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Sakura

My 6th trisect poem. The first segment depicts the cherry blossom, by means of impressions. The second segment depicts the environments into which the cherry blossoms manifest and disperse. The third segment depicts the ephemerality of life.

In Japan the cherry blossom has long been associated with the ephemerality of youth and life, sometimes even painted alongside scenes of samurai harakiri and other scenes of mortal transition. In this poem I’ve attempted to depict these associations using mostly Western imagery. I’ve also tried to lace a sense of ephemerality throughout the entire poem.

Sakura

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.

What’s interesting about the trisect is that I often come to see more in the poem when I read it than what was there when I wrote it. Already I can see associations and connections in this piece that I would have been sure were intentional if I hadn’t written it myself. I find myself wondering if this isn’t some kind of connection to the workings of the unconscious. Trisects are dreamlike in a lot of ways

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Sacrifice

I was delighted to discover in Gresham, right across the street from a coffee house I like, one of the largest California black oaks I have ever encountered. Here I like to lean against its dark gray trunk and practice my bansuri flutes, even in the cold as my fingers numb and my lip splits. I feel a connection with this particular tree, as I do with all black oaks, so I don’t mind the sacrifice.

Sacrifice

a cold spring breeze
   splits my lower lip
       quietly so as not to disturb
 the wind in the wood

this song is past memory
   it fills an asphalt space
       between tall cracked walls
 calling out the leaves

my body begins to tremble
   against the broad high trunk
       which holds up the night
 the wind falls hush

in the halogen light
   tiny oak leaves quiver
       and i notice now the blood
 smeared on the hollow reed

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Cabin Pressure

This is experimental. Just playing with imagery.

Cabin Pressure

Crammed into a stainless tube
bolted fast to turbine lungs,
each passenger is forced to sacrifice
the strong illusion of eternal self.

Great lungs suck in a standing breath
which howls like a perpetual wind
and heaves the cylinder through space
above the spread of folding clouds.

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Architect

My 4th trisect poem, inspired by none other than the Lego building blocks system. Segment one depicts the building blocks themselves. Segment two depicts the various creations that can be made from those building blocks. And segment three depicts the imaginative play involved in making those creations.

Architect

The Elements

Modeled after brick and stone,
the cinderblocks and dolomites
that long have kept our ancient homes
half hidden from the crush of night,

a simple notion binds itself to form
in varied shapes of molded polymers
that—scattered out like remnants of a ruin—
tease the mind with possibilities.

Quarried from the realm of thought,
hewn from enigmatic veins,
abundant with the priceless ore
of nascent creativity,

each hollow cube is made to interlock
with all the many others of its kind,
magic puzzle pieces crafted such
that they will build whatever comes to mind.
 

Of Invention

Imagination rises up
to form a towered ring of walls,
ramparts crowned with parapets
that guard a nest of dens and halls.

Or simple village structures manifest
from deep within the wells of memory,
little homes around a market place,
a chapel standing quaintly in the midst.

Bridges arch above the spread
of nonexistent waterways;
modern superstructures scrape
against conceptions of the sky.

Even ships from other worlds emerge
to travel all throughout the universe,
forever redesigned in the docks
of varied moon or planetary bases.
 

At Play

Individual colors snap
together in a bold array,
absorbed into a growing sense
of cognizance and clarity.

Nimble fingers probe and rearrange
impressionist expressions of the mind,
each sculpture an accomplished masterpiece
comprised of cubist rectangles and squares.

Walls and rooftops recombine
as various disasters strike;
rigs develop stronger frames,
evolving after every wreck.

Experimental joists and joints explore
the art of bearing loads and distribution,
each new creation more elaborate,
expanding with the will to learn and grow.

When the segment subtitles are joined together, you have “The elements of invention at play.” This wasn’t by accident.

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Guardian

This poem, my 2nd trisect, reflects on my experiences on the Yukon River in Canada during two river trips, the first when I was 18 and the second when I was 27. Segment one depicts the modern canoe. Segment two depicts the river itself. And segment three depicts the animistic interaction between the paddler (myself) and the wilderness around.

Guardian

Cradle

Fiberglass for birch tree bark,
a coat of paint for resin pitch,
and plastic trim for cedar wood
compose the modern wander-boat.

Nonetheless there’s craftsmanship
in building plugs and curing molds,
sculpting sand to form a shell
that tumbles life down waterways.

A ghost of the old ways filled with gear
caressed by ancient subtle hands,
appraised and held in fair esteem,
the new unnatural ways aside.

Like driftwood on the open surf,
the fiber-foam cocoon is cast
and swept along on buoyant waves,
tossed by every twist of wind.
 

Meridian

Fueled by swollen alpine lakes,
mirrors to the craggy peaks,
countless glaciers, ponds and streams,
sprung from clouds and hidden springs,

an everlasting thunder rolls
that carves an everlasting path,
a stormy rush of living things
that slakes the stormy rush of life.

Firs collapse and boulders plunge
into the undulating surge,
swept across the winding earth
to strike with titan force the sea,

and clutched against the serpents back
a fleck of lost humanity,
immersed in sprawling majesty,
grips the currents deep and black.
 

Spirit

Black bears peer from root-filled banks;
ravens watch from stands of spruce;
eagles gaze from sudden bluffs;
a bull moose stares from out the wash.

All the dreamtime creatures wake,
bodied forth like smoky signs—
deep claw prints in frosted mud,
fang marks on the aspen’s trunk.

Each regards the floating soul
that wanders broken in their midst,
a well of rage and twisted grief
that echoes through the howling wind.

And each respects his long release
until the blood cakes on his lips
with massive silence like a mist
that rises up to steady him.

Publication History:

Art Arena (web-based) — June 2006

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Halflight

The night; the wilderness; a stream. Here silence takes on new meaning, and it includes a movement of sound. Here stillness absorbs new significance, and it involves touch and motion.

Halflight

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:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

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Starscape

Within my mind there has always been the nagging notion that maybe we are not actually what we think ourselves to be. That all of our experiences are manifest, projected, from powerful minds that reach out into the void of space to touch one another and interact. I talk of stars, the stars that pepper the night, the endless billions of stars.

Starscape

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:

Tales of the Talisman — September 2006

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The Man with the Scanner

There is an unusual personality who frequents one of the coffee houses I like to go to. His presence is always disruptive—Not just to myself, but in general. He brings a police scanner with him, sets it on the table while he drinks his coffee, and plays it very loudly so that everyone can hear from all parts of the store.

The Man with the Scanner

His face is smug, arrogant
    Ghoulish and gray against the high-backed café chair
He watches rain drool down picture windows
    Listens to the popping drone of a scanner

His features are fixed in a cold state of rage
    Bitter malcontent gouges grooves in his skin
This seems to make sense
    For one who brings a scanner to a public café

What tragedy has scarred his mind?
    No-one sits near him
Avoiding his belligerent gaze
    The harsh sound of his scanner

License plate numbers fight their way in
    To darken this bright little café
Calls to dispatch for ID checks
    Shoulder their way into the room

He is alone in this place
    His only companion a little black box
Hollow voices churned in darkness
    Poured like cement into the frame of his soul

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sorrow

This was written after experiencing a personal loss. At the time I wrote this, poetry was primarily just a pressure valve for strong emotions. But, still, this piece hints at some undeveloped potential.

sorrow

I

there sometimes exists inside
to utmost depths
nameless pains
agonies indescribable

they dwell within
beyond conscious reach
or understanding
swelling unexpressed

they taint each day
without our knowing
swallowing countless joys
destroying countless hopes

all unwitting we go through life
and from time to time
it wells forth a mighty urge
…and we push it away

push it back from whence it came
into the blackness
that place we dare not look
within our selves

…and there it struggles
seeking tirelessly to be known
seeking endlessly its acknowledgement
…and we go through life

we grow callous and bitter
cynical, untrusting and wary
it wears us down from within
eating away our organs and tissues

…because we will not see it
will not acknowledge it
this fantastic force of nature
this inexplicable force of emotion

it destroys us from within
…our denial grows stronger
it thrashes inside us
in its maddened struggle for release

it slowly tears at our organs
weakens our bones
rips our muscles and ligaments
…bit by bit it shreds our sanity

…as it struggles to find release
we go insane in our avoidance
unwilling to face it or accept it
unwilling to see it
 

II

a betrayal, a loss
always some form of loss
we are taught not to accept it
to say it doesn’t matter

just to grit the teeth and bare it
just to carry on in spite of it
just to push it down and pretend
pretend it doesn’t matter

but it does – and always will
it will never cease to matter
as our denial robs us of our sensitivity
turns our hearts into cold grey stones

we convince ourselves this is right
that we are becoming stronger
learning to protect ourselves
that this is what everyone does

perhaps this is true…
a great many kill themselves this way
pretending it isn’t there
that the pain doesn’t matter

that it’s not important
that it doesn’t deserve our attention
our unwavering acceptance
that it’s not okay to accept it

over time we master this art
this art of avoidance and denial
of pretending we’re okay
that the pain is trivial

…we choose not to see it
how it swallows our hearts and souls
yearning for recognition
striving for acceptance
 

III

it is our loss
the loss of a loved one or friend
the loss of a hope or dream
it is our sorrow and grief

we are told it is bad
that there is something wrong with us
that we shouldn’t feel it
the pain and emptiness

we are told to ignore it – put it away
make like it’s not there
that it doesn’t deserve our attention
that it’s unimportant

rarely are we told that it’s okay
to feel it and simply cry
let it well up from the hurt place inside
and bare forth its reality of loss

rarely are we told that it’s okay
to allow it into our voice
a crackling sound, a wailing pain
to wear it on our face like a hungry infant

to let it twist our lips
quiver our chin and cheeks
let it furrow our brow full of hurt
turning our face into a wellspring of pain

rarely is it mentioned that it will pass
that the flow of agonizing pain will cease
that if we let it rupture our composure
telling ourselves it will be okay – over and over

that if we release the horror of grief
and comfort ourselves as we cry
it will pass and everything will be okay
the sorrow passes

that when it does pass
colors sharpen and beauty becomes electric
joy becomes real and unfettered
and we learn an unmanipulative compassion

that when it does pass
we truly are stronger
more willing to feel
more willing to live

but no-one told us
and we don’t realize
so long as we trap it inside
it never, ever will pass

so long as we imprison our pain
it will slowly rend us asunder
as it finds expression despite ourselves
forcing us constant agony
 

IV

men don’t cry
only women and sissies cry
call me a sissy you bastard
that’s fine

this is my pain not yours
get away from me
go ahead and deny yourself life
i can’t change you

when i need to i will cry
i will let my face contort from the grief
i will tell myself it’s okay
that everything will be okay

i’ll assure myself that it will pass
that it’s okay to feel it
that it’s important and real
that the feelings are real and okay

and when it’s over
when the shuddering sobs cease
when the release of emotion has finished
i’ll go eat a fantastic fudge sundae

i’ll admit to myself that it really hurt
and eat the damned sundae like it matters
enjoying every bite
savoring every moment of its delightfulness

it doesn’t fulfill an expectation
it just comforts me
my heart raw from feeling
feeling such depth of emotion

it is a validation
an acknowledgement
that it was, is and will be okay
that i really do accept it

and when i see the sunset
a full moon on a clear night
a spectacular cloudscape on the horizon
a beautiful flower garden or woman

my heart will leap out at them
in unrestrained joy and delight
because i accepted within myself
accepted without reservation my sorrow

because i accepted the grief and the pain
i accept also my joy
and become free to know what it really is
because i let go of the sorrow

and it was okay

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consolation

Ah yes. This harkens back to an experience I had when I still worked at HaL Computer Systems. Never told anyone about it, just wrote this brief reflection.

consolation

confused
walls spinning round
struggling hard with panic
and fear

distressed
caged in my cube
vision blurred and shaded
in pain

sudden
from behind me
upon my shoulder lights
a hand

at once
my heart is calmed
moment of clarity
shines through

turning
i look to see
my kindly comforter
and find

nothing
an empty space
with no-one there to meet
my view

yet still
i clearly feel
upon my shoulder warm
a hand

yet still
it steadies me
and warmed within my chest
i grin

it seems
the steady hand
must to an angel friend
belong

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The Sacred Moment

This is a very old poem written in 1992. I’ve revised it twice since then: Once in 2003, then a little more this month. It’s interesting to me to look back and see how and what I used to write.

This poem was also written just before I gave up on metrical structures for a period of over ten years, and about 6 months before I stopped writing poetry altogether for a period of about 7 years.

As I recall, Yamuna was a dancer from India who taught traditional ethnic dance at UCLA. I saw her perform a few times, and she apparently made quite an impression on my young hormones.

The Sacred Moment

For Yamuna

An ancient wind there swept across the field.
An ardent flame there flashed before mine eyes.
A cherished wonder forthwith spun and reeled,
A fervent beauty gracing earth and skies.

Serpent-like, her sensuous form moved freely.
She swept the ages with each pass of her hand.
Her gaze divine with love made radiantly,
Held all the earth from where she there did stand.

Her spirit shone exalting in her dance,
Fiery beauty flaring transcendent light.
Her fairest face inspiring deep romance,
A thrilling wonder, passionately bright.

Just a moment of moments lost to time,
I saw this fair and radiant holy host.
An incarnation of love that rang with rhyme—
Away she faded from me like a ghost.