I'm Thinking of Her

Jacobs Road, Kennewick, WA, May 2017

I don't know how to pray

or to whom

or what

or why

I know the sky

the grass

the flowers

and speak with them

In whispers

"I'm thinking of her"

Again?

"Always"

The Mists

There were

In the forest

In the twilight

Mists

Curling like snakes

Along the damp ground

And up and through the gnarled limbs

Of ancient Oaks

The mist

Wraps around my neck

As I gaze up through the leaves

Through the mists

Curling up into the starless sky

I try to scream

But the mists fill my open mouth
Choking me

And so I lie here silently screaming

While ghosts in white

Curl like snakes

Around me

Whispering

About white matter

And centimeters

And incisions

The sky above me is bright with stars

Blindingly painfully bright

Painfully

I squeeze my eyes shut

But the pain comes still

Just behind the eyes

Here

In the twilight

In the mists

Curling like snakes

Along the damp ground

And up and through the gnarled limbs

Of ancient Oaks

Under which I lie

Shrouded in mist

This Rose

I kissed this rose

Drawn to it

As if it were your mouth

Overcome

I withdrew bleeding

 

New Year's Eve at the Gate

 

I wait

Outside the walls

to wish you

Happy New Year

It's late and cold

and everyone has

Gone into the town

to find warmth

While outside

I wait

Watching to see if you

come through the gate

To find warmth

William Blake

Photo by Subharghya Das & Mysore-India

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

On the Pulse of Morning

By Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours- your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

Lubię spotykać nowych ludzi

We have an opening for

An English teacher in Krakow

The opening is small

So teachers taller than 120 cm

Or wider than 60 cm

Need not apply

Although other openings exist for

Very big Polish people willing to learn

Hangul or Chonsongul

Candidates must be

Proficient in Haidong Gumdo

And be willing to travel

To say the least

Which isn't saying much

BTW

Pyongyang is a lovely city

Perched prettily on the Taedong River

And welcomes all peoples of the world

With open gulagi

A recent trade mission to Krakow

Came with nothing to trade

(they asked for a Moscow loan)

But small talk

And so left empty handed

Which in Poland is known as

Jumping over the

Moo Goo Gai Pan

With bare feet

In addition to Krakow and Pyongyang

Openings exist in the

Fabric of the Universe

Candidates must own at least

One cat or know

what box the cat is in

Himalayan Tahr Goat

by Hedy Carra

Himalayan Tahr Goat

We had to look into the rising sun to see you

crossing the dry creek bed 

and then our empty field

at the end of autumn when there is little to browse

and we have plowed up any grass that remained. 

You crossed the empty expanse 

without looking right or left,

presenting us your profile—

haughty or stoic or perhaps distraught—

and went straight up the next hillside you came to. 

How did you get

from your majestic mountains

to our scrubby hills where

we are used to our everyday does and bucks,

our quail, fox, raccoons and squirrels?

Now every day we ponder why such a visitor

walked through our life one misty morning.

On Seeing Cirrus Clouds Over Amon Basin

Feathery clouds fanned out across the sky

Like an Indian Chief’s headdress

A soft steady wind washed down Amon Creek

And whispered through the birch lining its banks

Leaves shimmered silver and green and gold

What do women do with their handbag

What do women do with their handbag

when they jump off a bridge?

There is no chair back to hang the bag over

No booth to place the bag on

so that sliding out will require picking it up

It’s a nightmare

Leaving the handbag

at the checkout counter

Having it plucked out of the shopping cart

Leaving it on the adjoining seat

in the movie theater

It is filled with everything she needs

Lipstick

Three different colors

Chapstick

Screwed to the max

Hair brush

She keeps meaning to clean it

Eight pens

None the same

Nail file

Broken

Both pieces

are in there somewhere

Breath mints

Opened

Cigarettes

A lighter

A white plastic spoon

from Wendy’s

Dark glasses

non-prescription

She can’t wear them

Makeup compact

the mirror is broken

Prozac

Keys

Cell phone

Wallet

With pictures of her children

Her identity is in there

It could be stolen

Valium

A two Euro coin

Nickel-Brass

Copper-Nickel

Or she could leave the bag

in the rental car

at Orly

Upset after he told her

On the same bridge

Where she stands now

Wondering what to do

with her handbag

It's a nightmare

Dievs Rides

Dievs rides

fierce across fields of ice and fire

His horse plunges through snow and flame

Heedless

He rides

Gray cloak billowing behind

He raises a silver sword

And slashes open cosmic dust

To create worlds

Making the world we know

the world of which we are a part

the world we now decimate

Dievs rides

Sword raised

And in one violent thrust

Obliterates that which would

obliterate earth

this human blight

Amanita Virosa

Rising from the forest floor

A bubble

Smooth

Nonstriate

Pure white

She blossoms

Her membranous volva

Falling away to reveal

The phallus stem

Reaching for the filtered light

She is veiled by annulus hem

And wears a viscid cap

Moist

Underlaid

With gills of gray

Amanita virosa

Of the family Amanitaceae

Dainty and shy

The scent of old roses

Smelling faintly of decay

Voluptuous

She opens her lamellae

To release her angel spore

And sow destruction

All across the forest floor

Looking for Words

They straggled in looking bored

Three girls and a boy

The boy carrying a skateboard

“Leave that outside, please”

The boy mumbles “Geez”

The girls disappear in the stacks

The only evidence of their presence

The sound of the gum they smack

There’s a stealthy feel

To their listless meandering

Are they here to steal

Or do they hope to find porn?

Haven’t they heard of the Internet?

Ignoring the card catalogue

The girl in grunge runs her fingers

Along a row of reference books

I leave the desk and ergonomic chair

My bunker in this small library

And walk to where they loiter

The boy turns to look at the air

"May I help you find something?"

I say, being helpful with grammar

The grunge girl looks at me boldly

“Where’s your thesaurus at,” she says

Picture of a Woman

Picasso, Woman with a Blue Hat

I think about her constantly

An exaggeration?

Perhaps

Then, I think about her

Every minute of every day

As I shave in the morning

Looking in my eyes

Reflected back at me

Asking questions

I will not answer

At breakfast

Wondering what she’s having

For her breakfast

A roll and coffee

Fruit and cheese?

Here at my computer writing

Or while I’m painting

Yes, I’ve taken up painting again

And I see her in my mind’s eye

And wish I could paint her

How I would treasure that painting

But I have no image of her to copy

And even if I did

I haven’t the talent

To reproduce her image on canvas

But if I had her photo

At least then I would have

Something to look at

And I would talk to her

Instead of mumbling to myself

In the mirror

While shaving

Send me the photo

You promised

Send it!

Jewel Thieves

I walked along the railroad tracks

Looking for gems tossed from the train

By jewel thieves getting rid of the evidence

Before the law caught up to them

I imagined the lawmen

Chasing the train on horseback guns blazing

Hanging on to their hats

And hollering “Yippee i-o-ki-ay”

And I watched that train disappear around the bend

Or was I the one around the bend

Because whoever heard of lawmen

Chasing crooks on a train hollering

“Yippee i-o-ki-ay”

Shouldn’t it have been

"Yippee-i-o-ki-yay?"

I suppose it's hard to say

But I better get back to work

If I have any hope of finding gems

Along these tracks

Which seem to go on forever

2012: The Apocalypse is This Dance

The apocalypse is this dance

In which partners twirl

Round and round

Holding hands

Two by two

To dizzying effect

Until they fall and roll

Round and round

One upon the other

On the ground

They tear at each other's clothes

To find the nakedness

They desire and rolling

Round and round

They perish in the fire

And turn to ashes

Which in a whirlwind swirls

Round and round

To form a formless

Dervish

It whirls

Round and round

Flaunting its sex

Its cold and cruel heart

Pouring blood upon the ground

And then the earth

And all the oceans and the sky

Round and round

Turn red

And every living thing

Is dead