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Potential

I’ve been working for a large organization in the Reno area for just about 3 years now. The experience has been unlike any I’ve ever had before in the workforce, and mostly ways that are positive and affirming.

About this time late in 2023, I learned that I had been nominated for my organization’s “High Potential Program” by my leaders, a program consisting of a series of classes wherein you learn various tools involving self awareness, emotional self-regulation, empathy, time management, and plenty more. I didn’t really expect to be accepted into this program, as I looked at the past graduates to find they all had college degrees. And, I’m barely a high school graduate with a GED (“Good Enough Diploma,” as Chris Rock once put it) from a Job Corps center. But to my surprise I was accepted.

The program required one blood sacrifice—we had to give a speech on graduation day before the department heads, the CEO, and a host of other bigwigs within the organization. I took this very seriously and wanted to deliver a speech that did two somewhat disparate things—One, told a little of my story including some of my childhood circumstances and two, noted some personal benefit received from the program while extolling the merits of the program itself.

I ended up writing about 5 speeches, and even toyed with writing and delivering a poem rather than a speech. The poem would have been this one, but I did ultimately go with a several times revised rendition of one of the speeches. Yet, it didn’t feel like the poem was half bad—just didn’t feel like the right venue for it.

Potential

A nascent thing
    a hope, a dream, an aspiration
            scarcely felt, entirely unrealized—
                         at least for now

There are times when
      this primordial promise is lost, ripped
            away before even its first bud
                         begins to form

Forces like providence—
      droughts of love and nurture, storms
            of fury, rage, and blows, floods of
                         terror and gloom

Brilliance tarnished
      by corrosive words and chemicals
            to disfigured shapes and shades
                         of matt despair

There are also times
      when something is salvaged, a slip not
            fully dead lifted from decay to settle
                         in soils of possibility

A force like renewal
      burgeoning forth, perhaps not the full
            of what was lost, but something
                         that refused to die

A thorn-wielding hybrid
      recognized by rare souls of renown
            character, and cultivated from withered
                         neglect to vibrant health

It is not a seed
      but the force from which a seed begins—
            a dream still coiled deep within the womb
                         breath before the lungs have formed

The way I understand “potential” as relates to the human condition has changed a lot over the decades, and I suspect it will continue to change. It’s tied into insights gradually gained into the nature of being, identity, cognition, and consciousness—insights that continue to shift and expand, hopefully growing and evolving.

Here in this poem aspects of these insights are expressed, ever so subtly, while also reflecting upon and tying them into direct experience, past and present, relative to the framework of this lifetime.

Like I said, not quite the right fit for a speech presented to department heads, the CEO, and other top brass within the organization. I sat on it for a while, continuing to make minor edits. And, now it’s here. A more appropriate venue, sure, but one that essentially lacks an audience.

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When I’m gone

There was a lot of mystery surrounding my father’s death when I was 10, especially when you consider that my only source of information at the time was—and still is—incapable of anything resembling honesty—my mother. I knew he committed suicide, or at least this is what I told. But there was never anything more.

Any attempt to discuss my father’s death with my mother, then as now, invoked tirades of vitriol that still reechoes on perpetual repeat within my mind—“I told your father I was pregnant with you and he said I want a divorce;” “He never wanted anything to do with you;” “Maybe he faked his death and went underground;” Oh, and more.

I was left to fabricate my own reality around his death, especially when you consider that my mother in a very direct way seeded doubt as to whether or not he was really even gone. This created a lifetime of confusion that was only really resolved a couple years ago when my uncle contacted me out of the blue in his old age having learned that he himself did not have much longer to live.

He sent me his death certificate, coroner’s report, and a detective’s very detailed report—he actually interviewed multiple parties, including my mother, and documented his impressions about my father’s state of mind from those interviews, which lead him to believe that he was capable of suicide and there was therefore no need to investigate further.

Thinking about all of this, amongst other things, I realized I wanted to leave some thoughts for my son with regard to my eventual passing. I understand that the human psyche generates a mythos around the passing of a loved one all on its own, but I thought I would guide this a little in relation to my personal cosmology.

When I’m gone

You will not need to look for me
               when I have ventured on
     for I will dream in memory
          till all your days are done

But if you look I think you’ll find
               me high in cottonwoods
     that fork like lightning in the wind
          from out your childhood

You’ll find me where gray ridgetops rise
               above broad seas of pine
     that shimmer greens beneath clear skies
          like echoes out of time

You’ll find me where long breakers crest
               and roll to wide-mouthed coves
     to crash on sands that span abreast
          tall cliffs and alder groves

You’ll find me deep in giant fern
               that glimmers from the shade
     of ancient redwoods, taciturn
          as prayers lightly laid.

But if you look for me in rows
               of sorrow, loss, and care
     that stretch beneath the call of crows,
          you will not find me there.

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cherry chant

It is that time of year again. The cherry blossoms are coming into full bloom here in the Reno area. They are everywhere on the campus where I work, and as I move between buildings throughout the course of my day, I often stop to appreciate all they bring to the world.

cherry chant

if you look closely and hold your
face near their outstretched petals
they will look right back at you
small round mouths gaping wide

their many translucent tongues lick
out and taste the brisk spring winds
and with all their might they reach
small white arms out to touch the sun

they are not hungry or calling
out to preach you their truths
or admonish your wrongs
they are singing their inmost prayers

they want nothing from you but
if you listen as closely as you look
you may just hear their songs
a sound like the slightest whisper

our human ears cannot hear the full
vibrancy and range of their choir
only the gentlest motions as they
weave and dance to rhythms of wind

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A Poem About Anything

This poem is extracted from several conversations with my son over the course of maybe a year. All of the dialog herein did actually occur—as best I can recall—and probably more or less in the same order, but over time and with a fair amount of repetition.

A Poem About Anything

This is not a poem about everything,
for everything has been explored,
written about, and published—
                                   at least online.

This is a poem about anything,
for anything is possible, which is
well beyond the scope of everything 
                                   until it happens.

“You can be anything,” I tell my son.
“Even a road or a highway?” he asks.
“Anything within reason,” I suggest,
                                   “as a person.”

He can be a very literal little boy.
“What about a speed limit or route
number sign?” he asks. “Well,” I say,
                                   “you could hold the sign.”

He has yet to separate what he
can one day be from things that are. “You
could also design signs,” I add, “or even
                                   roads themselves.”

“Or US highways and interstates?” He
clarifies.—A very literal little boy.
“And even rail or maglev systems,”
                                   I propose.

“I just want to design roads and highways,”
he decides. “What are those kind of people?”
“Civil engineers I think,” I tell him. “They
                                   design these things.”

“I want to be a civil engineer!” his voice
loud—triumphant with new understanding.
“Sounds good, but you’ll really have to work
                                   hard to get there.”

“Why?” his voice surprised. “You said I
can be anything.” “You can,” I affirm, “But
anything requires work, or you’ll just end
                                   up being something.”

“Just some thing?” he stretches out both
syllables—slowly. “Exactly,” I confirm, “for
something doesn’t require any work at all, but
                                   anything takes work.”

“What kind of work?” his voice seeks. “Well,”
I ponder, “math for one thing. Engineers are
math-magicians.” “I’m really good at math!”
                                   his voice climbs high.

“You are,” I assent, “but math is quite deep,
and you’ve only just scratched the surface.
There’s much more to learn if you’re going to
                                   become an engineer.”

“A CIVIL engineer!” he clarifies, indignant—
A particularly precise boy. “You’ll also need
to be a strong reader,” I add. “Why a strong
                                   reader?” he implores.

“You can’t just build roads and highways
anywhere anyway you like. There are laws.
You’ll need to know them. That’s a lot of
                                   reading,” I explain.

“Too much reading!” he asserts. “You’re
already a strong reader,” I grant, “just keep
reading and you’ll be fine.” “What else?” he
                                   quizzes, eyes eager.

“You’re not going to like the next thing,”
I hint, “yet you’ll need it for anything.”
“I hate writing…” his voice trails off. He
                                   figured it out.

“How else will you present your designs?”
I probe. “I’ll tell the construction workers,”
he determines. “I don’t think it works that way,”
                                   my voice treads lightly.

“Engineers don’t work alone,” I offer.
“You’ll need to present, defend and explain
your designs.” “All in writing?” his voice
                                   a little deflated.

“You can always just be something,” I point
out, “if you don’t want to write. But
it probably won’t be a civil engineer.” “Or
                                   anything?” he checks.

“Well, anything will require strong writing
skills,” I attest. “You can still be something.”
“But I want to be anything,” he stresses,
                                   “so I’ll think about it.”

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Blessing #3

It’s too bad I haven’t been saving the blessings I write into the title page of an inkling hope when I give a copy away to someone. This particular blessing I’ve used twice now, but I tend to keep thinking of something new before too long.

Blessing #3

May yer skeletons keep hidden
    and yer angels be about
wherever ye are bidden
        and whenever ye go out.

May the path before ye sparkle
    and the path behind ye gleam
from out more distant darkness
        that fades off like a dream.

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Blessing #2

When I give a copy of my book away, I usually write a dedication on the title page. Oftentimes this will be a fairly well-known traditional Irish blessing. Other times I’ll use a variation of Spock’s “live long, and prosper,” that includes health and peace of mind—That one would actually be “Blessing #1”, which I don’t have posted. But I’ll get around to it.

Someone I’ve worked with for the last six months is moving on to other endeavors, so I thought I’d pass on a copy of my book as a parting gift, as I’m wont to do. I found myself writing this on the title page.

Blessing #2

modeled after the
traditional Irish blessing

May each new day be brighter
than the brightest day ye’ve known
and each new path be fairer
than the fairest path ye’ve flown.

May all your days bear meaning
and all your nights bring rest
with light and joyful dreaming
that lifts to mornings blest.

It had such an aphoristic feel to it that I thought I might be remembering it instead of writing it—But, no, I couldn’t find anything like this out there in the aether. It’s truly from right between my two big ears.

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The Runaway

I recently had a childhood trauma resurface—at work and right in the middle of my workday. Seriously embarrassing. It was unbelievable, and unlike any resurfaced trauma I have ever processed. This one hit like a freight train, and I was all tears and hyperventilation right in my workspace, and there was nothing I could do about it in the moment but accept the help and guidance of the amazing, compassionate people I work with.

For me, resurfaced traumas like this emerge as independent personas, and I find it useful to treat and talk about them as independent personas. He brought no concrete memories with him, nor was I able to directly feel his emotions, but my body was re-experiencing his trauma down to the last membrane and I could ascertain much of what he was feeling from this. These insights are outside the scope of this post, but not something I’m opposed to sharing down the road after further processing. However, this poem isn’t even about him or his trauma—at least not directly:

The Runaway

… for Aaron Stevens …
… with undying gratitude …

You headed east from sea salt mists
deep into sprawling desert—our
memories safely packed away, our
future left entirely at your discretion.

Death was imminent either way—
and if there was a modicum of hope,
it lay in the uncertain grips of cold,
hunger, and other fears with names.

You would walk the crucible alone,
and carry nameless pain and loss
to the song lines where stars fell
every night from an angel’s wing.

You took the job of survival at any
cost—or death with at the very least
a degree of dignity. We had lost all
hope, and you carried hopelessness.

You gave us to midsummer deserts,
and they cradled us and sent us back.
You gave us to the mountains, and
they became lifelong companions.

You gave us to the rivers, and their
great spirits carried our deepest,
darkest torments into the dreaming.
At every turn you found allies—

Intangible allies that took the ear
at night and offered solace in
the yipping calls of unseen coyotes,
in the distant sound of thunder.

Tangible allies that for no reason at
all handed you cash and prayed so
hard they almost cried, or brought you
a plate sent back to the graveyard cook.

You searched not only soup kitchens
for a half-moldy morsel, but libraries
for old dusty words—You even tried
to nourish a soul crushed lifeless

beneath the systemic heel of ruin
and apathy. You tended fields salted
with violation and shame that could
never bear fruit, or even weeds.

You took this impossible job, and
carried hopelessness down highways
fraught with uncertainty to half-built
lean-tos and long abandoned homes.

You fell asleep to wind and woke
beneath shrouds of snow. You found
safety in the silence of ponderosa
nights and a slow stream’s murmur.

You drifted like autumn leaves, like
fallen cherry blossoms, like dust
kicked up in the evening winds—And
nearly every single night you pled our

case to the stars not knowing who or
what could hear or cared to hear—But
clearly someone heard, for each night
was followed by scents of new potential.

Knowing nothing, you struck out into
the wild, the world, the unknown—
for nothing more than a mote, a lottery’s
chance to survive the unsurvivable.

You carried us all, the weight of dreams
so broken they only cut to the bone
and injured all the more. You carried
a life discarded like trash, crumpled

and torn into pieces, used like old rags,
dented and rusting like a burnt out
windowless, tireless, engineless jalopy
in tall grass, crazed like a dry riverbed.

I look back now and see your tireless
will, your drive to become something
more than the nothing you were made,
and you carried us with you—

You carried all that would one day take
the form of man, human, dignity molded
from refuse never even meant for
compost, never more than toxic waste.

Thank you for your rage, my friend—
for your unwavering unwillingness
to lay down and dim, for your beautiful,
fragmented brokenness that scraped

with bleeding, calloused hands all the
dismembered, rotting pieces of self back
into being, so that something more could
become and one day find a way to thrive.

Aaron Stevens is the name I went by as a runaway. At 15 I ran away from the Los Angeles Juvenile Courts—possibly the worst, most abusive and apathetic parent a child can have. And this was just the last of the three abusive parents of my childhood. As a ward of the court I was physically, mentally, and emotionally abused, neglected, medicated into a stupor, strapped to beds for days such that I couldn’t even scratch an itch, never mind the indignity of how one would have to relieve themselves in that situation, and by all indications worse—we’ll not get into worse right now.

I had a moment of clarity as a 15 year old and realized that I was going to die as a ward of the court, that there was no way to survive. I was a cash-cow that was going to be herded into the adult system, and if I resisted I would have been medicated all the more and eventually would have died from liver or kidney failure. I could see it all, and I realized that the only chance I had at survival was to run away and stay away.

But, the complete disaster I was by the age of 15 could not have survived on his own—this required something new. At the time I didn’t realize it, but when I ran away, I took on a new persona, and that persona either immediately or gradually became its own entity, a distinct and independent persona within my psyche. When I went back to using my given name as an adult, he didn’t quite go away. He stayed and took on the role of guarding past traumas from resurfacing, and potentially upending the life I’ve—we’ve—managed to build. But some triggers would cause him to nearly upend the life we’ve built all on his own in the effort to keep things suppressed, and this sudden realization led to the release of the trauma that put me in my awkward situation at work.

It seemed like it was time to thank Aaron for all he did, and now I’m working on consciously finding a new role for him—getting us back into shape, maybe. He has a lot of energy and drive. I think this can be put to good, more productive use.

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Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

The top floor—the fourth floor—of the Center for Advanced Medicine, Building B, houses the Renown Institute for Heart and Vascular Health, or to put it simply—cardiology. In fact, the entire top floor is dedicated to cardiology and not a square inch of this space goes unused.

Well, first the poem and then a little context.

Falling Petals; Beating Hearts

Center for Advanced Medicine,
Building B – Early Spring 2022

Cherry blossoms—pink and white—
sway like clouds against the sky,
minding not the plates of rough
gray wrinkled bark from which they spring

They offer no assurances, yet
comfort nonetheless—and thrive
for merest moments, fading back
like apparitions in the sun.

Beneath them hearts that have endured
too much to bear beat slowly by
as here and there a petal drops
and flutters lightly to the ground.

They enter at a door that leads
four floors above this transient ring
of urgent color, beckoning
for but the slightest hint of cheer.

So, this is a sakura poem. If I write nothing else in a year, I’ll always strive hard to pull of at least a sakura poem in the spring. It’s always a challenge to dream up new contexts, circumstances, and metaphors to connect to these remarkable trees.

As I post this, it’s the middle of Summer. I’ve been busy with my new job, which has me stationed at the location in question, and tired—always so damned tired. I won’t go into the nature of the job in this post, but I’m enjoying it and I really like the people I work with and around.

So the inspiration for this poem came as I showed up and left from work amid a parking lot full of cherry blossoms in all stages of bloom—a fairly even distribution of both wild cherry (Prunus avium) and Japanese cherry (Prunus serrulata)—that completely encircle the long wide building. Having researched Japanese cultural connections to the cherry blossom (sakura) in the past, I found their juxtaposition to a building full of medical offices that deal with life-threatening conditions striking, fitting, and moving all at once. And so the first lines came to mind, which I later expanded upon.

My wife’s cardiologist is on this floor—the irony of my ending up employed here is not lost on me. I see him in the halls with some regularity. The first time we went to see him, following up from her multiple admissions for supraventricular tachycardia as she gradually succumbed to her as-yet undiagnosed refeeding syndrome, it was early spring and the blossoms were in bloom.

I wanted to write a poem about them then—her heart rate reached in excess of 240bpm, like the flutter of a cherry blossom in the wind—but our struggle with her cancer loomed large in mind and there wasn’t much mental space for that sort of thing. Maybe I’ll still find myself exploring this metaphor as that nightmare moves further into the distance. Thus far, four and a half years later, she has returned to near-normal health—and that damned cancer is still gone.

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In Sickness

I made a note for the idea behind this poem when my wife was dying from refeeding syndrome in 2018. At the time, I was way too close to the matter to even think about writing a poem like this. But, now some time has passed, and my wife survived to regain her health again.

In Sickness

If I knew then what now I know,
  would I still take the vows?
Would I still pledge my life to you
    beneath the cherry boughs?

      Your arms are like a skeleton;
        your face is gaunt and frail.
      A bag is taped against your side
          collecting what you spill.

Would I still bear the looming loss
  if somehow then I knew
what “sickness” meant so long ago
    within that heavy vow?

      You vomit everything you eat;
        your heart rate will not slow.
      Each day it seems you’re nearer yet
          the place we all must go.

The truth is, I have no idea—
  The man I was back then
might well have taken every step
    to circumvent this end.

      The doctors at the hospital—
        They have no reason why
      you will not stabilize and heal—
          I fight back bitter sighs.

But he is not the man that’s here.
  For all my fear and grief,
I will not turn away from you
    so long as you draw breath.

Turns out there is a fairly high percentage of cancer patients who die from refeeding syndrome—a metabolic cascade failure that ends in death—especially with large stage 3 tumors. This is because the tumor takes all the body’s nutrients, essentially starving the patient. When the tumor is gone, the effect can be just like the prisoner of war returning to a normal diet for the first time after rescue, which can trigger the syndrome.

Unfortunately, it seems most doctors don’t know to look for this. It was pure chance that someone on my wife’s medical team realized what was happening and started the protocol for saving her life—parenteral nutrition. This means being fed intravenously until the body remembers how to correctly metabolize food through the digestive system on its own.

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The Seekers

I am not currently working on any project poems, and I don’t plan to start one any time soon. Hopefully this means my mental space will be freed up for more spontaneous writes such as this:

The Seekers

For as long as I can remember
I’ve watched them grope,
fumbling through dark places
over jagged, uneven surfaces.

I’ve watched them wander long
grey corridors, faces gaunt,
shoulders slouching faded sighs,
feet reechoing short, tired scuffs.

I’ve seen their distorted figures
through stain glass windows, heads
bowed, arms raised, faces creased
with longing for the slightest sign.

I’ve even seen them half concealed
by timbers on their way to peaks
and rivers to seek out some hidden
solace, some priceless psychic gem.

But, somehow I think it’s up there,
slipping between the stars, bits
and pieces sometimes flaring bright
streaks of insight within the night.

This was sparked more by a feeling than a thought. The feeling was invoked by a poem I read in a Facebook group, though I can no longer recall the poem or what it was about. Four of the five stanzas actually formed very quickly, but it didn’t feel finished, so I put it aside for a while. This was a few months back.

Recently I looked at it again and just kind of knew where and what the missing stanza should be and then it was done. Funny how that works.

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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.