After a review and count last evening, I've concluded that several entries (Many) didn't make it onto the blog early on.  Hey, I was new to this blogging; still am.  For example, I didn't know blogs need to be read backwards if chronology is of any importance. (Duh!)
So I'm going to make two corrections in course:

1.  I'm going to lose the chronology thing and let each entry stand on its own, in it's own place in time. I'll still introduce each one, because I believe it's important. (See my profile and introduction explaining this.) If you are a first time reader, you can start from the bottom and read upward; that's what I set out to accomplish. Or just start here or anywhere.

2. I'm going to be happy with mixing in the old stuff (beginning tonight), because some of those early ones I lost in the "You didn't hit the publish Button," are kinda interesting too.  Some are a little sad or strained.  But that was the time that drives one to write poetry in the first place when you know in your heart, most of it will  never be read, or at least read by very few.  But you write anyhow. Therapy? perhaps.

So here we go with a few entries tonight, from a couple of long years ago.

"Rain Soaked Pine" is one of my very earliest entries; brief, pretty, I think.  Late Fall 2011.

Rain Soaked Pine

Wine in bark of rain soaked pine
Mottled stonelight
Moon spoken shadow
Delicate leaf sifts to forest floor.


"Dazzling history of  Starlight" is another very early, brief piece.  Divorce was in the house and neither of us had yet sorted it out or at least that is what I thought. It was what it was.  Fall, 2011.

Dazzling History of Starlight

This dazzling, overwhelming, looming
Night of starlight
I rummage about in odd hours
Sorting clutter of history
Weighing the Importance of each piece
In moments and hours
A mockingbird mimics a nightingale
crisscrossing my blackened yard
With relentlessness
Tail lights and traffic
Blinding


"Shards of Winter Light" was early Fall, 2011. Note in this and 'Obsidian' that follows, the 'shattered' references.  Tough times. Tough poems, but necessary.  Each is pretty in its own way.

Shards of Winter light

Idle shards of Winter light
Listless breeze through Idle palms
I retrieve news daily
In the predawn
Scheduled atop chill pavement
Yawn observing my breath in cold
Neighbor belches startled engine
To work


"Shattered Obsidian" reflects not only the unfolding divorce and its oppressive lean, but also the need to sell the house at the pit in the market when everyone had excuses about their really being okay, "It's just this economy." A lot of houses fell on our street; a pretty good one.  I was taking a lot of walks. Late Fall 2011.

Shattered Obsidian

Self absorbed shock
I flow like obsidian shattered
I walk hands in pockets
Braced against the sloping path
Neighbors stare at feet
Inventing nothing to share

Our multitude of wild rabbits
Ears set to every sound
Absorb the silence

Thin soup simmers
In my kitchen
fogging window
Flowering my room at nightfall

"Ice Cave" is a newer poem, in retrospect. Tried to be more opened-minded to the larger scope. This is from November, 2013, looking back some years.

Ice Cave

Exit faithfully
Each day
Peck cold cheek
Exacting my heart attack
Remodel time into money

Should love
To turn once
And ask
"What would you like to do today?"
And mean it

In her own tumult
And chill
She remodels
money
And kids
Shoelaces
Wrapping paper
Until screaming
In silence

Echo-empty
Despite hollow-fill
I escape some nights
Run, really
Tug at July-stained collars
Release the chill
Sigh, tanning
Under warm starlight


"My Apricot" is a tribute to a real tree in a real backyard who really made a difference.  "Who" is sincere in all references.  The tree was a presence; a spirit in, of and upon itself.

My Apricot

Most beautiful
Graceful
Tree
I should have better
Pruned
She grew her own way
Created a natural seat
at her base
For thinking

Pushed forth blossoms
And fruit
Some days
Overflowing my arms
Until she could
Bear no more

In decline
large sections
Browned and fell
Though she pushed forth
scant blossom
And harvest
Till the end

Tipping low flower
To my Mother
In her chair
To enjoy
Last charms
Last decline
Together
Neither knew

I felled her
In respect
That Fall
Her raggedness
No longer her
Begged
To be taken down

She warmed me
many a night
Dancing
In brief firelight
I swear
I smelled
Her blossoms
Each time

Fine
Small Box
From her seat
holds
A loved one
For all eternity

"Box Logic #3" is the last in the trilogy.  For those of you following along, you'll recall this entry is based on the restless night in when when I conceived the silly term, "Box Logic." This third piece refers to the box in which we, literally, live.

Box Log #3

This place
In Seismic shake and shift
Throughout my night
Alone
Shivers itself

I hear it first
Each time
Stress on the box
A paint shear
Or
Torn drywall tape
The glue
Entangling the box
Tearing
In the shadow of the San Gabriel

The man from Singapore
In Apartment
Adjoining mine
We share
A bedroom
Wall
Five-rhythmic-snore
Per minute


Okay, let's change it up and get out of sequence for a few.  I'd like to share some newer stuff for a few, then back to the story.  The next few are from November and December, 2013. Happier times.  Best of all, these need little introduction. The first is a kind of Holiday piece from this December.  It's entitled "Owl in Black Forest." Enjoy!

Owl in Black Forest

Friends
From five countries
Drink beer
Trudge snow

Into earth
Circling our bonfire
Laughing
Into
The Black Forest night

I escape
Climb
A great pine
Hundred or so
Above them
Limbs like
Church stairs
Toward forest ceiling
Young limbs
At top
Barely sustain me

Fire light and crack
Muted, sifted though boughs
And wind
Blown away at this depth
Of sky

An owl descends
In organized
Swift
Silent
Startle
Balancing us
Neither frightened of
Nor acknowledging me

Even in rare light
Owl lashes
Collect
Snow flakes
And she steams

"Velocity of Clouds" is another dawn piece. No hidden message here.  Take it at face value. December, 2013.

Velocity of Clouds

Crossed arms
Over split rail fence
Most uneven curvature
Near swirling
Oiled in touch and time
Torn-hewn
Ripped
Not cut

This near morning
These rails
Divide field
From green field
Only
Provide my place
To lean
And dream

Whinnies transcend fences
Rising Sun
Heaving mist
Manure
And earth

Sparrow sips
Into fence furrow
Elbow close
Shadow and moon
In brief reflection

Spoon puddle
And oil-toiled wood

"Box Logic #2" considers kids in a box they create for themselves. Or do we create it for them? Kids go to the playground because, well, that's what they do. I looked at the components of the playset, how they came to be there,  and the interplay between that past and present; the boxes we're all in together.  Granted, this one just may be too esoteric. After all, we're all allowed some of these. Early Fall 2012.

Box Logic #2

Think
Park-like playground
Perhaps Lion's or Jaycee-sponsored
Cold
Brightly-colored
Cubed network of fun
In which to play
Over imported sand

Metal
Plastic
brightly spray painted
In union's one hand
cell phone in the other
In toxic-smelling plant

Face
By square face
Oxidizes in the sun
Kids ride slow slide
In bored
Anticipation
Of gravity

 

 

 Just a few photos I found that span much of the time period I've written about and will be writing about.  These were all taken by Cal Poly Pomona Photographer, Tom Zazadinski.  These were for various publications. 

Hamming it up outside!

 

A vew from one of the office balconies.  Yes, some of our offices have balconies! From these, we could promise passers-by "A chicken in every pot!"  Okay, enough clowning around. Back to poems.

 

 

Sometimes during the thick of Rita's final descent from this life, things needed to be lightened up again."My Weekend" was a brief piece intended to do just that; a little therapy via a weird little poem.

 

 

My Weekend

 

What am I doing this weekend?

I thought

I'd do a little break dancing

A little slam dancing

Traverse a mosh-pit or two  

 

 

"Joints" is another simple lamentation about getting older.

 

Joints

 

Knees and elbows disappoint

They are ugly designs, really

Disappointing in lack of asthetic

Like  they were value engineered

They Have not failed me yet

But will

I'd expect finer technology

Still, I sit on my ass many days

Cushioned

I guess 

 

 

The "Box Logic" trilogy was a series based on the title. I put the two words together on another sleepless night, lying awake in bed.  You'll note (when publishd in the next day or so) that "Box Logic 3" is a look back at that night when the title was invented.  This became a contest with my son, Nick, an aspiring writer, himself.  He's a good photographer too.  The contest was for each of us to come up with three poems that worked the title from a different point of view. I think the exercise ultimately frustrated him.  He, like most people find it difficult to work from title-first. Box Logic #1 occurs in a dank place; a self-imposed, imaginary prison cell.

 

Box Logic #1

 

Imagine Myself

Free From This

In

Car

Ceration

 

One

Pale

Dust-charged

Ray of  Light

From outside

The small

Barred

Window

Bisects my silence

And burns across my shoulder

Near hot

In the damp, cell air

 

I urinate

In drain gurgle

Rising steam

Catches the ray

My escape intact

One steaming

Fluid ounce

After another

In transit 

 

More tomorrow....