Sunday, April 11, 2010

thanks to Russ Bradshaw

first of all, thanks to Russ Bradshaw of Five Leaves Publication in the UK for including my poem "Fighting Foam" in his anthology of night shift poems. The Night Shift is available from Five Leaves Publication (at that site - click on the poetry link on the left). (the poem "Fighting Foam" is in the archives on this site - link is on the right. i uploaded it June 18, 2007, so you'd only need to click on the 2007, June link to find it). you know the mantra by now - support small and local presses if at all possible.

other than that - the union and company have agreed to talk one more time, in June, about altering the contract. There really is very little to hope for these discussions to amount to anything unless 1) the company decides to offer more for the requested take-aways or 2) the union officials in Portland (the local members have no voice in these matters) decide it's worth their while in the long term to allow the local to vote on the take-aways. Anyway, the door that seemed to be closed has a slight opening at the moment.

Spring rains and a week of vacation ..... just doing some things around the house and enjoying not being part of the rat race for a bit.

today's poem is from 11:97.


no prayers will give these bones
sanctification. my songs are to something
other than a plaster-of-paris god. the rain
will rust more than gears or drive-lines
in these mountains. old junkers in the back-yard
are symbolic of nothing, if they are not symbolic
of desperation.

fallen trees rot in the ever fog.
in these hills are real men
who cover the slopes with the entrails of deer
& bear & cougars. they are the back-bone
of America, with inalienable rights.

i cannot save America from itself.
the cold in my bones has a source
other than the wind. the last hero
i worshipped was my father, dying
in a hospital bed, reminding me to be certain
to get the oil changed in the Oldsmobile
before winter set-in.

there is no truth (flap of hawk,
caw of crow) if you do not create it
for yourself. old man at the bus stop
dressed in the rags of someone's garage-sale
asked if i'd ever seen a more perfect sunrise.