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The Enduring Seed

As some of my previous posts have explored, I ran away from the Juvenile Los Angeles Courts when I was 15. This was unplanned. There was a “houseparent,” as they were called, I only now remember as RJ at my last residential home with The San Fernando Child Guidance Clinic who beat me into submission, pinned me down using a hold that is today considered child abuse and can actually kill you, and threatened to break my arm—the hold in question involved twisting my right arm halfway out of the socket at an angle that could easily break the humerus without much added pressure.

“I’ll just tell them you fell,” he said, laughing. Actually laughing. His wife, the other houseparent—there were just two that lived with the kids full time—kicked me in my face, which was half mashed into the shaggy brown carpet. “Oh! He just fell!” She laughed, “That’s going to leave a mark.” They both laughed. This was all going down in my bedroom, and yes I was no saint—I had just ripped my large sliding closet door off in one of my tantrums. I cursed them out for all it was worth, which only seemed to make them laugh all the more.

This was pretty much all I had ever known, one form of abuse or another. But I was beginning to realize this was not how it should be, that something was wrong, that most of the people who dictated the terms of my childhood and upbringing were in fact twisted, sadistic, and void of compassion—including my parents. It wasn’t long after this incident that I found myself hitchhiking thither and yon across the highways of America, taking odd jobs, avoiding the larger population centers, and by some unimaginable grace steering clear of the predators, for about 2 years.

This poem reflects on a night I spent atop a mesa near Kingman, Arizona, probably my 6th day out. My 4th day out, two days prior, a Grand Canyon National Park ranger gave me a subzero sleeping bag. I tell that story here.

The Enduring Seed

The midnight sky was moonless
            and clear as tempered glass
I could discern no gap between the stars
      that drifted up as numerous
                  as white sands by long shores
the milky way foamed like a standing wave

Beside me a Smith-Corona
            typewriter case contained
a toothbrush, rag, two sets of dirty clothes,
      half a loaf of bread,
                  a jar of strawberry jam,
and six days worth of desert dust and grime.

I climbed to the crest of a mesa
            feeling my way through darkness
and lined up the flattest rocks I could find
      to prevent my rolling downhill
                  as I drifted off to sleep
tears drying cold and taut on restless cheeks

I remember screaming out
            to that heavy shroud of stars
to whatever benevolent beings could hear my pleas
      I remember cursing God
                  until I spattered blood
in open palms I then washed dry with dust

Oh and I remember
            throwing back my arms
chest heaved out to darkness, fully expecting
      to be struck down—vaporized
                  by God’s infernal might
and somehow disappointed life went on

I remember crawling dazed
            into my bright blue bag
tired, weak, defeated and staring up
      through a drawstring hole
                  at all those distant angels
wings flickering syncopation in absolute silence

I was alone with my rage
            completely alone and free
alone with hunger, alone with fear, alone
      with sorrow, grief, and hate,
                  with raw, unbalanced, potential
alone in the dark struggling at the edge of extinction

The stars gazed back at me
            and offered only light
a billion little pinpricks stung my eyes
      I spoke once more through tears
                  and said I only wish
to know somehow that I would be okay

and with that very last word
            the dark that held its breath
throughout the hours with not a single stir
      exhaled and breathed at last
                  and from the twinkling expanse
a star broke loose and streaked across the night

There in that moment began
            a strange new resonance
a current of meaning for which no words exist
      an insight beyond the reach
                  of language or even thought
and to the watercolor stars—Thank You

I drifted off to sleep
            and dreamt of rattlesnakes
of scorpions, coyotes and unexpected strangers
      and here and there I woke
                  looked up into the stars
said Thank You and returned to broken dreams

The sun rose—I unzipped
            from my cobalt blue cocoon
stood up hungry, thirsty and cold—and stared
      out over sand and rock
                  as far the eye could see
and after bread and jam began my descent

That day I set off in search
            for a completely impossible future
a seed laid firm and deep within my soul
      that sprouted and slowly grew
                  from barren soils cracked
beneath the heat of apathy and malice

Yes, something did change in me that night, and I don’t think the language exists to express or convey it. Sometimes I wonder why I try, knowing full well that what I wish to accomplish is actually beyond the reach of words, imagery, metaphor—anything.

Yet, I have also been driven to the edge of language my entire life, ever since I stumbled across the Best Loved Poems of the American People as a 12 year old and my drugged, traumatized, disorganized brain for the first time began to stitch together coherent thoughts through the power of structured language, imagery, and metaphor.

So here I am, attempting yet again to walk the insubstantial hinterlands of language and find one or two lexical, imaginary vapors that may or may not convey some small aspect of my experience, and the insights gained therein.

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Boxcars

During my early 20s I was friends with a man who was also one of the staff who worked at the last residential home I lived in as a teen—not long before I ran away. I was still pretty feral in those days, so I eventually ended up damaging the relationship beyond repair and never saw or heard from him again.

But before this happened he passed on a piece of wisdom to me during a time when I really needed to hear it that involved a new way of looking at and dealing with my thoughts—seriously dark thoughts and intentions that absorbed a great deal of mental space in those days:

Boxcars

A steel-bell clamor echoes through the air
in time with frenzied flashes warning red;
the long arm of the crossing gate is down;
behind it boxcars rumble down the rails.

Some are old, the corrugated frames
bleed rustic patterns through the faded paint.
Some are new, unblemished angles gleam
the colors of a harvest fresh from field.

The doors gape wide, revealing vivid worlds
that move within the spaces as they pass,
each one reflecting back a hope, a fear,
a grim regret, a powerful desire.

The spacious confines beckon one by one—
the broken promises, the lasting doubts,
the things that could have been, the grand designs—
the vengeful plans that ache within the heart.

The cars move slowly—such that if you ran,
you could with little trouble hop aboard
and there within the confines of a thought
be carried off away to who-knows-where.

Nearby a tunnel opens to a plane
of deep uncertainty; it is from here
the many cars emerge to clangor by
and disappear around a far off bend.

I’ve been here many times throughout the years,
the way ahead obscured by vagaries
that mesmerize the mind with strange allure
and goad the impetus to jump aboard.

Sometimes a car would pass reflecting back
distorted visions holding such appeal
the urge to run and climb aboard would quell
all sensibility and self control.

Then suddenly I’d find myself within
a lucid fancy on that train of thought,
so thoroughly immersed in reverie
I soon lost sight of where I was or went.

And drifting through the shadows of a dream
of what could be or what there might have been—
or some depraved indulgence deep within—
I found myself displaced from all that is.

And only after hours, days, or weeks
would I regain my senses and return
to where I was before I leapt aboard
whatever fancy lured me from my path.

But through the years I’ve learned to let them pass,
allowing each to come and each to go
until once more the way ahead is clear,
the red caboose diminishing from view.

What he told me was simple: Instead of denying or rebuking the thoughts that troubled me, allow them to come, and then allow them to go—like the boxcars on a freight train at a train crossing. Let them come; let them go. Don’t hop on and get taken for a ride.

It took a while—many years in fact—but I worked at it and gradually got better at this practice. It helped a lot when I one day realized that the process of rebuking and trying to deny the thoughts and feelings that troubled me was also a form of hopping aboard.

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i found God

Photos of Aylan Kurdi, the 3 year old Syrian refugee who drowned in the Aegean Sea off the coast of Bodrum, Turkey, have haunted my thoughts for several weeks now.

i found God

cradled in the pensive palms of earth,
his head rocked slightly in the gentle surge,
caressed by waves that murmured quiet prayers;
his arms lay pale and tranquil at his side,
his legs pulled partly up as if in sleep—
perhaps he slept, but he would never wake.

eyelids lightly closed on sunken dreams,
a cherub cheek lay pressed against dark sands;
and clothes that only hours before were filled
with flames of life and curiosity
now covered only stillness like a bruise,
a shroud still dripping fathoms’ worth of rheum.

peace was on his brow, immeasurable—
such contrast to the violence of his plight;
what circumstance would bring a child here
curled sleeping cold and graying on the shore,
his shrieks of laughter silenced to a sigh
caught strangled in the throats of passersby?

this is God, i thought, in all his glory—
we praise with words his name, then turn and plunge
him flailing in the dark of angry seas
until his strength plays out and every breath
is filled with brine—and sudden quietude—
just flotsam on the altars of the deep.

yes—i found God on the beach today,
the seagulls circled high above his head
and cried their long and steady mournful calls;
the people saw him and they knelt in prayer,
hands clutching at their heaving, hollowed breasts,
all hope of penance ripped from out their souls.

If fatherhood has given me anything, it is an incredible pain in my chest at the sight of a dead, abused or impoverished child. I see the eyes of my baby son in the face of every child. I’ve heard it said that God is revealed in the face of our children, in their innocence, love and wonder. If this is true, then there is no hope of salvation for any of us, for we are all responsible and we all bear the shame of such atrocities.

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Compression

Every year I try to write something on my birthday, even if I haven’t gotten around to writing anything new for awhile. I’ve just recently read some articles pertaining to the phenomenon of black holes. A lot has been learned about them since I last checked in on the subject, and they are a fantastic source of metaphor.

Compression

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.
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Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

Huffaker Hills is 251 acres of treeless, desert public land in south Reno set aside for pedestrian use. From there, Huffaker Lookout—a pair of lower hills—spurs out into Washoe Valley, separating an industrial park from the residential area in which I live. On its way south, Hwy 395, a six lane freeway, bends out and around the westernmost hill, just scraping its base.

Midwinter on Huffaker Lookout

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.

Desert hills have always had a way of luring me up to their stony crests.

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it nears dusk

One of my favorite places ever is the Montgomery Woods, a state natural reserve of old growth redwoods about 30 miles west of Ukiah, California, where I used to live. This poem was drafted during a visit as I sat deep in the woods at the easternmost edge of the reserve. Reluctant to leave this special, tranquil place that I can now only visit rarely, I walked about a mile back to my car in the dark.

it nears dusk

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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morning prayer

Every morning she prays her rosary. Although I am in no way religious, being present and in some way a part of the process can bring a certain peace to the moment and even a sense of hope to the day ahead.

morning 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. However, the above player can still be used to listen to it.
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Maya

This was originally going to be at least a portion of part I for “Contrast”, but after several months it never progressed. So I decided to call it its own poem and start over with the former.

Maya

From hard hidden folds where granites press
stony drops through limestone crevices
to streams that coalesce in emptiness
and pool in caverns dripping far from sight
to canyon narrows carved from monuments
heft high above a universe of waves
to stillborn depths where ancient forms of life
move like starving ghosts amid the void
she creeps through time an ever present force
birthing shapes amorphous to the mind
which rise and bubble out into the light
manifest for moments on the wind

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A Christmas Poem

On Christmas Eve I decided to go for walk in the Montgomery Woods, near where I live. I planned it around what I figured would be the sun’s nadir, so I got there about 11:20pm, and my walk lasted about two and a half hours. I brought my most weather resistant bansuri flute, knowing it would hold up to the cold, and still be playable the next day. When I go on my night walks there, I walk the full three mile loop through the groves, and not just the half-mile out to the first grove of the woods and back.

It was worth it, and I discovered I can play Noel on the flute I brought with me.

A Christmas Poem

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.

It is a dense forest full of towering redwoods, tan oaks, and underbrush—especially blankets of head-high fern. In the night it can be especially mysterious to walk through. When its a full moon, which it very nearly was, this mysteriousness is made all the more fantastic, almost eldritch. I use a small headlamp, not always strapped to my head, when I go on my night walks. More than adequate to see where I’m going and to keep visually aware of what’s around me. Sometimes I’ll take nearly the entire walk with it turned off, using it only to get by a few rough spots. But this time I had it on nearly the entire way. The cold somehow confuses my sense of surrounding, numbs it to a certain extent, making me feel more comfortable with it kept on.

When I first began taking these night walks a few years ago, I was very fretful, constantly snapping my head about at every slight sound or perceived motion, every unusual shadow, stopping to listen and be sure there wasn’t something near or following. And in these woods every shadow seems entirely alive. But these days I’m a lot more comfortable, and I’ve come to have a much better trust of my sense of what’s around me. Sometimes I do encounter animals out there, but they’re often a good deal less sure of me than I am of them. The last time I was out there I was serenaded by what sounded like a handful of wolves, baying from the woods nearby and nearby ridge-tops. They didn’t sound entirely like wolves, however, so I’m not sure what I heard. Yet I wasn’t very spooked by the experience, more just curious and interested.

This was my first walk in these woods during the winter. I’ve tended to not go on night walks during the winter because of the cold and wet. But I wanted to do something special for Christmas Eve, something that wasn’t exactly Christmassy, yet personally meaningful. So I took my flute and had my first Christmas night musical nature walk.

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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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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.