Just wondering...

.....since I don't speak Chinese... what the anonymous posters are saying to me????? I have just been deleting. Figured if they could read and understand my poetry they should be able comment in English.

new Reading

Went to B&N yesterday and bought 3 new books. Should keep me up on my bedtime reading for awhile. I am soooo glad I finally got the right reading glasses!

Rebuilding files

I found some hard copies ( you remember paper?) of some of my lost poetry. A bit of typing but I can get them back in my hard drives. Not all the lost files...but a start. :)

Perspectives

Perspectives

What I call blue, you see green.

What you call bitter, I taste sweet.

Nor even know the truth of it

if there is truth at all.

Blue is a summer sky, loneliness.

Green is young grass, envy.

We wrap our words in our own 

meanings, unwrap each other’s

with our own metaphors.

You said to me

I loved you the first time I saw you,

the way you looked in blue.

Invisible Train

Invisible Train

I never saw the iron horse

whose course stalked mine. I saw

lights flash red in other people’s eyes, heard 

a cold, shrill whistle in the words they spoke.

Wind delivered 

distant wails,

skeletal rattles like the clatter of tracks.

Tickles of smoke stung my nostrils, tremors 

rolled under my feet.  Once

at a crossing I heard

a whine, felt a knife slice air

into ripples across my face 

                             but saw  nothing there- 

the way sun’s light frosts

forest green, pine needles appear to shiver 

though the day is warm,

                             that sort of illusion- 

I thought if I stretched my hand into its path

it would pass right through me. I would feel 

the shake and sway

of boxcars all up my arm

but could draw back uninjured in its wake.

                             The real illusion.

At night by orange vapor lights

anonymous switchmen went about

their silent work, set wheels 

to rails that in time

would bear that thundering

force on our collision course.

I didn’t look. I didn’t see.

Some abstract poster art

Block

Still wishing I could Topple the block. i can't seem to write much new..just rehash old stuff.

An old one:Scenic Routes

Scenic Routes

The children’s teary-eyed complaints       

        Are we lost?

you meet head on

        No, we’re together.

By now I’ve learned that every journey 

includes its share of scenic routes.

Picturesque detours through parking lots,

dead-end alleys.

Sometimes we actually leave the map,

drive across grass,

bumping our way back to where we were.

You drag us on illegal

hikes through construction sites,

daring acts of trespass,

choose sudden, unmarked roads

that turn into footpaths, end

at a stranger’s decrepit barn, populated 

by bats instead of cows.

Wading into rapid streams,

you roll rocks up waterfalls- 

snapshots made without a camera.

Adventure is often a mistaken turn

where blinding views leap up

to hit us right between the eyes.

The unexpected joy of finding 

what we never knew we’d missed.

Are we lost?

        No, we’re on the scenic route.

Cruise out of Seward, Alaska

Botanical Gardens/British Columbia

Poetic Devices

Poetic Devices

I sold my car to become a poet.

Not for money but device-less

originality.

My computer too.

That window without

a view.

In days to come

I shunned my dishwasher,

listening instead to the swoosh 

of suds in the sink.

The squeak of a clean plate

echoed in my voice.

One morning I noticed 

the air conditioner’s drone,

that constant groan of cold air 

had to be cliche.

I traded its roar for tacky ticking--

then I tossed my clock

and bought a sundial.

Always I reached

for what had never been

invented. Further and further back

till there was no written language.

Eventually I had to stop

writing altogether, get myself

a drum. 

the pound of pure sound--

never mind its wordless rendering.

I dream I am chased by a tiger

panting without metaphors

for my fear or here

sitting in my mud house

without a carpet cleaner.

Leavings

Leavings

There is a sense of ruin at low tide--

drowned things surface

like relics unearthed, spiritless.

Thorny spikes of urchins, random wrecks

of shell. You poke broken remains

as if seeking the essence of the thing

as distinguished from its matter.

You hunt for the delicately pleasing

in the difficult diameter of a bone

knowing you’ve no control over

what washes back in and what

stays lost forever.

At high tide, the sea was full,

continuous. Every form within it 

had an interconnected sweetness.

Beached, these twisted strands

of kelp are slimy waste, unlikely links

in survival’s chain. 

You sit on a callous of rock, a painful outcrop 

that wasn’t there 

before the tide swept back

leaving lifeless artifacts behind.

Moon Cove/Sardinia 2001

Moon Cove

But we were there at noon.

From caves sought more for cool than privacy,

we gazed across turquoise glass,

poked at our indifferent lunch

of hard-boiled eggs

and bottled water

imagining moonlight and wine.

We tread the rocky barrier

to the sea wishing we’d brought 

different shoes,

found the water less than warm,

bobbing weightless above its stony bed

as tiny fishes nipped

at our toes.

Up the face of the cliff

that curved above the cave,

rock climbers, 

their ropes strung taut,

kicked off the surface, dropping

down, then pulling up

again in a motion like the surf.

We never saw the stars rise above

the place somebody named Moon Cove.

As we stumbled back toward the pier

our philosopher guide offered simply,

Some years, the sea, she brings us sand,

mounds it up in snowy dunes; some years

she takes the sand away and brings us rocks.

Lost Sea Gulls

Lost Sea Gulls

Where did I get the notion

that anything with wings

knows always where it’s going?

In Reno sea gulls ride the heat

of hotel floodlights,

just circle

and circle seven hundred at a time

as if it were a lighthouse

in the desert.

Newspapers scream stories

of planes that crash

hundreds of miles off course.

Dragonflies persist

diving into the electric shock

of my patio bug zapper.

But any day now,

I trust angels will find us--

our pain among millions--  

       wrapping us in white wings.

Still Waiting

 Still Waiting 

Let me breathe your branches

in October wind,

fall-colored streamers

on chill air.

Let me put my hand inside

your coat, orange with yellow patches,

and lay my face

against your chest.

Because I want to tell you something,

stand still, an autumn tree,

knowing what will likely come

but waiting.

Deconstructionism

Deconstructionism

Worlds wait in a word,

multitudes panting to have

their say.

You might have owned its meaning once

when, held secret in your head,

its other voices eluded detection.

But you have come to know

the spectrum 

can not be glossed over.

Speak and you risk interpretation.

Stay silent and that ,too,

becomes an object of imagination.

You are an actor

in your own life story.

Though you intrigue to steal the scene 

from other players, they add 

the small details that color your role.

The audience fills in the blank lines.

And in the end

no one knows or really cares

what it was you meant to say.

Your love affair with your meaning

lands on the rocks, deconstructed

in dialogue.

Toppling Blocks

Toppling Blocks

No time to dig deep,

pull from memory and leap

off the roof without fanfare.

The primary purpose

of this exercise is to exorcise

the beggar demons

that gather on the edges 

of the brain, crying 

to been fed words    words    words.

Cast out a line

and drag in whatever it hooks,

discard whatever it leaves.

Take solace in the shape

of letters drinking the whiteness

off the page

and have another cup

Nothing

Nothing

I see her again

on my way to work.

Always I see her

at the same corner,

her assigned spot on the planet.

Today I realize

she has become a landmark.

The walk takes fifteen minutes

past the library,

ten past the woman

who’s as transparent as my face

in the store window behind her.

She looks up 

and we take inventory.

Feet apart in run-over running shoes,

holding her bag as if it held her life.

Her hair uneven, her mouth a straight line.

She isn’t sure what she’s been searching for.

Maybe she was pretty once.

Her eyes, 

the color of nothing.

Choosing New Clothes

Choosing New Clothes

I have this idea

of wearing a tree.

Running my arms up 

through branch sleeves

letting leaves slither over my torso--

a shirt of fragrant

forgetfulness, unembarrassed

by the peepholes

light weaves

and wind whispers through,

the shedding 

of threads to weather.

I’ve long been clad in cement artifice,

city-shaped coat drawn tight

against violence,

controlled and silent,

sharp and hard.

It keeps out the cold

only by being a better example.

I choose new clothes, to wear

a forest in my hair,

step into mossy slippers,

wrap a rainbow

around my neck.

Waking Up Picasso

Waking Up Picasso

There is so much vocabulary involved

some people spend a lifetime on it-

I just woke up Picasso

from my two month coma

since then I’ve rarely put down a brush:

round brush

flat brush

mop brush

fan brush

or stopped to think if it’s a good idea

painting everything in my house

walls, of course-

fill with landscapes and portraits

I listen to music to set the tone

and the rhythm

much has been written about color theory

from cobalt blue to alizarin crimson-

there’s a bright, bright yellow too,

I can’t remember the name

black and white can’t be made

by mixing other colors:

add white and you lighten,

black and you darken

though many artists don’t use black at all

fabric can be painted on-

curtains, chairs, pillowcases-

tight is bright

loose weaves let the paint seep through,

reduce the intensity of colors

wrinkles wreak havoc with a design

but that can be interesting too.

when painting on wood-

tables, bookcases, window facings-

I use an acrylic polymer

containing at least 40% water

to raise and swell the wood grain

flaws create mystery,

how they melt into the pattern

paint will peel from metal-

appliances, magnet boards, steel doors-

the more layers you apply

and scratch away

it becomes an old billboard shedding its paper,

showing all the bits beneath.

glass enamel is best for glass

but requires firing in a kiln.

transparent acrylics will get you there

without the fire-

windows, mirrors, glass cabinet doors.

the carpet presents a challenge

till I decide to drip and drop

like Jackson Pollock,

smearing and spattering,

shaking glossy oils right off my hand

I ‘m in the toilet

when I suddenly notice

the smooth white surface

of the bathtub,

surely the purest canvas in my house

I call the paint store

and ask the girl

what do you use to paint on porcelain?

she didn’t know but would call me back

the silver faucets will do okay

but I picture a green whirlpool

circling the drain

you have to make a paste

she said

when she rang back

mix the fine pigments with mineral oil,

but first apply a medium

consisting of copaiba,

lavender and clove oils

to make it dry quickly and keep

its lightfastness

but by then I'm on to other rooms,

other walls,

other floors,

other materials-

plastic

copper

plexiglass

cork

chasing an image around the room

humming, drumming

or rattling out rhymes

that only seem to annoy people

Horse

Now

But Where Was I Before?

You are

Here now

Now you are

Now you are here

You are here

Now you

N S E W

You are here now

Maybe I should name these things

The Town

This site looks like the old Utne Cafe. Runs on Motet. Lots of the old regulars are there too! I am so glad to have found this place.

Staying in the Lines

Staying in the Lines

Red lights start to blink

in my rear view mirror and

I wonder

what if I could put blue

everywhere red now stands,

would it make a difference?

Color sneaks

into every meeting, presses

its significance. What if all the world

were a fresh coloring book--

white pages/ black lines

and nothing more?

I could grab a crayon, dress

that cop in a red clown suit--

far better too

if I could flip back a few pages

and, without overrunning the edges,

make the corpse bleed blue.

Turning

Turning

I don’t understand

the revolving door.

Moving, always moving

in one place.

There is comfort

in an open door,

a closed door--

knowing just where I stand,

one side or the other

of somewhere.

But here I turn

forgetting where I got in,

unsure when to exit.

Okay, I’m an idiot.

I find I’m transfixed

by the man two slots

ahead of me.

He is both fat and flimsy,

held together

by a bow tie, a ghost

between sheets of glass.

I can’t decide if I follow him

or if he is following me.

Without Instruments

Without Instruments

All that exists we imagine,

the great circle of the earth tilted

on magnetic lines,

minute organisms that dip and bob

in a glass of water-

all either too large or too small

to examine without instruments. Our fingers

can’t peel back mountains

to extract the molten peach pit

at the core nor charm bacteria

into a snake dance with the songs they drum.

We imagine

that we move along parallels,

tropics that never converge,

each believing

in its own symbolic power to inscribe

the surface of the earth with its existence.

We imagine

that we wind like thread around a spool,

strands of singularity, each

its own color and texture.

We imagine that it matters

what we think,

what we do,

what we say. We believe in ourselves

like geography, like science,

something written in a book--

too large

too small.

All of these began life as New Orleans sunrises.

Another one

Experimenting with layering different photos and art work. Got some interesting effects I think.

My brain cells are fried

What WAS the name of that lake in Canada on our 3rd poets' summit???

I wrote this one after that trip and dedicated it to Ernest, Pat, Sonja and Carol F.

Poets Should Not Wed Poets

In Santa Fe, all the downtown buildings

are pink adobe. Some two-story

geometrics with arched windows, some--

like the McDonald’s--

squat, rosy boxes beside logo-bearing signs.

It’s all very picturesque at first,

so visually poetic.

But I wonder do the buildings tire

of each other,

search in vain for steel and glass

or a tiny white cottage,

even a rusty mobile home?

Balance.

Balance beside a Canadian lake,

those who speak

and those who listen.

Moving waters

and the stone grottos they lap against.

Silent cedars

and the bears that prowl amongst them.

Milky moonlight

and the coffee-black sky that accepts it.

Poets should not wed poets,

should not struggle with metaphors

for garbage night.

Much better to tune ears to casual wisdom

and write it down

without fear of infringement.

New and old friends.

Just found Michael Snider on Facebook. Remember him from Utne? I also found my college roommate and an old friend from yahoo chat days who we once visited in Montana.

Anyone got suggestions for poetry and/or photography blogs? Have been cruising around a bit and find an occasional interesting site to comment on.

Another one

The flower boxes in French Quarter