Sunday, November 30, 2008
...some Audre Lorde...
walking our boundaries
This first bright day has broken
the back of winter.
We rise from war
to walk across the earth
around our house
both stunned that sun can shine so brightly
after all our pain
Cautiously we inspect our joint holdings.
A part of last year's garden still stands
bracken
one tough missed okra pod clings to the vine
a parody of fruit cold-hard and swollen
underfoot
one rotting shingle
is becoming loam.
I take your hand beside the compost heap
glad to be alive and still
with you
we talk of ordinary articles
with relief
while we peer upward
each half-afraid
there will be no tight buds started
on our ancient apple tree
so badly damaged by last winter's storm
knowing
it does not pay to cherish symbols
when substance
lies so close at hand
waiting to be held
your hand
falls off the apple bark
like casual fire
along my back
my shoulders are dead leaves
waiting to be burned
to life.
The sun is watery warm
our voices
seem too loud for this small yard
too tentative for women
so in love
the siding has come loose in spots
our footsteps hold this place
together
as our place
our joint decisions make the possible
whole.
I do not know when
we shall laugh again
but next week
we will spade up another plot
for this spring's seeding.
Ghost
Since I don't want to trip over your silence
over the gap that is you
in my dark
I will deal how it feels
with you
climbing another impossible mountain
with you gone
away a long time ago.
I don't want my life to be woven or chosen
from pain I am concealing
from fractions of myself
from your voice crying out in your sleep
to another woman
come play in the snow love
but this is not the same winter.
That was our first season of cold
I counted the patterned snowflakes
of love melting into ice
concealing our dreams of separation
I could not bear to write
our names on the mailbox
I could not bear to tell you my dreams
nor to question your
now this poem
makes those mornings real again.
"You were always real" Bernice is saying
but I see the scars of her pain
hidden beneath the flesh of her cheekbones
and I do not know how many years I spent
trying to forget you
but I am afraid to think
how many years I will spend
trying to remember
Power
The difference between poetry and rhetoric
is being
ready to kill
yourself
instead of your children
I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot wounds
and a dead child dragging his shattered black
face off the edge of my sleep
blood from his punctured cheeks and shoulders
is the only liquid for miles and my stomach
churns at the imagined taste while
my mouth splits into dry lips
without loyalty or reason
thirsting for the wetness of his blood
as it sinks into the whiteness
of the desert where I am lost
without imagery or magic
trying to make power out of hatred and destruction
trying to heal my dying son with kisses
only the sun will bleach his bones quicker.
The policeman who shot down a 10-year-old in Queens
stood over the boy with cop shoes in childish blood
and a voice said "Die you little motherfucker' and
there are tapes to prove that. At his trial
this policeman said in his own defense
"I didn't notice the size or nothing else
only the only." and
there are tapes to prove that, too.
Today that 37-year-old white man with his 13 years of police forcing
has been set free
by 11 white men who said they were satisfied
justice had been done
and only black woman who said
"They convinced me" meaning
they had dragged her 4'10" black woman's frame
over the hot coals of four centuries of white male approval
until she let go the first real power she ever had
and lined her own womb with cement
to make a graveyard for our children.
I have not been able to touch the destruction within me.
But unless I learn to use
the difference between poetry and rhetoric
my power too will run corrupt as poisonous mold
or lie limp and useless as an unconnected wire
and one day I will take my teenaged plug
and connect it to the nearest socket
raping an 85-year-old white woman
who is somebody's mother
and as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her bed
a greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time
"Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are."
Solstice
We forgot to water the plantain shoots
when our houses were full of borrowed meat
and our stomachs with the gift of strangers
who laugh now as they pass us
because our land is barren
the farms are choked with stunted rows of straw
and with our nightmares
of juicy brown yams that cannot fill us.
The roofs of our houses rot from last winter's water
but our drinking pots are broken
we have used them to mourn the deaths of old lovers
the next rain will wash our footprints away
and our children have married beneath them.
Our skins are empty.
They have been vacated by the spirits
who are angered by our reluctance
to feed them.
In baskets of straw made from sleep grass
and the dropping of civets
they have been hidden away by our mothers
who are waiting for us by the river.
My skin is tightening
soon I shall shed it
like a monitor lizard
like remembered comfort
at the new moon's rising
I will eat the last signs of my weakness
remove the scars of old childhood wars
and dare to enter the forest whistling
like a snake that has fed the chameleon
for changes
I shall be forever.
May I never remember reasons
for my spirits safety
may I never forget
the warning of my woman's flesh
weeping at the new moon
may I never lose
that terror
that keeps me brave
May I owe nothing
that I cannot repay.
Friday, November 7, 2008
winter
The raindrops are falling again
all about us
bringing a cold one could only mistake as winter
chilling my nose
and frightening these bones back into place
my muscles tighten against the wind
pushing thoughts toward the windows of the world
these panes chill my forehead, leaving a wet, white mark
next time--
i won't be mistaken
all about us
bringing a cold one could only mistake as winter
chilling my nose
and frightening these bones back into place
my muscles tighten against the wind
pushing thoughts toward the windows of the world
these panes chill my forehead, leaving a wet, white mark
next time--
i won't be mistaken
untitled
it is raining once again
misty drops are soaking through our compost
and curling around your eyelids
we look out across this misty earth
through speckled lenses
mixing hot breath with cool air
our secrets exhale into the leaves and grasses
lying softly beside the garden
so many miles i've trekked toward this moment
when all i've yearned for is here
and life is no longer perfect
misty drops are soaking through our compost
and curling around your eyelids
we look out across this misty earth
through speckled lenses
mixing hot breath with cool air
our secrets exhale into the leaves and grasses
lying softly beside the garden
so many miles i've trekked toward this moment
when all i've yearned for is here
and life is no longer perfect
secrets
I waited in the corner
by the candlelight
etching expectant words into my journal
outside, darkness spread herself wide open
i poured thoughts upon the pages
blue blood pulsed out of my pen
and out into the world
it's out there
the truth has been spoken
i read it
and saw it
on your face
as you passed by the darkened window
and inhaled the breath of my forgotten secret
by the candlelight
etching expectant words into my journal
outside, darkness spread herself wide open
i poured thoughts upon the pages
blue blood pulsed out of my pen
and out into the world
it's out there
the truth has been spoken
i read it
and saw it
on your face
as you passed by the darkened window
and inhaled the breath of my forgotten secret
with jubilation [post-election]
i read with jubilation the thoughts i wrote monday night
"the expectations are soaking into my lungs and i'm choking on the anticipation in the air"
"the expectations are soaking into my lungs and i'm choking on the anticipation in the air"
forgetting
the familiar smiles are fading
donna's voice - a calm amidst this storm
so quickly it blew in and took hold
ripping memory from it's foundation
whipping thoughts about as in a dust bowl
forgotten reasons and seasons
words without the weight of their meaning
how frightening this struggle must be for you
pulling at the roots of your soul
i can feel the pain as it uproots your being
erasing our faces
and you
donna's voice - a calm amidst this storm
so quickly it blew in and took hold
ripping memory from it's foundation
whipping thoughts about as in a dust bowl
forgotten reasons and seasons
words without the weight of their meaning
how frightening this struggle must be for you
pulling at the roots of your soul
i can feel the pain as it uproots your being
erasing our faces
and you
From Start Where You Are
"Although it is embarrassing and painful, it is very healing to stop hiding from yourself. It is healing to know all the ways that you shut down, deny, close off, criticize people, all your weird little ways. You can know all that with some sense of humor and kindness. By knowing yourself, you're coming to know humanness altogether. We are all up against these things. We are all in this together. So when you realize that you're talking to yourself, label it "thinking" and notice your tone of voice. Let it be compassionate and gentle and humorous. Then you'll be changing old stuck patterns that are shared by the whole human race. Compassion for others begins with kindness to ourselves."
"If you have this ideal of yourself as a hero or helper or doctor and everybody else as the victim, the patient, the deprived, the underdog, you are continuing to create the notion of separateness. Someone might end up getting more food or better housing, and that's a big help; those things are necessary. But the fundamental problem of isolation, hatred and aggression is not addressed. Or perhaps you get flamboyant in your healer role. You often see this with political action. People make a big display, and suddenly the whole thing doesn't have to do with helping anyone at all but with building themselves up."
~Pema Chodron, from Start Where You Are
"If you have this ideal of yourself as a hero or helper or doctor and everybody else as the victim, the patient, the deprived, the underdog, you are continuing to create the notion of separateness. Someone might end up getting more food or better housing, and that's a big help; those things are necessary. But the fundamental problem of isolation, hatred and aggression is not addressed. Or perhaps you get flamboyant in your healer role. You often see this with political action. People make a big display, and suddenly the whole thing doesn't have to do with helping anyone at all but with building themselves up."
~Pema Chodron, from Start Where You Are
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
letter of resignation
there is a toxic air around this place
it fills my lungs whenever i
enter the tan building across town
years ago we caught a cold
and just never kicked it
the conflict, the tension, these passive aggressive disagreements
they've taken their toll on my soul
my joy has waned
fallen into the shadows
of this illness that threatens us
slowly we are falling
like sentinels at dusk
traveling long distances before settling peacefully
toward that rhythm that's lulling us away
it fills my lungs whenever i
enter the tan building across town
years ago we caught a cold
and just never kicked it
the conflict, the tension, these passive aggressive disagreements
they've taken their toll on my soul
my joy has waned
fallen into the shadows
of this illness that threatens us
slowly we are falling
like sentinels at dusk
traveling long distances before settling peacefully
toward that rhythm that's lulling us away
time takes us back
draft 2
i cradled time in my hands today
watched it squirm around and felt its heartbeat
heard stories whispered
past, present, future-here at once
time's flesh is real and substantial, yet so fragile
like a jack-o-latern slowly composting itself
back to an earthen hue
draft 1
today i cradled time in my hands
considered it
watched it squirm
the years seem infinite and timeless at once
passing by like jack-o-laterns on all those friendly porches
their orange flesh turns to an earthen hue
before my eyes
i cradled time in my hands today
watched it squirm around and felt its heartbeat
heard stories whispered
past, present, future-here at once
time's flesh is real and substantial, yet so fragile
like a jack-o-latern slowly composting itself
back to an earthen hue
draft 1
today i cradled time in my hands
considered it
watched it squirm
the years seem infinite and timeless at once
passing by like jack-o-laterns on all those friendly porches
their orange flesh turns to an earthen hue
before my eyes
Monday, September 29, 2008
achieving balance?
today the sky bled for balance
a deep hue of desire painted the west as stock markets, money markets fell about us
like snow, so forgotten in the heat of passion
we've lost track of ourselves--our humanity
put too much stock in this imaginary world
hedged our bets on the numbers before our screens
worked toward imaginary security
this nest egg will evaporate soon enough
fall away, like the rest of it, and leave us here alone
penniless, empty pockets, hungry stomachs
a life of need and only ourselves to fill this void
a deep hue of desire painted the west as stock markets, money markets fell about us
like snow, so forgotten in the heat of passion
we've lost track of ourselves--our humanity
put too much stock in this imaginary world
hedged our bets on the numbers before our screens
worked toward imaginary security
this nest egg will evaporate soon enough
fall away, like the rest of it, and leave us here alone
penniless, empty pockets, hungry stomachs
a life of need and only ourselves to fill this void
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thai dinner
Kecia took this picture of me at dinner with our Sri Lankan friends. I really like this shot.
New friends from Sri Lanka
From L-R: Gayan, Tuan, Nomi, Sameera, Asanka
Bottom: Amila and Chamara
A few friends from work and I spent Saturday afternoon with 7 guys from Sri Lanka. They are training to become US-certified EMTs.
The Beaverton Valley Times ran a good article on their time in the US. Read it!
Sunday, September 21, 2008
capturing the essence of youth
after 26 years of breathing here...walking here...being here
in this reality we've constructed together
my waking dreams and sleeping thoughts
turn so often to this feeling of infinite possibility
when ideas move effortlessly from words..to laughter-filled moments...memories
that's the essence of youth
untitled
i'm dreaming of morning
when the dewdrops are golden once again
and the crisp air mixes cloudy against my hot breath
beside me you'll be
instead of this lumpy red pillow
turned cold in the early morning hours
it keeps falling off my bed anyhow
i must have been running in my sleep again
i can hear a train whistle in the distance
signaling its nightly passing
and entering my dreams
like reality sometimes does
when the dewdrops are golden once again
and the crisp air mixes cloudy against my hot breath
beside me you'll be
instead of this lumpy red pillow
turned cold in the early morning hours
it keeps falling off my bed anyhow
i must have been running in my sleep again
i can hear a train whistle in the distance
signaling its nightly passing
and entering my dreams
like reality sometimes does
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
a cup of tea
on a stroll through the neighborhood we ran into a friendly guy serving tea from his bus.
this unexpected experience made my night. his chamomile turned from tea to conversation to guitar playing.
it reminded me of how many beautiful souls walk among us. and it all began with tea.
http://freeteaparty.org/index.html
this unexpected experience made my night. his chamomile turned from tea to conversation to guitar playing.
it reminded me of how many beautiful souls walk among us. and it all began with tea.
http://freeteaparty.org/index.html
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Forest Park
there is nothing
except for now
the trees exhale in step with my cadence
beams from our sustaining orb
follow my footsteps
between beaten paths and worn rubber, the friction forces my weight forward
up overgrown trails
onward
upward
toward a reality unaware of yesterday or tomorrow
there is only this moment
this trail
and my steady breathing
except for now
the trees exhale in step with my cadence
beams from our sustaining orb
follow my footsteps
between beaten paths and worn rubber, the friction forces my weight forward
up overgrown trails
onward
upward
toward a reality unaware of yesterday or tomorrow
there is only this moment
this trail
and my steady breathing
the life of a brother
beautiful gray eyes
and strong hands
but not stronger than the willpower inside
in search of a deep connection-a meaning behind all our consumer-driven bullshit
he reads voraciously and sucks deeply from filtered words
the truth hides behind yosemite mountains and forest-filled jaunts
occasionally surfacing in this unexpected life
a kind soul navigating the worn road of the many who have traveled before him
reading their stories will not be enough for him
living
his only option
and strong hands
but not stronger than the willpower inside
in search of a deep connection-a meaning behind all our consumer-driven bullshit
he reads voraciously and sucks deeply from filtered words
the truth hides behind yosemite mountains and forest-filled jaunts
occasionally surfacing in this unexpected life
a kind soul navigating the worn road of the many who have traveled before him
reading their stories will not be enough for him
living
his only option
at 26
26 years later
my soul emerges
fully enshrouded with memory, tears, so many forgotten days
finally, she has awoken
her needs and desires
all clear, as crisp as an August morning
dew drops settle comfortably on my eyelids
bringing golden perspective with their presence.
my soul emerges
fully enshrouded with memory, tears, so many forgotten days
finally, she has awoken
her needs and desires
all clear, as crisp as an August morning
dew drops settle comfortably on my eyelids
bringing golden perspective with their presence.
Portland
Paris offers her art freely
London spoons the gray clouds like a lost lover
Rome accelerates from zero to 60 before I could remember to blink
Venice's memory paints romance across the sky
But Portland's cityscape with her familiar curves and scents
will always be my true love
London spoons the gray clouds like a lost lover
Rome accelerates from zero to 60 before I could remember to blink
Venice's memory paints romance across the sky
But Portland's cityscape with her familiar curves and scents
will always be my true love
your arrival
we roll together on this bed
now, tomorrow, yesterday
i chase your scent in my memories
but you are not real
i know that
still, my hands stretch out
in anticipation of your arrival
now, tomorrow, yesterday
i chase your scent in my memories
but you are not real
i know that
still, my hands stretch out
in anticipation of your arrival
to consider
sweat pours from my body as I crest Mt. Tabor
another ascent in the summer heat
chasing after this reality
bringing life to my legs after so many sedentary moments
comfortable with the chaos
letting go, letting life in
bringing dreams to the forefront
so many words clammer at once for my attention
all equally important
all valid in their unique way
each minute I consider them
like a model running away-I won't wear the polished outfits
so perfectly prepared for me
all chosen according to a higher plan
the blood courses rhythmicaly inside
my feet follow the beat as it unravels inside me
never knowing how far they'll travel today
what scenes they'll reveal to my eyes
or what thoughts my heart will consider
another ascent in the summer heat
chasing after this reality
bringing life to my legs after so many sedentary moments
comfortable with the chaos
letting go, letting life in
bringing dreams to the forefront
so many words clammer at once for my attention
all equally important
all valid in their unique way
each minute I consider them
like a model running away-I won't wear the polished outfits
so perfectly prepared for me
all chosen according to a higher plan
the blood courses rhythmicaly inside
my feet follow the beat as it unravels inside me
never knowing how far they'll travel today
what scenes they'll reveal to my eyes
or what thoughts my heart will consider
Quote
"I planted our relationship firmly on this earth; on the rich, dark soil of ambiguity, mystery and loss."
Krista Bremer
The cut (The Sun) Feb 2008
Krista Bremer
The cut (The Sun) Feb 2008
watching planes
watching planes land at PDX
they arrive so quickly
like a fleeting cloud
load and unload, mechanically
without emotion or understanding
my legs lead me aboard and suddenly
the world has changed so drastically since takeoff
the forested mountains are replaced with menacing desert
a vast sand expanse
empty, now
yet so full of footprints and memories
so many souls searching for meaning and riches
a great distraction
a landing
a takeoff
a mechanical way of being
they arrive so quickly
like a fleeting cloud
load and unload, mechanically
without emotion or understanding
my legs lead me aboard and suddenly
the world has changed so drastically since takeoff
the forested mountains are replaced with menacing desert
a vast sand expanse
empty, now
yet so full of footprints and memories
so many souls searching for meaning and riches
a great distraction
a landing
a takeoff
a mechanical way of being
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Sunday, July 27, 2008
the answer to anxiety
relax
hold your breath
look around
and let it out
stop tapping your fingers
be still
cease flexing your toes
can you feel the moment moving?
can you feel space expanding?
can you feel time ticking?
be still
life is happening
hold your breath
look around
and let it out
stop tapping your fingers
be still
cease flexing your toes
can you feel the moment moving?
can you feel space expanding?
can you feel time ticking?
be still
life is happening
the beauty of writing
writing frees inner demons from their cells
and exposes questions lingering deep inside
how easily honest words uncover pain, fear and doubt
uncomfortable though it may seem
probing deeply and answering candidly offers
waterfalls, rivers, lakes and rainstorms of catharsis
and exposes questions lingering deep inside
how easily honest words uncover pain, fear and doubt
uncomfortable though it may seem
probing deeply and answering candidly offers
waterfalls, rivers, lakes and rainstorms of catharsis
saying goodbye
my eyes fill to the brim in expectation of your departure
an empty chair where creativity and teabags once brewed
there's a void aleady
on the Web site, in the parking lot, the local coffeeshop
your peace, your mind, your spirituality have all colored our world a brighter shade
your name will always summon laughter, sincerity, dedication and talent
too many lessons to recount
there's a mark on my heart
left by your editor's pen
i'll hold it close to me
whenever i immerse myself in story
i'll listen for you in those paragraphs
and pass along the wisdom you've taught
an empty chair where creativity and teabags once brewed
there's a void aleady
on the Web site, in the parking lot, the local coffeeshop
your peace, your mind, your spirituality have all colored our world a brighter shade
your name will always summon laughter, sincerity, dedication and talent
too many lessons to recount
there's a mark on my heart
left by your editor's pen
i'll hold it close to me
whenever i immerse myself in story
i'll listen for you in those paragraphs
and pass along the wisdom you've taught
Why I love the Internet
A friend from work showed me this video: Where the Hell is Matt - 2008
I think it is really beautiful.
I think it is really beautiful.
Holden is
a summer camp
an intentional community
a hippy commune
a spiritual oasis
a place for old and new friends to meet and share
a retreat center where adults wear yellow 'let it mellow' shirts
and where heirarchy seemingly doesn't matter as much as the few moments we share together in our journey on this earth
a candlelit vigil to remind us we're not alone in this trek
a place where nature is both revered and respected, never controlled
full of compost bins--many more than garbage cans
a wildly optimistic take on how we can and would live in peace and harmony--if only we would try in great numbers
a beginning
Holden Village Web site
an intentional community
a hippy commune
a spiritual oasis
a place for old and new friends to meet and share
a retreat center where adults wear yellow 'let it mellow' shirts
and where heirarchy seemingly doesn't matter as much as the few moments we share together in our journey on this earth
a candlelit vigil to remind us we're not alone in this trek
a place where nature is both revered and respected, never controlled
full of compost bins--many more than garbage cans
a wildly optimistic take on how we can and would live in peace and harmony--if only we would try in great numbers
a beginning
Holden Village Web site
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
shedding the layers
i am unwrapping myself
so nervous
my heart ticks and cannot be calmed
not even for a minute
there's jam to be made
vegetables to be grown
clothes to be laundered
i can already hear the bubbles boiling up from those sweet red juices
even before the berries are picked
___________________________________
those mountains beckon in the distance
snowcapped and perfect in the sunset's calming light
pink and yellow, purple and white
___________________________________
i feel like digging into the earth
finding a damp patch and just sheathing my fingers inside
it reminds me of coming home after many months away
and finally feeling settled
our skin knows its origin and yearns to return
we all will, one day
after our hearts have pounded enough and sent the blood coursing through these familiar veins one final time
but i know, even when that day comes, i'll never have enough of this reality
these feelings that this dimension provides
the stories the trees tell me or the far off whisper of magic from mt. tabor
sometimes when i'm running i know this is perfect
this is enough
despite the pain and the sacrifice and all the struggle
i'll never stop falling in love with this reality
so nervous
my heart ticks and cannot be calmed
not even for a minute
there's jam to be made
vegetables to be grown
clothes to be laundered
i can already hear the bubbles boiling up from those sweet red juices
even before the berries are picked
___________________________________
those mountains beckon in the distance
snowcapped and perfect in the sunset's calming light
pink and yellow, purple and white
___________________________________
i feel like digging into the earth
finding a damp patch and just sheathing my fingers inside
it reminds me of coming home after many months away
and finally feeling settled
our skin knows its origin and yearns to return
we all will, one day
after our hearts have pounded enough and sent the blood coursing through these familiar veins one final time
but i know, even when that day comes, i'll never have enough of this reality
these feelings that this dimension provides
the stories the trees tell me or the far off whisper of magic from mt. tabor
sometimes when i'm running i know this is perfect
this is enough
despite the pain and the sacrifice and all the struggle
i'll never stop falling in love with this reality
Sunday, May 11, 2008
so close
i can still hear the gunshots
that sent those bullets ripping through our professor's chest
and the whoosh of the car that nearly hit me
i can hear my grandmother's labored breaths
so deep and mechanical as the color drained from her skin
i can still taste the fear on my tongue
and feel the knot in my heart
death is so close
that sent those bullets ripping through our professor's chest
and the whoosh of the car that nearly hit me
i can hear my grandmother's labored breaths
so deep and mechanical as the color drained from her skin
i can still taste the fear on my tongue
and feel the knot in my heart
death is so close
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
with patrick
blue pony is smiling
behind blind eyes
he knows nothing
but unsailed seas
and unharmed pinatas
until the rise of the moon
behind swollen vision
reminds him of
hidden footprints
dew-laden flowers
reveal that truth he'd been seeking
tucked behind his ear like a cigarette
it was there waiting for the fire
ringing in his ears
accompanying his heartbeat
tick, tick, tick, tick
without melody
serene
behind blind eyes
he knows nothing
but unsailed seas
and unharmed pinatas
until the rise of the moon
behind swollen vision
reminds him of
hidden footprints
dew-laden flowers
reveal that truth he'd been seeking
tucked behind his ear like a cigarette
it was there waiting for the fire
ringing in his ears
accompanying his heartbeat
tick, tick, tick, tick
without melody
serene
Sunday, May 4, 2008
from renn fayre
throw it in reverse, baby
back it up
as far as you can
relive it time and time again
it's only in your mind
the words, wounds
still unhealed
so many years later
_______________________
in black & white
the perception of
complexity
is lost
_______________________
a calm meadow
haunts me
grizzly?
did i imagine your blonde hair in the distance?
_______________________
melancholy moods
sway among the wanderers
peace among them
between them and the journey
a sweet sadness in their venture
_______________________
blue ballpoint
take me to the truth
tonight
if not now, when?
_______________________
Memories drip from our shirtsleeves
like that walk through last November's rain
you told me a secret i swore to keep
the reverberations still echoing in my heart
feelings surfaced, surprising
even now
i never knew
_______________________
Breathing smoke
from smoldering fire
we put out long ago
like matches igniting in a landfill
the burning returns me to the present
where i'm content in the sitting
without the thinking that
accompanies so much of this life
simply being
on the grass
living with the cherry blossoms
_______________________
lonliness
these red walls
remind me of the void
we shared the most
and then lost everything
but you're out there
in this sorrow
we're still connected
_______________________
I can see your footsteps in the sand
a lonely set of toes
thoughts accompany your movement
but i don't know them
how many miles will you walk in my absence?
how many memories will you make?
i long for the magical touch of your fingers, your mind
that smile, the slow upturning of your lips
and brightening of your eyes
an embrace for eternity
back it up
as far as you can
relive it time and time again
it's only in your mind
the words, wounds
still unhealed
so many years later
_______________________
in black & white
the perception of
complexity
is lost
_______________________
a calm meadow
haunts me
grizzly?
did i imagine your blonde hair in the distance?
_______________________
melancholy moods
sway among the wanderers
peace among them
between them and the journey
a sweet sadness in their venture
_______________________
blue ballpoint
take me to the truth
tonight
if not now, when?
_______________________
Memories drip from our shirtsleeves
like that walk through last November's rain
you told me a secret i swore to keep
the reverberations still echoing in my heart
feelings surfaced, surprising
even now
i never knew
_______________________
Breathing smoke
from smoldering fire
we put out long ago
like matches igniting in a landfill
the burning returns me to the present
where i'm content in the sitting
without the thinking that
accompanies so much of this life
simply being
on the grass
living with the cherry blossoms
_______________________
lonliness
these red walls
remind me of the void
we shared the most
and then lost everything
but you're out there
in this sorrow
we're still connected
_______________________
I can see your footsteps in the sand
a lonely set of toes
thoughts accompany your movement
but i don't know them
how many miles will you walk in my absence?
how many memories will you make?
i long for the magical touch of your fingers, your mind
that smile, the slow upturning of your lips
and brightening of your eyes
an embrace for eternity
Monday, April 28, 2008
My home
What pride I feel to be surrounded by bicycles across Hawthorne.
Lulled to sleep with memories of kind smiles from strangers.
Local coffeeshops filled to the brim
Like foaming chais or steaming americanos.
Breathtaking Tabor leaves me with chills no matter how many shoes I wear out circling her.
Sun, rain, fog, wind, heat, cool, mist, dark gray, evergreen-somehow nouns move to adjectives when describing the weather here
Like this mist has become a color I associate with home.
The Welsh "hiraeth," resonates with me. I feel such longing just thinking about leaving.
I wonder if I ever will.
Lulled to sleep with memories of kind smiles from strangers.
Local coffeeshops filled to the brim
Like foaming chais or steaming americanos.
Breathtaking Tabor leaves me with chills no matter how many shoes I wear out circling her.
Sun, rain, fog, wind, heat, cool, mist, dark gray, evergreen-somehow nouns move to adjectives when describing the weather here
Like this mist has become a color I associate with home.
The Welsh "hiraeth," resonates with me. I feel such longing just thinking about leaving.
I wonder if I ever will.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
hmm
contentment flows through me
but it's a quick fix
like placebo decaf
hot and black
coffee scents
like cold, frozen, mocha ice
splash across my hot tongue
tasting the ground up grains
of the earth
my frothy life races by
juices pick me up with a crazy beat
i can only hope to keep up
as the bands blast their truth across the sky
of this ampitheater life
but it's a quick fix
like placebo decaf
hot and black
coffee scents
like cold, frozen, mocha ice
splash across my hot tongue
tasting the ground up grains
of the earth
my frothy life races by
juices pick me up with a crazy beat
i can only hope to keep up
as the bands blast their truth across the sky
of this ampitheater life
enjoying the roses
it's just a little pin-prick sensation
that tells me i'm alive
a little itch to wake me up
maybe a little too much
and here i am--wainting for rains to fall away with the dawn
and roses to rise up and fill my nostrils with a sweet sensation of truth
their choler pricks me
and here i am
awake with it all
watching it all
turn ever so beautifully
before my eyes
that tells me i'm alive
a little itch to wake me up
maybe a little too much
and here i am--wainting for rains to fall away with the dawn
and roses to rise up and fill my nostrils with a sweet sensation of truth
their choler pricks me
and here i am
awake with it all
watching it all
turn ever so beautifully
before my eyes
life
Life is about the journey; a race, a long forest run, a friend-filled jaunt, a stride through the grass, a trip to be remembered.
This makes me want to buy a newspaper
Interesting video Patrick showed me years ago. Still relevant today.
http://mccd.udc.es/orihuela/epic/
http://mccd.udc.es/orihuela/epic/
Monday, April 21, 2008
awakening
i feel like i've awoken
after a long sleep
i'm looking at myself in the mirror but don't recognize what i see
it feels like the first time even though i know it's not
this outline seems unfamiliar, fuzzy
this person i'm seeing has so many nascent ideas and opinions
where have they been all this time?
these new thoughts catch me off guard
surprise me-delight me-make me anxious, sometimes make my heart beat faster
so many bright and vibrant sensations
after a long sleep
i'm looking at myself in the mirror but don't recognize what i see
it feels like the first time even though i know it's not
this outline seems unfamiliar, fuzzy
this person i'm seeing has so many nascent ideas and opinions
where have they been all this time?
these new thoughts catch me off guard
surprise me-delight me-make me anxious, sometimes make my heart beat faster
so many bright and vibrant sensations
today i caught the sight of fire
bikeriding home from the library
with my pocket full of words
i caught sight of a perfect moment
a rainbowed tabor in the distance
fall leaves exploding against the sky
damp salmon street lined with a row of slow burning fire
hope overcame me
as it sometimes does
it seemed to me during that moment
every dream could be realized
if only for a sunflecked moment
with my pocket full of words
i caught sight of a perfect moment
a rainbowed tabor in the distance
fall leaves exploding against the sky
damp salmon street lined with a row of slow burning fire
hope overcame me
as it sometimes does
it seemed to me during that moment
every dream could be realized
if only for a sunflecked moment
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Lines from the Zanzibar Chest
The tableau was more sublime to me than the cityscapes of Florence, or Paris, or Manhattan. I’d hear the muezzin pipe up from a dozen mosques for asr, afternoon prayers, caressing the broken lines of the city with Kufic arabesques of sound. The amplified cries to God, impact explosions, sea breeze, softening light, and my heartbeat wove together.
Farther on down the path in the emerald filtered light of the banana grove, I dropped my trousers and squatted. My heart pounded. I stared up through the jungle into the sky. “What if there is only this?” As if in reply, my bowels loosened. How was it that I came to be stuck inside this strange, involuntary body? It seemed to me that there was no heaven or hell, right or wrong. There was only this.
And I remembered how Carlos had once said, “in the midst of carnage, you will see the utter evil and the supreme good, side by side.” Carlos spoke for all of us who long for such clarity. We will rarely find it in the so-called normal life. I know that the privilege of witnessing the extremes stretches something inside the heart or the soul or the mind, so that there is a void we cannot ever hope to fill again in ourselves. In all my pained imaginings of how Carlos had come to his final moment, only one thing really matters. Carlos was on the story, looking for the utter evil and the supreme good.
It rained and hordes of cracked feet churned the ground into a quagmire. “It’s Woodstock without the music,” said one nurse I talked to. Only a handful of foreigners were there to help at the start but they quickly crowded in. Every humanitarian disaster is a golden fund-raising opportunity for the charities.
Lizzie and I arrived in the polluted heat of a London summer. We stood frozen at street corners as a blur of pedestrians burst out of subways and spilled like ants down pavements. The crowded bars, the expensive shops, the fashionable clothes-to me it all seemed a population rushing about to no avail. In an art gallery I saw a tank of formaldehyde in which was suspended a shark. In another was half a pig. I thought of the soap gorilla at Kigali airport. Waiting for the Underground train, I stared at a huge poster of a woman in her underwear staring down at her own breasts. Hello boys, she said. At the movies we witnessed sickening violence, except that this time we held tubs of popcorn between our legs and the gunfire and screams were broadcast in digital Dolby. We had escaped a place where evil stared right at you from the sockets of a child’s skull on a battlefield, only to arrive in London, where office workers led lives of such tedium and plenty that they had to entertain themselves with all the fucking and killing on the big screen. So, here then was the prosperous, democratic, and civilized Western world. A place of washing machines, reality TV, Armani, frequent-flier miles, mortgages. And this is what the Africans are supposed to hope for, if they’re lucky.
Farther on down the path in the emerald filtered light of the banana grove, I dropped my trousers and squatted. My heart pounded. I stared up through the jungle into the sky. “What if there is only this?” As if in reply, my bowels loosened. How was it that I came to be stuck inside this strange, involuntary body? It seemed to me that there was no heaven or hell, right or wrong. There was only this.
And I remembered how Carlos had once said, “in the midst of carnage, you will see the utter evil and the supreme good, side by side.” Carlos spoke for all of us who long for such clarity. We will rarely find it in the so-called normal life. I know that the privilege of witnessing the extremes stretches something inside the heart or the soul or the mind, so that there is a void we cannot ever hope to fill again in ourselves. In all my pained imaginings of how Carlos had come to his final moment, only one thing really matters. Carlos was on the story, looking for the utter evil and the supreme good.
It rained and hordes of cracked feet churned the ground into a quagmire. “It’s Woodstock without the music,” said one nurse I talked to. Only a handful of foreigners were there to help at the start but they quickly crowded in. Every humanitarian disaster is a golden fund-raising opportunity for the charities.
Lizzie and I arrived in the polluted heat of a London summer. We stood frozen at street corners as a blur of pedestrians burst out of subways and spilled like ants down pavements. The crowded bars, the expensive shops, the fashionable clothes-to me it all seemed a population rushing about to no avail. In an art gallery I saw a tank of formaldehyde in which was suspended a shark. In another was half a pig. I thought of the soap gorilla at Kigali airport. Waiting for the Underground train, I stared at a huge poster of a woman in her underwear staring down at her own breasts. Hello boys, she said. At the movies we witnessed sickening violence, except that this time we held tubs of popcorn between our legs and the gunfire and screams were broadcast in digital Dolby. We had escaped a place where evil stared right at you from the sockets of a child’s skull on a battlefield, only to arrive in London, where office workers led lives of such tedium and plenty that they had to entertain themselves with all the fucking and killing on the big screen. So, here then was the prosperous, democratic, and civilized Western world. A place of washing machines, reality TV, Armani, frequent-flier miles, mortgages. And this is what the Africans are supposed to hope for, if they’re lucky.
Monday, April 7, 2008
That year by William Stafford
The last year I was your friend, they fell for days “headlong flaming down”-the leaves, I mean.
Aspens heard the news.
On the deck the birdseed sprouted-blue and brown and rose: two evening grosbeaks came, trim and ordered, quiet colored, like marines.
We stood each alone: the grass had found a tide but we felt none.
When they hurt enough, we let them out-the words, I mean-and let them trigger our tongues till they lugered a million times, like a drum, till the world reversed and leaped, after its good name.
But sunset frisked us for anything dry or warm, and that year we stood alone: the grass had found a tide but we felt none.
That year when I was your friend-in words, I mean-I was afraid.
Despite our care we heard the news.
It was more than words.
Persuaded like the grass, we felt the tide
at last: we knew before we were told, and we shook as the aspens did, from a storm inside the world.
My favorite poem by William Stafford
Words from Lao Tzu
Men knowing the way of life
Do without acting,
Effect without enforcing,
Taste without consuming;
‘Through the many they find the few,
Through the humble the great;
They respect their foes,
They face the simple fact before it becomes involved.
Solve the small problem before it becomes big.
The most involved fact in the world
Could have been faced when it was simple,
The biggest problem in the world
Could have been solved when it was small.
The simple fact that he finds no problem big
Is the sane man’s prime achievement.
If you say yes too quickly
You may have to say no,
If you think things are done too easily
You may find them hard to do:
If you face trouble sanely
It cannot trouble you
Lines from "The Dharma Bums" by Jack Kerouac
“We went on, and I was immensely pleased with the way the trail had a kind of immortal look to it, in the early afternoon now, the way the side of the grassy hill seemed to be clouded with ancient gold dust and the bugs flipped over rocks and the wind sighed in the shimmering dances over the hot rocks, and the way the trail would suddenly come into a cool shady part with big trees overhead, and held the light deeper. And the way the lake below us soon became a toy lake with those black well holes perfectly visit still, and the giant cloud shadows on the lake, and the tragic little road winding away where poor Morley was walking back.”
“Smith you don’t realize it’s a privilege to practice giving presents to others.’ The way he did it was charming; there was nothing glittery and Christmasy about it, but almost sad, and sometimes his gifts were old beat-up things but they had the charm and usefulness and sadness of his giving “Dharma Bums refusing to subscribe to the general demand that they consume production and therefore have to work for the privilege of consuming, all that crap they didn’t really want anyway such as refrigerators, TV sets, cars, at least new fancy cars, certain hair oils and deodorants and general junk you finally always see a week later in the garbage anyway, all of them imprisoned in a system of work, produce, consume, work, produce, consume, I see a vision of a great rucksack revolution thousands or even millions of young Americans wandering around with rucksacks, going up to mountains to pray, making children laugh and old men glad.”
“There just isn’t any kind of night’s sleep you get in the desert winter night, providing you’re good and warm in a duck-down bag. The silence is so intense that you can hear your own blood roar in your ears but louder than that by far is the mysterious roar which I always identify with the roaring of the diamond of wisdom, the mysterious roar of silence itself, which is a great Shhhh reminding you of something you’ve seemed to have forgotten in the stress of your days since birth. I wished I could explain it to those I loved, to my mother, to Japhy, but there just weren’t any words to describe the nothingness and purity of it. ‘Is there a certain and definite teaching to be given to all living creatures?’ was the question probably asked to beetlebrowed snowy Dipankara, and his answer was the roaring silence of the diamond.”
“In all this welter of women I still hadn’t got one for myself, not that I was trying too hard, but sometimes I felt lonely to see everybody paired off and having a good time and all I did was curl up in my sleeping bag in the rosebushes and sigh and say bah.”
“I still had peanuts and raisins left over from our last hike together. Japhy had said, ‘I won’t be needing those peanuts and raisins on that freighter.’ I recalled with a twinge of sadness how Japhy was always so dead serious about food, and I wished the whole world was dead serious about food instead of silly rockets and machines and explosives using everybody’s food money to blow their heads off anyway.”
mangrove
we tangle ourselves in a web of emotion
only to unwrap our souls in the end
can these connections we create bind us or can they be unfastened easily?
i find each person leaves their mark on my soul
affecting my actions and entering my thoughts
growing now more numerous with the days
stamping their breaths and words onto my memory
remembering their scent in the grocery store or the way they laugh before the punchline
cycling madly toward home backpacks filled with fruit and soy cream
dancing wildly after midnight
beer in hand
lips stretched out to smile
each person a branch extending from my trunk
down they reach toward the life force below
adding another sustaining vessel to my soul
only to unwrap our souls in the end
can these connections we create bind us or can they be unfastened easily?
i find each person leaves their mark on my soul
affecting my actions and entering my thoughts
growing now more numerous with the days
stamping their breaths and words onto my memory
remembering their scent in the grocery store or the way they laugh before the punchline
cycling madly toward home backpacks filled with fruit and soy cream
dancing wildly after midnight
beer in hand
lips stretched out to smile
each person a branch extending from my trunk
down they reach toward the life force below
adding another sustaining vessel to my soul
coming off a high is like
slamming the brakes and blinking twice
waving at friends who never recognize your face
slipping on a muddy ledge, then catching yourself before sprinting on
sweating through a nightmare
then waking to the blaring beep of an alarm clock
feeling emotions click then calm, rush then hush
making a conscience effort to remember
then fading off to sleep
not knowing when these sentiments will awake again
waving at friends who never recognize your face
slipping on a muddy ledge, then catching yourself before sprinting on
sweating through a nightmare
then waking to the blaring beep of an alarm clock
feeling emotions click then calm, rush then hush
making a conscience effort to remember
then fading off to sleep
not knowing when these sentiments will awake again
winter
i happened upon some reddened leaves
imagine, on a dark January day
all around me foggy windy rain pelting in from each direction
at this moment i could feel the warmth of summer
imagine, on a dark January day
all around me foggy windy rain pelting in from each direction
at this moment i could feel the warmth of summer
Thoughts
“What is time but a broad expanse of interwoven experience?”
“Time is a curse on all of us, but perhaps the greatest teacher of all.”
“The void of loneliness finds itself filled for the sake of being full.”
“Time is a curse on all of us, but perhaps the greatest teacher of all.”
“The void of loneliness finds itself filled for the sake of being full.”
wanting...needing?
i want total connection
instant rapport
sensual expression
to sense time without urgency
until clocks stop their eternal ticking
can i express these needs?
i’m attempting
perhaps that is the first step
instant rapport
sensual expression
to sense time without urgency
until clocks stop their eternal ticking
can i express these needs?
i’m attempting
perhaps that is the first step
conformity
people live like rain on a window pane
momentarily, they live as unique and single drops
beautiful in shape and size
reflecting light like a prism
eventually forced together through wind and time
falling unknowingly together
they meet the earth in a uniform splash
just like the others.
momentarily, they live as unique and single drops
beautiful in shape and size
reflecting light like a prism
eventually forced together through wind and time
falling unknowingly together
they meet the earth in a uniform splash
just like the others.
UP
growing up strikes me like a match
it explodes
then recedes
wood sucked into a charred expanse of time
wax waiting to be molded with memory.
it explodes
then recedes
wood sucked into a charred expanse of time
wax waiting to be molded with memory.
Quote from Gunnar Skirbekk
from “The idea of a welfare state in a future scenario of great scarcity”
“Every human being should have the right to live and should have some minimal economic support. Those who do not have such support should get it, they should get it from the community to which they belong…each person has dignity, not only physiological needs. Therefore, the aid that is needed should not be given in a humiliating way. Such aid is not charity, but communal sharing through a general welfare arrangement.”
-Gunnar Skirbekk
“Every human being should have the right to live and should have some minimal economic support. Those who do not have such support should get it, they should get it from the community to which they belong…each person has dignity, not only physiological needs. Therefore, the aid that is needed should not be given in a humiliating way. Such aid is not charity, but communal sharing through a general welfare arrangement.”
-Gunnar Skirbekk
fate?
the world is moving all around me now
like a rush it comes
soaking me through
i stand, watching and waiting for a move but frozen with my own deliberation
i find the beauteous joy in letting it come
the moments have no owner beyond the wind
so i let them fly away into the sky
beyond anyone’s control
and shutter with the power of fate
like a rush it comes
soaking me through
i stand, watching and waiting for a move but frozen with my own deliberation
i find the beauteous joy in letting it come
the moments have no owner beyond the wind
so i let them fly away into the sky
beyond anyone’s control
and shutter with the power of fate
being away
I have gone away for a time
left the familiar schedules of last year and thrown myself into a new race
the pace here moves differently
the miles flow with a new current
i conquer the mountains of a new landscape
painting sweat upon the streets as at home
feeling even more alive than i did before i left
left the familiar schedules of last year and thrown myself into a new race
the pace here moves differently
the miles flow with a new current
i conquer the mountains of a new landscape
painting sweat upon the streets as at home
feeling even more alive than i did before i left
home
yesterday i arrived in a new city
so far away from my familiar oregon
the waterfalls rushed past toward a new and unfamiliar ocean
red barnyards beckoned to me-promising words from a much older tale
i saw them, knowing all the time that life grows differently here
the country road wound round to the base of the last mountaintop and we cascaded freely down
upon norway’s historic capital town the crowded city streets bustling with busy buyers
all of it reminding me of home
the colorful markets, quiet parks, small places for a treat
these were all familiar in the street
it is now, that i have traveled this far distance away that i can hear the similarity in our humanity
the faces look different, yet hold the same expressions
people laugh, talk, sing-all the same
connecting to each other and learning each other by name
hearts beating together with the eternal tick of time
it is here, thousands of miles away, that i feel most closely connected to my homeland
so far away from my familiar oregon
the waterfalls rushed past toward a new and unfamiliar ocean
red barnyards beckoned to me-promising words from a much older tale
i saw them, knowing all the time that life grows differently here
the country road wound round to the base of the last mountaintop and we cascaded freely down
upon norway’s historic capital town the crowded city streets bustling with busy buyers
all of it reminding me of home
the colorful markets, quiet parks, small places for a treat
these were all familiar in the street
it is now, that i have traveled this far distance away that i can hear the similarity in our humanity
the faces look different, yet hold the same expressions
people laugh, talk, sing-all the same
connecting to each other and learning each other by name
hearts beating together with the eternal tick of time
it is here, thousands of miles away, that i feel most closely connected to my homeland
born on the cusp
like a storm, the cusps can brew, as deep as the ocean
enveloping a personality with layer upon layer untileven the layers are at odds
stubborn and grounded taurus weighs on flighty gemini
pushing against the pull and pulling against the push
like a wave upon the sand every rock emerges upon the coastal shore
every month must face a change
what a beautiful thought that one can be two, or that two could be three
they say mutts make the best companions
so it goes inside of us
the waves brewing, the crashing, the pelting from the inside out
i’m waiting for that lull between the storms
enveloping a personality with layer upon layer untileven the layers are at odds
stubborn and grounded taurus weighs on flighty gemini
pushing against the pull and pulling against the push
like a wave upon the sand every rock emerges upon the coastal shore
every month must face a change
what a beautiful thought that one can be two, or that two could be three
they say mutts make the best companions
so it goes inside of us
the waves brewing, the crashing, the pelting from the inside out
i’m waiting for that lull between the storms
Skyline
years ago, before i walked the earth
there was a silence
a calm
the cars of today were elements buried deep within the earth
french fried potatoes didn’t exist then and the skyline was a misty impressionistic green
silence held it altogether
in the black and white photographs of yesterday no one smiled
they told no lies
those huge golden arches across the skyline today suck away all the green and leave me alone to wonder?
everyone smiles in photographs
but i know they stand in confusion of our consumer-driven world
i’m left without any answers
just a lingering for the past
there was a silence
a calm
the cars of today were elements buried deep within the earth
french fried potatoes didn’t exist then and the skyline was a misty impressionistic green
silence held it altogether
in the black and white photographs of yesterday no one smiled
they told no lies
those huge golden arches across the skyline today suck away all the green and leave me alone to wonder?
everyone smiles in photographs
but i know they stand in confusion of our consumer-driven world
i’m left without any answers
just a lingering for the past
with me
when you’re with me me
the world moves slower
the cars appear fewer
those evergreens sigh more sweetly
a beacon rock view more breathtaking
chocolate and wine means a quiet night in your arms
newspapers are sunday morning and candles a weeknight dinner
after work and before sleep
emotions move between us
tears-laughs-sighs-connections
i see hope
in our eyes
the world moves slower
the cars appear fewer
those evergreens sigh more sweetly
a beacon rock view more breathtaking
chocolate and wine means a quiet night in your arms
newspapers are sunday morning and candles a weeknight dinner
after work and before sleep
emotions move between us
tears-laughs-sighs-connections
i see hope
in our eyes
Quote from Will Durant [historian]
“Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, stealing, shouting, and doing the things historians usually record; while on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry, and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happened on the banks. Historians are pessimists because they ignore the banks for the river.”
Will Durant, historian
Will Durant, historian
A quote from William Stafford [poet]
“I believe that the so-called ‘writing block’ is a product of some kind of disproportion between your standards and your performance…one should lower his standards until there is no felt threshold to go over in writing. It’s easy to write. You just shouldn’t have standards that inhibit you from writing…I can imagine a person beginning to feel he’s not able to write up to that standard he imagines the world has set for him. But to me that’s surrealistic. The only standard I can rationally have is the standard I’m meeting right now…You should be more willing to forgive yourself. It doesn’t make any difference if you are good or bad today. The assessment of the product is something that happens after you’ve done it."
William Stafford, poet
William Stafford, poet
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