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

Unfenced

A friend of mine died suddenly on the 12th. I talk a little about him and how we came to meet in “On a Life Left Unfinished”, another poem I wrote in his memory.

     Unfenced

     in memory of Del Warren Livingston (1944—2005)

          close your eyes my friend and listen
     hear the sound of beating hooves
your spirit-brothers come to take you home

          they have heard the call of your stallion heart
     wild neighs that pawed against your chest
and now they come to see you home

          yes they have heard you realms away
     known you as their own throughout the years
lifting their heads at the sound of your distant soul

          your stallion blood has pounded long
     confined within a human cage
at last you have broken free

          do you feel the wind flash across your mane
     can you sense the creased mountains in your nostrils
the power that ripples beneath your hide

          close your eyes and dream my friend
     no longer can the old pains trouble you
go now and join the waiting herd

          graze where waters wind through wooded vales
     gallop where the grasses stretch and gleam
nicker in morning mists among your kind

          fill your lungs with fenceless air and leap
     when you open your eyes and blink away the sleep
you will be home again at last… and free

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

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

Silhouette

Wherever I live, I always seem to find a place of prayer somewhere away from town. When I lived in San Jose, this was south of the city and up in the eastern mountains far down a long windy road. Out there in the wilderness, when you throw your voice to the stars, perhaps god hears—perhaps the angels do. But, beyond a doubt those creatures hidden away or wandering through the underbrush hear.

Silhouette

a new road
    like so many before
an unstriped snake
    convulsing across the mountains

each bend a heave
    each rise a toss
where starless overcast crushes
    asphalt into shadows

stopped in a dusty turnout
    boot-steps scuffle and pace
hidden hands claw the hidden sky
    driven far from the city
        deep among shapeless trees
            grasping and gasping for solace

here prayers cannot be hidden
    they are pulled from the throat
ripped from the lungs
    torn from the belly
        swallowed whole
            by subtle unseen sounds

dry leaves crunch
    twigs pop and snap
movement scuttles and skitters
    stirred by a torment
        sucked from human lips
            by the wind

in the double-darkness
    a prayer halts
buried in beats of blood
    as a presence nears
        yet makes no noise
            rustling only the senses

the prayer turns
    throws a cone of light
searching through the oaks
    and steps away reveals
        in the outline of a wolf
            two hollow orbs of light

Publication History:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

Stardust

We are stardust, the stuff of stars. So everything we experience is star stuff. Our feelings, our hopes, our dreams, our pains, our losses, our deepest sorrows—All stardust. Even infections and malignant growths are the stuff of stars. Everything is rolled up in the same karmic stream of coming and going.

Stardust

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.

The Intertext

The meaning of our existence here on this little ball of blue, green, and brown has been shaped by the birth and death of ancient suns. As we author our brief existence, etched on the papyrus of our world’s surface, we borrow from long established texts—The text of suns long ago extinguished; the text of nebulae rippled in darkness; the text of dust and gas thrown through the void by the blinding glare of a newborn gaze on the cosmos. This is the intertext of our existence, and one day, countless ages from now, some new world adrift in the darkness will spawn sentience, and somewhere therein we will be, silently lending shape to its nascent subtexts.

The Intertext

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:

The Alchemy Post (web-based) — November 2005

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

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

The Phantom of Wheeler Camp

This poem attempts to describe an experience a friend had with a ghost while out backpacking on the Lost Coast Trail, north of Fort Bragg, California. After researching the old logging town of Wheeler Camp, the place where her experience began, and backpacking to the site myself a couple of times, I got the feeling the ghost she encountered was a child’s ghost.

Using what she told me, what I sensed about the area myself, and what I gleaned from my research into the history of Wheeler Camp, I managed the following.

The Phantom of Wheeler Camp

I

The Child’s Life

The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder,
Hauled to the clanging mill that pays for his evening meals;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

Each morning rugged hands awake from slumber,
Heeding a daily call to climb the canyons and kill;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

How can a child teach his father wonder,
Who razes pillared hills, destroying enchanted halls?
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

The sentient forest beings fade in number;
Heavy machines befoul and ravenous saws defile;
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder.

He dreams of ending all this senseless plunder;
His hope decays and fails, for no-one cares what he feels;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.

His world is carted off as squares of lumber;
Helpless, alone, reviled, he grieves to no avail—
The ancient redwoods fall like crashing thunder;
Dismayed, he sees his refuge torn asunder.
 

II

The Child’s Ghost

Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.

In death he holds a grief which never falters,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout
Among the barren hills of senseless slaughter.

The loss has crushed his heart till nothing can soothe the hurt,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit,
Transformed into a sprite that floats where the saplings sprout.

Two thousand years of forest-song, melodic,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist,
For every old-growth tree was slain for profit.

Visitors sense his ghost, a subtle and somber guest,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Vanished amid the moist and constantly shifting mist.

His anguish grew as all he loved fell wasted;
Suddenly all is dim; he wanders in psychic dream,
An apparition vaguely seen then faded,
Broken by savage harm, now one with his blighted home.
 

III

Decades Later

Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest;
Alders emerge from sleep and conifers climb the slopes,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

She wakes and walks beneath the new-growth foliage
With heavy-hearted step on trails where, defined and steep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

Dismay beyond her own fell just for moments
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned;
Her heart is touched by something lost in torment.

Her vision blurs with feelings strangely foreign,
A pain she can’t escape that distorts her mental scope,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

A grieving spirit groaned within the molested ground,
Responding to the aura of her presence,
And brushed her troubled mind with losses forever mourned.

She stumbles home—her limbs grow weak and torpid—
Hardly able to cope where, as the semesters creep,
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest.

The very heart of nature stands attendance;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose,
Responding to the aura of her presence.

So few would guess the ancients all were corded
To see these living shapes in place of their eldership
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

The air around her sighs the whispering subtle soughs
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers;
Coyotes hold their poise and ravens serenely pose.

Her thoughts are framed with images emotive,
An endless foggy drip and trails where the branches droop;
Eroding skid roads slowly change to forest,
Obscuring man’s destructive greed from notice.

Long after mists have cooled the campfire embers,
A gentle woman dreams in the canyon shadows dim
Of sorrows that a broken shade remembers,
And shaken by the gleam, her spirit succumbs to gloom.

There are three poetic forms used here: Parts I and II are my 18th villanelle and terzanelle, respectively; part III is my 1st hybridanelle.

In the Shade of Suicide

This poem, my 17th villanelle, reflects on the conditions and spiritual aftermath of my father’s suicide. I wasn’t there. My parents separated and divorced by the time I was born, and though I lived variously with both of them, at ten years old, when my father ended his life, I was living with my mother 260 miles away.

Sometimes, as the years went on, I’d try to imagine the circumstances of his death—What he felt, saw, heard, and pondered. What crushed him? Was it truly just his alcoholism? Who knows. But it did end in the dark of the Monterey County Jail drunk tank, an old building used for the purpose since the days of the old west.

In adulthood I’ve visited the jail, just to see it. And I could swear I sensed his presence there, all unheeding—Lost in the abysmal trap of its own self-pity and sorrow.

In the Shade of Suicide

steel bars seal the concrete cell
dim lighting casts a haze on everything
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

here unheard there sobs a secret weeping soul
the air is weighed beyond all comforting
steel bars seal the concrete cell

some can sense a lost control
regrets cascade and crush in heavy throng
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

year by passing year brief glances rise and fall
a faded figure sometimes seen to hang
steel bars seal the concrete cell

wrenched within their drunken pall
detainees wake to hear a gasping lung
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

violence born of sorrow echoes through the hall
the final act of him who kicked and swung
steel bars seal the concrete cell
suffocating hope until the pulse is still

Publication History:

The Awakenings Review — Summer 2007