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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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The Enduring Seed

As some of my previous posts have explored, I ran away from the Juvenile Los Angeles Courts when I was 15. This was unplanned. There was a “houseparent,” as they were called, I only now remember as RJ at my last residential home with The San Fernando Child Guidance Clinic who beat me into submission, pinned me down using a hold that is today considered child abuse and can actually kill you, and threatened to break my arm—the hold in question involved twisting my right arm halfway out of the socket at an angle that could easily break the humerus without much added pressure.

“I’ll just tell them you fell,” he said, laughing. Actually laughing. His wife, the other houseparent—there were just two that lived with the kids full time—kicked me in my face, which was half mashed into the shaggy brown carpet. “Oh! He just fell!” She laughed, “That’s going to leave a mark.” They both laughed. This was all going down in my bedroom, and yes I was no saint—I had just ripped my large sliding closet door off in one of my tantrums. I cursed them out for all it was worth, which only seemed to make them laugh all the more.

This was pretty much all I had ever known, one form of abuse or another. But I was beginning to realize this was not how it should be, that something was wrong, that most of the people who dictated the terms of my childhood and upbringing were in fact twisted, sadistic, and void of compassion—including my parents. It wasn’t long after this incident that I found myself hitchhiking thither and yon across the highways of America, taking odd jobs, avoiding the larger population centers, and by some unimaginable grace steering clear of the predators, for about 2 years.

This poem reflects on a night I spent atop a mesa near Kingman, Arizona, probably my 6th day out. My 4th day out, two days prior, a Grand Canyon National Park ranger gave me a subzero sleeping bag. I tell that story here.

The Enduring Seed

The midnight sky was moonless
            and clear as tempered glass
I could discern no gap between the stars
      that drifted up as numerous
                  as white sands by long shores
the milky way foamed like a standing wave

Beside me a Smith-Corona
            typewriter case contained
a toothbrush, rag, two sets of dirty clothes,
      half a loaf of bread,
                  a jar of strawberry jam,
and six days worth of desert dust and grime.

I climbed to the crest of a mesa
            feeling my way through darkness
and lined up the flattest rocks I could find
      to prevent my rolling downhill
                  as I drifted off to sleep
tears drying cold and taut on restless cheeks

I remember screaming out
            to that heavy shroud of stars
to whatever benevolent beings could hear my pleas
      I remember cursing God
                  until I spattered blood
in open palms I then washed dry with dust

Oh and I remember
            throwing back my arms
chest heaved out to darkness, fully expecting
      to be struck down—vaporized
                  by God’s infernal might
and somehow disappointed life went on

I remember crawling dazed
            into my bright blue bag
tired, weak, defeated and staring up
      through a drawstring hole
                  at all those distant angels
wings flickering syncopation in absolute silence

I was alone with my rage
            completely alone and free
alone with hunger, alone with fear, alone
      with sorrow, grief, and hate,
                  with raw, unbalanced, potential
alone in the dark struggling at the edge of extinction

The stars gazed back at me
            and offered only light
a billion little pinpricks stung my eyes
      I spoke once more through tears
                  and said I only wish
to know somehow that I would be okay

and with that very last word
            the dark that held its breath
throughout the hours with not a single stir
      exhaled and breathed at last
                  and from the twinkling expanse
a star broke loose and streaked across the night

There in that moment began
            a strange new resonance
a current of meaning for which no words exist
      an insight beyond the reach
                  of language or even thought
and to the watercolor stars—Thank You

I drifted off to sleep
            and dreamt of rattlesnakes
of scorpions, coyotes and unexpected strangers
      and here and there I woke
                  looked up into the stars
said Thank You and returned to broken dreams

The sun rose—I unzipped
            from my cobalt blue cocoon
stood up hungry, thirsty and cold—and stared
      out over sand and rock
                  as far the eye could see
and after bread and jam began my descent

That day I set off in search
            for a completely impossible future
a seed laid firm and deep within my soul
      that sprouted and slowly grew
                  from barren soils cracked
beneath the heat of apathy and malice

Yes, something did change in me that night, and I don’t think the language exists to express or convey it. Sometimes I wonder why I try, knowing full well that what I wish to accomplish is actually beyond the reach of words, imagery, metaphor—anything.

Yet, I have also been driven to the edge of language my entire life, ever since I stumbled across the Best Loved Poems of the American People as a 12 year old and my drugged, traumatized, disorganized brain for the first time began to stitch together coherent thoughts through the power of structured language, imagery, and metaphor.

So here I am, attempting yet again to walk the insubstantial hinterlands of language and find one or two lexical, imaginary vapors that may or may not convey some small aspect of my experience, and the insights gained therein.

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the past

It has been many, many, many moons since I wrote my last ghazal poem. In fact, seeing as this blog serves as an archive/portfolio of my poetry, it’s easy to discover just when that was, exactly—December of 2012. Just about one month shy of 10 years.

Well, here it is:

the past

Once again these haggard bones and thews relive the past.
It seems no matter where I roam, I’ll never leave the past.

Your words, they still reecho up ravines and canyon walls
where aspirations reach like peaks, but not above the past.

However far our dreams may sprawl—however high they rise—
they come and go. And in the end, we merely weave the past.

A belching mire—hidden deep in mist—gave birth to all,
so everything that lives and grows is forced to grieve the past.

I found an alpine vale where I could fill my lungs with peace,
still shadows rise unwelcome guests—and I receive the past.

The road behind me stretches back and fades into a storm
that rumbles such uncertainty I scarce believe the past.

A soul fragmented by neglect, abuse, and bitterness
may find a way to live awhile, but won’t survive the past.

Unearthing ruins from memory may lead to understanding—
Yet you may also raise a corpse if you revive the past.

I know I’m owed a debt that even lifetimes can’t repay.
But, if I’ll ever thrive today, I must forgive the past.

Put down the seats and open up the moon roof—breathe a while.
The stars are out with yet another message, “Waive the past.”

So, yes, “the past.” It’s been doing a bit of haunting the last few months. I suppose it would be more accurate to say it’s been doing a lot of haunting all my life. So much of it is lost to me, hidden somewhere beyond my powers of recall. And yet it continues to bear influence on my daily life, my state of mind, my approach to relationships, everything.

As I contemplated this reality, a few lines came to mind that I felt could work within the ghazal structure, and so I finally had something to start tapping into this document that’s been sitting open on my last 3 laptops for the past 8 years. Yes, as in opened every single time I restarted the system, and without content that entire time—until now, that is. This is now my 135th ghazal.

There’s a lot of writing I would like to be doing—a lot of ideas I’d like to explore. But finding the time and energy for this has been difficult. A few months ago I bought a laptop that seems to be helping. I’ve gone through a few laptops and tablets over the past several years in search of the right writing and research tool. Turns out that—aside from dealing with sleep apnea, wonky biochemistry, my wife’s cancer, raising a kid, and working a full-time job—one big challenge I’ve struggled with is the ergonomics of typing and research, just sitting at and using a computer.

This laptop has an eraser mouse, which I thought had vanished from the earth close to 2 decades ago. And having a laptop with an eraser mouse I think has helped bring back a little inspiration and drive to write over the past few months because there’s so much less ergonomic strain involved. Still, time and energy are ever at a premium.

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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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The Fritillary’s Flight

It is often the plight of a poet to find themselves reflecting on a story heard or overheard until the inspiration mounts to explore and extrapolate upon it through poetry. The story behind this poem is not mine to tell, so I won’t.

The Fritillary’s Flight

You wove up through divergent ancestries
        into being, knowing full well—
                                        I have to believe—
    your time could be brief, not much
more than a fritillary’s scattered flight
                through high desert meadows.

A parent finds something like religion
    in gazing upon their firstborn child—
There is wonder, hope, and yes… worry.
    You come, eyes bright
                                    as a newborn star,
        radiating life in all directions,
            the dimmest horizon now bright
                            with possibility.

You blessed us with infinite trust…
                    frailness and uncertainty.
    The scaffolding of your perfect being
contained but one irregularity, leaving
        your new home exposed to invisible
            dangers. Yet still you smiled,
    laughed and pointed… and as all things
                living must, sometimes cried.

    We learn quickly
        something is wrong—your body
                        will not fight disease,
                the prognosis unclear and
                                fraught with dread.

Still we raise weary eyes to your coos
    and meet your needs
        as we smile back fathomless fears.
Still we scour journals, consult experts,
    and visit doctors who assuage—
        as best they can—with that fabled
                    rhetoric of the powerless.
Still we call out with all that we are
    for a benevolent spirit to hear,
        heed, and come forth to our aid.

And somehow, through miracle, science—
        or both—there has been a glimmer
            of better days to come,
    of the feel of grass, fresh high desert air,
the touch and unfettered laugh of playmates.

    We will be here through all that comes—
and never waver—in the hope that one day
it will be you who approaches two long plots
    of earth with flowers, memories, and
                                    gratitude.
        Where we, having lived out the fullness
                of our days, wait in the rustling
            leaves of a cottonwood to hear you
    speak of love, loss, joy, pain—the entire
                            fullness of living.

And maybe you will hear our joy and pride
                whispered in the slight brush
    of a fritillary’s powdered wings just near
            your outstretched ears.

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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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Broken

Today is the anniversary of my father’s suicide. He used his trousers to strangle himself to death early in the morning 40 years ago today while being held overnight in the Monterey City jail’s drunk tank in California.

For most of my life, probably starting the very next year after his death, I forgot what day he died on. But, every June I’d begin to destabilize emotionally in various ways and this would come to a head by the end of the second week of July with some kind of epic breakdown—all without my remembering his death date.

Last year, on July 13th, a Monday—he died on a Monday—I suddenly remembered as my shift ended at work that he used to suffocate me in my sleep. This psychopath would cup his big hand over my little face in my sleep, closing off my airway entirely, so that I woke up in a panic, clawing and freaked out, until I passed back out again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt his hand, I felt the absolute terror and helplessness of waking to suffocation, and I gasped and gasped for air with this vivid memory until I hyperventilated my way into the ER.

Why did he do this? I don’t fucking know. No-one in my family will even verify this memory, including my sister who has told me many times over the years that he would hold my jaw closed in my sleep when I would grind my teeth—which she now denies ever telling me. But this isn’t the resurfaced memory anyway. The intent was clearly to suffocate me unconscious, and the trauma surrounding this abuse is extreme and ongoing.

So, in memory of my father’s 40th deathaversary:

Broken

You were a broken man…
            I know this.

And though you have long since
                  turned to ash
      your broken hand still rests
            upon my shoulders.

In those days I had no way
                  to understand you
      except as something
            to fear,

                        and terribly so.

When you were gone—
                  the moment I knew—
            I felt relief.
      Yet your touch remained.

When you were gone—
            the moment I understood—
                  I felt gripping loss,
      your grip finally loosened.

When you were gone—
      the moment I grasped its meaning—
                  I felt searing guilt.
            Your rage had been extinguished,

                        and could burn no more.

And when you were gone,
            I never once wondered why
      you never came to say goodbye
                  somewhere in my dreams.

                                    Yet
                        I still could feel
            the broken weight of your hand
      pressing, squeezing, clawing
                              somewhere in my spirit.

You were a broken man…
            And you broke your small boy
                  with the terrible, violent weight
      of your broken hand,

            a touch that reaches still—
                        like the sting of cigarette smoke—
                  from the dreaming.

So, yes, another cathartic poem. I swore some years back that I’d use poetry more for artistic, highfalutin endeavors. Because, you know, I’d like to be a more serious, highfalutin poet. But, whatever. I’m a person and I’ve been through a lot.

In the end I should consider that poetry saved my life as a teen. So maybe catharsis is also a part of giving back to the spirit of this muse.

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One more breath

Sometimes I start writing a poem based on a feeling that I don’t really know how to express. And, here even with the poem written, I’m still not certain what the feeling was that inspired it. Though the poem focuses on the decision to not commit suicide throughout my life, this doesn’t really represent the feeling from which it began.

One more breath

My life was over…
     Rivers of poison flowed through
          my veins and every fiber of being

My spirit was dark with dread,
     insurmountable dread, dread instilled
          by willful neglect, countless curses,
               endless threats and blows.

A thing like strychnine or a cobra’s venom
     coursed throughout my thoughts,
          through the depths of my psyche,
               my subtle form and corrupted even
                    the shattered crystal mist of my
                                                       soul.

There was no life support for a sickness
     such as this, where the light within
          grew so dim and obscured it could
               no longer be seen, or even felt.

I wanted only to live a moment more,
     so I took in a breath and cried to the stars,
          “Then all I ask is you take from me
               this fear of dying.”
                         And the moment passed.

I wanted only to live for one more day,
     so I screamed out by the tireless river,
          almost in rage, “Then all I ask is
               you take from me this one terror.”
                         And the night passed.

Again and again I found myself with no
     divider yearning to swerve into bright
          headlights. Again and again I found
               myself on top of cliffs yearning
                    to fling myself from sorrow.
                              And the moments passed.

          There was no reason to believe
               in a life beyond tomorrow,
                    today,
                         or even the moment…

          But here I am
               looking back on yesterdays,
                    yesteryears,
                         decades

          that never should have been.
               And for the moment,
                    that yearning has passed
                         yet again.

So, what was feeling? I’m sure it’s woven into the subtext somewhere. If I had to guess, maybe it’s a sort of wonderment that I’m still alive despite feeling so undeserving of life overall. Or, maybe it’s this ever-present sense of dismay and unease at the fact that this urge or desire to be done with life along with the associated thought processes—the poison—still remains.

Maybe it’s both.

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Specter

I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on over the past couple of years. My goal was to try to make sense of an unnamed trauma that has had a powerful influence on my state of mind and emotion for as far back as I can remember.

The work we did was forensic in nature, looking at what I do know and can remember of my life through the lens of various schools of psychology. It was attachment theory that led somewhere, as this revealed that I likely suffered extreme neglect during my first 3 years of life. I’m unable to verify this, however, because family who still live exist in a state of perpetual attempts to gaslight and deny.

Specter

She made me …
  from filaments of stardust
    mixed with the loess
      of broken dreams

She bore me …
  stark into the light of rage
    and left me naked, crying
      deep in an empty well

She gave me …
  poison fruit from a withered tree
    and i ate, having lost all hope
      of anything more

She made me …
  the imago of her darkest dread
    an ever present specter looming
      deep within her afterthought

Posted on by EAT

The Outline

Since the mid 2000s, I’ve more or less tried to avoid using poetry to process traumas and strong emotions. This decision was inspired by a friend and mentor who expressed open disdain for such poetry. I suppose, since I was still working through issues of neglect and abandonment from my childhood, I hoped this would his win his approval. But that’s another story.

I think that—slowly, dimly—I’m beginning to realize that for me using poetry to process personal traumas, experiences, and strong emotions is not only essential to my process of working through the deep stuff and eventually moving forward, but to my overall inspiration to produce new material. Now, where I’ve actively tried to resist urges to use poetry to process my traumas, I’m working to move in the other direction.

The Outline

All around
                                   a storm.

                    Clouds
                              swirling.

               Winds
                          howling.

     Leaves
                    blowing.

          Walls
               creaking.
 

Through the window
          deep in the turbid havoc
     distorted by patterns of rain
               and side-blown rivulets

a thing moves massive
          amid black coiling clouds
     outlined only in part
               by flashes of light

                         and thunder.
 

          And there it is
               the Monster
     outlined in grainy gritty
                    shades of gray.

          The doctor points
               talks of radiation
     chemo and surgeries…
                    I blink back fears

          and struggle with all
               my might to see
     beyond reverberating peals
                    of terror and loss.

Of course, the storm is a metaphor for the emotional chaos stirred up by the diagnosis of cancer in a loved one. The outline in the storm adumbrated by flashes of light is metaphor for the image of the mass itself produced by scans—which basically use various kinds of flashes of light to produce the image, from X-rays to electromagnetism.

It’s been about two and a half years now since sitting in doctor’s offices with my wife going over scans and asking questions between long, strained attempts to breathe. And although my wife has been in remission for a couple of years at this point, I think it’s safe to say that I’m still traumatized by the experience of it all, hence this little bit of psychotherapeutic personal poetic trauma processing.