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missing

Sometimes when a kid runs away from the residential home for children I work at, I can’t help but be a little worried. Most of them are not capable of making healthy choices out there on their own, or of protecting themselves from the most dangerous of predators—the mammals that walk on two legs.

missing

what will become of you?

your meal-back waits silent
  cold as the grave

three slices of turkey
industrial green beans
  exhausted in a pile and
mashed potatoes
  tipping from the edge
  of the topmost slice
all soaked in brown gravy
  glistening in a dull dim pool
  from the styrofoam

at regular intervals
  AWOL marks your absence
even your ghosts have gone
  slithering off to whisper
  doubt and foreboding
behind your mud brown eyes

the roads are long
  the streets dusty with soot
  tapped from the heals of fear
and predation

you never took that one slow breath
  hands trembling eyes twitching
you never breathed down
  into the heart of your anguish
  giving it room to rise
into understanding

down the hall your room
  gapes in the stillness
bed neatly made
writing desk arranged
  the dorm radio outlined
  in hushed gray hues

the city’s cracked walls
  harbor a quiet will to
  cull out the weakened
passing cars carry menace
  sharp white smiles cheerful
  with an unsettling calm
anticipating indulgence

your meal-back waits silent
  at the edge of the office desk
  on plastic wood veneer
across the narrow room
  plastic fluffs the hollow
  gray of a tin garbage can
and it too waits
  for the nearly plastic cold
  of your neglected dinner

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shimmer

I had maybe five hours sleep over course of four days when I wrote this, and I had just come off a 20 minute break at work, which involved a fitful nap fraught with sleep paralysis and vivid “dreams” that I mistook for actual goings on. An interesting mix peculiar to the narcoleptic.

    shimmer

          footsteps fall
across scattered dreams
     i hear your voice
  but see no face

          a radio drones
in a nearby half-lit room
     a body stirs beneath
  light brown covers

          something moves
outside in the dark
     creaking almost silent
  above the ceiling

          i try to ask your name
my lips won’t move
     and my voice grants no expression
  to the wind

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Musing out loud

Been wanting to play more with imaginative poems that tell a story of some sort. So, here’s one. Going for the vague approach for the time being. I like vague. I like interpretable.

Musing out loud

I’ll wait for you here.
  I trust you’re not far.
          It was you who called me,
      after all.

I still remember.
  I lived in decay,
          the kind that can’t be overcome
      by strength or will.

In the cellar of broken dreams
  you shone your light
          and found me, emaciated,
      covered in cobwebs.

You left the old door open,
  standing just outside,
          and read out loud, so I could see
      stories in darkness.

Many seasons passed.
  But I finally emerged,
          lured to the sound
      of your lyric visions.

You placed one hand
  firm on my shoulder,
          and my knees nearly buckled
      from weakness.

You said, “Now you’ve come,
  emerged into light.
          And you’ll never return
      to the shadows.”

We walked.
  You talked of potential,
          of patience and study
      and time.

I listened.
  I watched the clouds climb
          where mountains reach out
      to the skies.

You talked of acceptance,
  the power of faith,
          a trust in the value
      of learning.

I listened,
  and built castles of sand
          and watched them return
      to the sea.

Then I suddenly saw it,
  the long steady path
          you had been hinting at
      with breadcrumb words.

It was covered in shrubs,
  weaves of poison oak,
          and the old fallen branches
      of deeply rooted tears.

And I found myself
  shifting the past years’ leaves
          beneath an uncertain tread
      of discovery.

Behind me I heard
  your soft-fallen feet
          hardly disturbing
      the settled breath of dew,

and the sound of your voice,
  naming the leaves,
          the blossoms, stones and creatures
      on the way.

And each had a story,
  of birth and being—
          the stones that weep dreams;
      the earthquake birth of ravens;

the old madrone
  who clothed the fox with her bark
          so he would not be cold;
      the star that seeded lilies.

And each was a marvel,
  a touch of understanding,
          a fresh new flash of light
      in my soul.

We came to a cabin,
  moons along the way,
          filled with lost ideas
      and empty pages.

I lit the candles,
  read beneath the darkness,
          and penciled meditations,
      brief as lake-borne mist.

Collecting berries,
  I played with long dead lyrics,
          reciting little moments
      to the wind.

One day you told me,
  “This time is yours.
          You can never really own it
      while I remain.”

And so you left,
  assuring you’ll return
          when one day I am ready
      to skim the stars.

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subjectivity

Just did a little reading about an old Russian art movement called suprematism, manifesto and all. Kind of a curious thing. It was originated by an artist, Kazimir Malevich, around 1913, and he declared the movement ended in 1920. The only art movement I can think of whose originator eventually decided to end it. Never mind, though, Malevich was apparently charismatic enough to draw in a few adherents to suprematism, who continued creating supposedly suprematist artwork and writing (one Russian poet played with it) well after Malevich ended his movement. I guess if you don’t want something to take on a life of its own, don’t publicize it.

Anyway, Malevich was inspired by cubism and futurism to start this movement. In effect, suprematism is a sort of combination of the two. Cubism is basically artwork comprised of representational industrial shapes and angles like cubes and circles. Futurism is the extreme abstraction of the same.

Malevich, apparently, saw some metaphysical connections and called his attempt to bring them out ‘suprematism’.

So, here’s my stab at it, just for metaphysical cubist kicks.

subjectivity

clear your mind white
empty the canvas of thought

paint a black circle
a ring of smoke

outside is all the void
inside the void of self

scrape the inner edge
with a triangle’s black points

spirit thought and body
trapped within the void

now fill the black triangle
with questions feelings doubts

a snail crushed underfoot
a daughter crushed by steel

a spider’s shriveled figure
a mother’s crinkled corpse

a fly smashed by the swatter
a son smashed by debris

a red fox snared in iron
a father trapped in credit

it all lasts but a moment
the circle snaps and fades

and the triangle’s edges scatter
to join the canvas white

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Presence

Sometimes it seems as if the unit I keep watch over at night is in some way haunted. There are so many times I would see something move toward me down the long dark hall—something there and yet not there, tangible and yet intangible—only to watch it dissipate back into nothing once it reached the cone of light cast from the bathroom.

The kids, asleep in their rooms, would stir as it moved past. And once in awhile it would dip into a doorway, followed a moment later by an anguished cry from the child that sleeps there. I would go down to look, only to find the child sound asleep and nothing else, save a strange cold sensation in the air.

Presence

A shadow slips
      from the corner of my mind
   beneath a random lintel
joined with darkness

A muffled sob
      stirs beneath gray sheets
   as walls absorb
the thuds of restless sleep

The shadow blurs
      across the long dark hall
   and slides between
the jambs of dreamless rest

A long strained moan
      struggles from the gloom
   and crawls half noticed
toward faded shades of light

The shadow flickers
      dust from mothen wings
   into the hollows
of one more dusky room

A sudden holler
      echoes down the hall
   a broken sorrow
cursed into the night

The shadow rustles
      like shaken autumn leaves
   into the twilight
waking in the east

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Contrast

There are strange contrasts where I work. Inside it’s like a sort of grave—dingy, dark, dismal. Outside there is the Ukiah valley and the vibrant green hills nearby. There are cherry trees that grow just outside, and in the spring the contrast becomes even more pronounced.

Contrast

Sealed from the world
beside the drone of a dirty
ten gallon tank of goldfish
I look down the hall to hear
hidden in the splotchy half-dark
a cherry blossom breeze
and the twittering light refrains
of a yellow crested finch

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acceptance

Sometimes something breaks within ourselves, and the psyche is terrifically disfigured. Yet sometimes this becomes part of our growth and strength and not the cause of destruction.

acceptance

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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investment

It’s been raining all day. The skies are heavy. I love heavy skies, actually. I love rain. I could use a walk, though, but I don’t always feel like going out for a walk or hike when it means I’m going to get wet. Haven’t been out so much the past few days due to the rain because I’ve just gotten over a monster head cold and I don’t want a relapse. But in a few days as I complete my recovery I’ll be out for my walks even if its raining.

This doesn’t have anything to do with the poem. Just a bit of environmental context, in a sense. I just wrote this while sitting in a Starbucks cafe. I played with a couple of stanzas then went out and played my bansuri flute for awhile beneath the awning. I’ve found that bamboo flutes and rain mix very well. Very satisfying to my spirit. Then I went back in and played with the poem some more. Then back out again with my flute.

As I played a man from Mexico came up and asked me if I was playing a kanakta (assuming I heard and/or spelled that right). I asked him what that was and he told me a South American wooden flute. I told him I was playing a bamboo flute from India called a ‘bansuri’. He was really intrigued by the instrument. His enjoyment of my playing was also satisfying to my spirit.

Anyway, this poem. I met someone recently and we’re getting to know one another. Looks like it will turn out to be an intimate relationship. Never know where these will lead or how they’ll end up. But I guess I’ll give it a go. She is very pretty, and unique. And we all know how pretty and unique affects most men. But it’s a psycho-spiritual investment, the sort with uncertain returns.

investment

perhaps i’ll brush my fingers
  down the backbone
 of your thought

feel the white frame move
  beneath the smooth motion
 of your silken cover

perhaps i’ll reach out
  and sip from the spring
 of your thoughts

part my lips and let
  your essence slide
 to my center

perhaps i’ll stand barefoot
  by the whispering edge
 of your emotion

wet my feet with waves
  and risk the moonlit tides
 washed from mystery

perhaps i’ll stand in awe
  beneath the star fields
 of your reflection

and catch my breath
  when one parts and falls
 from the night

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To Write a Poem

For most people, the most difficult part of writing a poem is to allow it to just exist on its own, without succumbing to the compulsion to infuse it with every last possible ounce of personal ego. To my mind, poetry is above all the art of verbal depiction. To depict is to let the image describe itself, to let a scene show itself, to let an idea present itself—To let the subject of the poem make itself known without any intervention from the person writing the poem. As soon as “I feel”, “I think”, “I believe”, “I am”, I this, I that, I A-B-C and X-Y-Z come into the picture, the potential depictive poem becomes probable expository prose. So…

To Write a Poem

Remove your self
  from the scene

        Let the snowflake
      slip between high wires
    slide past bony twigs
  and loop through the air
  to meld with a stainless pole

          Let the bold red sign
        slice the long cold wind
      with cutlass whispers
    and the faintest tremble
    of uncertainty

            Let its white rim rest
          against the calloused grip
        of a puffed brown robin
      dark beak twitching
      to thoughts of spring

              Let its bright song seep
            through small gray cracks
          and creep from the alleyways
        to finger glazed reflections
        faces creased with care

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markers

This poem follows a dream I had many years ago. I talk about the experiences surrounding the dream in my introduction to the poem “oak touch”.

markers

i was half raven
   the city long since dead
  gray as the silent sky
 streaked with granite

i held the air with
   long black feathers
  in cobblestone canyons
 carved from history

i felt the old walls
   brush my wingtips
  high above narrow lanes
 stretched empty below

then the buildings gave way
   and i soared free
  through an open square
 orange with age

in the distant center
   tall as the canyon
  towers there grew
 an old black oak

its crown was full
   contrast to the lifeless
  city frozen forever
 to a moment in time

it grew from a circle
   closed in limestone walls
  where long sere blades of grass
 rose perfectly still

its scaly roots
   swam beneath the ground
  like coiled serpents
 half risen for air

and there i landed
   near its broad round base
  and rustled black feathers
 neatly behind me

high in the crown
   on a long thick branch
  a large raven worked
 at something unseen

its obsidian beak
   puzzled probed and cocked
  ’til i found myself lifting
 to see what it saw

and as i rose up
   it studied my approach
  then tossed its small find
 from the edge

it settled deep
   parting long thin blades
  as i drifted back
 to the ground

and about me there gathered
   creatures of every kind
  as i knelt as in prayer
 near the trunk

all kinds of creatures
   from all kinds of spirits
  half-mooned around me
 to see

one stood behind me
   covered with stern brown eyes
  which gazed down upon me
 and in all directions

its skin was the bark
   of all the old black oaks
  returned to the dreams
 of the earth

and i held in my hands
   like a soft feathered stone
  the black figurine
 of a raven

whose breast split in two
   its soft downy breast
  where a glimmer of light
 shone within

Over the years I’ve written a couple of poems inspired by this dream and my subsequently “meeting” the same tree in “real life”. It grows by Orr Springs Road, several miles West of Ukiah, CA. I already provided a link above to “oak touch”. The others are “Three Ravens” and “Oak Dream”.

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Company

Playing with some thoughts of romance. I’m always loath to take the mainstream approach to romantic poetry, if I approach it at all. And I’m learning, through my practice with the trisects and a study of the interpretations they elicit from my readers, how to use depiction to lead the mind in the direction I’d like it to go without my having to cram explicit thoughts into my reader’s face like a tangle of rotting guts.

Company

come
   join me here in darkness
   let your lips speak back
     long thin shadows
   let your touch brush away
     tendrils of haze

come
   let us meditate on stars
   fixed in double panes
     which fade to the slow
   approach of opal hues
     the zenith moon

come
   we can listen to the sudden
   rooftop rap of acorns
     as they call out their
   little reminders of towering
     greatness outside

come
   let us study the red
   diodes of time together
     silent motions that
   push with magic force
     toward nascent dawns