Wednesday, February 25, 2009

not a lot to report

Today’s poem is from 9:97

Not a lot to update or report. Things at the mill remain pretty much the same - in a slow back mode due to the economy. Things are expected to pick up in March, when the fruits and vegetables in California are going to need boxes for harvest. Of course, that all depends on the demand ….

Still loads of rumors about what is going to and not going to happen with the elimination of the regular paper tester job. The job isn’t going away, just some people with idle time (HA!) on their hands, such as the back tender or 4th hand, will have to do the testing now. Rumors are just that, and no managers seem to be willing to address anything until it something actually comes to pass.

Warmer nights (but not actually warm), and lots of rain the past week.


moon echoed in her dark eyes then,
more than a riddle to be solved.

rain. her wet hair
magnified the vision.
i could feel the essence, but i
was myopic then, as perhaps i am myopic now.
no longer roses in my fingers.
these calluses less than magical.

autumn. the santa lucias
black moss & alabaster rivers -
her thin fingers etched
the answers in my pale skin:
30 years to be deciphered.

here where rains
are merely wet. geese in one way
formation. not even omens,
their songs like epistles
long ago written.
my bones have not forgotten.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

plodding along

Work plods along … of course, never smoothly. The mill remains in a slow-down mode, at least through February, due to the poor economy and the sad shape of our boiler. The latest news is the papermill is officially eliminating the paper testers job sometime in the next three months … and two of them have asked to go into the shipping department. That could spell trouble for me, as I COULD be bumped out, back to the paper machine. One group says that won’t happen, another says it’s inevitable. So, who knows? Time will tell I guess. Back to night shift tonight - whoopee.  

Winter is still around, though no snows, just ice and frost most mornings. Snow seems to be just on the nearby hills, but avoiding the valley floor, which I can appreciate.

Today’s poem is from 8:97


each word, a stone in the pocket
of your ragged jeans.

you can beat back demons with some
(though never as far as you wished),
& barter with the old woman
at the end of the highway for dreams
with others, though she has no real need of them.
mostly she just throws them at crows
in her corn patch.

some allow privacy.
some even buy pleasures
in the right economics
but that too is temporal.

they are just agates: voices
you cannot ignore -
even if no one else seems to hear.
the world is full
of the deaf & mutilated.

agates with visions
you spend long nights trying to decipher.
stones that do not allow
you to float on the tranquil waters.

still, at dawn, as mist rises off the dark sea,
you can be found, wet socks in your
trousers, collecting more.
it is, after all, your own voice you seek.