Super Heroes

Super Heroes

She is an ass, a gluteus.

Indeed she is the gonads of a
ghoul and the galls of a
gremlin; she is the cat in
the Kremlin near the ghoul and the gremlin;
she is the
lemon in the deal and the
hemline (or the feel) of das
grass in German :

Indeed she is the voice of
the vermin and the noise of
the voice and the vice of
the voice of the vermin
the virtuous virgin in das
grass in German and the
whine in the wine and
the virtue of the virgin the
surgeon and the sturgeon.

Thus with her I am wretched.
For she is a clam and I am
Superman in old
Pakistan with a breeze in my
caftan and a sword in my
left hand. She is Robin and I am
Batman.

Indoor Life

Indoor Life

I’m the editor of Indoor Life- a magazine
without sun, without streams, without trees
or wind or rain or snow.

A periodical of people behind closed doors
peeking at neighbors from cracks in a blind;
a jailhouse journal

filled with stories of forgotten folks, old fogies
and disenfranchised crackpots-those crazy
relatives who always say weird things

or wear funny hats, or smell bad.
A bold bulletin that banishes the
once best among us to solitude.

A daily diary of retired empty-nesters
numbly facing flickering screens
like undead corpses hungering

for living flesh, discarded by family-
insensate stones of the now tribe,
devoid of feeling, animation.

A chronicle of cloistered souls
sans light, earth, wind or fire
waiting for the end; or perhaps
the beginning.

Border Crossing

Border Crossing

Throughout the night
wind howls
from the deep throats
of hungry wolves,
rises,
circles the moon
like a bat’s shadow,
like a symphony’s silhouette,
like cigar smoke,
like the raging dream
of Latinos
crossing the desert,
clutching their possessions,
desperate arms
grasping the wealth
of their lives.

A Letter after the Rain

A Letter after the Rain


I have tried many times
To tell you some things
and have failed: how life
can be like a child-simple
and uncomplicated. How
with its wounds, it
scales mountain after mountain
on slick ice;
how the warm evening, gray
like a breeze, has persuaded
our old tired bodies
to protect each other. How
when we try to believe everything
the believing muscles
of our minds soon tire,
and make us weak and we
don’t believe the simplest
true things then. Simplicity
is our survival.
I made coffee this morning,
and it rained last night. Today
along the palm-lined street
a southwest roadrunner-
wet-feathered
but intent on its prey
zooms along the asphalt
like a frantic tourist
afraid, so afraid
without a roadmap.

The Woolly Bugger

The Woolly bugger

This morning I was staggering numbly
around the brown carpet of my apartment ,
stumbling like a drunken clown, from bed to bathroom,
from computer to bookcase standing in the corner,
and I found myself staring at the cover of a fishing book,
where my eyes fell upon the words woolly bugger.

No tennis shoe lost on the beach by a child
could launch one into dream more suddenly —
a dream where I hunched over a fly vise by a stream
in a deep green forest-covered setting
imitating caddis, cutworms and crawly things
from fur and feathers, a gift for my uncle- a woolly bugger.

I had never seen anyone tie a woolly bugger
or fish one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from wrapping
thread over thread again and again
until I had made a buggy-looking
black and olive and woolly bugger for my uncle.

He left me character and strength from his teaching,
and I gave him a woolly bugger.
He took me to many a ball game,
remembered my birthday each June,
came to the hospital during my tonsillectomy,
and then took me out for ice cream to soothe the pain

and taught me to fish and swim,
and I , in turn, presented him with a woolly bugger.
Here are the endless summer days, he said,
and here are my shoulders to lean on, and friendship.
And here is your wooly bugger, I replied,
which I tied with my own two hands.

Here is a friendly nature and a smiling face ,
sturdy limbs , strong will and good genes,
and one fine mind to comprehend complexity , he whispered,
and here, I said, is the woolly bugger I made by the stream.
And here I want to tell him now
All things are not equal or fair

that one can never pay back such kindness ,
but I must admit that when he put
the fuzzy woolly bugger on his line,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this revolting, repulsive bug I tied
by the stream, would be enough to make us even.

Honeysuckle

Honeysuckle

Lying under the bush he breaks
the slim stems of fragrant honeysuckle,
squeezes the milky juice, squirts
sweet nectar into her yearning mouth.
A tiny taste of hope on the tongue.

She dashes home at dusk. The aroma
of chimney smoke, thick country odors abound.
The cabin buzzes and shakes with the chainsaw.
He coaxes a large pine log into the fire.

He stops, looks at her, reaches
to pick a spike of ragweed from her hair.
“Be a good girl”. He picks up the saw
and yanks the rope on the motor. “Won’t you”?

Notes From a Nest

Notes From a Nest

On this river’s edge
too quiet for my thoughts
to pick up and carry
the echo downstream
are the faint high chirps
of a nesting chick, an osprey
calling among the pines.
One small bird of many, the water’s
sound reaching its nest
arousing primal hunger
like the moon urging the tide.
The same urge again and again
to one bird alone in a tree
or to many such birds,
each solitary chirp calling
a mother, in this forest
which is theirs and theirs alone.

Bedsprings

Bedsprings

strewn by the river’s edge, they
crawl like creepy caterpillar carcasses

twisted and torn , rusted by rain,
impressed by lovers, lifeless or long gone
withholding their secrets
A riverside tribute to sleep and sex

a memorial to ecstasy and joy,
the chronicles of lives
spent loving in the shadows.
Aching steel springs might still be of use,

but never in the tall weeds of the river bank,
naked among thistles, remnant
of some wild creation, witness

to the innate miracle: the instinct to be close,
however it blemish and bruise.

Soldier's Wives

Soldier’s Wives

These are the wives of soldiers
sent off to war;
brave wives, highly prized
and living alone again
like cloistered nuns. These are the wives
left to cope in the light of the dawn,
their eyes still damp,
the children sleeping safe in their beds.
See how the light
Casts gray shadows on the edge
Of the tarmac etched in their thoughts.
These are the wives that keep hope alive.

The Polarbies (A parody of a parody)

Today I decided to write a parody based on Edward Lear's poem the Jumblies. Thought it would be a fun exercise.



The Polarbies

I
They went to fish in a Gale, that night,
In a Gale they went to fish:
regardless of the weather report ,
On a blustery day, a final resort
In a Gale they went to fish!
And when the Gale turned hard and fast,
And sea birds squawked “You’ll never last”
They laughed out loud , “This Gale ain’t grand,
But we don’t fear monsters! We don’t give a damn!
In a Gale we’ll go to fish!”
One and only, one and only,
is the place where the Polarbies sail;
their skulls are shaved, their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

II

They blew away in a Gale, that night,
In a Gale that howled so strong,
With only a rugged seaman’s barge,
rowing arms so stout and large,
guiding away from the throng.
And all the doubters who watched them leaving,
“O won’t the widows soon be grieving “!
For the sea is black, and the night is cold,
And come what will, it’s tremendously bold
to fish in a Gale at night !”
One and only, one and only
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved, their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

III

The tide it soon came in, like mad,
That tide it soon came in;
So to keep them aloft, they lashed their arms
to a scarlet ibis away from harm,
And they told each other their sins .
And they rode the storm in a garbage pail,
And told each other fabulous tales,
Though the sea be black, and the night be cold,
“Yet we never can think we were reckless or off beam,
While of fish in a Gale is our dream”
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved, and their beards are red ,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

IV

And throughout the darkness they fished away;
And when the sun arose,
They laughed and lurched into a looney tune
To the fading light of a silvery moon,
In the mist of the ocean’s throes.
“O Shitagua! How great we sail,
When we fish in a Gale and a garbage pail;
And forget our woes in the blue-green sea ,
We float away like the birds and bees ,
In the midst of the ocean’s throes!”
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved and their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.


V
They sailed in the ocean blue, they did,
To an island all lush with fruit,
And they found some plums , and a paradise bird,
And a bed of yams, and a buffalo herd ,
And a pond of snowy geese.
And they acquired a goat, and some red armadillos ,
And some goose feathers for soft downy pillows ,
And thirty of blocks of Tillamook cheese,
And endless treasures to do as they please
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail ;
Their skulls are shaved , and their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

Westward Ho!

Westward Ho!

These are the new houses
of civil servants
retired from their tedium;
adobe brick houses, on golf courses
sunning themselves in the desert
like leathery lizards.

These are the palaces
dreamt about in the snows of Minnesota,
the icy winds of North Dakota, the white
plains of Montana.-beneath the palms, far from
harsh living, seasonal extremes.

These are the neighborhoods
where flowered shirts and white
belts adorn the graying masses
like tourists on a perpetual vacation

living in towns with names like
Mesquite, Palm Springs, Taos and
Sedona, where they migrate like
spawned out salmon seeking
sanctuary in natal streams,
in the silt of decaying carcasses.

A Noel Coward Poem

Today I decided to post a poem by Noel Coward Called "Nothing is Lost" to remind me of the influence of ideas, thoughts and emotions that other poets and writers have upon my own life and writing. Every so often we read a poem or a story that has a profound impact on us. This is such a poem:

Nothing Is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

What's in My Poems?

What’s in My Poems

Strange things, like an old bicycle. Country
things, dilapidated barns, cows, kerosene lanterns.
Some mountains also. A disposition for being compassionate.
Thrift store hand-me-downs , exotic
castoffs. Room for hand-tied flies, and for
Oregon.. Grounds to jail me or sanctify.
Fragments and hints that never connect
the dots. Calculated confusion , the kind
that befuddles. Gaps in credibility.
Thunderous blunders. Evenings that weep over
an unnecessary war. Ideas you know exist
but you can't find them. A person’s fantastical
dreams, probably mine.

Life on the Edge

Life on the Edge

You came back disheveled
and haggard, your eyeballs red
from gazing at the bright lights
of a week-long bender. Somehow
out in that fog-ridden seascape
the tide came in
and brought you home. We seem
like an island, but the bright lights
keep calling your name, the same bars
keep obscuring the sun
high over our austere atoll
and the sundial in the graveyard
turns round upon its small pedestal,
where, sheltered in rows of cold marble,
a stone statue of the Blessed Virgin
kneels in prayer.

Wheeling Into the City at Rush Hour

Wheeling Into The City at Rush Hour

My bike floats down the hill
into traffic, where everyone seems
so much busier than I am,
but no, it's not the people
who are busy, it's the vehicles,
the multi-wheeled iron animals,
the autos with windows of shaded glass ,
the trucks rolling on smoky side streets.
The people resemble you and me:
their eyes don't see very well,
their expressions are doleful,
and they're always shaking their fists .
But their cars are new and well-built,
and even the ones that aren't,
the ones that have bent fenders
and loud mufflers and odd parts
hanging on the frame, even these
seem to be trying like crazy to placate me,
to say something to me in plain English,
clearly, in words I can understand.

Migrations

Migrations

North of Seattle, the icy glacial rivers
shimmer at night like wet seals.
The sound of the water cleanses the air.
Fresh salmon seek their natal beds
in the fine bedrock of mother streams.
They decay and cry out to the osprey
to take them all. The tracks from the sea
roar with the clack of their train.
They keep their schedules on time.

Fishing Partners

Fishing Partners

The lust that bought the boat
just wasn’t small enough
to keep control, so the boat
just grew and family funds
fell flat in a world of
more power, shinier trinkets
and electric downrigger
thing-a-ma-jiggers. The bankers,
creditors and lenders
always sit fore and aft
as he pilots the shiny craft
to fish and relax in the
splendor of the ocean deep.

The Decider

The Decider

During Mr. Bush’s speech, he pounded his fist
To punctuate a stance he was taking. I don’t remember
Exactly what he was saying, but as he talked
He looked at the crowd as if they were
extraterrestrials, and his voice cracked and slowed,
as if speaking to a deaf person, or a roomful
of schoolchildren, and he looked at his fist
and raised it high in the air, like Hilter
in an old newsreel, and told us not to
worry, he was “The Decider”.

Morning Coffee on My Deck

Morning Coffee on My Deck

Along my block
birds sing
from the stages
of green palm fronds,
trilling,
hitting high notes
like wind chimes,
like angels,
like the fine tuned accents
of opera singers
prancing on stage,
eyes towards heaven,
rhapsodic voices
greeting the day
with their songs.

Winter Slumber

Winter Slumber

Somewhere this winter
a bear is growling,
crystal beads of sweat
drip down its thick fur.
Nothing is there
beyond the dark den,
nothing to growl at
except, perhaps, the dream
of some bright fish
leaving an imprint,
leaping over clear rapids,
from a gene pool
comprised of generations
jumping gallantly
into his hibernating jaws.

Trendy Fly Fisherman

Trendy Fly Fisherman

Today he's wearing his new shirt
drab and olive like an ominous cloud
rising over the mountain peaks,
and as he wades camouflaged like
a stealthy warrior, the sleeves speak
to each other, warning the bright fish below.
His waders are neoprene, green and warm, as tight
as Danskins on a prima ballerina, or gymnast.
(They leave him wrinkled when he sheds them).
He's got on his felt-soled wading shoes
in pond-scum green and a fishing vest
that matches his new shirt, but bears the signs
of eons treading this water. His hat is ragged
and floppy, like a torn flag in the wind, and it shades
the sun from his eyes as he searches
the riffles, casting about in a dead drift.
The fish are rolling and laughing under
this olive cloud of fishing fashion.

New Year's Visitor

New Year’s Visitor

The rain’s an old friend
to this desert; the cacti
have been inviting
the moist clasp of his hands
since the beginning of time.
Now it’s a new year again
and again that old pal
comes to visit.
He’s slicked down his hair
with his spittle. He’s washed
his face, then disappeared
in the evening
toward the mountain, and returned
refreshed at first light
dancing in the wind.
In the afternoon, you can find
in dry desert patches
his drowsy face
Reflected in small pools.