surviving the blue meanie of colds

another from Nov. 92 - the 92-95 era was one of my most prolific times. This poem expresses the way a lot of people seem to be feeling at work - as well as life in general.

No news from the reported sale of Weyco containerboard …. Things seem to be pretty much the same as before the announcement. Lots of concern, lots of uncertainty and simply nothing that resembles facts. Both Weyco and our dear loving union plan seminars on the retirement issues before the sale is finalized. As of yet, no dates for those seminars has been set.

The cold seems to be fading, slowly. Still have a lingering cough, but it is less frequent and less hostile than the past week or so. The chances of survival seem to be extremely high at the moment.



THE ANGRY WEAR MANY MASKS

the angry wear many masks, each of broken hearts & dreams as vague as miracles.
dying is no easy task. but the dead are boring & become accustomed to it.
the angry smile through clenched smiles. curse with laughter.
& saints be beautiful - even if invisible. they radiate as a comets across desert skies.
the angry stare with stone eyes. hearts of iron, warped & disenchanted. they are flowers never to bloom & are walked upon in irreverence.

no rumors, just some bitterness

another poem from nov. 92. the uncertainty and to be honest, bitterness at the current dealings of the Rogel led Weyco - it seems rather in tune to my feelings at the moment. Of course, i am not privy to the wonders (and dollars) of how big business deals with profit margins ... only how it affects the lower tear levels of mankind - ie the workers.

we really know nothing new about the sale situation. IP has gathered enough funding from 5 world banks, and US government approval (IP would become the leading paper manufacturer in the US) is easily expected. If they will keep our mill running, or if they will sell us, or shut us down in favor of other mills is one of the great unknowns. Another of the unknowns is how any of this will affect retirements. After all, i'm only 6- to more likely 8 years from that magic time .... more as it unfolds, but i really expect no REAL news or updates to be clear until about the time the sale becomes final - which is expected to be in the 3rd quarter (June to August time frame).

now, onto the real purpose of this blog ... the poetry.


NO ONE DANCING ON MY GRAVE

no one dancing on my grave. i tells you. ashes
in a daisy scented wind.
i admire the laughter of stone. pristine women
passing. not a miracle to be savoured
as i lay in waiting.

st. pete was not a friend. best or otherwise.
rolling loaded bones in dirty corners of paradise,
hookers on his arm, as was my watch.
st. pete snickering. me a lonely broke
counting loose change for pleasures
not to be granted.

you tells me it pays to be idealist.
god fearing weenies laughing
in dark rooms of heaven
ungranted.

stage two for the rumors

well, one part of the rumor mils was put to rest yesterday. The mill is no longer for sale - upon government approval - we will soon be IP (International Paper) . If this is a good thing or a bad thing remains to be seen. Certainly a lot of fodder for the rumors to get going until some things, such as, if we will continue to operate, job selections, pensions , vacations and minor issues such as those get resolved. The buy-out is expected to be finished in the 3rd quarter (June to August). i'll keep you posted.

on another issue, got a really wonderful cold that's simply kicking my butt. Feel like - well, crummy. Of course, we are on heavy weight export orders, just to make certain there isn't a chance of feeling a tiny bit better at work.

and here's a poem to celebrate that crummy cold feeling we all know so well .... it's from 3-93. some formatting issues, so it may look a bit strange in the blog ...



THE COUGH THAT COMES

The cough that comes with the morning fog & stays the afternoon

(it is mine)

the ache of bones in disrepair

(i have known them)

i tells you, i am old

pain is my smile

& anger my religion

my prayers to a god who is feeble & blind

bleeding the system for all it is worth

i tells you, i am dying

slow & imperfect

the distress of cells enraged

hurrah! for therapeutics that dont work

come, cough with me, in the darkness of dawn, when venus is bright & the sun begins to slither over black brooding mountains
we can exchange miracles or simply dialog

our shirts still stained with the filth of dreams failed

& our hands bloodied from gallant but futile effort

come, let us be heroes in our last hours

visionaries believing in the unknown

voyagers waiting for passage

it is all subjective, as the river sweats & dawn is a whisper

totally unseasonal poem

end of Oct 92 poem. OK, so it's not exactly a seasonal poem ....

spent the afternoon trying to install a new kitchen light fixture. first new one simply failed to work. second one works, but the "manual" and installation procedure seems to have been written by some sort of sadistic figure in a dark room that never has had to deal with public feedback whatsoever. i mean, how hard can you make it ... well, obviously a lot. anyway, it reminded me why i am not a handyman, and reconfirmed why i never want to become one.

no news on the work front, except the rumors have not died down, just the names of potential buyers changes on a regular basis. i certainly hope no one is trying to keep score on this one. so, it's still up in the air, still causing a lot of bubbling in the guts .... and still as unresolved as ever!

at any rate - onto the poetry .....

A HALLOWEEN POEM

1
pumpkins that smile, even as they rot. the rain that smells of sugar daddies.
& the ghost of all the dreams that never came true: out of the closet & up on your back - door to door, as a hobo, seeking truth.
the song of dark leaves swirls in your hair. the laughter of some else’s happiness echoes. it is all as haunting as you allow it.

2
will you hunt down the witches in your heart
or finally take to reading their awkward manuals

no candles allow in these haunted hallways
where the wind is merely the screaming of tormented hearts

will your god finally listen to your elegant prayers
or will you ultimately learn to speak the tongues of the desperate

3
someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

& i am on the hobo train into the land of forever rain
watching the dark skies for the glow of your halo
not knowing what lost is, not knowing what it means to be missed

someone knocks at your door - dressed in drag
you do not recognize him for what he is
offering pleasantries in place of magic

potions of regeneration?

today's poem is from 3-93. not much going on here today. what was supposed to be a rainy day, is pleasant, nearly 60 F. it's back to the salt mines in the morning, more of those ever lovely export orders. i can hear the bones creaking already ...... "where are the magic potions?" i asked the floor.




SEARCHING FOR THE POTIONS

1 searching for the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
2 tired & old, as the wind upon summer days that make not a ripple upon the lost rivers
3 that inhabit these dark mountains
4
5 wake me when there is magic in the dawn
6 & the rats are full of dante in evening skies
7 more than willing to share the secrets
8
9 seeking the potions of regeneration, i come to your door
10 sick & feeble, as the moon over the city, whispering no incantations worth remembering
11 unable to remember much of anything
12
13 wake me when you are willing to disclose your ancient magic
14 & the sound of summer is in your voice
15 falling down upon me as morning rains of these dark mountains

a previously published poem

OK, to take a short break from the unpublished, unsolicited poems, here's a poem from The Fatman In The Mirror -published by Pygmy Forest Press (editor Leonard Cirino). Again, a chant of approval for small presses, and for the editors that put their heart, soul and money into keeping real poetry alive. Leonard Cirino is one of those great people. Besides being a wonderful editor (and great friend) he is a master poet. Difficult, interesting, intellectual and important. If you are interested in getting some of Cirino's poetry, there's a link to some of his poetry on the right - and his email address is on that site.

now here's a baseball poem, so this post serves two purposes, one to toot the Pygmy Forest Press (and Leonard's) horn, and another to get closer to the feel of the American past-time.



NINTH INNING

it was the ninth inning. john wayne stepped to the plate, pointing to the centerfield bleachers, exactly as ruth in the '27 series.

jesus christ was on the mound, relief specialists par excellence. he had a fast ball that was a blur & a change-up that made no sense.

it was the ninth inning.

footnote

a poem from 87-89 - influenced by Walt Whitman - sort of - and a prose poem .



FOOTNOTE TO AN UNWRITTEN POEM

i will keep my hands upon the stone and as i weep the stone will weep and as i laugh the stone will laugh and as i crumble the stone will crumble into such finite ash the wind itself will hardly notice it being passed upon its wings.

they love my sweat, most of all

another from 3-93, this one published in the Fall of 1997 by The Poet's Attic Quarterly, another of those ever important small press 'zines that need your support. this poem is about the time i was a night watchman at Cuddeback Lumber Co.

not much else going on, back to work in the morning - with a whole bunch of overtime on my plate later next week. Oh, them guys love me at the mill, that is for certain ..... or well, maybe not - just love my sweat i think.






CARRY CLOCKS

it is of carrying clocks i speak
& broken hands that fumble them

shards of glass

& steel

that measure nothing

it is of eternity stopped

that vigil without purpose
those peering eyes that see the same thing until it is the only thing

dante on the gramophone singing delta blues
it is
it is no longer a necessity to be coherent
coherency is a virtue of the vibrant living

now i dance nervously to the chaotic chords

them rumor mills are still alive

6:93 brings us today's poem - accepted and printed by Melting Trees Review in 1997 .. i keep saying it, because it is important - support local and small presses ....

still rumors persist about a sale or merger, but with little facts to support it, but just enough not to dismiss them. Oh, the joys of papermill work!! as usual, the future is as clear as mud and as tasty.




FOG STUMBLES FROM THE DARK RIVER

fog stumbles from the dark river
the wind coughs, almost a whimper
dawn, not yet a silver streak
in a black horizon, exhales
a dank whisper. i am four
days without the moon. as usual
the temple is vacant. no one
in the vestibule to canonize.

i hear voices saying night shift is next, darn.

night shift starts tomorrow - oh, joy of joys ... oh well, it's a pay-check and i guess that still is the real name of the game.

today's poem (well, tonight's) is from Nov. 92.

other things OK around here. rather warm, unwintry weather the past couple of days. of course colder weather is expected when i get to night shift. pretty ho-hum statement when the big news is nice weather ..... onto the poetry.



EVEN JESUS HAD NO IDEA

even jesus had no idea how absurd it would all become
me with my broken bones (looking for golgatha
& finally - peace) - you before the sun coast
dancing in the warm waters (nimbus seem
only by true believers)

even jesus had no idea how magnificent pain could make you feel
how it can justify just about anything
all of us performing miracles
praying to gods yet to be discovered
each a galaxy in formation

one for me, two for the taxman

oct 92 is the source of today's poem, which somehow i think was either posted once, or is in a manuscript or something. anyway, it seems terribly familiar, not that it really matters.

off to the taxman later today - getting another of my very patriotic duties taken care of.

other than that - life is pretty ho hum around here lately - outside the paper world, which remains on the auction block and rumors again are flying of potential buyers and all the doom and gloom that can accompany these sort of things. we shall see. this week we have our quarterly state of the mill address, which may or may not express movement on that issue.



I TELLS YOU, MAN

i tells you, man, life is a bitch. we with no spoons,
our dirty fingers in the soup. alchemists
we sadly aint, snorting the vapors
of the industrial revolution. not exactly the elixirs
of inspiration. ha! i tells you, does the best that can be done
within circumstances.
upon the golden road, no sign-posts signal our arrival -
but weez here, undoubtedly, singing the songs
we finds a necessity. sour voiced, as always, my loves
gone awry.

a wintry poem

today's poem is from march 93. a rather typical wintry day here in the Pacific Northwest.

not a lot going on today. just trying to recover from a hard night-shift past ... preparing to head back to the salt-mines in the morning.



WINTER IN YOUR POCKET

winter in your pocket.

scarves upon your heart. no dancing shoes
as rain turns to ice
& no crows visit your window sill

with miracles.

broken rock

in the shade of josuha tree. no dreams
as the wind carves tales into your face
you cover with the oils

of max factor.

unprayed rosary.

salvation waits, as if an apparition
lacking only form. vapors of your breath
linger in a frozen sky, as you query

the cold of faith.

back from death by overtime - for a bit

Today's poem was accepted by The Hunted News - printed June 1998, written March 93. support them small presses, of your choice, whenever you can.

well, i am sort of back from a long stretch of overtime and really rotten nights at ye olde paper mill. sore, tired and feeling very used-up ... oh well. pretty normal stuff any more it seems.



THE DYING UNDERSTAND VISIONS

the dying understand visions, i tells you,
upon the threshold gallantly observant
of nothing. ha! the underwear clean as
tide. see the face of jesus in the armpits
of the deranged. i walk the line, mama,
right into oblivion. hurrah for heroics.

i tells you right. the scum will inherit the earth,
whored to its potential. my mama didnt raise
no fools, even if unholy. i salute corporate
america, where only here can a full fledge
idiot rise to unpure wealth.

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