to hear the poem so I grabbed it and a bunch of other poems of mine after I set up camp and spent the evening at their campsite reading to them, which they really seemed to enjoy.

The following morning I woke near sunrise, packed up, and went for about a 7 mile hike round trip up to a population of bristlecone pine trees. Upon returning to my rental I headed back to Hwy 50 and took it all the way west to I 80 at Fernley, and west to a friend’s in Reno, arriving around 11pm. The following morning I returned the rental.

I stayed three nights at my friend’s before heading back home to Ukiah, CA, a five hours drive from Reno.

So now I’m home and tomorrow night my vacation ends proper.

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Perfect Silence

The same night after I posted “note to soul mate“, I camped at the Mondeaux Flowage, a lake in Wisconsin. This involved some driving around on a web of dirt roads at dusk. The first campground I located happened to be a group campground—that was completely unoccupied that night. This poem attempts to depict, or express, a sort of “perfect silence” I had experienced at this location into the evening and during the night there.

Perfect Silence

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.

Speaking of driving around, I wanted to detail the route I took from Paynesville, MN to Rutland, VT:

When I left Paynesville, MN I continued northeast on SR (State Route) 23 through St. Cloud to SR 95, then east to North Branch, where I stopped at a Quizno’s to have a sandwich while rush hour traffic died down a bit. Then I got back on SR 95 east through Taylors Falls to Hwy 8. A half mile east of the junction I crossed over the St. Croix River, a tributary to the Mississippi, into Wisconsin. This was the day before the bridge collapse 50 to 70 miles south in Minneapolis.

In St. Croix, WI, I stopped at a gas station and fell asleep in the car for about an hour. When I woke up I looked at my maps and decided to try to get to a national forest south of Kennan about two hours east and look for a decent place to camp there. After filling up my many water bottles I got back on Hwy 8 east to CR (County Road) N at Kennan, south to CR D, east to CR E, and south about four miles to a series of dirt roads, starting with NF (National Forest Road) 102 east past a few forks to NF 106, north to a paved drop down to Picnic Point, the group campground I mentioned above.

At first light I woke, packed up, and intuitively found my way straight to CR D north of the lake, bypassing the need to return first back to CR E. This involved driving NF 106 north along the lake to NF 333, north to rejoin NF 106 again, north then east over to NF 104, and north up to CR D. This didn’t take very long. Less than a half hour.

On CR D I went east through Westboro to SR 13, north to Prentice at Hwy 8, east through Laona to SR 32, then south to a privately owned campground where I inquired after the cost of a shower.

I must have felt pretty spunky because of the shower, because instead of taking the route I had originally planned on of SR 32 south to SR 64 east through Marinette on the border of Michigan and north on SR 35 up to Hwy 2 and on east, I spun on luck and found myself zipping along a bunch of unpredictably narrow roads. At a town called Mountain (the Midwesterners who named this town had no idea what a mountain is), I went east on CR W to CR A, north on CR A to merge seamlessly with CR C, and north still to CR V, then east to HWY 141 at Amberg.

From Amberg I went north to another county road, CR Z, east across the Mississippi, which was practically a creek that far north, into Michigan, where it ceased to be CR Z and turned into CR G18, east through Carney to Hwy 41, and north to Powers, where I stopped for a sandwich before continuing north a touch to Hwy 2. On Hwy 2 I went a long stretch east along Lake Michigan to St. Ignace, where I stopped for dinner.

Here I decided I would drive across the “Mighty Mac”, the Mackinac Bridge that crosses the gap between Lake Huron and Lake Michigan, and west along Lake Michigan to Wilderness State Park, where I’d camp for the night. So, groggy from a full day of driving, I went south on I 75 over the “Mighty Mac”, which I think may be an exact clone of San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge, but painted green and white, to SR 81, east to merge with Wilderness Park Drive into Wilderness State Park to the registration booth.

When I discovered they wanted $36 dollars for a night in a tent, I changed my mind and headed back west on Wilderness Park Drive to SR 81, then south to E Gill Road, east to Hwy 31, and south to Brutus Road, where I saw a sign that said “State Campground” pointing east.

I decided to check it out and went east on Brutus to Maple Bay Road, after passing it and coming back, to find the campground a few miles south. It was pretty well packed, and I was in one of my grumpy indecisive moods. I almost stayed, but for some reason decided to drive all night. So I got back to Hwy 31 and continued south to SR 68, which took me east to I 75 at Indian River.

During the night I drove south on I 75, stopping at rest stops along the way to try and get some rest. This proved to be impossible because it was too hot and humid with the windows up, and when I put the windows down for air mosquitoes swarmed in after my blood. So I ended up driving south on I 75 through Flint to Hwy 23, south to a rest stop near Milan, where I finally managed a couple hours of sleep because it cooled off enough during the night for me to get a few hours sleep with the windows up just before sunrise.

When I woke I continued south on Hwy 23 into Iowa and through Toledo to merge with I 475, south and east on I 475 around the south end of Toledo to merge with I 75, and north a touch on I 75 to Hwy 20. Then east to Fremont through a handful of busy townships, where I stopped at a Denny’s for something to eat.

From here I went northeast on Hwy 6 to SR 2, which was a freeway, east one exit to SR 101, which was not, north into Sandusky to Hwy 6 again, and clear through every possible part of Sandusky east to just before Rye Beach, where it dawned on me the freeway SR 2 and the township hopping road Hwy 6 go in the same direction through the same places. So I got on SR 2 and headed east to merge with I 90 and through Cleveland, where there was a six or so car pile-up, to SR 91, north a mile or two back to Hwy 6, east through several townships and stoplights to All Souls Cemetery, where Nikki, a girl who committed suicide a few years back, is buried.

Ever since I planned to make my trip to Vermont I also planned on visiting Nikki’s grave along the way. I never knew Nikki, but her mother has followed my writing for a long time. About a year after Nikki’s suicide she asked me to write a poem in memory of her daughter after she saw “Unbounded”, a poem I wrote in memory of Art Bell’s (the original radio host for Coast to Coast AM) wife, who died suddenly of a heart attack while they were on vacation. I honored her request, which became a journey for me, and over five weeks wrote a poem I titled “The Dimming”, which she and her whole family loved. My process with writing that poem brought me to feel a tremendous empathy for Nikki and her family.

While at the cemetery a thunder storm rolled by a little to the south east, spattering some rain, but not so much that I couldn’t evade it by ducking beneath a black oak which grew near the head of Nikki’s grave. I hung out there playing my bansuri and wishing her spirit well for probably 45 minutes, until the storm had passed. There was something fitting about such a the storm at just that time, thunder crashing around my ears, lighting startling earth and sky.

From here I continued east on Hwy 6, feeling both uplifted and melancholy, through Andover onto SR 85 to Pymatuning Lake Road, south to a campground near the southwest end of Pymatuning Reservoir, which is split down the middle by the Iowa-Pennsylvania border.

I ended up sleeping in next morning and when I awoke, right at 11:11am on the dot, I packed everything up and got back on SR 85 east into Pennsylvania, where it turns into SR 285, east to Hwy 6 again at Conneaut Lake, east through Meadville to SR 77, northeast through Corry to SR 426, east to SR 27 at Garland, east to Hwy 6 again at Pittsfield, east through Warren to SR 59, east to 770 at Marshburg, east to Hwy 219, north to SR 346, east through Derrick City and on to SR 446, north into New York where it turned into SR 305 on to SR 417, north finally to I 86/Hwy 17, where I shot east through Binghamton to I 88, east still on cruise control to Hwy 7, just shy of the I 90 turnpike, where I’d have to pay some toll.

Now it was dark, and I meandered through Albany and a crap-load of suburbs into Vermont, and finally up to Rutland. I managed Rutland around 1:30am, where I got a room at the Travel Inn at the north end of town.

Whew!

I recorded all that for my own records because I know I’ll come back to print it up as people ask me the route I took during my trip. If you’re so inclined, this entire route can be traced through Google Maps, starting here.

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By Julia C. R. Dorr’s Grave

At the apex of my trip to Vermont I spent several days in Rutland, where I visited the grave of Julia Dorr. Later, as I reflected upon that visit, I drafted some thoughts that eventually became this poem. First the poem, then the story of how I found her grave.

By Julia C. R. Dorr’s Grave

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.

Friday night—well early Saturday morning—I rolled into Rutland, Vermont, after winding through various small roads of interest in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Iowa, Pennsylvania, New York, and finally Vermont. This took me another three nights of camping and four days of driving. I’ll detail my route for this portion of my trip in a later post, mostly for myself because I know that later I’ll want to remember and reflect on it.

Saturday morning I washed my clothes, dressed decent, and set off to find the grave of one of my poet progenitors, Julia Dorr. This is the whole reason for my drive. At Evergreen Cemetery I parked my rental near the office just inside the front gate, planning on inquiring after the location of Julia’s plot. But the office was closed for the weekend. So I set off walking, through a city of rough-hewn final dwelling places. Shortly up the main road into the cemetery, it forks.

Though I felt her grave would be up the left fork, which went up through a series of vales into a heavily afforested area where the headstones literally disappeared from view among the trees, I chose the right fork, after some hesitation. My feeling was that she’d be up the left fork, but my feeling was also that I should walk up the right fork. Paradoxes like this can lead to moments of indecision that can just about split you in half and have each half hopping along its chosen fork.

A couple hundred feet up the right fork a man drove up behind me, and I turned to flag him down. He stopped and I ask him if he knows the cemetery well. He informed me that he is the current president of the cemetery, and that he knows it pretty well. I gave him Julia’s full name, “Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr”, and he instantly said, “Ah yes, the Ripleys. She’s buried up by General Ripley’s monument.” I vaguely recalled that she was related in some way, perhaps the daughter, of a General Ripley who was involved in the Civil War.

He then told me that he’s both the right person to come to, and the wrong person to ask, because he only remembers the general area of the cemetery owned by the Ripleys. He pointed me in the direction where he felt my search would yield some fruit (back down and up the left fork to a particular area) after giving me a name and number to call on if I failed to locate her grave.

He told me that he remembered the monument which was erected for the Ripleys in memory of the General as being a big monument. But I think it would have helped me considerably if he had remembered that it as the largest and most elaborate monument in the park. I assumed the “monument” was one of the many large family head stones, great big rectangular blocks, some fairly elaborate, that cast their shadows over a series of much smaller headstones. Most such ‘overstones’ had engraved upon them just a single name, the family name, while the smaller headstones had the full names of the dead along with their arrival and departure dates. Some of the smaller blocks were larger, and had one name with its arrival and departure dates carved upon it, while next to that name would be another—with only an entry date, waiting.

During my search I noticed this secluded twenty to twenty-five foot tall limestone monument up a hill and well into the trees, only visible from certain angles as I climbed about the hillsides checking the names on overstones and larger headstones. But I only went to look at it after I spent about two and a half hours looking everywhere else in the area the man had mentioned. I never would have guessed that this large monument would be the one.

It was possibly fifteen feet by fifteen feet, in the shape of a Greek cross, maybe five feet in height along its naves. From the transept rose a pillar into a pair of angel wings holding a globe, which faced the sunrise. On the face of each nave was carved the full names of the parents of a given branch of the Ripley family, and behind these, along the sides of the naves that faced the same direction were the full names of their children, with their arrival and departure dates below. The headstones themselves were small and uniform and had only the abbreviated names embossed atop them, nothing more. Julia’s plot lay beside her husband’s plot. At their feet were buried five of their children.

One thing that struck me as strange was that Julia’s grave was the only one over which the grass was slightly browned. Over the rest of the plots the grass was more uniform in color.

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Perfect Moments

My first terza rima. So far as I know, terza rimas aren’t generally divided into parts like this, but the end-line scheme does follow the aba, bcb, …, yzy, zz format. However, I’m using end-line alliteration here instead of end-line rhyme. Is that wrong?

Perfect Moments

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.

Also the lines are all pretty much perfect pentameters. I haven’t cared too much whether or not they started off with a soft foot. So it’s a mix of iambic and trochaic pentameters, strictly speaking.

What inspired this? Well my ex-intimate creature talked of these “perfect moments”, and claimed to have had more of them during her time spent with me than she had known over the course of her life. Well, I liked the idea and wanted to explore it. So I’ve thought back through the time we spent together and tried to figure out where and when she could have had these perfect moments, and to capture some of them—hopefully all—as best I could.

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Emancipation

I am feeling pretty good about life. It’s odd. I guess once you get the knife twisted up in your guts a few times too many it begins to dawn on you that maybe it’s better not to give people knives, or your guts. This realization can be very freeing.

Emancipation

I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
chucked about with nearly careless ease,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
to any fool who offers up his heart,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion
that every man must have a missing half.

I think I’ll just delight in moonlit walks and sunsets,
the playing of the wind in bamboo reeds.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
the momentary love, the counterfeit devotion
that lures a man into a sense of calm,
trusting like a lemming the old disproven notion.

I suppose I’ll just enjoy my own good company
instead of putting up with all the grief,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
with every promise planted with a kiss,
with every tender touch and every supple motion
that lures a man into a sense of calm.

I find I much prefer my solitary freedom
to walking over eggshells field by field.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers
and all the broad assortment, weapons of emotion
balanced on the fingertips of love
with every tender touch and every supple motion.

I imagine days are smoother without the crazy weather
that comes with intimate affinity,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
the sorry sap who seeks a loyal lover,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection
balanced on the fingertips of love.

I reckon now it’s time to meditate on vapors
rising from the stream of life, and breathe.
I guess I’ve gotten tired of sickles knives and daggers,
with all the wily wounds that women have to offer
as lightly as they offer their affection
to any fool who offers up his heart,
deluded by the dream of a lifelong soul connection,
that every man must have a missing half.

This will be the last hybridanelle, villanelle, or terzanelle I write for this project. I’ll be closing the project with a handful of terza rimas, probably more experimental than traditional. Then I can dive into my next project, which I’ve already been phasing into with the trisects.

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mirage

Millions of years of biological evolution drives us; the mind rationalizes and justifies this compulsory insanity. Lucky is the soul who somehow finds he or she is at peace without the need of an idealized intimacy.

mirage

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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prayer

There is a little dirt road called Low Gap Road that winds into the hills west of Ukiah to the ocean. Not long after I moved into the Ukiah area to work for REBOL Technologies in ’99, I found myself exploring this road looking for a place pray.

prayer

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.

Ever since I was a runaway, as I went through my various spiritual-religious phases, I would seek out remote places in the mountains to pray. Prayer has had many meanings to me throughout my life. It began with pleas for my safety and well-being and migrated steadily toward seeking out understanding, sanity, peace of mind, and stillness of spirit. Mixed throughout have been requests for others who have touched my life. Ever present has been a desire to seek out god’s will for me, and the power to carry that out—a lasting echo from my teen and adult exposure to 12-step rooms and precepts.

Throughout my life, while praying in the night, it has been rare that I would do so without seeing a shooting star. I can remember when this began. I was still 15, and not long on my own as a runaway. One night on the top of a mesa near Kingman, Arizona, I made ready to sleep and found myself completely overwhelmed by anxiety and hunger. It was cold, and through the little round breathing hole of my sleeping bag I peered up at the stars and cried, praying. The moment I told the stars that I just wanted to know that everything would somehow be okay, a star fell across the length of my field of vision. I can still remember the sudden calm that practically tingled in my limbs. And an instant faith. A faith I have never lost.

This is how my hilltop prayers began.

I had a friend who worked as the head librarian at Mendocino College, the community college just north of Ukiah, who was dying of colon cancer. She was a quiet yet powerful influence on my life, in ways I don’t quite understand, but in ways I can say with certainty inspired me to go the direction I went with studying and writing poetry long term.

One night at this place of prayer on Low Gap Road I asked for her to be healed, and just as I finished asking two shooting stars, bright with long arching trails, shot across the night just in front of me, horizon to horizon, one above the another. I must have misinterpreted this response because about a year later my friend lost her battle with the cancer. My own father’s death never struck me with such savage pangs of loss.

After her passing in 2002 I visited my place of prayer I think once more, and then all but forgot about it. And since then to now I have not sought out another place for prayer.

A few nights ago I remembered Low Gap Road, suddenly, as if a voice just whispered it into my thoughts. And I found myself filled with ambivalence at the thought of returning for a visit.

I decided to go. And once there just stood silent—for over an hour—playing my bansuri flute in the night. Finally I folded my arms across my chest and looked up at the night and found myself saying, “I guess I feel betrayed.” And went back to playing my flute.

A while later as I played, I turned to look west at the risen moon, and just then a shooting star fell toward the north.

I don’t claim to understand any of this. But this poem, my 23rd terzanelle, was inspired by my reflections on it all.

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craft

My 11th trisect—And pure metaphor, apparently. Segment one depicts the word, or more specifically the morpheme. Segment two depicts the line, as in a line of poetry. And segment three depicts the process of writing poetry. Talk about abstract.

   craft

   rock

pressed in ancient beds of granite, slate and limestone,
         latent meaning morphs through dreamless sleep,
   eventually to break the rolling waves and rise
      from out the heavy hollows of the deep.

            eons steadily reveal
   frameworks laid beneath the ground,
         raw potentials long concealed.

rugged hands reflect on broken bits of earth,
         weathered through millenniums of doubt,
   and dimly sense potentials waiting undiscerned,
      conceptions to be learned and reasoned out.

            soon flames are tamed in hearthstone mounds,
   grains are pounded into meal,
         and slings are armed with small gray rounds.
 

   artifacts

barrows seal the homes where bones return to dust;
         dolmens house the disembodied dead—
   expressions raised to honor dear departed blood,
      conveyed throughout millenniums of dread.

            boundaries birth a web of walls,
   stretched throughout diverse terrain,
         enclosing keeps and township halls.

hallowed chambers echo whispers, murmured rites.
         columns vault gray shadows to a haze,
   and effigies defy the cruelties of time
      amid the slow decline of ancient ways.

            castles rise on golden plains
   and mountain palaces enthrall
         ridge tops in the sunset’s wane.
 

   trace

ages past are carved and mortared into place,
         stacked against the ravages of wear,
   impressions left to echo long forgotten days
      across the centuries of grueling care.

            quarries reach through hidden lodes
   for raw materials to build
         nascent hopes and strong abodes.

waters feed the ducts of resolute invention,
         wind buffets walls of praise and grave regret,
   towers guard their gates from sinister intention,
      bridges keystone over streams and vales. and yet

            each rigid monument of skill
   brick by stone in time erodes,
         erasing every act of will.