Degeneration
(2007)
Published in Porter Gulch Review, Anniversary Issue 2010,
page 114
I wrote this poem early one foggy morning as I perched on a tombstone near my father's grave in the Old Soquel Cemetery.
At dawn an urge prevails to see again
The quiet place he chose. I softly quit
The sleeping house, with journal clasped in hand,
And step past dark and dewy yards to cross
The mountain road already quick with cars,
And slip inside unbounded graveyard grounds
Wherein my father now returns to dust.
I wander reverentially among
The shifting, sinking mounds of musty earth
That culminate along the cliff, above
The river where he used to love to fish.
His body lies between these parallel
Progressive paths: the upward road intense
Commuters take toward cubicled careers;
And current coursing downward on its way
To reunite with great ancestral sea.
This ancient acre heaves and writhes, deformed
By roots and by the San Andreas fault,
By wheelbarrows and formal narrow heels.
An oak tree near the bank has bent too far
And snapped, exposing rosy sinews in
An arc of agony. A shingled shack
Consumed by swarming ivy leans against
The tangled woods, its windows boarded up.
Tenacious plastic permanently blooms
Beside untended tombs of crumbled stone.
My father had a poet’s heart and so
He chose this graveyard for its unprecise,
Disordered art, its wild civility.
I roam around the toppled testaments
And broken borders, making acorns crunch
And fallen oak leaves crackle, searching for
A newer slab too young to have succumbed
To creeping rash of lichen, soil and weeds.
I note the names and numbers of the dead.
Official, terse abbreviations mark
Where persevering soldiers, uninformed
Of truce or treaty, lie forever low
In solitary trenches, earth around
Them gopher-riddled, engines droning on
Above them -- wingless craft, along the road.
Adjacent graves hold some who never had
A chance to fight, for Church or State or life:
“Our Baby” simply says one marble slab;
Another square, “Twin Boys.”
I turn away.
A flash of shiny granite draws my eye.
No need to cry; that rending grief has passed.
I gather up and bind some autumn leaves,
A gift I know would suit his rustic soul,
And tiptoe to the gravesite of the man
Who saw the light in every dying day.
(2007)
Published in Porter Gulch Review, Anniversary Issue 2010,
page 114
I wrote this poem early one foggy morning as I perched on a tombstone near my father's grave in the Old Soquel Cemetery.
At dawn an urge prevails to see again
The quiet place he chose. I softly quit
The sleeping house, with journal clasped in hand,
And step past dark and dewy yards to cross
The mountain road already quick with cars,
And slip inside unbounded graveyard grounds
Wherein my father now returns to dust.
I wander reverentially among
The shifting, sinking mounds of musty earth
That culminate along the cliff, above
The river where he used to love to fish.
His body lies between these parallel
Progressive paths: the upward road intense
Commuters take toward cubicled careers;
And current coursing downward on its way
To reunite with great ancestral sea.
This ancient acre heaves and writhes, deformed
By roots and by the San Andreas fault,
By wheelbarrows and formal narrow heels.
An oak tree near the bank has bent too far
And snapped, exposing rosy sinews in
An arc of agony. A shingled shack
Consumed by swarming ivy leans against
The tangled woods, its windows boarded up.
Tenacious plastic permanently blooms
Beside untended tombs of crumbled stone.
My father had a poet’s heart and so
He chose this graveyard for its unprecise,
Disordered art, its wild civility.
I roam around the toppled testaments
And broken borders, making acorns crunch
And fallen oak leaves crackle, searching for
A newer slab too young to have succumbed
To creeping rash of lichen, soil and weeds.
I note the names and numbers of the dead.
Official, terse abbreviations mark
Where persevering soldiers, uninformed
Of truce or treaty, lie forever low
In solitary trenches, earth around
Them gopher-riddled, engines droning on
Above them -- wingless craft, along the road.
Adjacent graves hold some who never had
A chance to fight, for Church or State or life:
“Our Baby” simply says one marble slab;
Another square, “Twin Boys.”
I turn away.
A flash of shiny granite draws my eye.
No need to cry; that rending grief has passed.
I gather up and bind some autumn leaves,
A gift I know would suit his rustic soul,
And tiptoe to the gravesite of the man
Who saw the light in every dying day.
Dust Thou Art
(2010)
This senses poem was written in tribute to our dear old apple farm in the hills of Santa Cruz, where my sister and her family now live. It still looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells -- like dust and so much more.
I smell dry earth, the sweat and dung of horses,
Distended burlap sacks of chicken scratch,
Hot laurel bay and eucalyptus leaves,
Mom’s chili, wood smoke, ragweed, saddle soap,
Alfalfa hay in musty verdant stacks
Shoved into forts and stages and storefronts,
Shellac and varnish, paint and paint remover;
The pungent scent of fly spray, salted air,
Oats, rotten apples, dead mice inside walls,
Wet soil on boots, pink Cecil Brunner roses,
Hot cider, Folger’s coffee, flannel shirts,
The fallen fruit that scents the orchard dust.
I feel the strain of lifting sodden straw
From muddy stable floor to wheelbarrow,
Cool coastal fog against my neck as Dad
And I hike with a thermos over hills
Vibrant with dew. I feel that barn-sour pony
Tearing home beneath me -- my numb panic,
Hard fall, sharp shoulder pain, embarrassment;
The amber evening sunlight on my arms
While cantering through undeveloped land,
The sticky, chunky texture of the oats
Inside the wooden feed box; scratchy hay,
The privacy of tree-forts and the sense
Of secret space yet union with all things,
Legs dangling down from slender eucalypti
That, bending, send me to the forest floor;
My purple fingers pricked with berry thorns,
And dust like talcum powder underfoot.
I hear the John Deere sputter, cough, and growl;
Rain jumping on the corrugated roof
Of our old barn, dogs howling, roosters crowing,
Ducks squawking, horses breathing, hooves clip-clopping;
The clanging dinner bell across the acres,
Dania yelling at her mom next door,
The screech of tires where the road turns sharply,
The thump of hammers, wail of table saw,
Dad calling “All right!” or, “Aw, cruminelly,”
Wind fluttering through the acacia trees,
The crunch of driveway gravel that announced
A date, his car eclipsed by silver dust.
I see the old red of the sagging barn,
The oak worms Shawn and I picked from our sleeves,
The plays presented on our rustic stage –
Small Becky in a sapphire evening gown
As Salome, delivering the head
Of St. John on a platter (skull-sized rock
Besmeared in ketchup underneath a scarf);
The Scotch Broom frothing from the well-road banks,
Sun sinking in a shred of distant sea,
The broad leaves of the fig tree splayed to keep
Most of the summer sun from my green cave,
The steep twist in the forest trail where
Our ponies liked to dash across the roots,
The blossoms on the bellflower apple tree
Whose branches brushed the soil like a skirt,
The scrubby brush that filled the dense corral,
Clouds, columns, devils, swirls, and puffs of dust.
I taste the sweet Satsumi plums, the quince,
Ollalieberries, kumquats, and persimmon,
Fresh crispy apples eaten under trees
Or whittled into cider, pies, and jams
By Mom, who made the most of everything;
That bitter unknown fruit we used for pranks,
Dad’s catch pan-fried in cornmeal, kidney beans,
Spaghetti, chard and spinach, deviled eggs,
Surfeit zucchini tucked in every dish,
Pure well water, warm cheesy casseroles,
Tart sourgrass, wild fennel, boys I kissed,
Big gulps of ocean air and orchard dust.
(2010)
This senses poem was written in tribute to our dear old apple farm in the hills of Santa Cruz, where my sister and her family now live. It still looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells -- like dust and so much more.
I smell dry earth, the sweat and dung of horses,
Distended burlap sacks of chicken scratch,
Hot laurel bay and eucalyptus leaves,
Mom’s chili, wood smoke, ragweed, saddle soap,
Alfalfa hay in musty verdant stacks
Shoved into forts and stages and storefronts,
Shellac and varnish, paint and paint remover;
The pungent scent of fly spray, salted air,
Oats, rotten apples, dead mice inside walls,
Wet soil on boots, pink Cecil Brunner roses,
Hot cider, Folger’s coffee, flannel shirts,
The fallen fruit that scents the orchard dust.
I feel the strain of lifting sodden straw
From muddy stable floor to wheelbarrow,
Cool coastal fog against my neck as Dad
And I hike with a thermos over hills
Vibrant with dew. I feel that barn-sour pony
Tearing home beneath me -- my numb panic,
Hard fall, sharp shoulder pain, embarrassment;
The amber evening sunlight on my arms
While cantering through undeveloped land,
The sticky, chunky texture of the oats
Inside the wooden feed box; scratchy hay,
The privacy of tree-forts and the sense
Of secret space yet union with all things,
Legs dangling down from slender eucalypti
That, bending, send me to the forest floor;
My purple fingers pricked with berry thorns,
And dust like talcum powder underfoot.
I hear the John Deere sputter, cough, and growl;
Rain jumping on the corrugated roof
Of our old barn, dogs howling, roosters crowing,
Ducks squawking, horses breathing, hooves clip-clopping;
The clanging dinner bell across the acres,
Dania yelling at her mom next door,
The screech of tires where the road turns sharply,
The thump of hammers, wail of table saw,
Dad calling “All right!” or, “Aw, cruminelly,”
Wind fluttering through the acacia trees,
The crunch of driveway gravel that announced
A date, his car eclipsed by silver dust.
I see the old red of the sagging barn,
The oak worms Shawn and I picked from our sleeves,
The plays presented on our rustic stage –
Small Becky in a sapphire evening gown
As Salome, delivering the head
Of St. John on a platter (skull-sized rock
Besmeared in ketchup underneath a scarf);
The Scotch Broom frothing from the well-road banks,
Sun sinking in a shred of distant sea,
The broad leaves of the fig tree splayed to keep
Most of the summer sun from my green cave,
The steep twist in the forest trail where
Our ponies liked to dash across the roots,
The blossoms on the bellflower apple tree
Whose branches brushed the soil like a skirt,
The scrubby brush that filled the dense corral,
Clouds, columns, devils, swirls, and puffs of dust.
I taste the sweet Satsumi plums, the quince,
Ollalieberries, kumquats, and persimmon,
Fresh crispy apples eaten under trees
Or whittled into cider, pies, and jams
By Mom, who made the most of everything;
That bitter unknown fruit we used for pranks,
Dad’s catch pan-fried in cornmeal, kidney beans,
Spaghetti, chard and spinach, deviled eggs,
Surfeit zucchini tucked in every dish,
Pure well water, warm cheesy casseroles,
Tart sourgrass, wild fennel, boys I kissed,
Big gulps of ocean air and orchard dust.
Crosstalk
(2005)
This sonnet was inspired by a drive through redwoods interspersed with what seemed to me the naked corpses of those majestic trees.
Erect, apart, yet linked by sagging strands
Of wire strung through iron epaulets,
Each stripped, tattooed and cuffed with metal bands,
A chain of weathered captives, old and gray;
Or else a row of executed slaves,
The wretched victims of a vain revolt,
Attracting crows to ravaged forms whose brave
Resistance met with crucifixion bolts;
Or sacred crosses lined up to lament
The conduct of those profit-seeking men
Who truncate, trim, and sink in wet cement
The glories that once graced a redwood glen.
At any rate, a token charge to pay
To speed our words along their global way.
(2005)
This sonnet was inspired by a drive through redwoods interspersed with what seemed to me the naked corpses of those majestic trees.
Erect, apart, yet linked by sagging strands
Of wire strung through iron epaulets,
Each stripped, tattooed and cuffed with metal bands,
A chain of weathered captives, old and gray;
Or else a row of executed slaves,
The wretched victims of a vain revolt,
Attracting crows to ravaged forms whose brave
Resistance met with crucifixion bolts;
Or sacred crosses lined up to lament
The conduct of those profit-seeking men
Who truncate, trim, and sink in wet cement
The glories that once graced a redwood glen.
At any rate, a token charge to pay
To speed our words along their global way.