1st draft of a new poem, really????

at last, summer is over, the cooler (darn almost cold) nights are bringing back the rains. Work continues, ever changing with the new (and still poorly functioning) software from the Gods of Memphis. Oh well, i am considering (not certain how seriously at this point) in bidding out of shipping and trying my hand at something else in the mill, as it getting really frustrating and difficult to deal with the mess this software has created and as in all walks of life, they just continue to pile on new features and jobs that we don't really have the time or extra personnel to deal with. Ain't life a cher o' bowlies?

anyway, worked on a new poem this morning, really! a new poem! first one in maybe 8 or 9 years. Is it the start of me returning to writing? Not certain and not likely. Just was listening to some Bo Ramsey music, and this poem started in the back of my head.

THIS POEM BEGINS WITH A BO RAMSEY RIFT (1st draft)
(10-7-2011)

Bo Ramsey tells me
my dreams are so fragile
Paul Stookey tells me
to tell it on the mountain
while Dylan informs me
i ain’t goin’ nowhere

what to do?
all my prophets old & dying
sending conflicting messages -
just like politicians
in an election year

it is October finally
& the returning rains
offer little comfort

the sweat of labor
has again lost its magic luster

older now & my bones ache
i question the dreams of my youth
the passions used, abused
& lost

& i wonder if anything was really
worth the prices paid

still, when the alarm rings
i find it a necessity to put on
those worn work boots

that in itself
i suppose
is an answer for now

purchase, consolidiation, government approval in the wings

not much to report. worked a ton of overtime in August, but survived somehow with only a very sore knee and a major strain on the brain. The past week of vacation helped a lot. Made it up to Dee Wright Obveratory in the Cascades (more of a site to observe the highest peaks in the Oregon Cascades than anything else). Been 20 or more years since we've been there.

Work continues to be a farce. Let it suffice at that. The great IP is trying to buy Temple Inland paper company. We have no idea how/if/when it will affect our mill and of course all the managers are acting as perfect robots saying it should have little if any affect on our future - which could mean anything, really. So we shall see how things unfold .... just what we all need, a little drama. It really will have little effect on my future, as i hope to be able to retire within 3 years, and these purchase, consolidation, government approval things usually take a couple of years to complete.

Summer should be winding down, thankfully. It hasn't been the hottest summer but, i can feel a bit of fall in the early morning air. Now if there were just a few sprinkles with the mild chill .....



today's poem is from 1:98, and it's another montage poem. (if you hadn't gathered, montage was probably my favorite type of poem.)

THE LANGUAGE OF LIES

1
the language of lies

it is not the wind over bare trees
promising summer
as it is not the dirty river
promising clean drinking water

2
buy from me the rain.
the air that i breathe.
lilies of the valley.
flowers on the wall.

3
dreams, like Achilles, flaunt their potential,
but the funeral is always
what is remembered.
i tell you, we live for something other than simple dreams -
fear or necessity, each day a hejira,
faith not as spectacular as sainthood
but profound, i mean, it's epic stuff
to face co-workers with their daily psychosis,
to ward off the black cough of despair,
the burnt pages of promises forgotten.

4
O, to be the black dog in the rain
dancing with the ghosts
of a better time.

O, to be the whisper
that sparkles
the eyes of children.

5
her hair smelled of tangerines
lips contained more magic
than i would ever comprehend.

the ocean in her fingers -
then i scrapped my knees
& splashed into the tide pools.

storms from the distorted waters
never to subside.

6
god made demands upon stone
before he made promises.
some insist they survive.
the rain. even fire
merely mask the events, the facts.

even if the legends are not historical
hope remains, at least, there could be
peace on earth, in the individual,
by design or accident.

7
soldiers here - so many masks
so many uniforms, i am never certain
whose side i am on
or what i have chosen to fight for.

but, hurrah, for our side,
& damn the bastards that resist.

i, myself, burn the documents -
in hopes nothing survives,
not even records of their insanity.

i hope, only dust, ash, to greet
the next generation of explorers.

8
ice-storms -
the highway will reveal nothing.
you will learn the dialog of patience.

darkness will be the sound of your voice.

9
mother, may i have a future. may i dream.
one step at a time.
no giant steps allowed.
simon says go to the back of class.
you forgot to say the magic word.

hospitals, doctors & needles, Oh MY!

spent last night in the emergency room, thinking i possibly was having a stroke. it didn't turn out that bad. the hospital tests revealed other issues, and i probably should see my family doctor fairly soon and have a set of stress tests and more blood tests on my liver to clear up some ambiguities that appeared last night. basically, last night seems to have been a combination of lack of sleep, stress and "other" factors resulting in "complications".

no - the comment section will not be opened in the immediate future. i am not looking for sympathy, contact or anything else, just mentioning what's shaking, and that (as seems to be the norm) posts will be irregular at best in the future. Anyway, such is the state of affairs.




a poem from 12:27:93

FOR GRANDFATHER: JONATHAN NORTHUP

you: who took up a gun when you were not old enough to understand killing upon the wet fields of a 1917 france
who spent the rest of your life trying to give back life
like you could resurrect those eroded bodies with goodwill & dreams

the giants would never win the world series in your lifetime
though you prayed near perfect prayers

& as i now lay in your dying stance
the only birthday i can recall:
i was 16 & you were two months ahead of a coffin
& you brought a goose for my dinner

i still taste the rich syrups
as i remember your yellow smile
telling me the giants would be back
as long as someone believed in them

you: who took pain on a detour, laughing at the dreams of your grandchildren upon the wet leaves of eucalypus field
who gave the tools of dreaming to those who had not yet learned
smiling that yellow smile: believing the dead that forgive live forever

an old poem, and i don't like rhyme

here is an older poem, one i actually rhymed, which i don't like .... just a quick update, to show the blog isn't actually dead, but close .... still no comments allowed. i am just too tired of the crap comments, and i don't have the time to sift and edit them out anymore.


here is another from 12:93 -

PUNK

little johnny jerk: took three snorts of coke
shot his old man twice in the head
& asked the cop why he couldnt take a fucking joke

spammers

comments have been disabled, since i have gotten over 500 spam comments to every one or two legit ones.

that all may be a mute point. this blog has lost it's focus (obviously) and i am working so much overtime lately, i do not have time for it. Possibly it will be regenerated in the near future, but no promises.

again, sorry for the removal of comments, some of them were very worthwhile, but the spammers have won this round .....