roll over, fido, you mill-worker

Today’s poem is from March 1993.

No real new information, except that everyone under 55 will be terminated the day the sale becomes official. (Aug. 4 in theory). Everyone over 55 (hey, that’s me) will be “retired”. (i am being told we then become IP employees, but so far, no one has officially stated that.) What that means is my pension needs to be taken within 90 days, either requesting an “annuity” or a lump sum (to be rolled over). oh, the paper work is just short of gargantuan. But today I began the journey. Actually, the people at Vanguard were very helpful, thus far. Next week I get to talk to a financial advisor as to specifics and terms of the roll over.

Other news? Summer is finally starting to appear. The long (and wet) spring is about over. Actually If it weren’t for the work fiasco, I would have enjoyed the spring being wet and all. Now all I need is my foot to quit aching. 12 hours (8 straight days) on that wonderful concrete floor are starting to take a toll I think. And more overtime on the horizon. So much for streamlining the work force a few years ago!! Oh well, such is life for an old paper-mill worker. Now back to the poetry. I think that’s the reason for this blog.



THE RIVER STILL SMELLS

the river still smells where blackbirds dance in the thickets & carp dance in the reeds.
the same old river that dumps a grey ooze into turbidity current of the cold bay no one loves forever.
my soul on the edge of the wind
obsidian rock from the belly of the sea
angry knuckles that scrape the sky
her hands sails before sunset

but it is the river - stench of sugar beets & tires burning - before which i stood.
manzanita housing skylarks - & rats
the wind whispering of turbulence
temptation the very taste of her lips
succulent grapes upon vines tangled in scrub oak, where jays curse the very smell of life
perfumes that intoxicate
imaginations that refuse to forget