Pirate Shores   Wednesday, July 15, 2015








Pictures from a weekend in Corpus Christi and some good poets. Also my stuff.

Here's what I got.

Me
a rose by any other name\
 
Gloria Fuentes
I Don't Know
Not Allowed to Write
I Make Poems, Gentlemen

Me
all brothers of all  brothers

Me
helpers

Carl Phillips 
I See a Man

Me
midgetly lurking vulture pigeons

Me
cowboys I have known

Dana Gioia
Equations of Light

Me
women telling secrets
bubble
echo
family jewels

Me
some kind of business meeting

Kristen Henderson
Heavy Spring
On the Anniversary of Nothing, August 28, 2004    

Me
it may all end well after all

Me
even as I remember

John Kinsella
Solitary Activities

Me
old, old woman

Me
a laboring man

David Eberhardt
poem in honor of capt. beefheart, don van vliet

Me
rules suck, a libertarian manifesto

Me
a nondescript bird that followed us without much to say

Adela Zamudio
To Be Born Male

Me
seven trees







                                                                        



Sometimes, I just begin to thinking and that's when the trouble starts.











a rose  by any other name

the rose bush
on the side of the parking lot
is solid with blooms, not the big roses
that cost twenty-five dollars just to sniff,
but the smaller,  compact  bloom that makes me  think
of the old song  about a white sports coat and a pink
carnation, except the roses are not actually pink but somewhere
between that and red, maybe rose-colored, which seems a strange
designation for a color  since roses,  in my limited horticultural experience
are rarely rose-colored, more often red or white, or actual pink, or lots of  times,
it's a kind of Texas thing, yellow, but rarely rose-colored and why did someone
decide to call a  color rose when rose-colored roses are the exception, but  that's
just one of the thing in this world that puzzles me, things both more and less important
and interesting than why someone decided to call the color rose, rose...

I  could be thinking about the  next presidential election, I  suppose, rather
than the rare rose-colored rose but why in the world would anyone want  to do that;
or I could be thinking about  "hitch in my git-along" as old Ernie Ford might have said in the
days when there was not color, including  rose, on the TV  and I would like him sing
"Sixteen Tons" again but unfortunately he's dead, but in these modern days that may not  mean
anything as evidenced by me seeing Burl Ives sing "Blue Tail Fly" on the television yesterday, I swear
nothing is forgot in this world today so I bet if I look for it I will find Tennessee Ernie singing
"Sixteen Tons" and maybe even "Big Bad John" too via the proper Google search...

I wonder if a proper Google search would answer my question regarding why a color was named
"rose"  when roses are not so often that  color and maybe I don't need Google after all because
an answer just occurred to me - what if rose  was already a color before the first person saw a rose
and it turned out  that the first rose seen by the eyes of man just happened to be rose-colored
and the man  said "look it's a rose" and that's how the color and the flower got connected
in the mind of man...

a teacher once told me I  saw  life through  rose-colored glasses, not something when I was fifteen
and in search of  a manly self-image that was helpful in that search,  since wearing glasses
was bad enough, but rose-colored glasses would surely get me beat up or possibly by those
with the capacity for future-seeing  mistaking me for Elton John who has never sung "16 Tons"
or  even "Big Bad John" though it certainly would be a sight to hear...

meanwhile the rose bush with its rose-colored blooms is very pretty, though mostly
ignored in  the city  which the last several days has  been overtaken with joy by the acquisition
of the most highly sought basketball free agent by the holy Pop and his blessed
Spurs...so talking about roses  bushes of any color today is certain to continue my anonymity
on this day-after-a-holiday day...

unless maybe I could get Elton John to sing "The 1812 Overture" with Burl playing his ukulele and Ernie singing the cannon parts, that'd be a great way to celebrate the 4th, especially if we could  get all three to  wear  a rose-colored rose behind their ears (and I know where they can get  one)








                                                                       

I begin from my library this week with three short poems by  Gloria Fuentes from the anthology, The Defiant Muse - Hispanic Feminist Poems from the Middle Ages to the Present. The book was published in 1986 by the Feminist Press. It is a bilingual book, Spanish and English on facing pages.

Far from the Middle Ages, Fuentes, poet and author of children's literature, was born in Madrid in 1917 and died of lung cancer in 1998. Better known abroad in own time than in her own country, considered an indictment by many of the sexism in Spain she defied throughout her life.

















I Don't Know

I don't know where I'm from.
I wasn't born anywhere;
I was here already
before that business about the apple,
that's why I'm apolitical.
None the worse that I'm a woman,
and will not give birth to martinets
nor will my hands be soiled
with the smell of guns,
so much the better that I am this way...

     Translated by Kate Flores


Not Allowed to Write

I work for a newspaper;
I could be the manager's secretary
and I'm only the cleaning woman.
I know how to write, but in my town
women are not allowed to write.
My life is nothingness.
I don't do anything naughty.
I live poor.
I sleep at home.
I  ride the subway.
For supper, broth
and a  fried egg,  so let them talk.
I buy second-hand books,
I slip into saloons,
also into streetcars,
I sneak into theatres
and dress on bargain sales.
I lead  a strange life.

      Translated by Robert L. Smith and Judith Candullo


I Make Poems, Gentlemen!

I make poems, gentlemen, I make poems,
but I do not like to be called poetess.
I like wine the same as bricklayers do
and I have an assistant who talks to herself.
This world turns out funny,
things take place gentlemen I cannot explain,
they make cases though never houses,
for the poor who can't give back what for.
Spinsters go walking with their dogs,
married men go walking with their girlfriends,
to  the tough tyrants nobody says a word,
and we read that there are dead and we turn the page,
and they step on our necks and no one gets up,
and people despise us and we say: "Such is life!"
This happens, gentlemen, and I have to say it.

     Translated by Kate Flores









This piece is from  2011. It's included in one of  my books, New Days and New Way, and is one of my poems I most like to read on those rare occasions that I do a reading.








all brothers of  all brothers

yes,
it's true,
I talk to my animals...

even Reba
who can't hear me,
but she can see my lips  move

and know
she's on my mind, like the blind cat
knows she's not alone in the dark

when I stroke her head as I  pass,
like the friendly nod
I  exchange with people

I pass on the street
because we all need to know we are not
alone in the dark -

such and acknowledgement
of our shared passage we should
pass on to the creatures around us -

balm to  repair the primordial  weld that  has bound us all
since creation,  the weld that is separating now
as all become remote from the others...

if you  believe in God, remember he created us all
as part of his plan and it is not  our place
to redraw the blueprints of his creation;

if  you do not believe in God,
remember instead
that we are all creatures at base

of common offspring, basic elements
that give us
as our relatives

the snake, the bird, the fish in the ocean
the lion in the field, our neighbor
across the fence, the daffodil growing

wild as any creature on the meadow,
the earth beneath our feet
and the stars that shine overhead,

all brothers of all brothers
in our most basic
construction








                                                         



Here's another randomized brain-fart.









helpers

I'm watching
a plumber and his helper
working outside  on an underground sprinkler
system (it appears they might be replacing a sprinkler
head) and it hardly seems like a job for two
people but that's the way it is, there are plumbers
and there are plumber helpers
and it leads me to wonder why there are plumber helpers
and electrician helpers and  carpenter helpers and mechanic helpers
and even Santa helpers,  but no cowboy helpers, grizzly, bewhiskered old cowboys
out on the range alone, stringing fences, getting along their little
dogies, no  help,  no cowboy helpers to hand them their wire pincher's or
roll up their lariats or polish their saddle horns and it  doesn't seem fair, except
I know from my own study that there is a purpose for the plumber helper, for example,
beyond helping  the plumber by digging his holes and chasing
down tools as they're needed and mucking around in the muddy (euphemism alert)
mess and that purpose  is to   learn the  plumber-trade, which is a good reason, I suppose,
except again with the cowboys, how does a cowboy learn to be a cowboy if he's never a
cowboy helper, just has to  pick it up on  his own,  one day he's a store clerk or  stable
hand and the next day, there he is home on the range pushing a bunch of not very smart
cows who don't know anymore about being a cowboy than he does,  cows barely knowing
anything even  about being a cow except how to stand in the grass and moo and poop
explosively and all of a sudden they're suppose to teach this cow-rookie how
to be a cowboy and get them along, like the song  says...

it's a wonder we civilians ever  had an opportunity to learn to cook our  steak-meat, thick
and juicy...

all this reminding me that I  was a lineman helper long ago, a case where the helper-designation
made sense since the helper worked on the ground and the lineman  worked above on the pole
and the helper would  send  stuff up  on a rope so that the lineman didn't have to climb down
and up again every time he needed a come-along crank or a bigger hammer...

we lineman helpers were called grunts  which, though not very dignified, was appropriate since
we  did  all the  heavy labor  grunt work on  the ground, frequently grunting as we did  so, though
I also heard lineman grunt as well since some of the labor they did atop  the pole was also
heavy causing them to grunt just  like those of us on the ground - instead of lineman and lineman
helper perhaps we should have-been designated higher grunts and lower grunts instead,  or maybe
lord-high-grunts on the pole and lesser-though-still-important-grunts on the ground...

those of us who grunted on the ground would have appreciated such a title more appreciative
of our work...

but that's a diversion, leaving the cowboy helper question pending for another morning
poetry session...










Next from my library I  have this poem by Carl Phillips. It's from his book, Cortege, published by Graywolf Press in 1995. Recipient of many honors and  prizes, this book was  nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award in 1995.

Born in 1959, Phillips is Professor of English and African and Afro-American Studies at Washington University in St. Louis. A graduate of Harvard University, the University of Massachusetts Amherst and Boston University, he taught Latin in high school for 8 years.









I see a man

     He has just had sex. I can tell by the way, when he
notices his shadow ahead of him, broad, spilling over both
curbs to the road he is walking down slowly, most of him
wants to stop and, as if remembering, stand briefly at a
kind of attention. He has just had sex, it's unclear with
whom. It was a man, it was a woman...it was the air, whose
inconveniently wide-apart edges can be all day coming together.
There's this sense in  which it can't  matter - sex being,
for  him any attempt to fill a space in so there's no room
left, for a while, for what he surely calls a suffering inside
it seems, for  delivering lines like Already, as far into
the world as I've wanted, I've come. He's thirty, thirty-two-
it's easy, still, to say a thing like that. Write it down,
even. Call it a poem.










Here's a bit of nonsense from  2009.








midgetly lurking vulture pigeons

pigeons
ledge-lurk
like midget
city vultures

waiting

for an Iowa-farmer
to swoop through
the city streets
in a brilliantly-red
biplane,dropping corn
for midget-vulture-pigeons

of a puffing-steaming
locomotive
spewing pink popcorn
from its puffy-steamer
smoking-stack

or a grimly-grimy
trawler crawling on
little ballooning-tires
from street to street
shaking pinkly-pretty
popcorn shrimp
from its net all for
midgetly-vulting-pigeons
lackadaisically ledgly-lurking

or Mr.TheodoreRoosevelt-Shrimp
primly passing
in his permanently pressed
plaid shirt and
grey-spackled
fedora
given to him on his 63rd
birthday by the late Mrs.Shirley
Simpson-Swindle-Shrimp,
the love of his Shrimply life

all  this
those pigeonly midgeted vulturous
lazy ledged lurkers
could be  awaiting from their ledgerous lair

or it could be for something else
entirely

who knows  what  they might be
thinking
as they lurkishly ledgisly perch

not  me








      


One thing leads to another.











cowboys I have known

thinking about cowboys yesterday
reminded me of big old HossCartwright
of"Bonanza"fame which further reminded me
that, living at one time half a block
from one of the pastures that made up the million-gillion
acre King Ranch, and even before that,
I've seen a lot of cowboys in my day
and very few of them were large and none at all
were fat like Hoss, instead they were mostly small,
skinny fellas with faces wrinkled by the sun
and skin as tough as the leather saddles they rode
with rope-burned and barb wire raked hands
and a fierce gaze that kept even the jumpiest
horse and skitteriest cows in
line...

growing up and living in South Texas
I've seen, like I said, a lot of real
cowboys and ever more of the other kind,
the kind with big bellies and big belt
buckles that say "TEXAS" or some such
brag,  with hands that  never touched a lasso
and shiny, pointy-toed boots that never  rubbed
raw against  a stirrup, big fellas with big hats
who can't hardly ride a bar stool without
a  seat belt, fakers, in words,
phonies who  play at the game, hungering
for a better time and a better self and figure
at least they can dress the part and maybe
some of it will rub off and they'll be the man
they wanted to be when they were ten years old
watching cowboy movies...

some of the play-likes get real serious
about it, think cause they can chew and spit
it must be real, but most are like me,  honoring
the past and the tradition by having fun with it...

like the fella I heard singing in a bar
in Arizona, a song of his own composition...

"I  always wanted to be a cowboy," he sang,
"but I'uz afraid of cows..."









Dana Gioia was born in California in 1950 to Italian and Mexican parents, attended Stanford and Harvard Universities and worked as a corporate executive for fifteen years before turning to poetry and a literary life full time. Author of poetry, criticism and translation, he also served as chairman of the National Endowment of the Arts for six years from 2003 to 2009.

This poem  is from his book, The God of Winter, published by Graywolf Press in 1991.









Equations of the Light

Turning the corner,we discovered it
just as the old wrought-iron lamps went on -
a quiet tree-lined street, only one block long
resting between the noisy avenues.

The streetlamps  splashed the shadows of the leaves
across the whitewashed brick, and each tall window
glowing through the ivy-decked facade
promised lives as perfect as the light.

Walking beneath the trees,  we counted all
the high black doors of houses bolted shut.
And yet we could have entered any door,
entered any room the evening offered.

Or were we so  deluded by the strange
equations of the light, the vagrant wind
searching the trees, that we believed this  brief
conjunction of our separate lives was  real?

It seemed the moment lingered like  a ghost,
a flicker in the air, smaller than a moth,
a curl of smoke flaring from a match,
haunting a world it could not touch or hear.

There should have been a greeting or a sign,
the smile of a stranger, something beyond
the soft refusals of the summer air
and children trading secrets on the steps.

Traffic bellowed from the avenue.
 Our shadows moved across the streets long wall,
and at the end what else could we have done
but turn the corner back into our lives?










Next, here are four short pieces from 2007.










women telling secrets

four
of them
at the round table

whisper
laugh

then  whisper
and laugh again

oh, no,
says one

oh, yes,
says another

whisper
and laugh
at the round table
in the corner


bubble

dark clouds
all around
while we
in a
sunshine
bubble
bask


echo

dry well
echoes

with memories

of water
precious and sweet

`
`
`
`
old man
sleeps

dreams echo

with memories
precious and sweet


family jewels

flames
illuminate
as they
burn
as
secrets
unfold
in the brilliance
of combustion











It's a game, but a game I enjoyed. Wondering now if  I'm  too old to play again, to master the nonverbal intricacies of leadership again.










some kind of business meeting

some kind of business meeting

going  on
at the big table by the window

usually
it's pretty easy to tell who's in charge
by the meeting dynamics, this group
it's not clear

three men and two  women, I pick the one
with his back to the window in a blue dress
shirt  as the in-charge, mainly because
of the blue dress shirt,no necktie, which suggests
a more easy going culture, which would explain the guy
who is most obviously not in charge sitting
at the head of the  table...

(I always sat a the head
of the table,
a power position that sends a clear message
as to who's driving,plus, the best position to see  everyone
and be seen  by them -  we communicate by face
and if  faces can't  be seen, messages lose focus, intent
is clouded and imperatives muddled)

 it is interesting to study such meetings, especially since
I am considering a return myself to the early morning
meeting culture, observations that hone the rust
off old  skills atrophied through
disuse, synapses corroded and long un-fired
polished and prepared...

opportunity to consider - do I really want
to do this?

is  this poem work really so bad...










Next from my library, I have two poem by Kristen Henderson. The poems are from her book,  Drum Machine, published in 2010 by Alva Press.

Henderson received her MFA at the University of Arizona and an MSW at SUNY Albany. Recipient of a number of awards,  she is currently director of the Cherry Branch Gallery in Cherry Branch, New York.










Heavy Spring

The onslaught of bloom and birdsong
carries the same weight as  any major holiday: a pressure
to make pies, emanate joy, only it hangs around
for months on the lips of every home - clapboard, brick,
aluminum siding, stone. Each of us feels the beating
of the sun differently, some consider smiling back
at the void that was winter.
Come  spring

we are certain the lilacs will split in all directions
for daylight, contuse the garden, and the geese
will come tumbling back, buckling the sky
with their shrill navigation. It has been so dark here,
even a child's broken  bone, certain to set and grow,
rivals the rose in its hope.


On the Anniversary of Nothing, August 28, 2004

For the wedding and the baby
that never happened,
the lacy dress
that did not materialize,
the skin  that never swirled inside,
and the heart that never beat
for mine; for this bottle
of warm wine: cheers. I
am free
to celebrate this date,
this unremarkable time.










Just another Friday morning on Broadway.









it may all end well after all

fella jogging
down the sidewalk - I can see him
through the coffeehouse
windows -
skinny guy, bare-chested,
orange shorts and
dark hair,  kind of pooffy hair,
bounding with every jog - running
in South Texas  in the summertime - you see it
all the time,more evidence,
if such is  needed,
of how our  mental health  resources
are so under-resourced
and insufficient
to  meet  the obvious need
for professional intervention
to assist those  who run in the summer
in South Texas
for crying out loud...


```

which reminds me,
for no particular reason
except  that I don't yet have
the required feeling
of resolution regarding this poem,
of the knuckle-dragger
I saw crossing the  parking lot
at my supermarket this
morning when I stopped for money
and  a banana and by calling him  a
"knuckle-dragger"
I didn't mean to be disparaging, but that's
what he looked like, heavy-set, sloping shoulders,
arms  limp at his sides,knuckles
almost literally
dragging
the asphalt - proof possibly of the new theory
among the geneticists regarding
the inter-breeding of Neanderthal and modern man
(or woman)  in the bygone days when they
shared a little patch of this  planet
in Europe, and, in fact,the continuing presence
of Netherlander genes in our modern
biological make up...

or he might have  just been,
in his baggy clothes, an escapee
from the nearby zoo - I'm not  saying one way or the other,
but I  did hide my banana behind my back
when we passed


```

and then there was the young,(well, she used  to be)
woman I saw out on the  sidewalk
when I drove up, red dress, 27 inch heels,
and the droopy, besmeared look of a  working  girl
putting a cap  on another night  shift

on the corner...

but maybe  it was just a helluva a party - to which
I'm pretty sure I'm glad to be not
invited


```

and then there's the very tall, very skinny
antique  shop fella from right
down the street, sticking his little
"going out of business" signs
at the corner...

I'm watching the outcome
of his closing with plans of my own
to win the lottery this week if  not next
so that I can buy the building
and open an art gallery
for young artists who haven't yet achieved
the recognition they deserve

(a lot like me in m own estimable
estimate)

a bad outcome for poor mr. tall, skinny
antique purveyor,
but a good resolution for me
as I become the Warren Buffet
of art and poetry

but...


```

enough of that, resolution be damned...

it's  been a awful week, and so far this morning
it doesn't seem to be over yet

though  still I maintain  my faith
in the inevitability
of positive endings to  life's
travails, thinking
of tonight,
everybody goes home
and we're left alone with out tickets
to  the symphony,
Shostakovitch featured,  a dash of Mozart
and several other musical
worthies...

it all may end  well
after
all












Feeling a little itch of  ambition, and this is how I scratch it.










even as I remember

there are elements of a game
to it, no  doubt, but it was a game
I enjoyed, the freedom to imagine and the power
to make the imaginings real, the authority
to construct and deconstruct, the pleasure
of ending a day with a sense of accomplishment,
to know that I created and that my creation
made a better place in the lives
of people I would never
know...

it is about the urge to do
and the pull
to see it in my head
and make it
done...

this that I do now instead,
I don't fool myself, it is
a sublimation,
a passable pastime, and there is
an enjoyment in the doing...

even as I sometimes
remember
those better things
I have done...









The next poem from my library is by John Kinsella and was taken from his book, Peripheral Light. The book was published in 2004 by W. W. Norton.

Born in 1963, Kinsella is an Australian poet, novelist, critic, essayist and editor. He has received many awards, and author of over 30  books. He is known to work frequently in collaboration with other writers, artists and musicians.








Solitary Activities

"He spent his working hours deflating words
and every Saturday he spied on birds."
     "Mars sonnet No 5" - Peter Porter

Poetry is not the only thing
That you can "do" alone in a room;
You could, like Andrew Crosse,
Imagine  living creatures
Created by electrical currents
                                               passing
Through brilliant chemical mixtures
The color of tropical birds.
                                               Or believe
That Morley Martin,alone in his room,
produced "primordial protoplasm"
From fossil0free Azoic rocks;
                                                but that's what
Comes with reading dictionaries
Of Common Fallacies and being alone
Yourself - the weekday air thick with words,
the weekend call of birds a long way off.









From 2008, here's  a coffeehouse observational. Strange, the woman obviously made an impression on me at the time, but now I remember  her only from what I wrote.








an old, old woman

she
shuffles in
every morning,
an old, old
woman, bones
wrapped closely
in skin,
and sits in one of the easy
chairs in the corner,
has a pot of tea
and reads her newspapers
local, the Times,
Wall Street  Journal,
Irish Times,
and Le Monde,
and leaves, walking
to I don't know where
just as I don't  know
where she  comes from
but I  know
she's a piece of my  every day
and she  will leave a hole
when that morning
arrives
that I'll see her no more












I think I'm just all bumfuzzled by the mid-summer heat.










a laboring man

walking the dog,
cool breeze, sun up
but still far from its crispy-critter
pan-frying 3 p.m. potential...

a full day planned,
much poem-labor required
to catch up from lazy weekend holiday,
nice work if you can get it
and are
independently
wealthy...

lunch with a friend yesterday
discovering
(I  didn't have a clue before)
that she is an artist and a good one
besides and I'd like to be an artist as well
except even my stick figures
look like they have come out of the oven
all warped  and not even immediately recognizable
as stick figures, more like crazy blob
figures,
but still, artist
is one of the things I wish I could be that I can't be
but if I could I'd  happily go through the rest of my life
as the poor-but-honest-poet/artist
who lives in a shoe
cause he doesn't know what else do do...

which reminds me, still honest
but a little less poor
after selling a couple of books yesterday
to a lady who came in for coffee at the coffeehouse,
she said she also writes poetry and a little fiction
and I asked if I might have read her work and she said
unlikely
but she looked very familiar and I have a feeling I have read her work
before and she's some very famous poet that I've stolen  from
for my blog and if she had admitted it I would have
apologized because it's great  to meet a  not-so-poor
but still honest and very modest poet during the course
of my daily poem-labors...

which reminds me I also have dog-labors to attend to as  Bella
watches me from the front seat  of my truck, obviously expecting
another walk  and it's time for me to get to it  her expression
says
so
very clearly...

so it's off to dog-laboring I go, returning to my poem-labors after
some mid-morning peeing and  pooping...

the dog, that is, not
me











I had a poem by David Eberhardt last week. Here's another one I haven't had a chance to use, the last of several he sent me.









pome in honor of capt. beefheart, don van vliet

dedicated to h e  mantel

done, completely,
wicker-spinach person
set alite at summer solstice

lemon interstices,
rent into disciples,
a labial disemvowelment

a haiku hibachi,
w "bilt in sauce rack",
could change yr life

cantilevered excrements,
bedecked with  peters-
berg egg colors

mashed potatoes sometimes
at the curb side,
trying to raise money

I see you
Just bot a
Laminated rabbit.










Last this week from my old files, this one from 2010.










rules suck, a libertarian manifesto

rules suck,
that's my conviction

except for those
that  protect me

from bank robbers
and serial killers

and international
assassins
and incompetent motor
vehicle operators
and rogue cops

and Islamic terrorists
and Communists terrorists
and Canadian terrorists
and Lutheran  terrorists
and Mormon terrorists
and Zen terrorists
and People  for the Ethical
Treatment of Animals
terrorists
and Pat Boone fan club
terrorists

and illegal Mexican  aliens
who want to behead people
and smuggle drug
and steal my job
picking grapes for 89 cents
and hour

and cemetery plot
salesmen

and term life insurance
salesmen

and poison spinach...

...wait
I don't eat spinach
poison or  otherwise
so that rule has to suck  too...

but the rule that protects me
from poison peas and corn
and poison pork chops,
that's another story

and the rule that says
my employer
has to pay me when I work
and that my landlord
has to fix the plumbing
when it leaks
and that I can take
my AK-47 to  church
to protect myself  against
international assassins
and terrorists
and devil worshipers
and homosexual hippies
from Harvard square
and California surfer boys
and Lebanese switchboard
operators
and gantsta' rappers
and Chinese tongs
and those-damn Mexican
narco-trerrorists
and other nasty nabobs
of nefarious negativity

it's just  the way it is

rules suck
and that's my conviction...

mostly











Sunday morning again, just  hanging around with the birds and my dog.











a nondescript bird that followed us without much to say

the bird followed us
as we made our way through the thin  forest,
tree to tree, a taciturn bird, not much
to say, a single chirp at every tree as we passed,
never two chirps in a row, taciturn and nondescript,
gray, mid-sized, from its behavior
I'd guess a mockingbird,
with a mockingbird's curiosity but
without the standard mockingbird markings...

I assume the bird was trying to communicate
but I don't know what, a greeting, perhaps, or maybe an
expression of irritation, or even a warning,
 "stay away from my nest," or "face my
wrath" (and anyone who's ever been harassed
by a drunk mockingbird knows that their wrath is a mighty
ting to behold)

I  prefer to think the bird was just being  friendly, "welcome," she
chirps, "tho this very, very fine morning in may very, very fine
forest, hear the cool morning breeze as it rustles through
my sweet-leafed trees, bask with me in the parches of warming sun
that slip through breaks in the leaves, bright that lights the ground
like puddles of morning sun-shower, go ahead, lie in the cool
grass between the shadowing trees and I will chirp a song for
you" -  such is what I would like to hear a bird say to me
this so very, very fine morning...

but, who knows,  she might have been  talking to the dog
all along, so golden in the morning sun,
with not a word for me... 











Here's another poet from The Defiant Muse, the anthology I used earlier.

The poet is Adela Zamudio from Bolivia, born in 1854 and died in 1928.










To Be Born Male

How she labors without end
to correct her husband's boorishness
about the house!
(Pardon my astonishment)
Inept as he is fatuous,
he remains the big boss,
Because he's a male!

If a woman writes  some verses
they're attributed to some man,
even if she has signed them.
(Pardon my astonishment.)
If that man's no kind of poet
why be so presumptuous?
Because he's a male!

A superior woman
doesn't vote in elections,
but the worst scoundrel can vote.
(Pardon my astonishment.)
If he can learn to sign his name,
an idiot is allowed to vote,
Because he's a male!

If he's blue and drinks or  gambles
when Lady Luck abandons him
she suffers, struggles, prays.
(Pardon my astonishment.)
She's called "the weaker sex"
while he's called "the stronger,"
Because he's a male!

She must always be indulgent
when her husband proves unfaithful;
but he's allowed to take revenge.
(Pardon my astonishment.)
If she dares to turn the tables
he can even murder her,
Because he's a male!

Oh, most privileged of mortals,
who, most perfect and complete,
enjoys unshakable renown!
For this, in any case,
it has been quite enough, simply,
to have been born a male!











Here's number last for the week.










seven trees

seven trees
I've planted in our backyard
since we moved here near twenty years ago,
rescues,
like all our dogs and cats,
the oldest, about 40 feet now,
the newest and smallest, bravely crawling from the transplant bed
at an inch, waving its tiny leaves,
its slightly older cousin at about a foot, and
all the others somewhere in between
that most large and this most
small...

of the seven,six are oak,
three varieties,  and three of the same  kind
nursed from acorns fallen
from the large red oak by our driveway,
the seventh spent the last  year
as a green stick in the ground (but I felt
there was life there and protected it)
until last month when, with all the rain, green leaves
began to sprout on the green stick
that had looked so desolate for so long, shiny,
green, waxy leaves and I don't know what it is, not
sure after that year of patience if I want to keep it, it
I  want it to associate with my beloved oaks,
time to  decide soon, before it settles in
and becomes part of the true nature of things
and therefore inviolable...

seven new trees,
plus the five that were already there
 (counting the large mesquite blown  down in June's
windstorm bit showing green sprouts
from its stump) and my various pieces of yard art
and ornamental iron pieces rescued from a scrap heap, mounted no
in the yard and vine-covered

and it's not a large yard, on a deep slope, the whole thing
getting smaller with each new tree and attempt at new art,
yet it grows still with each new crowding...

like life,  small with disuse,  growing large only as it becomes
crowded with the living of it...

"fill'er up" we used to say when there were attendants at our
local gasoline station -

"fill'er up, I  say now, my life goal never to run on empty.










As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me
 
As always, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:
 

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad)



´╗┐Poetry
New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces
 



Always to the Light






Goes Around Comes Around




Pushing Clouds Against the Wind





And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio




Seven Beats a Second






Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer








                                                                           Peace in our Time










0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
November 2017
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet