In August the heat became intense and Rita languished in decline. At this point, everything went straight into her mouth; cords, fingers, jewelry. Anything. She had become an infant again and her weight had plunged to sixty pounds despite a good appetite, plenty of good food and care. This was so frustrating to watch. Two poems resulted. One peeked into the Fall with hopeful anticipation or cooler air. The other spoke of true frustration about Rita's circumstance and my knowing she'd hate it if her mind were clear. Two poems follow: "August" and "Rita," both from August, 2012.

August

These hot, waning days
Of Summer
I face the mountain
Once more
And ask, "Why?"
I anticipate Fall
And It's bounty
Intense heat upon my back
This cloth will not cling
In October
When grape vines
Raisin or wine
All ruby gold
Rise sweet
Under cooler gray sky


Rita

Rita wades in her death
Unable to take the plunge

Visit most days
I'd smoke
If I did

Instead I hover about
No good place to sit
Nor stand

Hope I'll be more daring
When my time comes
Or reasonable doubt
Prevails

"Insignificant Nothing" is a poem that needs introduction. How would anyone figure it out without such? This is a throw-back to Hawaii and its grand hotel; the people in it. Spring 2012.

Insignificant Nothing

Insignificant nothing
I channel
Best stirred perfect
In this preferred lobby

Amid said wealthy
Squirming like netted fish
Cannot soak in this buffet
I languish outside its range
Savoring this ocean
Its roil instead

"Clubhouse" is another statement about the Monday morning affect. The poem tries to capture the troubling affect of abuse that occurs in our homes and next door. People trapped in unhappy situation in a rampant way and, thus, are ill-fitted for Monday mornings. Summer 2012.

Clubhouse

Sunday evening
Azure Blue sky
Melts like ice
In the west
Suppressing
Orange peel
Crescent, under lit plume of fire

Across my way in same stamped unit
Troubled couple
Domestic disorder
Progress in digression
Silhouettes angular,
Dumbstruck
molten spew
spoken in shout
bludgeoned space

Above us
Eggplant colored, velvet mountains
Designer terraces
Sprout early wafts
of smoke
inhaled
by others

To the north
Cumulonimbus activity
kettle drum and all
Descent
into Monday morning

"Race Horse" was the outcome of moving into an apartment after so may years of houses. I felt like a loser, even though the house sale was my idea on my terms. But I wanted to escape the apartment, fast. You don't always get what you want. You don't always want what you get. Summer 2012

Race Horse

Saw myself
Atop a horse
In full gallop
Frantic, both
Me older than myself
Horse's nostrils flared
Full throttled
Colors snapped behind me
Crowd cheering
Mind clearing
Suctioned into accomplishment
Hatch closes
With vacuum swoop

"The Animal I've Eaten" was recognition of my carnivorous ways after living with my nearly vegan daughter and her very vegan boyfriend for about a year. I was slowly dragged into recognizing the disaster of my carnivore ways and its effect on society, culture and process. Remember those cow suits! Summer 2012

The Animal I've Eaten

Claw afoot
Fawning at me
I digest
Another haunting
Ingestion
I suffer its pain
Instead
Melting this soul
Within me

The next entry is a question, not a poem; another few-liner. Afternoons with Rita prompted this question. This one may take some time for you to absorb. Move-along if it doesn't register. A lot of my stuff won't. There is twist. Summer 2012.

Would you say:

"Leave your memory better than you found it."

Or

"Leave your memories better than you remember them."

"Cascading Soul" is very straight-forward. I felt this moment at the Grad Canyon. How else does one manufacture crap like this? Summer 2012.

Cascading Soul

Felt a soul cascade past me
Breeze and all
Outstretched arms
Drawn upward
Toward me
In fall
Anguished face
At foot of arms
Fallen from somewhere
Nowhere to land
Sighing

"Orange Vapor and the Other side of Tracks." was a continuation of my animosity toward the owners of houses who were "smarter" than me. The 'Right-wingers' were right and I had to shop next to them. I wrote some nasty things about these people who churched on Sundays and stabbed horrifically on Mondays. I deleted most entries about them which is generally good for humanity.  And so I wrote:

Orange Vapor and the Other Side of Tracks

Across the wall of delineation
Where they own
Allotted parcels
Of taxed dirt
Their orange vapor lights
Protect them all night
Howls of hounds
Escape their quarters
Piercing their work
Upon stricken skies

Through rudimentary
blinds
Angular orange hash marks
Carve ink into my spine
Crawling insidiously
Infesting my dreams


"Evangelical" was another function of the Grand Canyon. A Great Condor stole the show above all the magnificence it circled. My God, those are ugly birds! But they so command respect. Ancient, I think. Summer, 2012. Two Grand Canyon Poems follow. Both about Condors.

Evangelical

We are mere hallucinations to them
Hemorrhage
Staunched
By black wing
Crossing of a heart
Ever-loving
Does not
Ever-love

Grand Canyon Two

Reflection I reserve
Most for the Sea
Absorbed instead
A breath
Steadfast
Smoked dust
Energy
Dissolved into catcher's
Cloud
Circling condor whispers
"Angel's loom."

"Face Print in Moon Dust" is just weird. but I've always loved it. This poem has nothing to do with anything. Let yourself go there. Summer 2012.

Face Print in Moon Dust

Realize
How Problematic
The Scenario
Lying
Upon
The Lunar Surface
Temperature extreme
Vacuum and all

Yet
I'd nudge
a cheekbone
Into blue powder
Sigh if I could
In a vacuum

Kindred spirits
This moon and me
blast-carved
From earth

Absorbing starlight
quiet
Solitude
From which we sprung


"Death in Dress Shoes" is another lingering doubt about the futility of "success." Need I say more? Summer 2012.

Death in Dress Shoes

Stood upright
This elevator
Polished hooves
Blackened shine
Corporate code
Paper chic
Sure
As feet fly out
From under self
Door sucks open
Next floor

"Monday Morning" is an appropriate ending to my "first load' of my blog. Trust me, there will be plenty additions; one or two a week. Stay with me, okay? With best wishes for the new year!!!

Monday Mornings

Your Monday
Premiers
Sunday night
Forty hours
At your fingertips
Upon your imagination
And counting
Your's and not
Press your shirt
Evoke your water
Collect your weekend
In a wicker basket
Indulge
The work week
See how far
It carries you

"Fluid Skin" is a reflection we all share at some point (or several points) as we recognize our advancing age.  This one really was a reflection, inspired in the mirror one morning, shaving. November 2011. Alone, growing old.

Fluid Skin

Fluid skin
Bags my soil
Tents me poorly
In downhill slide
Hot fudge sundae
It's balanced cherry
Atop a silken mound
Vanilla ice cream
Melting


"Evuncularity" is a word I made up one day.  I haven't really even assigned it any meaning or definition.  I just like the sound of it.  The significance of this piece is that it is the first one I wrote for the title. Decide for yourself the success of the endeavor, but I liked the process enough that I have utilized is several other times. I won't advise you about future entries that were written this way.  See if you can spot them for yourself. December 2011

Evuncularity

Raindrop rolled
Pregnant, pear-like
Apple green amplified leaf
Slinky, oozing
Reminiscent of gravity
Tumbles every which way
Along the leaf
Drawn to earth
Dangled a split-second
From a syrup-like string
Single, elongated drip
To earthen origin
Free fall
Into Crowned splash
Of murky water

"Saw Grass and Sea Birds" was inspired on Long Island, not far from JFK Airport.  Seagull were circling  a street lamp well after dark on this bright, moonlit night and the wind was likely blowing twenty-knots. It was beautiful and surreal. Late 2011. New York on Business.

Saw Grass and Sea Birds

All Diamonds and surf
The Sound whipped, sparkling
Moonlit chiffon
Sweeps in gentle swell to the north
Atlantic Flash-fire
Glancing water and earth
The saw grass more heard than seen
Gulls in bright flashes
Circle through  low, man made light
Blown dunes shifting
Stars tumble through
An hourglass
Lovestruck

"Trees for the Dead and Other Species" was written very quickly after I had visited my Mother, Rita, one day in the the dementia treatment facility where she lived out her life.  When I wrote this she was already bedridden and really didn't know me.  This piece is just about futility.  There were days like this. May, 2012.

Trees for the Dead and Other Species

Leprous indignity
Roots driven
Straight
Through
Hell
Lovingly watered
Daily

Unwitting
Bird
Sings

Broiling sunshine
and Santa Ana's relentless
Threaded
Entangled
Throughout the leaves

"Blank White Page" is a simple moment in time; walking in the snow at night near Big Bear Lake. Winter, 2012

Blank White Page

Midnight snow
Underfoot
Steps manufactured
Note my having been there
Outside my man made jurisdiction
Sole-checked
Stamped
Prints
At odd angles
Under the obtuse beam
Of the setting moon

"First Bird of Morning" is a tribute to a bird who so pleasantly awakened me so very many mornings before the sky barely had any morning blue hue to it.  I know my birds pretty well, and their sounds, but I don't know what bird this is nor have I ever seen her.  I like her better as a mystery. Spring 2012.

First Bird of Morning

My "First bird"
Erupts in darkness
Every pre-dawn
As if she fancies herself
A rooster

This morning, half asleep
I coughed and  she was silenced for a long moment
Pondering my intent
We had startled one another

She soon returned
To her crisp
Rehearsed
Morning ritual
Stark, two-syllable chirp
announcing a faint, blue dawn

Song and day's toil begun
She issues a statement,
"I'm alive."

Fossil-fueled newspaper
Slaps my door

"Tumbling Fence Post" is quite often interpreted as a negative statement but I have never seen it that way, nor was it conceived that way. I see it as another slice of life, based on a real  fence post in disrepair but with the good fortune to overlook the sea. I was at the beach for a day and it had been standing sentinel there for who knows how many decades. It occurred to me, the post had very likely out-survived the person who had sunk it into the bluff; thus the reference in the second half.  Spring 2012.

Tumbling Fence Post

Sun blanched
Sea Bleached
Single-surviving fence post
Cold driven into bluff
And precipice
Decades ago
Aged upon entry
Driven
Against will
Stood slicing Into
Rock and bluff


Muscle behind the drive
By now
Rigid and boxed
Sea has approached the post
But not toppled her
She, subject to rain
Wind
And gravity
All at oft times,
 stiff
As the post herself

I had a lot of fun with  "My Unemployed Future." I just felt like throwing some words around.  Think of it as a mirror maze. They had one on the Boardwalk in Ocean City, New Jersey where I spent so many summers.  In my single-digits, I spent enough quarters going through that thing that I taught myself to be able to run through it without emerging with a bloody nose. They don't have them anymore.  Kids today have no interest in that stuff. Then I became a "Bad ass" in my teens and got into a lot of trouble, only to become an executive in my adult life.  That is what this one is about.  Yes, I can still poke fun at myself. Spring, 2011.

My Unemployed Future

I divest
Myself
Of my corner hoodlum
Diversified
Cantankerous
Smug
I may pass through this world
Undetected
Unceremoniously
Nondescript, as preferred
Looming large
In shadow of myself
Through this improbable screening
For a real life
I slip away
Into the night

"Birds in Spring" is what I'd call a "set-up" for the reader.  I think of it as a 'pretty poem' with a punch-line. (So don't read ahead to the last line or you'll ruin it!)  By now, you've perhaps noted some of the underlying themes I referenced at the beginning of this blog. I'm intrigued (and often angry) about the juxtaposition of life and 'work.' If you've read all of the posts so far, you may be able to pick up on the suggested futility of loving life and perhaps sporting a job that get's in the way of that life.  It's a common affliction. Already you've perhaps read two poems involving the newspaper being delivered early in the morning.  There is the beauty of the morning and the reality of the morning. Spring 2012.

Birds in Spring

Wildly over-leveraged
In suspect discipline
I'm drawn into
An unrehearsed symphony
In my courtyard
A production
Of
Our birds of spring

Warm-filtered sun
Drenched
Overarching jasmine
Wafting its scent everywhere

Birds in happiest tumult
Nesting
Breed
And song
Gentlest warm breeze
Mountain ridge
With virtual crossed arms

I scratch like a ball-player
Return to the cool, dank
Task at hand
Bread upon my table

"Smooth, Warm Stone" addresses another fence post situation, very unrelated to the first. This is a relaxing piece, I think.  I emerged, slowly, from the darkness of the Fall with this one.  Spring 2012

Smooth Warm Stone

Cradled atop
A grayed
Surviving fence post
In a sweeping, circuitous row of others
Rests
A loaf-sized stone
Placed perhaps years ago
In gentle hands
Surface smoothed
In time
Sea
Blown beach
It warms
In the late afternoon sun
Royal path of clouds
Skim the Pacific horizon

"Workers on Manoa Bridge" is another genre piece. Don't read too much into it. This is one of a few I wrote while visiting Honolulu. I'll share a couple of others here. Don't try to find 'Manoa Bridge' on the map.  It doesn't exist.  I'm pretty sure this bridge has no name, but that isn't a very inspiring name for a bridge in a poem.Late spring 2012.

Workers on Manoa Bridge

At mid-bay
workers lower a new section of deck
Into place
Atop Manoa Bridge
Their evocative
Cranking of winches
Incite a controlled collapse
Of folded panels
Methodically
Into place
Warm wind trades through palms
Across the rise
Rustling impatiently
behind me

"Rummies" is a is a direct steal from Waikiki Beach where I spotted two women playing cards under an umbrella, on a blanket.  They reminded me so much of Rita and her Aunt, Jo, who were best of friends. The Waikiki women were mostly in their prime, as I like to best remember Rita and Jo.  Jo is long gone.  Rita a more recent memory. Late Spring 2012.

Rummies

Two white-haired ladies
ply their game
cards slapped and fanned
atop their beach blanket
Heads sometimes back
Laughing aloud
High stakes pennies
Toes probing hot sand
Outside confines of umbrella shade
Hustled by
The occasional pigeon

"Waikiki Beach" is another captured moment.  I was busy in Hawaii.  I think it speaks for itself. Late Spring 2012.

Waikiki Beach

Cramped jitterbug
Along the strand
Beer on Waikiki Beach
I raise a brown bag
For a passing cop
Waves lap feet
Wind sifts hair
Warm sun on face
Very bare-chested man
blows a conch
For no good reason
But show.

"Ghastly Pony" startled my kids.  They, all grown, are the keepers of my written stuff. They see everything first and are my initial critics.  I typically text or e-mail new poems to them and sometimes hear nothing for days or weeks.  I had two, quick, concerned phone messages after I sent this one out to them.  Yes, it's clearly a dark piece, but I simply wanted to try playing in such an arena.  No more or less.  It's kind of a tribute to William Blake. Maybe I should have stayed in Hawaii. Spring, 2012

Ghastly Pony

Small horse in Silhouette
Hooves itself fitfully in anguish
And pain
Dawn behind flat mist
Sun, a rising plum
In maroon ocean
A man with authority
And tools
Licensed to silence
Arrives
Pats her on the rump

"Vestibule" was written immediately on the tail of 'Ghastly Pony' (Pardon that pun.) Kids took this one seriously too, but were more accepting.  I'll not elaborate farther.  Yes, it is unsettling.  I couldn't sleep one night and wrote it nearly in the dark.  You may have to be Catholic to get it. And, no, I wasn't abused by anyone. Note another reference to being rung out of bed in the morning via alarm. This was April 2012.

Vestibule

The inner workings of the place
Reside behind a heavy door
Under which
Light escapes
In measured slices,
Angular
Geometric
Precise
In calculation.

Spectators in our lives
We hover above ourselves
Disembodied
Tapping into holy water
We cross ourselves
In genuflection
Rising in morning alarm
Temporarily
Distilled

So, after 'Ghastly Pony' and 'Vestibule,' I decided to lighten things up.  So I followed with the two selections that follow.  Big mistake. I was accused of being a redneck after the first, "Roaches with Fleas," and in the second, "Moon at Malibu," I was accused by kids of 'Too much information (TMI)." Some lives you just can't win. I was just trying to have some fun. Spring 2012.

Roaches With Fleas

I'd be surprised
If a roach could not bear fleas
After all, anything
Can breed anything
What is to stop the roach
From breeding fleas?
Its rights
And all

Moon at Malibu

Mooned hippies
At Dan Blocker State Beach
In Malibu
One Saturday afternoon
Probably in my twenties
And should have known better
They smoked pot
Happy fists pumped in approval
from behind 'smoked windows'
In a VW van
Curtains and all
I ambled on
In pursuit
Of a job johnny

"Accomplished" is really not a poem, but an interesting pairing of lines, dis ingenuousness and misunderstanding . Spring, 2011

Accomplished

So much singing of praise
No one reads the music


As I entered into the last year with Rita, I became frustrated. It happens because no one, no thing knows when a last year or last day is upon them or others. You can't celebrate a last year unless you function out of a sad plan or calculation. Rita had seemed neither to decline nor improve for months. I knew improvement was an impossibility and, perhaps selfishly, I hoped for a rapid decline for her.  I knew her well, though, and for certain, she would not approve of the place and situation she was in that June, 2012.  Thus the short, "Days With Rita."

Days With Rita

Every day
Exacted anticipation
Falls fluttering
With no other than
Myself
As sounding board
To measure its failing
Each day
I launch a scrutiny
Of myself
Bleachers empty

Continuation of "My Solitary Rat." (Forgive Me, I'm new to blogging and still learning how to "Bop" around." Simultaneously, I'm trying to learn a new piece of equipment.  I've decided to abandon the latter for the time being and focus on one new task at a time.) So here is "My Solitary Rat" from the beginning.

My Solitary Rat

I envy my solitary rat
She scurries across my yard in a swirl of leaves
Harbors in my garage attic
adjacent my bedroom
We've not met

She harbors three pups
I count their distinct cries
I count when they nurse
over the nights, cries fall to two
Then One
It is a tough life for rat pups
She disciplines nightly the one nurtured squeal
hushing or they'll be discovered
I toss, feigning sleep

In spring, flies rise
Explode from the dead
Circle about like grandchildren
As I shave
My rat is gone away
I call the cleaning service

"Owl Before Dawn" was inspired by one of my favorite poets, Po Chu-I.  He lived from 772-846 and most of his work speaks fresh and clear today, timeless. The poem is intended to be a little playful and not quite realistic.  Trying to capture that confused head when you've just awakened in the pre-dawn hours of the night. Fall, 2011.


Owl Before Dawn

This moon slicing across the heavens
Gravels along like a rolling saucer
Whispered clouds flawlessly illuminated
Temperature registers a California nothing
Shadows scuttle off into the grasses
Like dismembered hands
An owl
Unpredictable in its cadence

"The sigh" is a reminiscent of better days.  This is a snapshot of a memory from years before.  Early morning, sun rays first crossing the bed.  Listening to birds hustling the morning.  Fall 2011.


The Sigh

Quiet now
But for the birds in excited, morning rumor
My persistence upon
This private place
Your childlike interpretation
Mockingbird songs
Morning sun
Warms a solitary breast
You sigh absorbed
Unaware of yourself

"Tomatoes in Late Fall" is a simple, daily genre piece.  Late Fall in California is typically December, so I'm pretty sure this was December 2011.  Just hoping to find that one last tomato among the ruin.

Tomatoes in Late Fall

Eyes upward into the under story
Tomato leaves in yellowed and silvery hue
Head awash in tomato plot
In decline
Silvery powder falls all about me
Silver dandruff upon my shoulders

I kneel, hunched, steadfast
knees wet through jeans
Back wet in blown mist
Chrysanthemums in long, wet legs
Slump across the yard
My breath steams in dampness

I sort methodically through spent foliage
Squinting to better sight one last fruit in color
But my hopes are dashed
Even aphids winter elsewhere now
Crumbling leaves of summer remain

Neighbor's Eucalyptus
Boils in growing wind
Of approaching gale
A child's burst of Unbridled energy
Knees grow sodden on this
Excrement of passion of mine

"Taking My Imagination Out for a Walk" was a turning of a corner for me in early winter 2012.  I took a lot of long walks those days; mostly those nights. I didn't want to talk to neighbors anymore than they wanted to do so with me.  I didn't want to explain that the sale wasn't about the money but about my need to get out of the house where my Father, brother and marriage had died. Although it was true, I know it probably didn't ring true.
Like all of us, I fantasize, role-play and imagine as I walk alone.  This escape was especially true and necessary at the dark time. This is a description of such activity, and the recognition of fantasy slipping back into reality.

Taking My Imagination Out for a Walk

I objectify myself in nighttime walk
Choreographed cadence
Skip and perfect plant
Virtual brass
Operatic touchdown
Maestro in throws
Of symphonic ecstasy
Instilling applause upon my soul
Wilding spectacle
Fades to gentle
Rhythm

A turned corner

Unprovoked vision of my "home"
Light shaft crisp
Sliced across
Damp, black asphalt
Rare winter thunder and flickering light
rumble behind the San Gabriel
Cast the range in opaque silhouette 
I ascend the drive
Hands clasped neatly
Behind myself

"Chicago Streets, January 2012" was an attempt to capture the cold of the city in January, the hustle of the place, and the isolation of the soul on cold streets.  Chicago is one of my very favorite cities. It is beautiful, fun and the people are 'Midwestern genuine." But winter slices everyone apart and leaves us stranded with our dark side a few months out of the year.

Chicago Streets, January 2012

Crossbred recidivist
Winter-sustained cocks your head
Finger faint streak of winter sun
slices you lengthwise
Lake wind torments your lapel
Dead-squint eyes avert you
From between cap and scarf

A cab disorganizes
an ice-skinned puddle
Vanishing in taillight
Vapor steams
From every city orifice
Incessant honking, near and far
A distant siren
Pursues drama

You startle defiantly
Into the street
Against the signal
Thrust into
A blue, arrogant
Pie-shaped
Shadow

"Full Frontal Garden," as a title, is a play on words.  This piece is not about a garden at all, but about a house cat and a Koi pond.  The Koi pond was mine and located outside my study door at the "front" of my house.  The cat was not mine, but a frequent visitor to the pond.

Full Frontal Garden

House cat in sphinx
Drifts in doze, morning sun
Apparent non-discipline
And
Mirror-smooth
Lubricant-thin sheen of
Blue-sky, reflecting
Pond
And Koi

She is a product of pamper
Night wanderings
The street
Tan torso
Black mascara
White paws
Peppermint into gray

Pulsing in purr
Abusive really
Presiding, God-like
Over these prime
Fishing
Waters
Trolling

"Visitation" is a moment remembered years after it occurred.  My brother, Kim David, had died after a nine-month battle with cancer.  He had died at my house, "the house" of many of these poems.  My parents were living in Florida at the time.  My Father had visited until literally two days before my brother's passing.  My Mother, Rita, had remained in Florida all that time, an Alzheimer's patient, she had difficulty traveling.  In those days she had concept of what was going on, but I suspect life was like slipping in and out of a chopped, confused dream.  When she learned of my brother's passing, she insisted on the 3,000 mile flight to see her first-born one more time.  I must note, Kim David was to be cremated. He requested this and no funeral. Zero frills. He was not embalmed and "un-retouched."Rita visited him for the last time in a stark, side-room at the funeral place in May 2008. No flowers.  This was written February, 2012.  It is a brutally honest piece.

Visitation

Rita
Not herself
Nor Kim his
She evaluates her fallen son
Stiff
Darkness in this
White place

Wedge of parlor light
Reminiscent
Of his condition
Seems all that lifts his shoulders
Off the table

Neck rests upon a plastic bracket
Sized
One of three
Maintained, on-hand
For these guests

Rita stares upward
Mesmerized by a parlor light
Hand on my brother's forehead
As if checking
For a fever

"Hint of Spring" is another genre piece.  It is straight-forward, a respite from the lawyering of a divorce about to unfold. February, 2012

Hint of Spring

A good three moves
Along the chess board
Spring is moist all around

Wood now split in toil
Not task
Under a low Winter ceiling
Only a few more weeks of
fires in their place

White buds promise
My orchard
Whispering Spring
In which
Everyone trusts himself
Well enough
To leave it alone

"Cabotage" does not exist as a word in the English language. But I thought it sounds like it could be something "pretty" with the obvious rhyme of something other than pretty.  I went through a phase when I saw young women as beings evolving into that which "takes men down."  Divorce will do that to you.  And the lawyers hadn't even gotten started yet. Read-on for more on that good fun.  This poem is from early Spring, 2012.

Cabotage

Debutante in rain
Structured torment
Beaming collapse
Slipping into herself
Something more comfortable

Lawyer-fine print
Lurid animosity
Glowing
This steaming muddle
All black
Silk and boots


"Field Flatus" is a pretty light poem, intended to be a little fun and mocking of a society missing the basic beauty in the world.  Thus the last line. There's a little double-meaning and even a reference to a kid's sayings and cities. It's busier than it appears.   Spring, 2012

Field Flatus

Convection in Spring
God of bio-degradation
Cloud management
Fanning and denial
Vectors and such
Passing play in flight
Elevation in high-rise
Feller ghost-like
These surprises
In a box
Human condition
Boweled-out servitude
Story at six

"Dwell in Sleep" brushes upon the notion of not wanting to get out of bed in the morning for any number of reasons. Spring, 2012

Dwell in Sleep

Caressing
This ultra-green pear
Its fragrant dawn
In fleeting compliance
In fleeting sleep
I rise and face my sun
Its pearl luster
Velvet mitigation
I sigh
And turn back
To sleep

"Carnegie Hill" is the highest of upscale neighborhoods in New York City's Upper East Side, immediately adjacent to the Park.  It is a neighborhood where you can't swing the proverbial dead cat over your head three times and let it go without hitting a nanny or doorman. Think beautiful, boutique, specialty markets and flower shops that deliver daily. This is a spectacular, beautiful neighborhood....with an undercurrent. Winter, 2012

Carnegie Hill

Burble and flutter of sparrow
Rummage tossed seed for them
Sunken into late winter snow
In shadow
Stiffened, idle doorman
positing
A text

Imported surrogates
Like family
Better than indigenous
Raise single digit-aged
Offspring
Repositories of progeny

Shuttled cold
Into luxury transport
To practice
After school skills:
Felling and falling
Surrogates all
Hands in wave
Cells in hands
Icing

"Bottle Cap Crimp" is another of the brief, bad attitude writings I penned about emerging women in mid-divorce. Don't worry, it passed.  It always does.I've thought about deleting these, but this was a part of me I needed to flush from my system at the time.  This one was also "coined" in New York City in a place that was in vogue. Although "Carnegie Hill" rolled right off my keyboard, this one took a few weeks to hatch. It's still choppy, but after a few weeks, I figured, it is the way it should be; perhaps a little agitated, jagged.

Bottle Cap Crimp

Older tomboy in upholstery
Right and wrong
Dyslexic
This place the standard
The bar the place
Table neighbor sighs
Finest of destination
laser-edge design
Scene to be seen
Cabs honk
Under threat of fine
Through fogged window
Crying in exaggerated streams
Third flight
Stolen thunder
Men researched
Zero lace

"Can't See Tomorrow Tonight" occurred after the first encounters with the divorce lawyers in court. It was an amicable divorce, straight-forward no money nor custody was to trade hands (no biological kids involved; they were grown).  But the lawyers had conspired to vacuum retainers. Imagine that.  Following the court episode, I sought solace at my favorite beach that evening. April, 2012.

Can't See Tomorrow Tonight

Mopping a moonlit splash
Molten cold
I recline in shadow
Elbows dug into the sand
Roaring ocean

My repertoire a memory
Conduit to earthly spine
Sand recedes with each wave
Shifting
Sparkle
Undermined

Frothing starlit
Curl of surf
Knees to chest
Rhythmic sea
And thunder

"Crease in Time (For Pat)" occurred as a result of an unthinkable tragedy in January 2012. My soon-to-be-former Father-in-Law died in a house fire on the Western Slope of the Rockies. He lived there with his ex in a very remote town.
Both had smoked themselves practically to death, she with emphysema and he having lost a lung to cancer. They were buddies again, no sexual threat to one-another, both on oxygen. I don't know exactly what happened, but it is speculated she smoked with oxygen.  She may have died instantly, but certainly died at the scene.  Seems Pat tried to save her, but succumbed to smoke-inhalation and died a couple of days later in a Denver hospital.
Pat was one of the finest human beings/souls I've ever encountered. Limited schooling and poor grammar. But he was a wonderful presence.  Tough Norwegian from North Dakota. I know his daughter misses him immensely, as do I.  This piece was written a couple of months after his passing in memory of him.  You'll note he was project-oriented and liked to be busy fixing things, even things not in need of fixing. Spring, 2012 

Crease in Time (For Pat)

Meteoric streak extinguished
Roiling water
Hiss silent breath
Suspended suffocation
This crease in time

Stellar happened past us
Were we not listening?
Witness rear view mirror
Thick finger-turned screws
Single knee to concrete
Working genuflection

Grammar destitute
Wisdom in boot

Beethoven-crossed
Moonlight
and 5th
Snows in Dakotas

"The Other White Trash" is a reference to big-box discount stores and patrons who inhabit them.  I'll not reference store names, but it suffices to say, this one bowls you over with a foul popcorn smell when you cross its threshold.  Imagine a random Tuesday morning, say, 10:45.

The Other White Trash

Faux-buttered popcorn
Burned, spent scent
Symbiotic stretch pants and
Overt discipline
Goldfish in dried gallons
Squared

Flickering flat screens
In unison
TV judge
In hopeless replication

Hose drains
In cross-aisles
Toddlers in tantrum
More sterile
Than hospital floors
Really

I step onto Wafting
Rain-soaked asphalt
Paw feverishly
Like a bull
To dislodge a spent condom
Under shoe
Briefly flash
Both sides and mechanization
In weak thought

Blue sky far out over ocean
Under hovered land ceiling

Injury law
Technical training
Ahead

The next, two entries represent a resignation from the past.  I'm climbing out of a deep well, still angry about the well, itself, and mourning what might have been a fresh, ongoing drink of water. "Collateral Damage" is a reflection upon myself. "Disingenuous" is more a statement about a situation where things have gone awry but in recognition that it was a team-effort. Spring, 2012

Collateral Damage

My fatal, dysfunctional contraption
Sophisticated repertoire
Incessant in activity and score
Compromised Progress
To goal

Oil alone
Repairs no machine
I tick along these tracks
Whistling

Past a factory of worms
Hustled
By stark sparrow
Humbled
Grounded by the wind

Disingenuous

Seems our paths crossed
An entanglement of limbs
Steadfast imperfection
Each
Fatigue and lubrication

This sun casts
No light
No warmth
Across this house

Sunset shadows
Recedes into themselves
Imagining life
Without us
Each other
Aside

"Divestiture" is a continuation of a self-introspective, "What is life about?" In retrospect, I'm not sure how accurate it is  regarding the situation/mood, I'd hoped to conjure. It does capture the cleaning out of a house and memories you thought you loved.  But I think this and "Tick Tock Clock" are worth capturing since they seemed so at the time. There was no puppy inspiring Tick Tock Clock.  Was not going there at the time.  But I've had a puppy in a cardboard box next to my bed before and think we all have had so. NOTE: My experience has taught me, lose the box. Lose the clock. Let the puppy sleep with you in bed.  Your heartbeat  is superior to a ticking clock, though less accurate in the measurement of time. The puppy won't pee in your bed unless you are negligent before and after its sleep time. Everyone will sleep better and be happy.  Two poems follow from the Spring of 2012.

Divestiture

Gathered belongings
Mockingbird's song
I've never heard before
Nothing values value
Nor articulates its worth
Like speed in need to leave

Retain
Discard
Drag in tow
Bag
Jettison to curb

Each item at task
Caged memory
Dank space
Salvageable
But not
Kissed asses in my day
None more seriously
Than this

Tick Tock Clock

Rudimentary
Tick Tock Clock
Plastic, mall cheap
Tucked into blankets
1 turn-around
Puppy-sized box
Dumpster original

I methodically
Address
His discomfort
Me in sleep haze
My child tonight
Surrogate heartbeat
In a box
Puppy counts no ticks
Like me

Bedtime
My bed
Instead

Puppy yawns
Serious milk-breath
Genuine heartbeat
Misted warm
Common life
Sleep ticking

"Aimlessness" expresses the futility of 'trying' too hard. I fell into a phase where I did so.  We've all fallen into a phase where we've done so. Spring, 2012

Aimlessness

Archers and pitchers acknowledge
The projectile is
Not
Prescribed upon the mark
But drawn to it,
Via will

The will of the mark
Itself
Prepares for
Absorbs
The shock
Intent
Of the hurled object

Long before
Bow is drawn
or arm curls
Impact registers
In smoke
Of catcher's mitt

Long before
The roar of the crowd
Deed accomplished

The projectile soars
Frozen in time
Before a
Mind struck crowd
Who cannot
Fathom
The speed
Of the object
At hand






  

I Wrote "Monday Mornings" at the height of the low-period of my divorce. Monday morning seemed the perfect stage at the time. This is from Fall, 2011.

Monday Mornings

Idle shards of winter light
Listless breeze through idle palms
I retrieve news daily
scheduled over chilled driveway pavement
Yawn observing velvet mountains
soaring in warming sunlight
Neighbor belches startled engine



"Shattered Obsidian" is another product of the early divorce period. Its darkness is further shadowed by my having just listed my house for sale in the depth of the "Great.Recession." This is from Fall, 2011. My house was the third on the house to go.Neighbors stopped talking to once the sign appeared in the front yard.

Shattered Obsidian

Self absorbed shock
I flow like shattered obsidian
Walk head down
hands in pockets
braced against climbing path
Neighbors stare at feet



Inventing nothing to share
A rabbit pauses
Ears  observe everything
Thin soup simmers
Flowering my room at nightfall


Webb at Dawn is a peaceful "escape piece" from the dark Fall of 2011. It is an attempt to find  the happy side of an otherwise uneventful dawn.


Web at Dawn

This passage
A riff in three notes
Trollop and whim
Our relentless pursuits
Triumph and failure

Admire dawn light
Striking an Orb Spider
Tireless,  re-stitching her web
Land fishing
Undaunted in wind, rain and
Possibility


Solitary Rat is a tribute to a Mama Rat who took up residence one Winter to have her pups in my garage. Roof rats are a fact of life in Southern California. You can call in an exterminator a few times a year or let nature run its course and eventually rat and family leave, clean-up the mess in the Spring, living and letting live.


Solitary Rat