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Value

A child where I work was having a hard time last night. It was one of those times when you just want to be left alone to sort out your thoughts and feelings for yourself, but people keep prying and trying to get you to bend to their will. He had gotten pretty worked up, and really needed to be left alone. Yet because he said some things that indicated he might hurt himself, he also had to be supervised. I managed to intervene and get him twenty minutes of personal space. I stayed near him, and my night-shift supervisor was near, but we both had the presence of mind not to talk to him except to quietly state a couple of simple expectations—basically the time he had available for self reflection.

I could see pain and rage in his eyes, and I could relate. He talked of being worthless earlier, and I wondered if that had something to do with it all. When he said he was worthless, I explained to him then that there is a big difference between “being” and “feeling” worthless. I told him, “you feel worthless, but this is not the same as actually being worthless.” I made it clear to him that to feel worthless is to feel worthless, but that feeling worthless doesn’t actually mean you’re worthless—It is a feeling only.

He seemed to catch on, though it took a while. Later, after he had calmed down some, I heard him tell my supervisor, “I hate feeling worthless.” It was nice to see him recognize and look it as a feeling. He ended up going to sleep. And as the night wore on I found myself reflecting on that look I noticed in his eyes.

Value

for a particular youth

I watched the cyclone raging through your mind
behind the storm front of your gray-blue eyes;
I felt the gale wind thrust of every word
you bellowed to the over-clouded skies.

And here is what I saw: An empty place.
A realm so foreign to the world of men
that few could bear to grasp or understand
the magnitude of desolation there.

The ground as far as I could see was razed,
wiped free of every feature bearing hope;
a river seethed throughout the barren fields,
filled with poisons welled from pools loss.

All horizons bore the faintest touch
of mountains, jagged shadows ripped from time;
the sky was silver-gray with high-spun clouds,
the kind that never break to show the sun.

And here were you, hunched over on your knees,
your fingers clutched into the ash gray soil,
stunned into a state of pallid shock,
silent, still, and breathing low and mild.

I could not guess what leveled all you knew
and left you magically alive—alone.
But when I heard you murmur, “I am worthless,”
I creepingly began to understand.

Dear Soul! What worthless thing could hold!?
What petty life could face such storms of loss!?
What worthlessness could carry on despite
the emptiness of such a barren scape!?

This life is yours! This plane of dreams your own!
Whatever storms have left you thus are gone.
Now you must stand and walk until you grasp
the nature of your reconfigured lands!

Stand tall! For you have shown your truest mettle.
You have endured where most have failed and died.
Your face still holds the will to learn and grow—
So go! Explore the landscapes of your life.

Those distant mountains surely harbor hopes.
And they are yours, so go and see what kind.
But you must leave this place of tragedy,
this epicenter of your broken past.

This place is but a fragment of your soul.
There is much more to you than what you see.
Beyond those mountains continents are filled
with every form of possibility.

For there are treasures hidden in your world,
and there are forests standing green and wild,
but you must make the survey of your soul,
to learn your inner worth and sense of value.

I’d like to give him a copy of this poem, but there are strict policies in place concerning client-staff relations. Giving him a copy would be entering into a gray area that may or may not have repercussions. So I’ll err on the side of personal safety.

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Song of the Animist

Although I have in the past been an avid member of various Christian denominations, I have always viewed the world differently from those around me. Attempts to explain or describe this view have traditionally proven futile and would elicit responses ranging from curiosity to open disdain. This is perhaps due to a lack of common ground.

It was only relatively recently that I stumbled upon a word that more or less describes my way of seeing the world—Animism. If you look this word up in the OED, you’ll find three distinct definitions, all of which can apply to my way of seeing the world. Basically, the animist sees the material world as manifest and inseparable from a spirit world. This statement is crude, at best. The dictionary definitions are themselves inadequate, but they at least point in the right direction.

Either way, animism is a substrate, not a religion. It is a basic way of seeing things, not a way of living, and certainly not a doctrine. The English word “spirit” derives from the Latin “spiritus”, which translates as “breath”. So, my 21st hybridanelle.

Song of the Animist

The rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
clear up the canyons to the glaciered peaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust,
all the universe is fused with breath.

From lakeside pebbles ground through centuries
to mesas looming black against the dusk,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
inhaling rains into their liquid lungs,
exhaling mists that turn within the light
to fields of glowing gasses joined with dust.

The sands are breathing. Branches also breathe
amid the play of feathers claws and beaks,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
that tremble twist and sway against the sky
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice,
exhaling mists that turn within the light.

Jutting from the depths of plains and seas,
or crumbling to the steady boom of breakers,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe
in moonlit meditation through the night,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark
like dancers twirling over sheets of ice.

Our dreams are breathing. Stillness also breathes
in quiet contemplation like an oak
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
as moments dissipate beyond the stars
to visions shining from the distant past,
slight reflections wimpling in the dark.

Throughout the crust where granite forces seethe
and drips of water ripple cavern lakes,
the rocks are breathing. Rivers also breathe,
caressed on either side by whispering leaves
across the living contours of the land.
From molten ores to flashing thunderheads
to visions shining from the distant past,
all the universe is fused with breath.

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Echolalia

As I read an in-depth article on the differentia of Verse, Prose, and Poetry, I stumbled across something called echolalia. A beautiful sounding word. Too bad it’s more or less useless outside pathology, educational psychology, and the trivia of obscure definitions. Still, I wanted to play with the concept, and so I ended up tapping this out.

Echolalia

Stars are falling falling through the dark
and through the dark a strong wind thrusts and parries
a strong wind thrust and parries like a sword
thrusts and parries like a long broad sword
and like a long broad sword your words cut deep
your words cut deep and disconnect the tendons
disconnect the tendons of my trust
my trust which slacks and falls like quartered meat
which slacks and falls like quartered meat for sell

I reminisce on stars for some strange reason
for some strange reason I remember stars
I remember stars which fell and faded
which fell and faded in the long dark night
and in the long dark night we held each other
we held each other by curling sea
and by the curling sea our toes were curled
our toes were curled with broken ecstasy
in broken ecstasy we slid to sleep

And stars are falling now from baring skies
from baring skies which deepen like a flood
which deepen like a flood of blackest water
of blackest water spread throughout my soul
spread throughout my soul like acid loss
an acid loss that eats away my trust
that eats away my trust until I’m left
until I’m left like bleached and barren bone
like bleached and barren bone devoid of life

The content is more or less inspired by actual feelings and events. And despite the silliness of the poem, the impact of the echolalia is kind of surprising.

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Thanksgiving Night

Normally, I avoid writing poetry that’s focused on things like Thanksgiving or Christmas, or any holiday. It’s just not the sort of thing that tends to interest me. However, as Thanksgiving day approached, I found myself pondering what Thanksgiving day, a day when most families come together and reconnect, would be like for the kids who live at the group home I work at.

I actually had my own Thanksgiving days in group homes. In fact, group homes not unlike the place I’m working at. Then there were the two Thanksgivings I endured as a runaway teen. So I have my own memories to draw from in trying to bring the hidden voice of these kids to the world. This is my 21st terzanelle.

Thanksgiving Night

A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

We AWOL through our dreams and greet the faces
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.
The lights are dim. The night man gently paces.

Outside our doors the floor creeks from the tread
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight,
that make our stomachs sick with love and dread.

We’ve eaten much, and yet there looms a hunger,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom
of memories, like ghosts within the halflight.

We stir the darkness in our broken rooms.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
an emptiness that writhes amid the gloom.

The heater drones, yet chill seeps to the marrow.
A long cold wind blows down the long brown hall.
We’re full, for well we ate to stuff our sorrows,
and one by one we drift beyond brick walls.

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A Lullaby

Thought I’d write my inner child a lullaby. This is my 20th villanelle.

A Lullaby

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 fell out pretty quickly. I came into work about a week and a half ago to discover my schedule had been shifted dramatically. There is a part of me, a fairly large part, that always feels that I’ve just done something wrong and I’m about to be punished miserably for it. I’m pretty sure this is connected to the same part of me that, throughout my childhood, lived in sheer terror of dozens of unlikely events. Events like tidal waves (though living well inland), floods (though not living near a river or flood plain), super storms (though living in a mild climate), and really out there stuff like black holes sucking earth into oblivion. Oh, and death.

These were debilitating fears. When thoughts of this or that potential disaster passed through my mind, my body would go cold with terror. Not just an anxiety that causes fretting and unease, but the sort of fear that whitewashes the mind like hi-beams on a dirty windshield and sends waves of frozen fear throughout the body like liquid nitrogen.

For some reason, the most trivial things can trigger this liquid nitrogen whitewash effect. The night I started this poem, I was told by my supervisor as I walked into the on-duty administration office to clock in that he needed to talk to me. As it turns out, he needed to talk to everyone—about the restructuring of everyone’s schedules. But, in that moment, I was frozen in the headlights, and it took me a couple of days to recover from it. This is one of the long-term effects of thoroughly messing up a child’s mind.

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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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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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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?

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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.

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Stormlight

As a runaway teen, one of my rules of thumb was to never sleep where anyone I had gotten a ride from suggested I sleep. I didn’t like the thought of strangers knowing where I would be during the night. I had no way of knowing how twisted such people might be, nor the sort of twisted company they might keep.

As I wandered the States for nearly two years, I normally slept out in the open, up high out of view of any nearby roads, or in dense woods or thickets. But sometimes it rained. I didn’t have a tent, though in retrospect I can see that it would have made sense for me to have at least toted a tarp around.

It was usually when it rained that I took my biggest risks in choosing a place to sleep. With dry weather, it was easy—just bed down away from people someplace out of view. But rain changes the situation. The human urge to stay dry is based on the fact that the body loses heat much more easily and rapidly when wet. And aside from this being unpleasant and discomforting, there’s also the very real threat of death from exposure.

Still, I generally considered the threat of being discovered as greater than the threat of freezing to death. People act on unpredictable urgings. They can leave a victim with fewer options than a little cold and wet might. So it would have to really be storming, and cold, before I’d consider passing the night in an abandoned, or empty, house. Much less a place suggested by the last person to give me a ride that day.

This poem, my 3rd hybridanelle, attempts to depict the experience of passing the night in just such a house. I didn’t sleep well that night—not so much because of the intensity of the storm as because a total stranger knew my whereabouts that night.

Stormlight

Frantic flashes illustrate my view,
        Random moments shot into the light;
                Thunder crushes every hope anew.

        I pass the night in a frail abandoned home,
                A weary vagrant teen deprived of will
                        Awaiting the dawn within its quaking hold.

                                Visions strobe throughout the empty room,
                        Shadows briefly singed by every bolt;
                Frantic flashes illustrate my view.

                        I curl within my bag against the wall;
                There’s nothing left for the winds to rip from me,
        A weary vagrant teen deprived of will.

Etched amid the suffocating gloom,
        Monster clouds roll black against the night;
                Thunder crushes every hope anew.

        I’ve struggled to grasp what life could ever mean
                As memory and mind are stripped away;
                        There’s nothing left for the winds to rip from me.

                                Leafless limbs are drawn in sepia hues;
                        Stark against the darkness of my thought,
                Frantic flashes illustrate my view.

                        I watch and listen, numb and half-aware,
                My slumber but vivid streaks of fitful dream,
        As memory and mind are stripped away.

Anxious waiting constantly resumes;
        Shocked repeatedly from fugue to doubt,
                Thunder crushes every hope anew.

        I try to manage what rest I can redeem,
                Protected from the storm by shifting frames,
                        My slumber but vivid streaks of fitful dream.

                                Desolation roars the whole night through;
                        Forces seem to tear the world apart;
                Frantic flashes illustrate my view;
        Thunder crushes every hope anew.

        Uncertain shadows pose in countless forms;
                I pass the night in a frail abandoned home,
                        Protected from the storm by shifting frames,
                                Awaiting the dawn within its quaking hold.