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Irises

Mockingbird

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I KNOW

I know its only egotism,
but I don't wish to grow old alone.
I want to grow old with you.

As the light of Autumn thins in the air,
while a fine ash settles over the city
burying it gradually in layers of soot,
which little by little settles
discounting all life until everything
becomes a slate shade of grey.

I'm weary of the herds of sheep
with their Judas goats.
Their dull illusions are all so drearily transparent,
when they stare out of their
dry sockets as though
we don't matter at all.

And I'm weary of not going to see Europe
decomposing in rigamortice again this year,
weary of the endless procession of days.
Why can't we occasionally change a couple of their names,
or perhaps merely their order.
Its mindless and numbing like the morning routine
getting up and going to the toilet,
shaving, brushing one's teeth and hair,
putting on deodorant and what for?
To live each day without honor,
or being happy as a wage slave
without any honest self-respect.

For just once let us live to be happy
I'm weary of the hypocrisy
of empty social conventions.
Measuring worth in terms of things.
The acceptable one glass of white wine with dinner.
The chats with technocrats
instead of interesting conversations
with highly educated persons.

Let's stop fooling ourselves:
no one thinks much of days
that are like riding in a line
of tired old geldings.

I have seen some exhibitions
at small city museums
raised to autotons of commerce.
They sit there behind large desks
with their computers that tell them what to think.
I'm weary of rejoicing when I finally find
one that's mediocre, let them turn into statuary
at least that would be functional
the dogs could piss on them.

If we continue making up things
to fill up our time,
when will we have time to live?

I weary of walking through this dark tunnel.

Children should have, when their young,
room to grow, to play, to explore
not just be monitored and
breath the stale exhalations
of decaying breath.
Let the children alone!

They must have room to grow!
Give them the opportunity to think for themselves
let them discover the blue flaming dawn
and feel for themselves that first tentative kiss.
Instead of being spied on to see who is at risk.


THE PORCH LIGHT

On the front porch is a light
in a vaguely opaque crystal fixture
filmy white like an old reheamy eye,
a black antique frame forms slanting trapezoids,
which at night create an eternal twilight.

The front porch is a vast portal
where dark mysteries meet little intimacies.
It is spacious and open because there
is nothing on three sides and the garden can be seen,
variegated green, and usually the rain pummels
against the roof with a delightful din.

There I learned to love the infinite matrices
that define space, the wonder of optics
found in a raindrop, the geometric planes
of the blue walls, the crystal eyed windows,
and the swept clean rain washed steps; the
continuities and discontinuities that constitute time.

There one said fair well for the last time to children
off to college and came out to greet them upon their
return, from far away distances across chasms of years.
It reminded me of when I said goodbye, too;
when I had grown up and at 21, vanished beyond the mountains,
to where there was a young girl waiting wearing a pink
dress who cried out in a high voice, "he's here!".

But that was then and the slightly vague
translucent crystal light is the theme of this poem,
because how many of life's adventures perhaps commenced
from there, and what a focal point of life the front porch served.

Fall is all about us. Various perspectives are made
in a myriad of ways,
they travel in the clouds, they are startled reflections in
translucent pools of water; or the various colored leaves
suddenly trapped by filtered sunshine. So that anyone
can see them in the slightly opague crystal of a light if they
but looked at the world through the eyes of a child- even adults
who have grown up, specially with them it should be one
of the radiant splendors of their domain. The great
expansive universe, the vast mystery whose resident
is in the vaguely opague crystal light.

The never exhausted intoxicating friendships of that crystalline light
where when I seem alone and its purpose has expired,
while the laughter and noise of conversations and endless inane
mind games sound down the dead grey street, it continues
the same way. And I, rushing up to it looking at its
illuminating solitudes see deep down into its depths,
towering mountains, sun glinting seas and crowded cities
in which I wander, fused with the melted crystal
that is the autumn colors of my weeping verse.


A NOTHING

Its all so beautiful,
to sea the blazing horizon,
crowned with its crimson fire,
ignite the sky and river.

The beauty of Autumn afternoons,
the crystal clear air after the cold rains,
to breath the year's last roses
whose cool fragrance is so overwhelming.

How beautiful to see diamond raindrops
fall heavily from an Autumn sky,
and watch the red dancing flames
flicker in my stove.

Its all too beautiful, when exhausted
to sleep in a sweet blanket of oblivion,
and to eat , and drink and be happy: what a tragedy
that for so many who are denied liberty-

none of this means a thing.


RACING WITH THE WIND

Racing down the wet street
a young boy balanced on his bicycle,
rides near nightfall, his piston pedals
pounding up and down
his feet flashing fast
in the exhausted light.

The torturously twisted street
streaked with an ephemeral trail
of a displaced wake, thin black tires
split the water, shattering images
of reflected lights, throwing
up and out a fine spray.

Straining he pulls
on his handlebars and pumps
hard, each stroke
a recurrent explosion that forms
a frustrating repetition, round and round
in regular little geometric circles
leaving behind his previous impressions.

Hair streaming in disarray,
the black flowing pavement
an empty void, the yards and houses
a passing blur, as the darkness deepens
and the sound of the wind fills his ears.
To bear his happiness, to fly free,
to be oneself totally immersed in now
oblivious to everything requires a rejection
of all his social repressions.

I watch his face leaning forward
intent into the wind,
passing beneath the street lights
and through the strewn autumn leaves.
The cutting edge horizon bleeds the sky of color,
as a horn moon rises radiant in the night.


OBLIVION

This hidden nook has always been dear to my heart,
and in the bushes that screen obscuring
almost all of the idiotic city softly sings a lark.
But sitting now and seeing, infinity
open before me, and solitary
silences among avalanches of sound;
where still sublime quiet comes to mind.

And listening to the wind
whipping through the shrubbery,
to that profoundest silence I compare
the voice of this lark:
and I wonder the eternal,
and the deceased seasons,
and the present living-dead,
and this sea of sound,
where in its immensity my meditations drown:

Oh how sweet it is, to lose myself in this oblivion.


A ROCK

I am a rock,
patient, insensate, solid.

The year born a baby innocent, neophyte, useless,
naked to the elements, helpless,60 squared
(plus five more or less)
the constantly hazy distance of its sojourn
with ten extremities, this furrowed field
which later tumultuously secundines
into who knows what revenant.

Bifurcated into Northern and Southern mirrors
immersed iterations oligopically published
(perseverant forms of personalized narrative images)
in deliberately contrived market censored America's,
I lion maned, I stay amidst these crenelates,
oneric guardians, without your ambivalent attitudes,
without your ossuary of despair, orisons.

And my patience is rain effaced,
and I stand and look out: when will my prayers
resurrect in their pomp and splendor,
solemn and silent from the tomb;
when will it supplant this pestilent
December, this festering suture
of corruption which bereaves us with its hate,
and the power which persecutes us!


7:00 A.M.

finds me propped up
in my invalid bed
so that I can see
the silver sea
emerging from the mist!
The solitary breeze
blowing through the darkened
surf- surreal
sunrise- the diffuse
and pale distant sky!

And you who love,
with your pale skin
and skillful hands,
fluff my pillow
and rearrange the blankets;
with your thirsty mouth that drinks kisses,
and your small delicate frame fragile in my arms
commit a thousand acts of love:
until, I am convinced
that you are Love!

In the sea, by Bandon!
In the mother-of-pearl mist
of cold morning,
the sleepy sky still cloaked
in threadbare clouds
of the harsh dawn-
horizon of Spruce trees-
through the corpse blue birthing,
the radiant full moon sets!


SACRIFICES

Like fanatics who with zealous hands
make massacres into acts of God,
and then like savages kneel to prey,
this they did, to their human sacrifices.

They sanctified their bigoted delusions,
a foolish pastime of blind minds,
and once the good God was safely enslaved,
on their alters, they left its love to die.


Gentle reader, please re-read this poem, last issue my typist massacred it. The poem has been edited and revised.

A WEDDING

Afternoon in July and the cars traverse
narrow laned cityscapes where in the season of blue
the sky is as wide as tolerance.
As the day wears on the buildings watch each other;

close friends are nearer than relations
because of mutual affinities frozen in time.
But time is flux and those narrow one way streets
remain steadfast as a memory in my mind.

I drive by the church and think of your wedding
the steeple shines grey among the green trees,
in a vast evening bachanal celebration.
The shaded lights conjure our smokey dreamscapes.

But before the minister came and went, sprung from a door;
and, then all of us students, carpenters, scriblers
discussing contemporary commonalities, all in a haze of smoke,
toasting the quiet of twilight on poems and shadows.

The echo of your words, your pledges given,
an orchard budding blossoms where fruit has already fallen,
soaring so incredibly high the land a distant mirage
floating music makes my pipe sing;

or, so it was in the resplendent night
and from the glasses, I'll always drink your good fortune,
remembering your impoverished house, the dancing,
your rich cake foreshadowing the peril of success.

Cresting the West Hills, considering the poor print gift
(my gift of beauty was a picture by Van Gogh)
I recall the day that floated like an expanding bubble
growing beyond the confines of any calander year,

a radiant Summer surging over the banks and past the horizons
lasting well into October, but inevitably Winter comes
and with it the inexorable erosions
that spread its gnarled branches all the way to British Columbia.

With Christmas close at hand a man's retail buisness,
the salesmen, the herds of people nudging one another
in the whole shivering rain covered mornings
to keep quiet the past regrets, wise retailers discourse on trade,

Carthaginian genius- but commerce congests cities.
Counselors pontificate in conference rooms over in Vancouver,
as raw materials cross from the island, a provence developing.
Youths fish in season, and hike in forests

that are threatened by the encroaching suburbs,
only marriage will motivate them. Life in the mountains
are so saturated with fun, the liscenced premises
and the brew flowing freely- only who will save the marriages?

The straights are buffeted by violent uncontrolable winds
white caps send the waters into a frenzy,
while the women grab whatever they can in the driving rains
that blur the seascapes and landscapes into one blind soggy mass.

In my home, the books line the bookcases and pictures and antique
plates decorate the walls. Where I'm happy deep in my easy chair.
The wife and I have eaten dinner seperately from our almost grown boys, sitting down all together is a rarity,
in these days of deliberately developed chaos.

But we've reached the calm of burning embers.
In the shrinking lengths of years.
It is extremely wet this year I notice
The round table and rich solid oak furniture

belie a false prosperity in everything but love.
But we talk of trivia or trying to stay caught up
with the boys busy lives. The gardens garlened
with autumn colors in our ever more intimate yard.

But we discuss politics, corruption and tyranny.
In the city of Portland there's a cast of phony characters,
like those of the middle ages,
who travel around searching for 20th century witches.

My son nods and notes the latest hypes.
The present persecutions have roots in history
deeper than history, than my own knowledge.
Watching the sly looks of their operatives,

and ignoring obviously contrived conversations
that echo out of every retail store in sight:
I live my life happy in my own way,
sitting at home looking out the windows at the lovely grass.

The depths of my marriage will transport into the 21 century.
It is a profound sorrow that the other one of lost friends
did not. The broad violet sky. The neightborhood kids
make their fledgling attempt at asserting their place in the world

till the air is soft with the cool evening darkness
that drives them from the streets
into warm rooms flooded with artificial light.

Left sitting alone letting five hours slip past,
the scurry of squirrels and night settling birds
shape the early stages of nightfall;
the people sit in front of their TV's, no country bumpkins here.

These are prosperous aggressive individuals.
Even the youngest couples have a car
and mortage payments. No one here will
be allowed a life long wondering.

I look at them and hear the silent screams
justified by children. How can one
explain to a people what it means
when freedom is nothing but a memory.

How can I tell about the propaganda
that explains the explosions
whose regulations are nothing
but a merciless self-serving cunning.

I love my city too much to leave
I ask the obvious questions
that can be answered
only by lies, or denials, or evasions.

Night has truly fallen.
I think of my grandfathers place,
where chickens were fed and
he made his own wine.

Calves were grown to a size
suitable for butchering,
the garden helped to feed the family
and each peace of wood that went to build his house
was placed with love.

The basement with its myserious canning rooms
(and stairs that descended into childhood adventures)
he formed and poured the foundations himself,
alone after digging it out wheelbarrow by wheelbarrow.

Hybrid tea roses, geraniums and lavendar
my mind drives home inspite of
sitting beneath a sky where stars are disappearing into a vast emptiness, where my house sits warm and inviting.

Along the road with many houses quietness approaches
in most are various stages of marriages
mosquitoes land and visciously suck my blood,
each house has its windows blind with night.

Looking at my house I see the multitude of years
and all that's left of obituaries, the wakes
arise in my thoughts that persist of them
among the cold wind and rustling leaves.

What was the permanence of these families?
there names have been removed and forgotten,
and no one even knows how many families
have lived here. What lasts is the echos of their journey,

the sojurns filled with pain, sorrow and rejoicing
voices all echoing away into eternity
like the soaring flights of my mind toward heaven
raising me back towards our Earthly paradise

Paths wind through the deep dark gardens
stooping every so slightly with its past,
our lives are the dreams of past generations-
years after the divorce I attend your wedding again.


MY POEMS

My life has been my poems.
I have written most of it down
and stood solidly with those derelicts
who were left behind or hunted down
living each day from hand to mouth.
I was their witness
for I too was related
by preterite blood with them.

I felt their anguish,
their sorrows and false hopes,
and endured what they did
as they lived: the fear, the human
frailties, the paranoia, even their virtue and honor,
and, an endless stream of sad misery.
Their blood mercilessly spilled,
somehow stained my soul
branding me for life.

Trees and shrubs thrived
on the profusion of it
that was spilt on this wide World,
of green grass, brilliant flowers,
and sweet sounding songbirds.

I wrote about the women too.
Prostituted by boredom and greed,
blinded by bigotry.
I drove the city streets
leaving the bouquet's blighted blossoms
on the dirty steps of the golden temples:

and, returning home
I listen to you sing,
from behind the dark deep windows,
to the rising tide of night.