On Leaving Town

On leaving town, the storm slammed the back door shut and taking a few breaths, a short rest, returned for another night of gust and blow.
November's trees, nearly undressed and clinging to a few scraps of yellow and brown rags, tightened their grip on bark and branch; reluctant trance dancers, arms upraised, silhouetes against failing day grim cloud skies. Homeless and discarded, brown leaves danced a twist with plastic scraps and paper cups, while poles vibrated and fiddled their lines. The pounding of frantic slapping screen doors, asking to come inside and the drum rolls of errant garbage cans somersaulting. Wind chimes wildly clanking, the constant crashing of glasses dropped from high. Warm and furious, the wind shook the town tried to peel the asphalt off our streets.
I went outside for the massage and sights while cozy moles slept peacefully deep underground.

I Walk My Conscience

Long after the late clock chimed the last midnight tone; after the blue flicker in living room windows has died; when the wet, bare and black branches of sleeping trees sag under the weighty presence of an endless blanket of silver star light; with sleep no friend to me, I walk my conscience.
I have it on a long leash but she stays near, too near, and points to the street corner, to the hexagonal sign. Yet, I won't stop. The triangles that I ignore and never yield. All the cautions and wrong ways that I neglected--.
This empty street: a perfect companion to my empty self. Looking up, I feel the elusive edge of infinity with the invisible fingers my eyes sprout. I wonder why and how I came to be here, underneath this endless silver blanket.

The Soft

The rain faithfully carries the hills down to the sea. Piece by reluctant piece the hills let go, sacrificing their own skin; waving good bye in a stoic way as they see streams industriously ferry minerals into the belly of the ocean.
The soft always overcomes the hard.
The hardest wood will fall and lying there, raked over by the tender fingers of the earth, bleeding slowly and letting go; that which it borrowed from the rich ground, so long ago, now chewed on by insects and hollowed, empty--
The soft will always overcome the hard.
Arrogance and pride will melt--like glaciers sanded by a warm wind. Fear exposed under all that cold. The trembling soothed and the soft salve applied.
The soft will always overcome the hard.
Magnificent metal into rust-dust made. The works of man forgotten; buried in piles of grime and silt. The tallest towers tilt and turn their lofty thoughts down; down into the hungry gut of the earth.
And still the wind brings the gentle rain. The soft will always overcome the hard.

The Organizing Tendency

The Ubiquitous Amorphic and Tenuous Organizing Tendency fell from the sieve beyond heaven, as a tiny drop heavy as all the stars and planets and their distant dark cousins. It fell and instantly spread in all directions, covering the earth, filling the micro cracks and wrapping it's tender arms around each grain of sand and dust. It left a sheen of starglow over the world and the colors vivified and elegance poured into the thirsty eyes of children and over the hungry, jaded souls of adults.
Goats danced with delight and rabbits romped. Salamanders smiled as the sun ignited a more brilliant white. The earth tickled itself and belly laughed. The moon, proud in marriage, danced pirouettes on the honeymoon evening.
The garish became garnish. The ending, the beginning. A deepness entered the shallow. Black and white envied each other.

Somehow Torn

Somehow torn-the world;
When a single tear
Ran down my cheek
On wet baby feet
Fresh from a wading pool
Across tickling grass and
Giggled over my chin
Then down my neck

The Green Flame

Somehow a seed is created; a spark. It is nurtured into a green flame that grows to a verdant blaze; burns in the rain and under an encouraging sun. A living thing, leaves as flames; throwing sparks into the wind; cast far and regenerating another green fire.
Thrown far, the whole world burns, and we, who live on plants, warmed by them and nurtured; lovers in dance; consumed and returned into the ground to become the kindling and substance for those flames.
The whole world burns.

The Soulution

There is something hard in the soul of this world. A vast emptiness impervious to light and discovery; dense and unmovable. We are all tied to this by subtle strings; tangled and tied, bound by birth and strangled in death.

Throughout this Universe a soft wind flows. Though soft, it is strong and rages in our bones. A fine wind that tickles the dense and makes it laugh; enters the mouth and curls throughout. Our bones laugh with it , as do the rocks. The whole world shivers.

It is this wind which is more ocean than air, that we must learn to swim; we must learn to breathe under water, untie the tangled and allow the Free to soften our resolve. We must learn to be still in order to move. We must find those tiny cracks, to penetrate the dense; carried into the core, a willing solvent; tender and untiring; eroding from within and smoothing the sharp edges.

Dale's Story

It was war in the forest, on the forest.Tough young men, made of a wood harder than most. The grinding of motorized, metal teeth; a sharp crack and the warning cry:"Tim-berrr---" The loud lash of tons of tree falling on the sensitive ears of the earth. It is loggin' or euphemistically called: harvesting lumber. Beams and studs delicately marred by red tallies of human blood.
It is a dangerous job. The trees die, so do many men; like war, everyone wounded; some on the hills and some in town. Hard, hard work; long days and never enough money. The hills snuff the fragile and the unlucky, the slow and the disrespectful. Spilling their golden cup of life.
It was a freak accident he survived. A log slipped out of the choke chain and rolled off the pile. Perhaps it was the cursed mud, the muck that with every step took it's toll from that day's purse. That tied his boots together; he slipped. The log fell and he fell and death tapped him on the neck and said: "What comes around, goes around." Tapped there, on the nape a man wakes and watches the slow, sure and dutiful crushing, from foot to face; gravel crunching under truck wheels; of bones snapping and crackling into powder.
But this life is a trick. And sometimes that which harmed you, that which made you late and tired, made you slip, may help you. That which you cursed a hundred times on rainy days, at which you spat venom and words, can become a blessing.
"It was the mud that saved my life," the old, gaunt man told me. "If it weren't for the mud, I woulda died." The pain there, in his sunken, half-blind eyes, nodded with a gleeful grin; the pain that dances with him every day, insisting on yet another spin.
An Angel came and carried him away; plucked him off that wet mountain side. A noisy machine filled with men; frantic men that worried his body away from the authoritative commands of the neck tapper. And doctors and hospital beds did their part.
I cried. With fumbling fingers I rolled a cigarette, pausing to wipe the tears from my eyes; unable to tell him how sorry I felt. I tried. Each try overruled by the terror I saw in his past and with each seeing, another wave of remorse rolled over my body. Lighting the cigarette gave me pause to tell him how sorry I felt that that happened and that that still crushes him.

Refusing to Leave

Refusing to leave, this poem was extracted from the basement by a Swat team, heavily gassed and tazed into submission:

The green cheeks on the tart apple tree
are showing a blush of red
as if
the grinning tree next door
said

Psst! I'm feeling so elated
that we two pollinated

To Wit the Appetite

I am glad that
that empty pair of shoes
at the foot of my bed
does not belong to me

The Long Sleep

My dog sleeps. Too Li is a champion sleeper. An hour of exercise, a bowl of food, two reluctant trips to the back yard and unless something interesting plops down, sleep is in order. Bed by seven, under till noon. No Shit, really.
I hardly see her. She prefers to be stuffed into a wad of blankets and cooks in there, air-less, like a luau pig. I wonder how she breathes. I take her temperature by sqeezing her ears. When those begin to glow, she is comfortable.
She is going to hell. Everlasting fire? Really hot? Hell, let's go now. Gnashing of teeth? Hummins in distress? Hot Stuff! Where are they selling the tickets?
I believe that the Humongous Universal Tendency sends us messages. They are like dreams, significant and yet tenuous. Easy to ignore, undemanding. (Or not) I can't help but think that Too Li is one of those metaphorical illustrations sent by the Woo Woos. I get to interpret what the cipher reads.
No doubt, I love Too Li. All my friends do, too. And she loves them, I believe she knows how to love as most people love. She is unbelievably cute. Excuse me while I wilt, cute. Easy to love, with one exception.

Oh, what is this? You are up at Eleven? Go Pee! I just ushered her out the door. Must be breakfast time. I've had several cups of coffee and have watered the toilet more than twice. You back? Back from the pee break. Then on the couch, next to me, taking a doggie shower. Same as cats do. That's prep for a nap, I believe. Yup, since none of her friends have stopped by and the unemployed woodcutter isn't working, might as well take a nap.
I feel a nap coming on, myself.

Old Woman Winter Knits

Happy New Year! We had a white Christmas, whiter than I can remember. It has been on my mind for two weeks.

Old Woman Winter
knitted a white blanket that covered the town. From her white hair the knots fell. All night and the next day the knots fell in spirals and swirls until the streets rejected cars and welcomed squealing children sledding on slide-easy hills. Houses sported roof wide shawls. Benches and bushes bore turbans. Lawns dozed deep under thick afgans and the telephone poles stood proud with white caps on their crowns. Electricity wires adorned with fines necklaces and fir trees held a thousand mittens.
On the darkest nights of the year the white fell from her long hair, magnifying the night light of street lamps and sunrise dawned sparkly glistening.
The knots fell and fell until handrails grew impossibly tall and stairways lost their abrupt edges. Busy-ness ground to a halt. Hot chocolate and Christmas cookies perfumed kitchens. Neighbors smiled with the amazement of small children as Christmas glittered in their eyes.
The Gross Domestic Product fell as the knots fell. The Real Economy grew. Neighbors helped neighbors, while the garbage man stayed home with his family. Garbage cans stood waist deep in snow, waiting patiently for pickups. People were forced to rest and read books in the morning. Everyone suffered a grand time.
Old Woman Winter knits leisure blankets.

 
The Aluminum Chateau burried by snow. The Barren is gone; exhiled to a warmer place. Merry Christmas to you all! Here is a small piece:
The burdened bamboo and bent beauty bush
are stirring to shiver, to shed the troublesome snow.
Singing softly a wind song, wishing the white wet away.

Pulling The Down Down

Late after long shadows bounced off the East and shooting high, painted sky; night sky.
She turned and pulled the down down. White roofs and white lawns; cold. Slow wind and fine song; the rythmic sway of bare poplars. My body's dreams flee from my open mouth and mingle with the falling dreams of clouds. Clouds that only wish to hold the tender, warm earth in a shivering embrace.
When we wake on a sharp, cold morning, warmth dug itself a deep refuge and the clouds had fallen from on high. White roofs and white lawns.

What Have we Really Learned

Before this, before this civilization came here, before the first towns and schools, the river flowed and fed this valley with mountain minerals, meandered free and flooded yearly. This land breathed, but it is desert now. Armored and impervious to rain and sun; pressed upon, by concrete and asphalt, worried over by the passing of ten ton trucks and the vacant steps of preoccupied pedestrians.
This land sleeps and dreams of weeds growing in cracks; licks the oily rain that seeps through fractures in the white lined black skins of parking lots and tire worn freeways.
I was sitting there, on this land, under a concrete marvel overpass. Above me, a broad way flew frozen; a multi-million dollar umbrella that shelters the homeless, who smoke borrowed cigarettes as they file the minutes off long, listless days.
A block away flowed a hurried metal river of whizzing cars and whooshing trucks, while sparse weeds waved from the cars-going-by gusts.
I was sitting on flattened card board boxes in the company of a tin can ashtray (so as to keep the view pristine), while the shackled bones of tarred trees tirelessly held wires that feed information and electricity into sharp-edged buildings. At my feet lapped the frozen asphalt parking pond and turned to rock and then skyward; an engineering marvel, burden on stout pillars that press insistent into the belly of the dreaming land.
A young man approached, cigarette in hand, cradling a book. He sat smoking nervously, flicking the ashes overmuch as he ingested the words of the book. He seemed oblivious to the thunderous passing of a freight train; burdened and graffitied box cars with tortured steel wheels grinding on screeching metal tracks, endless passing, car after car like segments of a mile long screaming centipede. On one of the cars was written in white, flowery cursive script: "i never really learned anything."

Fallen Memories of Summer

I like raking leaves. It happens once a year. A yearly ritual to mark the end of Summer; Summer, the Sun season, followed by the Falling of the leaves.
There are four red ornamental plum trees, out front, on the edge of the street. During their Falling, they weave a red blanket at their own feet; red drops of blood; the blood of Summer. Each leaf is a sliver of a memory; of hot afternoons and short, starry nights. Each leaf an early sunrise and evenings plump with light 'till ten.
These memories I gather. My rake an extension of my hands. Long fingers and longer fingernails. No hurry; the little piles pulled together. I am their shepherd urging the flocks to gather. These leaves are precious to me. Shining wet with November dew; red, yellow and green dabs left by an extravagant Artist.
These piles I take to the bank and deposit that wealth in my compost bins; my summer memories warehouses. All the long winter they will cook, simmering under drizzly skies; a brew for my garden; a spring tonic and hearty breakfast. Each leaf transformed, yet holding within the clues and urgings to tell my flowers what to do when the Sun Season returns.

The Secret Garden in late November

Here you see the Barren of La Conner, at the main gate of the Aluminum Chateau, taking a smoke break, after another battle with the invading Pine Needle Hordes. Notice the weapon of choice in hand, recently liberated from a neighbors' trash can. The Barren, though valiant warrior that he is, wins all the battles, yet is losing the war.

Dreams of the Frost Queen

Long after the reluctant November Sun closed her eyes and pulled that horizon blanket over her head; long after the cheery living room lights faded and the flickering blue television turned off; childred tucked and turned in; Mothers and Dads dropped into downey beds: long, long after midnight, the Ice Queen comes.
She sends the cold fog, a thousand fingers on a thousand hands, fine tendrils and spirals pushing into town, from far fields amd distant waters, alone in the dark quiet; a show unannounced. Secret hush.
She comes and dress'd the windows in fine lace; gliding 'cross mundane sweat of asphalt streets; leaving sparkles and King's crowns; grace of young ladies' curtsies; of soft music under crisp star light.
Children called, sending their shadows to play. Shadows that slide between ridgid posts and fence board, into silver streets, gliding reflections of distand stars; sugar dusted side walks and crunch grass. Twirling, chuckling, silent shouting, the dance of shirtless care; of abandon in the cold love of November's Consort; the Ice Queen.
At dawn, when the black sparkle sky fades to royal, then rose edged blue, when the surprized Sun lurches from her Eastern bed; gazing into bedroom windows, tapping on far walls, warm covers and closed eyelids, saying:
Come see the passing of my shadow, there on your window, the children of the Frost Queen.

Winter Mornings, Summer Afternoons

It is getting colder. I can tell by feeling Too Li’s ears. Like the elephant, her large ears dissipate excess heat. If there isn’t enough heat in the environment, her ears get cold. I can also tell by what I wear. Three days ago I dug out my winter beret, the warm, wooly cover that acts as the full head of hair which I ain’t got. No more t-shirts in the morning; no more sandals without socks. It’s up to the attic to get the sweaters and jackets, soon.
Still, the worst of Fall has yet to drop on us. We get Indian Summers, often. It is a welcome segue, a slow letting down, instead of a sudden drop into the freeze. This time is for getting ready.
I have a long list of to-do’s to prepare for winter. At the top of the list: enjoy the Fall. Makes sense and I try and I know that the true cricket fiddles well into the night.
On the ground, under the tree, a carpet of glowing apples lies waiting. A glass of juice, held in crisp skin, patiently waiting liberation by bite; my appetite or the tender milking of the ground, the roots and their allies. Still the leaves cling to sturdy branches, working and waving goodbye. Fading to yellow, then to brown. In January the last apples will hang on bare branches, without tinsel or ropes of light; out in the cold, suspended in time, long after sacrificed noble firs hug garbage cans in back alleys. Then, I will pick the first rose of the year, from tough bushes on the corner, in front of the Rose Man’s house. Fighting roses that never taste fertilizer, nor the gardeners clip; that just keep pushing delicate colors into the cold, gray air.