Showing My Colors   Wednesday, August 26, 2015

I continue this week  with sections from an unnamed book in progress, except it is now named,  Time and the Tide, and it will be a series, not a book, and maybe not even a series.

An interesting discovery for me is that the years (1934-1946, so far) are the garden upon which just about everything about me was grown. Those years created my worldview and no matter how much else I have seen or learned since, they are the structure in which everything fits. I try to imagine how younger people must see the world today, my son in his early thirties, for example, to whom all this that made me is at best distant, dusty history. I  don't think I can know.

Old poems this week are from my first eBook, Pushing Clouds Against the Wind. It is available, along with the rest, wherever eBooks are sold and it's the one without a title on the cover because I tried to be cheap and do  the cover myself.

Photos are from a bunch of old "color splash" things I made.

My anthology for the week is Harper's Anthology of 20th Century Native American Poetry, published by Harper Collins in 1988. I find that my favorite poets are often among the "others" - those previously excluded from the majority culture -  who bring to  their  poems an excitement and view that is fresh and sometime explosive. Some I read and feel like I'm  watching the discovery of fire.

1942 (from "Time and the Tide" - a series in progress)

happy eyes

Dan Cuddy
unpublishable poem

a fair wind tonight

astronomical  considerations

Anita Endezze
Sunset at Twin Lake 


1943 (from "Time and the Tide" - a series in progress)

Maurice Kenny

I swear
she used  to be  somebody
red grill
winter postcard  

things to watch out for as you monitor your quality of life

Ray A. Young Bear
From the Spotted Night  

1944 (from "Time and the Tide" - a series in progress)


Roberta Hill Whiteman
Climbing Gannett 

a cool breeze in August
tiny bites
sand castles
little man
post-it note
girl with a small mouth and long brown hair  

this is what I learned so far today  

N. Scott Monaday
To a Child  Running with Outstretched Arm in Canyon de Cheilly
The Burning

1945 (from "Time and the Tide" - a series in progress)

Wendy Rose

java note

approximately excellent

Jim Barnes
A Season of Loss

1946 (from "Time and the Tide" - a series in progress)

fresco on the other side of sunset 

Continuing with the series I started last week, titled as of now, Time and the Tide.


Rose Bowl played in North Carolina due to Japanese  threat...
Japanese troops occupy Manila... 
Nazi officials confer to plan the extermination of Europe's Jews - the "Final Solution"...
Count Basie records "One O'clock Jump"... 
First U.S. force in  Europe goes ashore in Northern Ireland...
1942Archie comic book debuts...
FDR orders internment of all west-coast Japanese-Americans...
American defense of Philippines collapses, MacArthur ordered out...
First day of the Battle of Java Sea - 13 U.S. warships sunk - 2 Japanese...
First cadets graduate from Tuskegee flying school...
Belzec Concentration Camp opens with 30,000 Polish Jews...
FDR orders men between 45 and 64 to register for non-military duty...
U.S. and Filipino forces overwhelmed by Japanese at  Bataan...
Stars and Stripes newspaper for U.S. armed forces starts...
First U.S. aerial bombing of Tokyo and other Japanese cities...
First food rationing in U.S. beginning with sugar...
1,500 Jews  gassed in Auschwitz...
Bing Crosby records "White Christmas"...
Japan's first major defeat  in the Battle of Midway...
German army defeated at El-Alemein, North Africa...
Anne Frank begins her diary...
Dwight Eisenhower appointed commander of U.S.forces in Europe... 
Execution of Jews by the thousands proceeds across Nazi-occupied Europe...
Tweety Bird debuts...
"Casablanca" premiers...
First self-sustaining nuclear chain reaction occurs...


the noose
of apocalypse
is tied



 Sid is free of the snakes and mosquitoes  and mud, transferred from the levees into  town to work in the shop.  He knows it's a temporary job, open  because the worker who  held it is a soldier now, training for the battles to come. The  job will  be his  again upon his return.  Sid is still disappointed  that  he  cannot join the fight, but pleased, at least, that he has freed up another to fight in his place.

He and Mona have made friends among the pilot trainees at the army-air base on  the edge of town. Young men who will be in the midst of murderous air battles in the Pacific, or, soon they know, over Europe. But for now they are just young men with the temporary luxury of having their young wives with them.

Sid and Mona are the only two unmarried among their crowd. Lonely and alone in a strange place before they met, they are good friends  now.

just good friends, they say, but they both know, though afraid to say it, that their friendship is not the end. They see a future they so very quietly imagine for now.

Here's my first this week from my eBook Pushing  Clouds Against the Wind.

happy eyes

happy eyes
and a hint of a smile
light the day
clear the rubble
a long slow night

sky is blue again
and clouds are
pillow white

clears the air

there were birds
in the trees
they would 

 this morning

Before I turn to my anthology for the week, here is a poem by my poet-friend Dan Cuddy.This is an excellent poem and it speaks directly to me, and I suspect many other poets as well. For we are all afflicted by some self-appointed guardian of poetry who, by God, knows what poetry is which does not include what we do. They are box-makers and would-be box enforcers, not paying particular attention (except to criticize) to anything that does not fit in their box. Content with and confident of my own  vision, I don't generally give much attention to the box-makers, but they do get tiresome.

unpublishable poem

allow me one unpunishable poem
(though I have  hundreds)
don't attack the first letter in my first word
or question how or why
"allow" "me" are or should be connected
who do I think I am?
just someone who  is punching out words
hopefully communication
it is uninspired true
no dash of taste-quickening salt
okay, you ask
the phrase popped into my head
is it true?
does salt quicken the tongue's taste?
probably not but it sounds good
pretend it does
you can't
tees must be crossed
and yes (cliche) eyes must be dotted
my eyes are always dotted with my pupils
I try to teach or have them taught
every single sightseeing day
you say "irrelevant"
not poetic
a digression which of course is
a transgression
but you (me speaking)
have taken a chainsaw to my imagination
and the rhythm is all wrong
I hear the buzz of criticism
in my own head
I wanted to write about
how a dog's tongue hangs our for air
in hot weather
how it seems (to me)
that having all that hair on  your body
in August
has got to be uncomfortable
an unjustified line break?
get on my knees? Ask forgiveness?
You won't grant it even if I grovel?
I'm asking "please stop  this mental torture"
I'm not as good as my self-image
I'm a ham actor
doing the "To be or not to be"
I  love that word "soliloquy"
water on the tongue
it drips into my ears
like a trickle down a cliff
and into a quiet cool green deep pool
oh, if only I could write poetry
to  still the critic-beasts

Again, from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

a fair wind tonight

a fair wind
bare tree limbs
like dominoes
on a wooden table,
and the rustling
of leaves blown
down the street
and behind it all,
wind chimes
playing different
from  backyard
up and down the street

a quiet night
with a fair wind
of neighborhood

Pushing Clouds Against the Wind

astronomical considerations

was the Greek guy
with wings
on his feet,
or was he a Roman guy,
I don't know much
about old Greeks and Romans
so i might be wrong...

but whoever
he was
he was important enough
to get a nice car
and a planet came
after him

though the car's pretty much a goner
at today's gas prices,
but I saw new pictures of the planet
in the newspaper today,
you know,
the one named after the Greek
or Roman guy with wings
on his feet (how the hell does
that work, seems to me he'd probably
fly upside down with wings on his feet)

not much interesting in the pictures
except for a huge volcano
and even that's been dead
for  several  gazillion
so the time for packing up
and heading for  higher ground
is long gone...

pretty boring pictures
when you get
right down to it...

not much interested
in planets
named after Greek
or Roman guys with wings on their feet -

that's another story

he's a helluva  dog
though i do think
with the whole big universe
out there
with new planets discovered every day
they ought,  by god, be able to find one
for Goofy

only seems fair...

First this week from  my Native American poetry anthology are two poems by Anita Endrezze.

Born in Long Beach, California, in 1952 of Yaqui and European ancestry, Endrezze is an artist and short story writer as well as a poet. At the time the anthology was published she worked part time for the Washington State Arts Commission as Poet-in-Residence. She is a member of the Atlati, a Native American  arts service organization.

Sunset at Twin Lake

Colville Indian Reservation

The heron stalks
the webbed water,
its feathers made of mirrors.

We hear the white breath
of water lilies as they float
in the cooling air.

The heron is a bringer
of reed music:
legs, beak, feathers -
in the evening wind.

Even the mountains
have a distant message
although we are more concerned
with things closer:
our hands still seeking
the last light
as we cast our lines
and the trout jumping
into the net
of the low-rising moon.


There is a drunk on Main Avenue, slumped
in front of the Union Gospel Mission.
He is dreaming of pintos the color of wine
and ice, and drums that speak the names
wind. His hair hides his face,
but I think I know him.

Didn't he make songs people still sing
in their sleep?
Didn't coyotes beg him  for new songs
to sing to the moon?
Didn't he dance all night  once and laugh
when the women  suddenly turned
shy at dawn?
Didn't he make a song just for me,
on blessed by its  being sung only once?

If he would lift his face
I could see his eyes, see
if he's singing now
a soul dissolving song.
But he's all hunched over
and everyone walks around him.
He must still have strong magic
to  be so invisible.

I remember him saying:
Even grass has a song, 
though only the wind hears it.

 I did some little color dots that I  included in Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.


blue eyes
under clear
on cut


a pewter
roll across the floor


on white paper
bright red
like an apple
on a bed of

Another installment in the unfinished series, newly titled Time and the Tide.


William Hastie, aid to secretary of war, resigns in protest of segregation in armed forces...
Frankfurters replaced by Victory Sausages (mixture of meat and soy meal)...
Hitler declares "total war"...
The Pentagon,world's largest office building, is completed...
U.S. bans pre-sliced bread to reduce bakery demand for metal parts...
Duke Ellington plays his first concert at Carnegie Hall...
General Eisenhower selected to command allied forces in Europe...
German "White Rose" student group hangs anti-Hitler banner in Munich, arrested and beheaded...
German 6th Army surrenders at Stalingrad, a turning point in the war in Europe...
New volcano  erupts in farmer's cornfield in Mexico...
"Porgy and Bess" opens on Broadway...
Jimmy Durante and Garry Moore premier on radio...
Oklahoma premieres...
Bergen-Belsen concentration  camp forms... 
Postal Zone system invented...
German and Italian  forces surrender in North Africa, one division after another...
Berlin is declared free of Jews...
Zoot Suit Riots - Mob in Los Angeles beats up everyone  who appears Hispanic...
Income tax withholding becomes law...
Race riots begin in Texas, spread to other states...
Allied forces  invade Sicily...
Almost 6,000 tanks take part in the greatest tank battle in history with Russian victory over Germany...
RAF bombs Hamburg (20,000 dead)...
Mussolini resigns...
John F. Kennedy's PT-boat  109 is sunk...
Mussolini captured by Allies, rescued by German  forces, starts resistance movement...


tides begin to turn
but even turning
are deadly

the dead wash
out  with the retreating surf

as new dead 
wash in with each bloody surge

the march of tide and time
is not over


Sid and Mona joins his very good landlord friends Matrice and Harry for a night across the border in Reynosa, "Havana on the Rio Grande" it's called, where U.S. dollars buy the finest  in Mexican food and rum and floor shows and magicians and where, in the finest of the clubs, El Leon del Noche, an African pads through the restaurant on a  leash.

And an orchestra that plays the latest in American big band swing knows Harry and he always brings his trumpet so that he  can sit in. This night he plays the most beautiful version of Stardust Sid and Mona ever heard.

They sit close at their table, holding hands,  breathless in the thick Mexican night. The change in their life they had imagined finally comes, quietly, at a small table in a Reynosa nightclub. The found their song and with the song, each other. 

Matrice watches  it happen, smiles, winks at Harry. Their conspiracy realized, their plan  come together.

The next  poem  from  the  anthology is by Maurice Kenny, a Mohawk poet from New York, he grew up on and off the nearby reservation. He was educated at Butler University, St. Lawrence University and New York University and occasionally taught at North Country Community College until he retired in 2011.


my face is grass
                          color of April rain;
arms, legs are the limbs
                          of birch, cedar;
my thoughts are winds
                          which blow;
pictures in my mind
                           are the climb up hill
                           to dream in the sun;
                           hawk feathers, and quills
                           of porcupine running
                           the edge of the stream
                           which reflects stories
                           of my many mornings
                           and the dark faces of night
                           mingle with victories
                           of dawn and tomorrows;
cor of the fields and squash...
                            the daughters of my mother
                            who collect  honey
                            and all the fruits;
meadow and sky are the end of my day,
                            the stretch of my night
                            yet the birth of my dust;
my wind is the breath of a fawn
                            the cry of the cub
                            the trot of the wolf
                            whose print covers
                            the tracks of my feet;
my word, my word,
legacy, the obligation I hand
                            to the blood of my flesh
                            the sinew off the loins
to hold to the sun
                            and the moon
which direct the river
                            that carries my song
                            and the beat of the drum
to the fires of the village
                            which endures.   

Shorties from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

 I swear

business suit
charcoal gray,
red necktie
on pristine white shirt
whispers to himself
as he picks
at his Blackberry
with  his plastic stylus

I read his lips
"beam  me up, Scottie"

I swear

she used to be somebody

poor Babe
at  six hundred pounds
now just bacon
on the hoof

the life of a
grown up child star
is precarious


sun lies low
behind scrub branches

yellow jigsaw

at the end of day

red grill
             (after William  Carlos Williams)

red grill
on a field
of brown leaves

autumn come
and almost gone with summer

the long wait
for spring

winter postcard

white horse
on a white field
enclosed by a white fence

I am blinded
by the

A lesson from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

things to watch out for as you monitor your quality of life

this is what
learned today

when your dog
in the middle
of your morn
in a

From the anthology, this is a poem by Ray A. Young Bear. Born in 1950 in Iowa,  Young Bear is Meskwaki and writes novels and poetry in both English and his native language. His work often revolves around themes relating to Native American' search for identity.

From the Spotted Night

In the blizzard
while chopping wood
the mystical whistler
beckons my attention.
Once there were longhouses
here. A village.
In the abrupt spring floods
swimmers retrieved our belief.
Their spirit remains.
From the spotted night
distant jets  transform
into fireflies who float
towards me like incandescent
The leather shirt
which is suspended
on a wire hanger
above the bed's headboard
is humanless;  yet when one
stands outside the house,
the strenuous sounds
of dressers and boxes
being moved can be heard.
We believe someone wears
the shirt and rearranges
the heavy furniture,
although nothing
is actually changed.
Unlike the Plain Indian shirts
which repelled lead bullets,
ricocheting from them
in fiery sparks,
this shirt is the means;
this shirt is the bullet.

Next from  the series,  Time and the Tide, the year 1944. An important year to me because that's when  I was born. I  checked the actual day of my birth and discovered that nothing important happened on that day but me.


Ralph Bunch first Negro official in the State Department appointed...
Eisenhower takes command of Allied Invasion Force in London...
First jazz concert at Metropolitan Opera House, featuring Louis Armstrong, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and others...
RAF drops 2,300 bombs on Berlin; 447 German bombers attack London... 
Leningrad liberated in 880 days with 600,000 killed...
Batman and Robin premier in newspapers...
Mount Vesuvius erupts...
Jimmy Steward flies his 12th combat mission  leading attack on Berlin...
D Day, 150,000 Allied troops land in Normandy...
15 U.S. aircraft carriers attack Japanese on Marianas...
Congress creates the CIA...
FDR signs GI Bill of Rights...
First Japanese kamikaze attack...
First German V-2 rocket hits Great Britain...
U.S. retakes Guam...
Anne Frank arrested, sent to Auschwitz...
Smokey Bear  debuts...
Charles De Gaulle walks the Champs-Elysee after Paris liberation...
George H. W. Bush ejects from his burning plane...
Copland's "Appalachian Spring" premieres...
Auschwitz begins gassing inmates...
FDR wins 4th term...
Glenn Miller lost over English Channel...


string of pearls
regained in the Pacific

stringer of musical pearls
lost in Europe
Mr. Smith bombs

the fire of 
manufactured and natural
global nights

the bat signal
on some such night
for even more heroes
to rise
and fall for the cause
of morality's light 


Mona's son, Vincent (first called "Spud" by his uncle and now Spud to  everyone but his mother), is ten years old now, prone to mischief, and a worry to his mother.

He does not take well to the arrival of a new man in her life and misbehaves when Sid is around.  Sid is not a patient man, Mona knows, and has no experience with children. and she worries that as Spud tries to push Sid away, he will succeed. He acts like he wants Mona to choose between the  two of them.

"Why do we need him," Spud asks, "why can't you just make him go away?"

Sid worked hard to  gain the boy's  trust, but nothing seemed to make any difference until a Saturday afternoon at Sam Hill Park when Spud fell into a canal that flowed through the south end of the park. He could not swim and it was Sid who heard his screams for help and jumped into  the water, fully clothed, and pulled him out...

His best pants and shoes ruined, Sid held the boy as he shivered from the chill water and cried and told Sid how sorry he was to cause such a problem.  But Sid quieted the boy, holding him with a gentleness Mona had not seen before, looking for the first time like a father  to her son.

That night, after Spud had been put to bed, they went back to the park, alone this time, and on a blanket on  a large stone shelf of flat rock under a pecan tree, made love for the first time. Naked in summer moonlight, with long soulful kisses and slow silken caresses,  gently rocking as they were for the first time joined.

Looking for a chance for life after life, from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.


I'm getting
bored with myself

thought about
getting rid of the beard
and shaving my head
but then I'd be
just another
bald beardless bored guy

not much of an improvement...

thought about joining the marines
but think they might not want me  now
and back when I was of Marine age
I did everything I could to avoid
all Marinish ways
except for drinking
and carousing
and I'm too old to do that now

thought about
driving down to the coast
to take sailing lessons
but I get seasick
if i   fill my bathtub too full
so my guess is
that won't work either...

could have a  deep romantic affair
with a beautiful
but I already did that once
and after 32 years, though
it is
the joy
and comfort of my life,
it is not the
shoot the moon adventure
that by the blandness
of my nature
I would most certainly

the beautiful
and i
could have a romantic interlude
on a mountaintop

but, wait,
i climbed a mountain
and it wasn't boring
but it scared the crap out of me
and scared crapless
is even worse

i could write
a truly great poem
i suppose
but it has come tome
as i edit my poems  for my next book
that they are entirely about me,
like transcripts from inside my head,
which, sad to say,
is much like
being inside the head
of the guy ahead of you in the grocery line,
preoccupied with what it is he's forgetting
jeez,i should a made a list...


From the week's anthology,  here's  Roberta Hill Whiteman. Born in 1947 into the  Oneida Nation of Wisconsin, she grew up with her family on the reservation and in Green Bay. With a PhD in American Studies from the University of Minnesota, she is an Associate Professor of English and American Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and a prolific author and poet and lecturer in various colleges.

Climbing Gannett

While you clambered up ahead,
jabbing a  staff into chunks of snow,
I rested on a rock shelf, wedded
to my breath, to ridges and plateaus,
careening blue and bluer,
to aspens below, flickering
in a downhill draft.

Lengthening its hollows,
the teal blue peak above us
made you laugh. Never did you feel
as close as then,
straddling he distant slope,
balancing in cold wind.
As you climbed beyond my help,

a rim of the crevasse broke to foam.
I heard your wild echo.
"It's no storm." When the mountain
hurled boulders  across the sky,
your face blazed in the close grey air,
then the slide pulled you
with a roar, whirring loud
and long, like the wing beats
of a hundred hawks. Although I held on,
my life leapt at your glance.
I held on for weeks,  for weeks I walked
the crumbling fields. In the homeland
of ravens, I stroked the shadow
of each gangling pine, and measured

the distance of your grave.
Across the west the peaks darkened.
You were swept away so suddenly.
Surely you'll tap,
perhaps below that copper ridge,
or in that far ravine.
I dream on the icy plain.

Nameless and alone, I sang
in the yellow light of a lily,
and woke to welcome you,
bound by a miniature range.
Outside our window, a warbler  claims
another dawn. Do you think
the light drove away that colder wind?

 Maybe a couple more shorties from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

a cool breeze in August

from the north
in a season of southern winds

trees sigh
with early morning pleasure

welcome this reminder
of better days to come

tiny bites

at a shell-white
takes tiny
spites them
with every

sand castles

in repose 

little man

little man
on a cellphone
with booming voice
there is more to him
than appears

post-it note

crowd murmurs
in a large room
of stories
into random
work pieces

the girl with a small mouth and long brown hair

threw back her hair
with a flip of her head

and smiled
little mouth a bow
drawn tight like a knot
on a pink and white tie
or a kitten
that curls like a ball
when you tickle
its belly

More  educational poetry from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

this is what I learned so far today

little frogs
for sex

how do
they do that
you might ask

(this is the interesting part)

big frogs
have deep
bass voices

little frogs
have little
squeaky voices

lady frogs
don't care
the size
of the
some little frogs
learn how to deepen
their voice
so they sound
really big
and really
much of their
from the pond
and leaving
all the little
green girlie frog
to themselves

anyone who's spent
an evening
at any West Texas
will understand
the principle

The next two poems from this week's  Native American  poetry anthology are by N. Scott Momaday, considered  by many to be the founding author of the Native American poetry renaissance. Born in 1934 of Kiowa descent, his book House Made of Dawn won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 1969. He received the National Medal of Arts in 2007 and holds honorary degrees from 20 universities.

To  a Child Running with Outstretched Arms in Canyon  de Chelly

You are small  and intense
In your excitement, whole,
Embodied in delight.
The backdrop is immense;

the sand banks break and roll
Through the cleavages of light
And shadow. You embrace
the spirit of this place.

The Burning

In the numb, numberless days
There were disasters in the distance,
Strange upheavals. No one understood them.
At night the sky was scored with light,
For the far planes of the planet buckled and burned.
In the dawns were intervals of darkness
On the scorched sky, clusters of clouds and eclipse,
And cinders descending.
Nearer in the noons
The air lay low and ominous and inert.
And eventually at  evening,  or morning,  or midday,
At the sheer wall of the wood,
Were shapes in the shadows approaching,
Always, and always alien and alike.
And in the foreground the fields were fixed in fire,
And the flames flowered our flesh.

From the series Time  and Tide.


Pepe LaPew debuts...
German forces retreat in Battle of the Bulge...
Prokofiev's 5th Symphony premieres in Moscow...
Every Amsterdammer gets three kilos of sugar beets...
Red Army continues to liberate concentration camps  as it advances west...
Grand Rapids becomes first U.S. city to fluoridate its water...
1,000 American Flying Fortresses drop 3,000 tons of bombs on Berlin...
Andrews Sisters hit number one on the charts with "Rum and Coca Cola"...
Yalta agreement signed by FDR, Churchill and Stalin...
U.S. Marines raise flag on Iwo Jima...
Federico Garcia Lorca's  "La Casa" premieres in Buenos Aires...
First International Woman's Day is observed...
Firebombing of Tokyo in nighttime B-29 raid, more than 100,000 killed, mostly civilians...
"Going My Way" with Bing Crosby and Ingrid Bergman wins best movie Oscar...
U.S. 7th Army crosses the Rhine...
"Glass Menagerie" premieres...
U.S. soldiers liberate  Buchenwald...
FDR dies, Truman sworn  in as 33  president... 
Red Army begins Battle of Berlin...
Mussolini captured by Italian partisans and hung...
Unconditional  surrender of Germany to the Allies and  V-E (Victory in Europe) Day is Announced...
Herman  Goring is captured by U.S. Army; Heinrich Himmler commits suicide...
Abbott and Costello's film "The Naughty Nineties" released, includes longest version of "Who's on First"...
The war in the Pacific continues island by island with massive causalities on both sides; the Japanese ignore several surrender ultimatums...
U.S. drops atomic bomb on Hiroshima; three days later drops second bomb on Nagasaki...
V-J Day;  Japan surrenders unconditionally...
Branch Rickey signs Jackie Robinson...
Ho Chi Minh declares Vietnam independence from France...


war clouds
leave broke and bloody
open to the sky

a time to beat
into  plowshares,
a time to replant
and rebuild...

but, oh,
the weapons are so more fearsome
than ever
the power of forever burning
in the hands of mortal

on the horizon
new storms can be seen  forming

a fragile
and  forever
a passing
in the hands of


Talk of marriage  begins... 

Matrice and Harry offer a larger apartment, enough for Mona and Sid and Spud, and maybe another when the time comes.

Sid's father is an open, approving  man, happy for his son's chance at happiness wherever he finds it. But his mother does not like the idea of her son marrying a widow woman - especially one with a son going on 12 years old.

Mona's family is just pleased she has  someone beside them to depend on.

Sid and Spud spend long Saturdays together; sometimes take in a cowboy movie while Mona works at the bakery.

Life flows around them in slow and gentle ripples.

From the week's anthology, here is Hopi/Miwok writer  Wendy Rose. Born in 1948 and raised with little contact with her Native American family and culture,  much of her work seeks to find that culture and heritage she missed as a child. With a PhD in anthropology, Rose is, in addition to her poetry, a social scientist, anthropologist,educator, and artist. She is author of multiple volumes of poetry, fiction and non- fiction and Pulitzer Prize nominee.

The  title of this poem translates as Woman of Fire.


The way they do
this old woman
no longer cares
what we think
but spits
her black tobacco
any which way
full length
from her bumpy bed.
Finally up
she sprinkles
ash on the snow,
cold buttes
promise  nothing
but the walk
of winter.
Centuries of cedar
have bound her
to earth,
huckleberry ropes
lay prickly
on her neck.
Around her
machinery growls,
snarls and ploughs
great patches
of her skin.
She crouches
in the north,
her trembling
the source
of dawn.
Light appears
with the shudder
of her slopes,
the movement
of her arm.
Blackberries unravel,
stones dislodge;
it's not as if
they were not warned.

She was sleeping
but she heard the boot scrape,
the creaking floor, felt
the pull of the blanket
from her thin shoulder.
With one free hand,  she finds her weapons
and raises them high, clearing the twigs from her throat
she sings, she sings, shaking the sky
like a blanket about her
Loo-wit sings and sings and sings!

An observational from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

java note

two men

one woman
around a small table
for a coffee shop

the men
early middle-age

the woman
in a low cut
with fringe

the men
talking too much
nervous chatter
as men sometimes do
when moving their mouth
to cover the furtive
roaming of their eyes

Had a need some years ago to do some work on a rent house. Ordinarily this is the type of work I would move to Paraguay to avoid, but the cost of hiring a professional was more than I  was willing to cough up. Again from  Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

approximately excellent

was another day
at the money pit

laying down
kitchen tile this time...

it is said
to be a very precise
this tile-laying thing

and I'm not
known as a person
of frequent

of an approximation
type of guy,
that's me

but I put that tile
and now my knees hurt
and my...
without bothering to name
all the various parts
just say
hips down

and it may be
even precisely
that an individual
of a perfectionist bent
who insists
on a true northerly
might find fault
with the trueness
of the line
of my

but another person

another person
of a more approximistic
willing to  drift
his orientation
a degree or two
or even three
north  northereasterly
could very well look
at how my tiles
line up

and find it quite

in fact
that person
knowing that the lowest professional
bid for the work
was 965 dollars and 37 cents
would almost certainly
that the free work
done today
was in fact


This is the last piece this week from the Anthology of 20th Century Native American Poetry. It is by Jim Barnes. Of Choctaw and Welsh descent, Barnes was born and raised in Oklahoma  and was 2009-2010 Poet  Laureate for the state. With a PhD from the University of Arkansas, he taught at Truman State University for over 30 years as Professor of Comparative Literature and Writer-in-Residence.

A Season of Loss

We left the horses in the draw
and climbed the  painted ledge to see
the blue and distance home but saw
an autumn sun set fire to trees

on ridges we had yet to pass;;
gnarled trees that burned and stood
more than a sifting phoenix,  cst
in colors other than mild moods.

Our blood was now too thin to know
the half-moon brother, our skin too pale;
yet we, hands out, tried again to sow
our spirit in the stars. A frail

effort: our fathers' blood pulsed slow.
At our back a glyph grew perfect:
hard in stone a hand drew back to throw,
a sun stood still, a moon arched, sticks

grew into bones.  Only human
we touched thoughts, hands, eyes,
assured ourselves of the moment,
and leaned together hard against the sky.

Here my last  this week from the Time and the Tide series I've been working on. I'll continue to post updates on the series next week,  assuming there is any more of it to post.


ENIAC, first  large U. S. computer  finished
"Show Boat" opens...
First meeting of the United Nations General Assembly...
"Luck" Luciano pardoned for his wartime service and deported to Italy...
Juan Peron elected  President of Argentina...
Winston Churchill makes "Iron Curtain"  speech...
First U.S. rocket leaves Earth atmosphere...
Greece holds its first election after WWII... 
First election for Japanese Diet...
Tokyuo Telecommunications Engineering (later  re-named Sony) is founded with 20 employees...
First hour long entertainment  TV show premieres on NBC...
"Annie Get Your Gun" premieres with Ethel Merman in the lead...
Truman seizes control of nation's railroads to delay a strike...
Patent filed in U.S. for H-Bomb...
First bikini bathing suit displayed in Paris... 
Supreme Court bans discrimination in interstate travel...
U.S. tests atom bomb on Bikini atoll...
"Animal Farm"  published... 
First long-distance car-to-car telephone call...
Herman Goering sentenced to death, commits suicide in his cell...
"The Iceman Cometh" premieres... 
John F. Kennedy elected to U.S. House...
"Best Years of Our Lives" premieres...
Led by Ho Chi Ming, Vietnamese attack French forces in Hanoi...
"It's a Wonderful Life"  premieres...
Truman officiall proclaims the end  of WWII...


a time of 

a time of

a time of planting
in fields
plowed by bombardments
of war

a time
when first buds
of future days
through the torn and bloody soil
of pastures  reaching
for  life

a time when
all the forces of good and bad
for the next  round
of clashing philosophies

a time when blood rises
that day


Wedding day at the courthouse.

Harry stands for  Sid;  Matrice for Mona. Spud stands between them as the vows are said.

Sid  and Mona have to work, so their honeymoon is short, Saturday night in  a small motel on Boca Chica Beach. They are alone  as Spud stays with Harry and Matrice.

To the sound of tides brushing in and out over sand glowing white under a brightly jeweled sky,
they make lover for the first time as man and wife.

Monday they go back to work; Monday night they settle for the first time into their new apartment, the first night together for the three of them. Spud falls asleep quickly; Sid and Mona, in their bedroom, celebrate their homecoming with the quiet  passion of the newly-wed.

Here is the last this week from Pushing Clouds Against the Wind.

fresco on the other side of sunset

of low clouds
as cotton candy
against billows
of virgin  white

a Mediterranean

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)

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


Sonyador - The Dreamer

                                                                  Peace in our Time

at 11:07 AM Blogger davideberhardt said...

the dan cuddy poem marvelous- reminds me, in its directness- of can's and my old friend Dino Pantazonis
we have a good poetry scene here in baltimore (altho too many people writing, as in other areas of the country)

to itz- oi have not got too far into this issue- but- the arched underthe bridge w the blue light is fabulicious-

if u ever DID follow my advice (which you WILL NOT (and i understand)- i want part of the royalties (i keep telling him to concentrate on a photo bk) (maybe his wife wld help me- what's her email?)

at 11:12 AM Blogger davideberhardt said...

also like the green leaves in the other under arch- did u add that color?

if u didnot- u should do more adding color to a otherwise black and white back ground- the dry bricks, the flash of green- it's poetic

also the car w headlight on rain slicked hwy

how abt the guy shooting those reporters in virgina today? no one will mention virginia's gun laws - i am not surprised by such events in the state- or texas

i also think reporters and media is /are as loathsome as pols- but that doesn't mean we should shoot them

trumpo blames keey for all the wrong reasons- she really does suck

at 11:37 AM Blogger Here and Now said...

the photos are produced using an application called "color splash" - color pictures are turned to black and white, then the original color is returned where it's wanted using little brushes

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