It’s been raining a lot lately. She tucks in the day with a giant gray comforter and lulls me to rest with persistent song. Since I work nights, this is welcome music.
rainsong
The first poems I read and enjoyed as a child were in the form of stories. Such poems are the whole reason for my taking an interest in poetry myself—poems like “The Dreamer” by Robert Service, “The Legend of the Organ Builder” by Julia Dorr, and “The Last Man” by Thomas Campbell. And it’s strange, since I rarely approach poetry from the angle of storytelling. I’m not sure why this is. As a teenager I tried my hand at short and verse stories, and most of those who read said they enjoyed them and were encouraging.
Over the past seven years I’ve written only a handful of poems that tell some kind of story. Most of them have ended up as meditations or reflections of one kind or another. But writing stories in verse and free verse form has and continues to be a goal of mine as a poet. Maybe I’ve just lacked the courage to try, fearing discouragement. Or maybe I find it more difficult than I used to to come up with ideas, or at least to trust my ideas as they come.
So I’ve decided to trust one and see how it turned out.
deja vu
i’ve been here before
at the foot of this mountain
watching the cranes glide down
there were restless sounds
hissing sharp through the air
forged echoes clanging
a tireless struggle
the lake wimpled bits of sun
thin pines stood breathing by
silent ever solemn silent watch
by the shore gleamed
relentless thrusts and parries
the flash of teeth
whirling plates of armor
no words were spoken
only glances gauging glance
meditating malice and survival
hidden in the branches
robins sang responses to the song
of steel played out on steel
from one high limb a squirrel barked alarm
minutes passed
or was it hours that pushed shadows
slowly through the woods
i remember still
that long pained grunt a gasp that
echoed all the woods to hush
a long loud rolling peel of silence
sudden tears that stung the cheeks
and fell to wet blood spattered lips
a frozen smile pointed to the clouds
Another meditation on the nature of self, something I’ve wondered and asked questions about since childhood.
reflections
My 12th trisect. The content required a lot of meditation and reflection on the nature of being—and a few conversations with a well-whiskered monk over Scrabble. Segment one depicts the body, as in the corporeal form. Segment two depicts mind, which was really easy since everything is mind. Segment three depicts samsara, which is also pretty easy because everything is also rolled up in that process.
kalpa
The subject matter explored here is of great personal interest. Probably since I was 5 or 6, I’ve been reflecting on the nature of being. It started with a budding fear of death. But as soon as I found myself struck by that fear, I also found myself asking, “Just what is it that dies?”
Everyone seems to have their own answer to this question. As for me, I have found a balance with it. I am content now to leave it unanswered. Unanswered, yes, but this does not mean unexplored. I don’t seek an “answer” at this point, because I’ve realized that there may not be one. But this shouldn’t stop me from seeking insight. Insights and answers are not the same. This poem has manifested from insights and makes no attempt to answer anything.
My first poem for 2008. A good friend wanted me to write a poem for his fiance, and here’s what I came up with. Think he’ll like? Think she’ll like?
Her Best
She calls me your very best for her—
I only ask that you mean it so.
And if there’s a doubt in your starry mind,
dear god I ask that you lay me low.
Lay me low in the moldering clay,
if one harsh look or a bitter word
exists deep down in this heart of mine,
so that it may never be seen nor heard,
so that she may live the span of her years
believing the absolute best of me,
trusting forever the love she holds
is the love I keep till she follows me.
But if you look and you see the man
she thanks you for each day of her life,
then please dear god will you guide my will
so I never bring her a moment’s strife?
Will you teach me all that I need to know
to be that childlike soul she sees,
tender as dew on the bamboo’s leaf,
gentle as hope on the slightest breeze?
Will you grant me health and the quiet strength
to stand with compassion at her side
for however long we both may live,
whatever fates roll in with the tide?
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
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.
Just found myself pondering the nature of my path as a “poet”, whatever it is that old word refers to. I’m no Rabbie Burns, that’s for sure. But me and Mr. Burns have a common calling, nonetheless.
Path Reflections
I chose this path—I’m not sure why—
a path of never-ending change,
a path of study, growth, and time
invested in creative range.
I walk this path. I’m not sure where
it leads, or even if I hold
the strength to ever make it there.
It seems so far away—and cold.
And yet, since seven years ago,
when it occurred to me how soon
the spring of life will yield to snows
that fold its memory into ruin—
since I decided then to veer
away from living check to check,
planning for a distant year,
retired bent beneath the wreck
of countless countless wasted days,
the whole of life’s potential spent
on striving for a monthly gain
just tossed to mortgage, toys, or rent
until that truest treasure, time—
squandered to its very last—
is gone, and all that’s left behind
are memories of an empty past—
since then I’ve learned and written things
that may outlive my mortal life.
I’ve sacrificed security
and doomed myself to endless strife
for just the thought that someday some
may part the leaves and find my words
illuminating as the sun,
and wake within them sleeping birds
of hope, serenity, and joy,
poised to spread their feathers wide
and leap across the dawning void
to freedom, held aloft inside.
It’s not an easy calling, and to follow it can be every bit as fraught with hardship as to not. For me my potential as a poet has yet to be realized. It may be years, or a score of years, spent studying and cultivating my craft before I begin to achieve my potential. So to follow your path when your potential has not yet been realized means to follow a path of poverty and ridicule, for very few—if anyone—will see the potential that exists for you. They will insist that you make a living rather than putting your time into developing your path, and they won’t see what you see within yourself. They may even stand in the way of your path and push against you thinking that they are doing you a service to discourage you from your calling because they feel that you will do better in life if you can just forget it and go make a living.
This may be true on the front of making a living, but once someone who has become aware of their potential down a given path abandons that path, he will sink into a pit of dismay that will ultimately end in death from suicide or ill health. The sentient who has become aware of an unrealized potential must strive with all its might to realize that potential, for to do otherwise is to deny a gift that is extremely precious and rare—A gift essential to the health and well-being of the soul, the psyche, the mind, the heart, and the body. It is the most essential nutrient, without which the sentient wastes away into despair and self-destruction.
During my trip to Vermont in July/August, I visited the Devil’s Tower, where I had an experience that changed not only the course of my life, but the shape of my past. The details of this experience will remain with me, within me, to be buried with my bones and passed only to the heart of what posterity visits my grave. I will pass it then, the whole promise of it, one All Soul’s Eve, and so will the Promised.
For even then will we be side by side.
promise
from the moment i looked up and saw
just over my head your memory
draped off the stub remains of
a ponderosa’s lower branch
from the moment i felt lightning flash
through my mortal form till numb
my fingers tingled the beginnings of
an electric understanding
from the moment my eyes took in
the simple shape of your past hung
to the south of the bear-scratched tower
bleached white with unshed tears
from the moment i realized i stood
where grief-struck eyes set your spirit free
held hands and prayed for your hope
overlooking a plain of creeping thunder
from the moment you reached out and touched
my song with hidden fingers and embraced
my heart my mind my long forgotten dreams
with all the love you gave in life
oh my god i knew you then clear
as the cobalt sky that shook over dark
rumbling clouds suspended far
far in the distance
and from that moment i’ve carried
the shimmering whisper of your ghost in my
bones my joints my manhood like a promise
tangible as the stars themselves
A moment came to my mind, clear as an ocean sunset. In that moment I saw Adam on his deathbed, speaking somewhat randomly up to the roof of his hut. Next to him were his many children, grandchildren, and great great great great great grandchildren. They listened to his words, and after a time they realized he was speaking to his creator, having seen or realized something about the generations to come.
A note from Adam
What would I miss the most about the West Coast should I move away and make my home elsewhere? The redwoods. The tall stands of old growth redwoods that no camera or photographer can do a moment’s justice. I’ve gotten to know these trees over the past several years, and have connected with them in ways not easily expressed. They feel like friends, close friends. The tall drafty halls feel like the house my spirit has lived in for a million years.
loam
will your long slender roots
reach down and tickle my
thoughts through four
billion years of magma
will the call of an owl echo
from your chambered halls
and skim the cloudscapes
to my faraway ears
will your deep green needles
cast just enough fragrance
to refresh my memory
from the far side of the earth
will i see in the highest vapors
reflected off ice crystals the
faintest reflection of
your topmost branches
i will return to haunt you
to touch your red-brown bark
sit by your fountains and
sing to your leaves
if it be only my ghost
i will come again and drift
like drizzle through the scent
of your ancient gloom
You won’t guess it. You won’t conceptualize it. You won’t expect it. You won’t doubt or be convinced of it. You won’t have any idea it even existed. But, suddenly it may be upon you, and in that moment you will realize it was always there—that you were never apart from it for an instant.
Gleam
