a REAL snow day

a poem from Jan 93.

just a quick update, so the world will know i haven't dropped off the face of the planet. well, i sort of have .. at least metaphorically ... dropped into the abyss called overtime and lack of sleep. more of it starting tomorrow. in fact, i get to go to work twice! ain't i lucky, ZR?

and today is a real snow day ... about 6 inches fell this morning. this olde town ain't used to the white falling stuff, and is at a stand-still. Emergency snow measures are now in effect, no cars allowed to be parked on certain streets, that's to allow emergency vehicles and road clean-up, and oh yes, the buses access. Anyway, it's certainly is a slippery mess with more of the same for tomorrow. the weather gods finally got it right, said rather sarcastically.

well, that's the news today. again, it'll be a few days ( a week most likely) before i get back into the blog world, as the overtime hath been scheduled and that is as close to being etched in the stone of Moses as you can get.



FOR SUE

1
gulls dance in the salty gales of january
their laughter is pure & simple
their elegance obvious to the trained eye

in the ever fog of uncertainty
beams the magic of your smile
i believe it is a beacon with a purpose
even if i cannot decipher it

2
poems are like dreams
i sail as multi-colored kites
in the winds of disenchantment

reject poems are like smiles
that fail to bring joy
it does not mean they are not magical
it means only they are unaccepted

3
i stand a statesmen
guts over glory
& the ability to harbor dreams

brown & dirty gulls are my poems
i would like to believe
someone smiles in their approval
at such strange convictions

singing in the rain

this poem is from Oct. 92, a highly prolific time for me - often 3 or 4 poems a day, not that many survived editing. Ah, the good ole days!



WE SANG

we sang - in dark thickets - songs of our youth
under an unknowing sky
beneath dying mountains that didnt even know it
- songs of our youth:
full of bravado and dreams -
dreams as frail as morning frost on picket fences trying to stop the wind
dreams as far away as stars

we were alive, no skeletons in our closets to slow us down
no miracles seething in our pockets for explanations
we were the essence of wind:
over the rocks, or through them if necessary, caressing the mountain
even as it crumbled, brushing our hearts, but never really noticing
until later:
much later

we were eagles, or at least hawks
knowing the skies were merely avenues

& somewhere, i cannot be certain if it was a thursday morning
or tuesday night, the dreams turned into nightmares
& curses became reality - curses of forgetfulness:

the skies became miracles waiting discovery
& the mountain was no longer old
it was dead.

a rhyming poem (has this been posted already?)

Today's poem is from late Oct 92.

Today i was also given an invitation to participate in the new Max-Rex created blog "Madness Is".  i humbly accepted and will attempt to add something later this afternoon, though i suspect my additions will be few and far between. (A link to that blog  and some other poetry related things is on the right side of this post, in of all things, the LINKS section. )

still have a couple of days off before heading back to night shift, and some wonderful overtime.
i doubt there will be any updates when i hit the overtime. 
if this blog is silent for a week or more, have no fears, i am just in the "zombie" 
cycle as we call it here. i will attempt to make at least one more update before then, but no promises. Sometimes life just gets in the way of creativity, as i am certain you've noticed in
your personal affairs from time to time...

also, worked on a few older poems this morning (98 & 95 era) - they are just waiting to be added down the line. so, unless i totally lose interest, or life hands me one of those hands where doom & damnatioin are my only options, looks like i'll keep this up and running for a while.

I WISHED I WERE JESUS

i wished i were jesus walking on the sea of galilee
with 13 ignorant disciples following me
right into damnation

always rain on the horizon
stirring the troubled waters

i wished i were armstrong aboard the lunar eagle
or at least darwin on the deck of the beagle
waiting to discover truth

always storms in the offing
distorting the troubled waters

i wished i were caesar before the rubicon
meditating the significance before a spectacular dawn
ready to shed the gowns of innocence

a short prose poem

from 1-93 - another prose poem. sort of fitting for the weather we've been having here in the Pacific Northwest lately.

not much going on here today.  i'm on a few days off, before more ovetime on the night shift. that needs no more comment than that.




SONG OF THE DEAD

nothing in the ice & snow but cold. no one visits these frozen outposts but the doctors of lunacy & adventurers seeking free shelter. & we think of ourselves as ancient gods waiting for admiration, when we are in fact nothing more than relics of an age that no longer exists. we are ghosts, shadows upon the tundra no one sees, lost to brilliance of northern lights.

another work related poem

last poem written in Dec. 92. Just a reminder to myself, don't forget to get back to the papermill in the morning .......




WEYCO POEM FOR DENNY LONG

1
a light frost clings to broken beams
that were once sites of steady employment

i watch two shabby crows pick at the rotted timbers
believing yet in the american dream
wondering if it is fate or effort
that speaks the distinct language of success

gaze for a moment into uncertain skies
& then turn around to the sound of the paper making machines
questioning how long these can continue
to produce magic

2
the sound of the river
adorned by a blue heron
the whisper of thickets
housing night creatures
the jingle of loose change
in a once empty pocket
the laughter of comrades
in a world struggling for the ideal
the ability to pursue dreams

3
gospels are written in eyes & hands
are spoken with action

we celebrate in union
(sometimes less than holy)
an attainment
of common dreams
(in theory at least)

set goals that require
the best we can offer
until the plug is pulled
by someone who has never
soiled his hands
from tanks of overflowed pulp

Changes and maybe some resolution

Jan 93 is the source of todays poem ...

seems i MAY have resolved the profile photo issue. when i changed pictures (to a more recent one) i decided to store it on phtobucket (and somewhere else, i forget where now - but it didn't work either..) and the photo would never appear in my profile, or it gave me "invalid url" ... so, this morning i went back to image shack and it worked. seems the url length has something to do with it (though the notes in the Help section says they did away with the 64 character limit for urls before Nov.???) Well, the photobucket one was a few characters too longer than 64. So that may have been the issue. anyway - hopefully this will work.

you may have noticed, i changed a few things as far as backgrounds and colors ... no real reason, just change for the sake of change i suppose.

off to sleep soon, as it's night shift and all, so need some shut-eye, but i just wanted to post an update on the profile photo issue (any excuse to get another poem up, right?) .... ya'all have a great and safe and warm holiday and i'll see you next year, most likely.


PLUMBERS

the hiss of water freezing itself from ancient pipes
pipes caked in a stench of rust
pipes as old as a decaying city's dream

the water, black & orange at first, celebrates flight
dances & sings as it becomes clear
& seeks again the purity of ancient rivers

plumbers are called forth into a freezing night
magicians with wands of forged steel
chanting horrible incantations

the plumbers again become jailers of water
the hisses of freedom are silenced
only pools of dreams failed stain the walls

& eventually even these are gone

a short (relatively) montage poem

well, so much for new stuff. here's one from 10-92.

cold and wet (and a bit snowy at times) here in the Pacific Northwest. back to the happy papermill tomorrow night. Oh joys! Them old heavyweight orders await. Whooopeee. Can you say, no sleep and sore shoulders. O, yes, i knew you could.

not much else going on. Turning a grand olde 58 in the morrow as well. don't feel that ancient today, in fact, seldom do, except after work most days. at any rate, added a new photo, but couldn't get the link to photobucket to take, so had to resort to using the photo on my PC, and not certain how that will work when i turn the machine off at night, or when it turns itself into sleep mode after inactivity times.... well, we'll see, i guess.



THE BLACK CELEBRATION

1
the black celebration
of night & shadows
mingling

stars as if voices
to be heard

& the river dismantling
the mountain
a chip of wulfenite at a time

i walk the highway
between your heart & my dream
as if a prophet

2
the sound of daemons dancing in the underbrush
their eyes are beads on a rosary

the river singing songs of threnody
a flat moon casting spells over the dark water
spells that never materialize

i stand within the darkness
as if stone
reflecting the magic
between your heart & my loneliness

3
river stone cradling deposits
of gold & nickel

the conversation of owls
sentinel stars speak
to the bones

i am the incantation
waiting for articulation

a brand new poem, oh my!

a brand new poem - 1st draft - not that it signifies a reawakening of the Muse or a trend, or anything really, merely it's a new poem - the first in maybe 3 or 4 years (or maybe it's a fragment, or something to be discarded - who knows?). just thought i'd put it up here for evaluation.

on a few days off now, had an OK week at the papermill, though next week it's back to heavy weight orders and me plugging tubes. oh well, one fairly OK week is better than the averages, so i'll take it.



12:22:07

cripple cripple cripple
waits for jesus on the road to calvary
knows the price of redemption
the price of sin
remembers the sermon on the mount
& the chatter of hookers on 6th avenue

knows temptation is a horrible thing

Back to the happy papermill come morning

today's (well, tonight's) poem is from 10-:92.

rainy and sorta gloomy here in the Pacific Northwest. Typical Dec. day really. Poem is on the gloomy side (ain't that a shock?). Back to the happy paper mill in the morning, so i doubt there will be any posts until i get a few days off.

PC still working. so, keeping my fingers crossed and heading off to bed shortly. Ya'all have a good weekend and stay warm and cozy.




IF YOU COULD SEE THROUGH MY EYES

if you could see through my eyes

the cackle of the crow
wearing the gowns of disorder
& in his beak
the broken kernal of dreams
waiting to be sewn

the chameleon smiling
as he vanishes
upon his fingers
rings of magic
never to be transfered

the laughter of stones
holding the falling skies
from your window sill
& cracks more than obvious
filled with super glue

PC working so far .... new post from days gone by

today's poem is from 5:93. i really need to get myself together and type up - edit some more poems for future updates. i still have a few months worth (especially at the reduced rate i've been posting lately), but they are starting to sound a lot alike to me, and well, i think i have some others worth reading stacked somewhere or another. maybe after the first of the year???

PC seems to be working fine. Paula, mine too was relatively new. Started off as a software conflict that snow-balled into a registry issue ... anyway, since i went back to factory settings/configuration and reinstalled just what software i felt imperative, things are working well at the moment.

thanks for the comments lately everyone. And thanks to everyone stopping by, even if you don't leave comments. The counter tells me people are reading this stuff from time to time, and i am flattered. Ol' ZR, keep the faith and blogging along with those one word teases. Soulless and Paula, need to get back to your blogs and read your newer posts. i'll get there soon, promise. i do enjoy your recent work!!!

everyone stay warm and have a good season. Cold and rainy here in the Pacific Northwest. i get one more day off, trying to recover from another wonderful nightshift, then back to the olde salt mines on Thursday. No word lately the sale or merger. Since the contract was passed, things have been pretty ho-hum and quiet. They even hired another 4 people to cover the retirements pending early next year .... go figure.



FOR VOZNESENSKY

capitalization has made us dreamers
with no credit

shops closed
with iron windows

midnight fogs in pockets
& no manna falling

we starve
just like africans

in this land of plenty
for the rich

smog in our lungs
we reach god

with prayers of desperation
& designer drugs

the damned. the desperate
will believe in anything eventually

but poets believe in nothing
other than coughing snows

& bleeding ulcers. heroes
seeking no gold

only the unknown
unobtainable

working on the PC

another poem from Nov. 92

spent the day reformatting my PC ... seems there was a conflict with software loaded from my provider, and it just cascaded into a nightmare. So, tired of talking with HP techs, and being told i had a corrupt profile, or possibly a conflict in software, i just bit the bullet and took the computer back to original state. dead tired, and sort of close to being done, but not quite there. Things SEEM to be better at the moment, but won't know for certain until a few days pass.



I AM THE WIND

i am the wind (no bones) merely emotion through broken timber & eroded mountains
i am the wind through young girls hair & old womens hands (no form) merely emotion
i caress dust for company - salt foam for enlightenment
i carry birds on my sorrow - seeds for remote possibilities
i am the laughter of mountains, the moan of rivers
i am the whisper of morning, the scream of night
(no bones) merely emotion

#100 - hey hey hey

hey - it's my 100th post (according to the blogger count). Wowzers, and well, i have about half that many more in draft to add later on. need to get some more worked on, but who knows when that mood will strike again.

anyway, this is another introspective poem ... (ain't most of them that way?) written in the fogs of - Oct 92.



FOG IN DRAINAGE DITCHES

fog in drainage ditches
sentinel hawk upon wireless fence post

i watch the moon
caress a frozen wind

& wait on silent corners
for arch-angels in cadillacs that never stop

fog covers the yellow brick road
& vagrants lose the key to the american dream

i reaching for the debrie of comets
rub the face of gods lacking only names

expecting deliverance
as if i were daniel

the wind the rain and oh my, wasn't that a mighty storm!

todays poem is from sept 92 - just another poem of inner realization.

not much here. survived the massive wind/rain storms that hammered the Pacific Northwest. Actually inside the southern Willamette Valley it was windy and wet, but nothing like on the coast.

playing hookey from work this week. Well, had a vacation on the books i'd forgotten about, and decided not to reschedule it. Just relaxing and doing a little computer fix-work (replaced a dead CD burner, not without some issues - seems resolved now).

Now onto the poetry ....



I DRESS MYSELF IN THE RAGS

i dress myself in the rags of uncertainty
walk upon the waters of disenchantment
as if i were jesus gathering disciples

i erect no cathedrals
but my prayers are immaculate
to the dark vapors that gather along the dirty rivers of my life

i carry my dreams
as if a cross to Golgotha
there are no longer chariots of fire ascending the heavens

& my blood cures no diseases
but it stains the earth
as magnificently as any love lost

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

a new post even

wowzers Batman, a new post even! well, to be honest, still in a zombie fog after a long night shift, with overtime. was scheduled for more of the same after this coming week, but asked for a vacation (still to be approved). So hopefully i'll get some time to recover and add a few more posts, to reach that 100th post status soon.

Half Tones To Jubilee - accepted this poem in Dec. 1995. i assume it was printed, but can't recall for certain.



THE SINS OF AN ENTIRE GENERATION

we washed the sins of an entire generation from our souls in the dark california fog
upon the black rocks of the little sur we memorized the flight patterns of the speckled gull
it was a time for living
we were believers in dreams

we were hawks waiting for wings as we waltzed down dusty salinas valley lettuce fields
in the ever shadows of the sugar refinery we hunted for secrets that had no formula
it was a time for living
we were inventors of dreams

another gap

todays poem is from September 92. sort of on subject for the local weather lately.

not much - other than loads of overtime - going on. it'll be a bit before i get a day (or night) off at the papermill. most likely 6 days or so. thus, another gap in the posts will occur.





WAITING FOR A RETURN PHONE CALL BJS

1 i wait. mist gathers in dark valleys, as if smoke from the pyres of dreams unobtained.
2 i wait. rain whispers poetry in a language i cannot translate. i wash my face in the thick water. no magic exude.
3 i wait. somewhere you walk beneath rainbows. dance under warm skies as if an elfin dream.
4 i wait. decades amass. continents are born & die. we converse in languages that have no syllables.