a cold nov. post

first of all, thanks to everyone that has visited this blog and read my poetry this year. i honestly appreciate it. Also, anyone who has left some comments ... i also appreciate that, a lot. it lets me know you're out there and i'm not just ranting before a black hole.

not much new in the world of the paper mill ... crazy as ever, though 5 more people were hired last week, in hopes they can be trained by year end and help with the many retirements planned for early next year. no overtime this week (whooopppeee!) and unless the schedule gets changed (like that could happen????? yeah right.) i'll be working with 2 of the new hires next week and not having to plug core! Maybe my shoulder will start to feel better. :-)

anyway, back to the poetry. today's poem is from 11-92 poem.

again, thanks to all who read this, and thanks to all who comment. Hello, Soulless, it's a pleasure to see someone new to the comments.



DEATH & I ARE THE SAME AGE

death & i are the same age
the poet davie wrote:
wear the same rags -
piss in the same cup.

we walk the darkness
of our dreams
turned to imperfect nightmares,
walk, swagger & fall.

it is november now
ice on the fence post
that houses no pilgrimages,
november & i weary of the rain.

death & i speak the same language,
hear the same voices
that do not inspire
& then take them to heart.

surgeons prowl my body,
daemons in disguise:
prowl, laugh at the diseases
& offer voodoo curses as consolation.

it is eternally november here,
frozen winds, as we salute gods
standing rigid as stone
in their own catastrophic dreams.

poem before heading back to work

a poem from 10:93.

cold and rainy, pretty typical mid-november day here. back to the paper mill tomorrow. no idea what the schedule holds, as i've been on vacation with no updates from the fellow slaves.



THE SORRY NEVER OFFERED

the sorry never offered
now on the wings of crows
in rotten corn fields
rains caress their torn feathers
as a mother caresses a repetitive child

crows. old & weary -
distracted. hold the sorry never offered.

---------------------

still on vacation

poem published by Potpourri in Dec 95.
still on vacation. Carrie has been visiting from Minn. this weekend and today we take her back to the airport, so maybe another update before heading back to the mill.


THE WORLD IN TRANSITION

1 the world in transition. i tells you, i aint.
2 wears no gold upon my neck, un-hip & poor.
3 wears my poverty like a curse - well
4 rehearsed. often times i believe in jesus
5 as a loan shark. time for sale. big bucks!
6 though ministers scowl at my brave heresy
7 i persists. no callouses on my knees, falling
8 into confusions. work into the darkness,
9 until i becomes part of it, believing in magic
10 of dollars, drinking holy waters of mt. ranier
11 until i am salvation itself.

poem for my late sister

a poem for my late sister Virginia - from 92



FOR VIRGINIA

we each live with our addictions (some more obvious than others)
each carry crosses ornately painted without our person insignia.
even paradise can be transformed into Golgotha
here where suffering is a lifestyle.

the wind sings "holy" & our rosaries are all broken
here where confessionals have video tape recorders in case god has a failing memory
& the water is no longer blessed & smells of sulfates

we each sleep with skeletons that we caress lovingly
each eat exotic dishes that fail to satiate
& lay prostrate before mirrors that reflect poorly
here where suffering is a lifestyle.

still nothing but rumors

still nothing but rumors of sale (or not) at the mill, but little else, it seems. we are still running some horrible export orders. they are actually hiring a few more people next week, as we are in the midst of a numbers crunch - more people retiring than coming in.

on some days off at the moment. trying to relax and let some rest for my sore shoulder.

today's poem is from Sept 92.



THERE ARE GHOSTS IN THE THICKETS

there are ghosts in the thickets
dancing

nimbus around the moon
& the sound of bats flying low
over the dark rancid river

my arms unable to reach eternity
as the wind whispers
theology
in a language i cannot translate precisely

& the ghosts ignore my howling
they understand
i am unable to do anything
but admire their awkward motion