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On a Life Left Unfinished

I met Del Warren Livingston early in the Fall of 2003 online at a poetry forum called Poem Kingdom. He was one of the first people I met and talked with online who took me seriously as a poet, and he treated me like a scholar.

Del passed away suddenly in September of 2005. After more than two years building a friendship, which is something I rarely do, this was a loss deeply felt. He really liked the hybridanelle form I invented, and he wrote several poems using this form himself. Most of them were very well done, and a couple may be found on his memorial page linked to below. So it only makes sense that I write and dedicate a hybridanelle poem—my 14th—to his memory.

      On a Life Left Unfinished

      in memory of Del Warren Livingston (1944—2005)

      A full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
   new inspirations wrought from memories
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

   Your time had come to shed the mortal dream;
      although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber,
   your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.

And if you find yourself reflecting where you’ve gone
   on all you’ve left undone, well just remember:
      a full life’s never ended—it merely passes on.

      We who float within your wake can hardly help but wonder;
   we guess and grope for answers to our loss
although you wake beyond our veil as if from heavy slumber.

   Despair would not become you despite your waning moons;
      you strove instead to leave creative memoirs
   like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

The mystery conceals you like a shroud;
   now left with only memories of all you planned to do,
      we guess and grope for answers to our loss.

      You chanced that every evening would reproduce the dawn;
   unfinished projects bear the keen reminder:
a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on

   a sense of oak leaves newly formed and foals of chestnut hue
      to those who valued more than just your presence,
   now left with only memories of all you planned to do.

The minds you’ve touched remain to bear the human trance,
   yet still your essence drifts in memory
      like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

      Your intuitions leave prospective imprints
   and phase from tangibility as cloudscapes phase from view
to those who valued more than just your presence.

   So long as breath sustains, your friends shall hold within
      the insights you have offered as mementos;
   a full life’s never ended; it merely passes on
like stardust filaments that weave the birth of suns.

   The blood that fueled your living form returns to join our roots;
      your time had come to shed the mortal dream
   and phase from tangibility; as cloudscapes phase from view,
your remnants ripple through our half-lit realm.

I met Del about when I was starting to get a handle on expressing myself and my observations in fairly neutral, non-judgmental tones in poetry forums, and discussions in general. Not fully—not then, not now—but more so than before. When it came to discussing poems, poetry, and poetics in an online poetry forum, it has always been my goal to seek knowledge and understanding while at the same time freely sharing whatever I’ve learned up to that point. However, I’ve had to gain insight into my own ego and insecurities as part of this process, which hasn’t always gone smoothly. So I’ve ended up alienating a lot of people as I’ve struggled to learn how to communicate intelligently, openly, and unassumingly with others.

As luck would have it, Del wasn’t much bothered by my rough-edged, self-distancing gruffness, and he enjoyed batting ideas and information back and forth. I was also at this time finally becoming proficient in my understanding of verbal meter, so our early discussions included much talk of meter in poetry. As a result, he learned so much about this aspect of poetry, which had thus far eluded him, through our dialog that he eventually naturalized it himself.

Much of our dialog took place over his own poetry. He sought out my critiques of his poetry—And he didn’t want the light stuff. For the first time I was able to completely cut loose on analyzing and interpreting a living person’s poetry to shreds without worrying about hurt feelings. It was an educational treat for me, and he appreciated the time I spent critiquing his poetry so much that he actually sent me a check at one point for around $200, which he called “compensation”. Up until his death he also took the time to provide me with detailed thoughts and interpretations on every new poem I wrote.

I am by nature asocial and emotionally distant to people, so it took him some effort to cultivate and sustain a friendship with me. But he did so, and as a result I took an increasing interest in him over time, getting to learn a lot about him as a person.

Part of the reason he was studying poetry himself is that he knew his time above ground was limited at best. Years ago he suffered from a metabolic accident that caused him to very quickly gain and retain a lot of weight. In fact, the accident screwed up his biology in general, and his heart weakened over time from the strain on his body.

He wanted to learn how to use the medium of poetry to tell stories about his life and his inspirations so he could leave something behind that would feel significant to him. In fact, Del self-published a book about a year ago titled Writing into the Sunset, which I have a copy of. He passed away literally one day before sending a second book to print. Hopefully his family will be able to get that book published for him, too, at some point.

I came to consider Del a good friend, enough so that I took the drive down to Tuscon, Arizona last spring to meet him. I spent a week at his house with him, mostly entertaining myself with my reading as I’m wont to do, but the rest of the time having very long conversations with him. I’m glad I went; because if I waited, I wouldn’t have gotten to meet him in person at all. He was a wonderful host who made me feel completely welcome in his home.

One of his friends, Eric Lee, has arranged to have this memorial page setup for him online, which includes a short bio of his life and some of his poems. I hope you will feel moved to go have a look.

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Anima Cantus

This poem, my 13th hybridanelle, attempts to depict and convey one of the ways I look at ’being’, what a being is, and how it is connected with its self and other beings. The title is Latin for “mind song” or “psychic melody”.

Anima Cantus

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.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — November 2005

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Matrimony

For the unity of marriage I used Katrina as the metaphor for life’s struggles. And for the survivors of Hurricane Katrina I used matrimony as a metaphor for unity. This is my 12th hybridanelle poem.

Matrimony

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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An Invocation

To me, inspiration is a sacred thing. Without it, the creative soul experiences nothing but frustration and dismay. Some ancient poets were known to incorporate an invocation of the muse or muses into their epic poetry, such as Homer, Virgil, and Dante. I do not plan to write epic poems during my lifetime, though it could happen. Still, I would like to try to invoke the muses for the epic journey of my writing process, which I hope will last the entirety of my life.

              An Invocation

          O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        and flash against the backdrop of my thoughts
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams
  and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.
Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

  Release creative flow like prismed floods
    that sweep stagnation from my standing sense.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Lift the heavy doubt that cowers thick and close,
          a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray
            and wraps confusion round my spinning soul.

          Reach through this cacophonic mental din
        and seed within my harried understanding
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Sweep a translucent wind throughout my psychic planes,
  infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist,
a fog that saturates in vapid shades of gray.

  Defrost the ice and snow from all my fields,
    the winter-scapes within that numb perception.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds.

        Return decayed ideas to elemental drift
          so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath
            infused with temperate airs to clear the cotton mist.

          Connect me to the place where light is born,
        from where it swells to crest in consciousness
      an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

    Part confusion from conceptions fallen dead,
  and draw its suffocation off my faculties
so they rise again as notions nursed on cosmic breath.

  Restore the waters of my inmost lands,
    so that my springs will flow with apprehension.
      O grant me rain from out the sounding clouds,
        an inspiration wrought by subtle minds.

          Sing to me invention, and help me learn to heed.
            Dissolve the soughing haze that clings to all my dreams,
          and draw its suffocation off my faculties.
        Unveil the primal light obscured in stellar dust.

This is my 11th hybridanelle.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — August 2005

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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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Burning the Flag

During a recent cross-country drive across several states, I noticed how many yahoos sported the American flag on their cars and houses, but never bothered to honor it by taking it down at night (it should never be left in the dark) or retiring it once it fades out, cracks to bits, or wastes away.

It dawned on me that this must be how these Americans actually feel about their country and the constitutional ideals upon which it is founded. They may boast and brag about how great America is, but actions speak so much louder than words. You show me exactly what you think the ideals that founded this country are worth when you let the flag that represents them waste away in plain view of the world—Something that once upon a time would win you a citation.

Burning the Flag

Cracked and faded in the sun,
        sported emblems lose their hue,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Exposure to the elements betrays
        emotional and mental negligence
        to burning disregard for heritage.

                Bumper stickers age too soon;
        paper pride is left to wane,
cracked and faded in the sun

        on well-kept pickup trucks and long sedans
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent;
        emotional and mental negligence

                flies atop the roofs of cars—
        sooty clown-ears deeply stained,
unretired and weather-torn.

        Support is shown as mere velleity,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought
        beside some slogan spouting malcontent,

just another brittle sign
        taking on a dirty tinge,
                cracked and faded in the sun.

        What shone for Francis Key one failing night
        is treated now like any corporate logo,
        a symbol posted like an afterthought.

Freedom flails on autumn winds,
        half-remembered, growing pale,
                unretired and weather-torn.

        Abandoned to an apathy’s pollution,
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
        is treated now like any corporate logo.

                Banners rip on plastic stands,
        unsaluted dawn to dusk,
cracked and faded in the sun,
        unretired and weather-torn.

        As mildew rots the fabric of the States,
exposure to the elements betrays
        the dream Old Glory strives to represent
                to burning disregard for heritage.

This is my 9th hybridanelle poem.

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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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Sunlight

For a woman with dark brown eyes, she had a surprisingly bright countenance. This is my 7th hybridanelle poem, written to the woman who became my first wife.

                                 Sunlight

                             For Jenna Joslyn

            It seems to me the sunshine in your eyes
        that burns away the glow of lesser stars
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

Since our paths have crossed, I’ve never groped in darkness,
  feeling my way by touch with uncertain hands and feet,
    startled every moment contact serves as vision.

            I feel the shadows fade before your gaze,
        those blurred recesses deep where dreads are stored;
    it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes

lifts an obscuring fog that would magnify my doubts
  and cloud my thoughts with mist until I walked in quandary,
    feeling my way by touch with uncertain hands and feet.

            Your view illuminates my mystic core,
        reveals a steady center in the storm,
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

I’ve searched for eyes like yours, filled full of jasper mystery;
  it often felt like folly; the hope would haunt my dreams
    and cloud my thoughts with mist until I walked in quandary.

            That dripping haze has drifted off my sight—
        each day I wake beside your loving stare;
    it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes

now lights the way before me, a path that once was dim,
  concealed beneath the drizzle with slick unsettled footing;
    it often felt like folly; the hope would haunt my dreams.

            I feel the strength increase within my heart
        because this narrow path beneath my stride
    reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

So long as you’re beside me, I’ll always trust my heading;
  you hold a gloom at bay that else would leave me blind,
    concealed beneath the drizzle with slick unsettled footing.

            Your smile clears a gray pall from my mind
         and vivifies the world in which we stand;
      it seems to me the sunshine in your eyes
   reflects the crystal moonlight of your soul.

Your presence parts the clouds like gentle golden beams;
  since our paths have crossed, I’ve never groped in darkness;
    you hold a gloom at bay that else would leave me blind,
      startled every moment contact serves as vision.

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Cocoon

I wrote this poem, my 6th hybridanelle, hoping I’d be able to give a copy to the person who inspired it, a National Parks ranger stationed at Grand Canyon National Park, which I just recently visited.

There is a story behind the poem. But first the poem.

Cocoon

It was like a dream, a nightmare spanning years.
I drifted through a world of predators,
my larval soul awash in rapid fears.

One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way.
You asked me where I went to and why my eyes were closed,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

So with your gift, this orange coverture,
I found peace in the night, but in the day
I drifted through a world of predators.

My life was filled with terror behind impassive walls.
My thoughts were pumped with poison. In time I fled those cells.
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way

and questioned me with care—I would not sway;
you could not know what I had just escaped from.
I found peace in the night, but in the day

my blood was mixed with shadows, turned to serum-waste—
you listened to my answers, yet sensed what I withheld,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

Your simple gift permitted me to travel,
to mend the fractured crystal of my mind.
You could not know what I had just escaped from.

I fled my own destruction into the fearsome world
to chance uncertain highways before my fate was sealed.
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way,

my fourth day on the asphalt running blind
with only pupal hopes—yet undiscerned—
to mend the fractured crystal of my mind.

Perhaps my eyes revealed the weight of iron woes.
You somehow glimpsed the quandary I would not dare expose
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

Those fibers offered metamorphosis…
It was like a dream, a nightmare spanning years
with only pupal hopes—yet undiscerned—
my larval soul awash in rapid fears.

In time I learned to fly erratic on the wind,
my dusty wings capricious upon the windblown fields—
One day I passed your station. You stopped me on the way,
then handed me a sleeping bag and wished me well.

As a fifteen year old, I had been a road-wandering runaway for four days when I found myself in the Grand Canyon National Park—hiking to the bottom of the canyon and back. This, I later realized, is something only an Olympic trainer or an uninformed teenager would consider doing. It was a grueling hike, thousands of feet in elevation, and through several climate zones.

A ranger stopped me about a mile half down the ten mile hike to the Colorado, when he saw that I wasn’t carrying any water. He was horrified, and told me there was no way I could expect to make it to the bottom and back without water, and when he realized he couldn’t talk me out of the hike, he shoved a gallon of water in my hands as he grumbled something about crazy youth.

I did make it down to the Colorado, where I watched the rapids boil for a bit before starting back. He was right about the water.

On my way back, he noted with some surprise that I was still alive, and ushered me into his ranger station, where he proceeded to express his feeling that I was a runaway and tried to get me to admit as much. I lied and lied and lied and he eventually gave up, but before letting me go he followed some instinct burning in his chest, and gave me a confiscated sub zero sleeping bag.

I lived in this sleeping bag for the next year and a half as I wandered a better part of the United States. It saw me through blizzards, wild thunder storms, silver cloth, hail, sleet and more. I’m pretty sure that if it were not for this random gift from a total stranger I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it today.

I wasn’t able to find the park ranger when I made it to the Grand Canyon. So late in the night, about 2am, I left a copy of the poem on a billboard beside the Bright Angel trailhead, the same trail I hiked so long ago. After this, I walked over to a point where I could look north over the Grand Canyon and asked god to look after the spirit that gave me that sleeping bag. As I did so, one of the brightest and longest shooting stars I’ve ever seen slid across the northern sky.

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Legacy

After listening to an Amerindian read his stuff at a poetry reading here in Portland, I pretty much knew what the subject matter of my next poem would be. His “poetry” turned out to be an angry prosaic tirade against white people, and it went on and on and on.

I, being mostly a mix of white, didn’t feel it applied to me, because I wasn’t the one who caused so much injury to his ancestors. As I listened, I found myself reflecting on the fact that pretty much anyone raised on American soil is a Native American. Looking at it animistically, I realized that we grow up immersed in the ghosts of Amerindian ancestry, as well as a growing mix of other ancestries.

This strain of thought led me to reflect further: The food we eat, the water we drink, everything. Barring imports, it all ultimately comes from the ground we live on. So we are quite literally made of—manifest from—the bodies and psyches of our Native American ancestors, regardless of race. How could we escape it? They are as much our ancestors at this point as they are the ancestors of the Amerindians, because we—white, black, red, or yellow—are re-manifest from the very same atoms and psychic engrams.

This would have to cause some degree of spiritual ambivalence, at best. And so my 5th hybridanelle poem.

Legacy

an essence rises from the land into our spirits
    a touch like the raven’s down dispersed on a maiden flight
        that permeates our souls with an otherworldly memory

            in one ear seethes resentment deep and bitter
        reflections of a suffering long endured
    and in the other burns remorse as sour

this land is an amalgam of disembodied psyches
    its rivers and rocks infused with their enigmatic drift
        an essence rises from the land into our spirits

            as one hand grips a wound too deep to bear
        the other twists a blade that lightly glimmers
    reflections of a suffering long endured

we drink of water filled with transcendental engrams
    a sense emerges in all who share in its natural course
        that permeates our souls with an otherworldly memory

            as one arm holds a steady hand for moments
        and all the warriors freeze in sober pause
    the other twists a blade that lightly glimmers

like sea-mist on the wind our minds are touched by phantoms
    immersed in their love and hate—a plight we cannot escape
        an essence rises from the land into our spirits

            one eye sees arrows pierce men to their rest
        another watches bullets drop their targets
    and all the warriors freeze in sober pause

the waking world is brim with long forgotten relics
    their shapes reduced to the dust we breathe from the fragrant air
        that permeates our souls with an otherworldly memory

            one hero’s war-lance slaughters human objects
        the rage that sent it warm upon the blood
    another watches bullets drop their targets

all ancestries are fused in our subconscious insights
    we dream their atrocities—their advances and retreats
        an essence rises from the land into our spirits
            that permeates our souls with an otherworldly memory

                each side is long remembered in our veins
            in one ear seethes resentment deep and bitter
        the rage that sent it warm upon the blood
    and in the other burns remorse as sour

Publication History:

Blackmail Press (web-based) — Spring 2006

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Fusion

This, my 4th hybridanelle poem, was written for someone I never got to meet, the ex-husband of my first wife. He committed suicide not long after she divorced him. His ash remains are buried at the base of a young sequoia on his father-in-law’s property in Northwest Oregon.

Fusion

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.

Publication History:

Pacific Review — Fall 2006