ITS HABITS AND ITS NEEDS

ITS HABITS AND ITS NEEDS

it's lean  and lithe    endowed with sharp claws   
                               it is day in these mountains
                                where they feared to tread 
                             they've been here some time

jaguar

red tiger

silver lion

mountain
devil                        it is day in these mountains
                                 where they feared to tread
                              they've been here some time

                               and now it is mostly known

puma           

cougar 

catamount

mountain 
lion                           endowed with sharp claws
                                  it's day in these mountains
                                  where they feared to tread
                                 and now it's mostly known

the big cat requires                      too much room

(and who has seen                      panther tracks?)

there seems to be no                  reasonable doubt

cat of the mountains                          is in trouble

it is almost day                      i n these mountains

now it's mostly known                     they've been

here some time.                     mountain screamer

& it appears            nature hasn't succeeded

it seems likely                        in these mountains

because it is day                     in these mountains
where it is known                       we fear to tread

 date? early work! It was a big deal to get the alignment with a typewriter

FAX SIMILE

FAX SIMILE

Hey word

don't be afraid.

Take a sad fax

and make it flutter.

Remember

to get it into your ink

and you'll think

you'll take it better.

no date

80-84ish

A DROWNING MAN (the stirring of something else)

A drowning man does not need to know

how to carry a staggering load

or that stars may go out

in a single gesture.

He does not need to know

the blue-red tint of his skin's

the color of angry twilight,

or that the foam spewing from his lipsó

the frenzied sea.

He does not need to know

my shadow that once had its sweet hours

in the grass is primordial in its loneliness.

That I wake myself up from sleep

to comprehend the idea of suicide

or that I began to write his poem

seven years before his own death

was predicted on a sunny beach in Chiapas;

his whole family bearing witness 

to the casual departure of life. The 

The men who failed to inspire him

carried his corpse to the waiting pick-up

like an inanimate sack of flesh and lard.

The wide disbelieving eyes

of his young daughters

as they watched their papá carted off

like so much meat from the butchers.

He does not need to know your eyes

repeat the wind's reckless secrets,

the sky fills up with jade beads,

and the stirring of something else—

another small life taken before it's begun.

1980                       7/10/1979?
rev. 88

 (This is from an earlier version so I posted it on the date when it was first written. Since I later witnessed a drowning man's death, the poem was changed to fit the events.)

BELOW THE ROCK

BELOW  THE  ROCK

The loam spreads itself
ankle-deep    bay laurel
roots follow  the  rock's
roots all the way  down
to water.      The barren
tree   stripped of leaves
is a sign       of the long
           drought.

1980
may be earlier
added 10/16

THE SHAPE OF THINGS

THE SHAPE OF THINGS                  

Moisture blesses this valley.  

Following winter's shearing weather,    

trees sprout new growth that conforms   

to the patterns of the wind that dictates    

the shape of things to come.

While waiting for the storm to pass, 

wandering clouds & sheep sculpt                

grassy edges on the mountain-sides.     

Hawks stand still against the inflamed 

wind roaring through the taller pines  

scorched by older fires.      

Fog softening the hillsides   

condenses around my face    

& rises like a storm under my coat    

until I am drenched inside and out.        

Under dark trees, lost souls of moths        

collect & flutter around my face        

as if I were the only pale flame  

flickering in the forest.  
                     

1/80  Forest Knolls   

REV 3/81 for (see below)
The Child in the Bell, CPITS Statewide Anthology, 1981-82
rev. 5/88   see original

The Aftermath of Choice

September crickets throb in unison
they instinctively know from birth how to sing
while you and I must learn it all
some learn it easily
some who don't, carry bitter scars
some are willing to try again
some never recover

we are the living
and we are the ones who kill by choice
we kills with our minds
as our bodies instinctively create life
we rob our bodies
and we suck the blood out of the living
they still die within us
we feel the loss of our empty arms
and our hooded eyes
it was done by choice.

no date, but it's typed on the Olivetti typewriter.
1979-80?

on the back, was the beginning of
MOMENTS STRETCHED LIKE SPUN GLASS
Jan. 15, 1980

JONQUILS IN WINTER

JONQUILS IN WINTER

the sound of moonlight rests

on the branches of pines

and hitches a ride

on the scent of jonquils in winter

moonlight on the tongue

like tasting the song

of nightingales

wresting shadows from darkness.

1/1/1980
could be 1979
Formerly called MOONLIGHT

SEVEN FOR WALLACE STEVENS

SEVEN FOR WALLACE STEVENS  
       —for Ranger Kenneth Patrick slain August 5, 1973

I. Over high mountain passes
Clouds crawl over the forest.
The forest pierces into the flesh
Of their soft underbellies.

II. Deer hide in the mist-filled trees
Waiting for the storm to pass.

III. Underbellies of deer are white clouds
Brushing the tops of dry summer grasses
Growing along the mountain flanks.

 IV. In spring, snowflakes
Rest on the backs of fawns
And lasts until the chill of autumn
Thickens their coats.

V.   In winter, the sun dips into darkness.
The earth becomes barren.
The coats of the deer turn grey.

VI. Like a fawn, death itself 

Is moving slowly
Through the tall grass.

VII. The winter sun illumines
The red-tipped ears of deer
And fawns shake the snow
From their coats.

Limantour Spit, 1980
rev. 12.81?

1982 Ridge Review

Another ascii-filled poem saved from old school Appleworks. At least I had the sense to capitalize the lines so it was easy to restore. I forgot how much I like this poem.
I used to calligraph my poems. No typewriter.

morning begins as one of those clear winter days

morning begins as one of those clear winter days of surreal blue skies after rain and cloud storms. first grass is so green it can be seen with eyes closed, it bathes the lucid green air around it like a pond on a muted foggy day. seeds sprout in mud that has achieved the consistency of butter, in my hand are the seeds of alfalfa hay taken from the mane of my horse–her body was still warm but the stiffness had already set in. the night mist hangs suspended on grey globules dulling her red coat, clouding it over like her eyes. I open my hand and scatter alfalfa seeds about, a cloud empties its gentle rain upon my head, out of the surreal blue, a rainbow stops out from behind a cloud and tucks the seeds back into the mud.

no date

79, 80?

added 2/2017

Short Poems 1980

 JONQUILS IN WINTER

the sound of moonlight rests
on the branches of pines
and hitches a ride
on the scent of jonquils in winter
moonlight on the tongue
like tasting the song
of nightingales
wresting shadows from darkness

1/80


LOVE POEM
         after Suzuki

when love awakens
we  glimpse the infinite
but this love loosens the shell
diverts our desire and
loosens our grasp on the infinite.

1980


LOVE, ITSELF

Love itself
has no season, no time
to turn the rhythm of our souls.
As if by convection our breath
is  snatched away and suspended
from mist particles along
the pounding shore.

2/1980

UNTITLED LOVE POEM seashells

UNTITLED LOVE POEM # 3

emptiness of seashells

mourning for the ocean

trapped within an ear--

my tongue traces snail patterns

in the dark

12/17/1979

Sonoma County Poetry Readings I produced in December, journal

Dec. 4, We produced a big reading at the Cotati Cabaret with Joanne Kyger, David Bromige, Jonathan London, Rob Sharpe, Michelle Rae, and myself, Maureen Hurley. The objective of the reading was to include Sonoma State student poets along with recognized poets. 

Dec 5, We had an Expressive Arts final event and show at Sonoma State with Jack Crimmins, as Coyote, myself, Greg Loew, Andrea Granahan, Rocco Tripodi and others. A poetry bounce.

Then, on Dec. 10, for our grand finale, we all met up at Garbo’s in Greenwood Park for a Public Poetry Center reading event with fellow Expressive Arts students Gregg Loew, Chaz Abate, Lana Costantini, and myself. We were bringing Sonoma State student poets to the Russian River Writers’ Guild. The reading went really well. Gregg and I had read together on Halloween for the Expressive Arts assembly, another solid reading.

I wanted to read on much longer than I had time for. So I read some new material, but I was conscious of Lee standing in the background and I was afraid I might reveal too much, or not enough. I dedicated my latest poem, The Sighs of Women to him as a birthday gift as it was his birthday the next day. We are beginning to move towards each other once again. The initial communication is clearer than his logical assumptions. I snuck into his bed at midnight and was given a warm welcome.

Other readings I attended, and read at Open mike. Dec 22 Grand Piano benefit reading for the Haight Asbury Literary Quarterly, and another HALQ reading on Dec. 28. Where? Joanne Hottchkiss

DAWN POEM

DAWN POEM

to the beauty of the dawn

a lotus opens its wings

winter sun dips into darkness

and we recall our own birth

sprouting seeds

& mud in my hand

12/10/1979

puffin drawing (art)

3 Poems from Michael Dow workshop

I am a shiny raw yolk
bundled up in a clear membrane.
You pick me up, hold me in your hand.
I ooze black ink through the pores
wherever your skin touches mine.

Surprised by the bleeding, you drop me,
and try to pick me up again, carefully.

And my softness eludes you.
I roll off your fingertips, away from your touch.
The blackness spreads over the yellow,
leaving only a flaccid sack behind.

11/28/1979


With leonine head bent
and hair askew
he sits guarded
with arms and legs crossed
His gaze set on his leather shoe
he listens, nodding
as if in agreement.
I wonder how the syllables
rest in his ears.

11/28/1979
Michael Dow workshop


I wake to the dawn
and take my breathing slow
We think by logical deduction
If logic is deduction,
then what is there to conclude?
I learn from the breath
It carries me where I wander
Along a slipstream of thought
liked a snake tasting
a breath a of sunshine.

11/28/1979
Michael Dow workshop

UNTITLED half life of a hippie marriage

UNTITLED

The ocean is the first

circulatory system

of creatures

Could this scorpio moon

newly shaven

stretch its beams

across the continent?

What is the half life

of a hippie marriage?

11/13/79

Benefit reading for California Poets in the Schools in Sonoma County at the Cotati Cabaret, journal

Journal 11/13/1979 

My Cotati Cabaret benefit reading for California Poets in the Schools went well. Poets who read, Marty Goldstein, Pam Rafael, David Bromige, Leonard Cirino, Hunce Voelcker, John Kong, Susan Maxon, Marianne Ware, Boschka Layton, Pat Nolan, Lee Perron, and Jere doing poetry and dance. Second half of the reading was Will Staple, myself, Chaz Abate, Jerome Reiter, Jonathan London etc. 

We made $143 at the gate and it was a great turn out. Also, it was mostly community people not as many students from Sonoma State. Definitely Public Poetry Center’s goals have been met. We are bringing the Sonoma County poets together. River folks participating with town folks and reading poetry and maki g art together. John’s mime piece on suicide was excellent. Lee and Jere’s dance and poetry ensemble, Silent Crow, was superb. 

 I think we will need to tour Sonoma County with this entourage of poets to raise more money for California Poets in the Schools, it was definitely a high night. The poets were wonderful, the audience was wonderful. Next time only two sets I think people started to leave before the third set was finished. I published a chapbook of their work, called The Program as a memento for the audience to take away with them. 

The Cat Wears Red Sneakers

                    —After Kliban

The cat wears red sneakers. He's been hanging around here for some time now. He's heard that on the streets of Guerneville, it's a good place to hang out. He's as good as any punk. As he rolls up his tiger-stripe socks and shirt cuffs with such an air of nonchalance, you suddenly realize that you've met him somewhere before. Was it in the park when the fog rolled in in in grey cat feet? No, he's wearing red sneakers. Still, his feet could be grey underneath. If only you could induce him to remove one sneaker, then you could be sure.  But how can you ask him such an indelicate question? He may take offense, and depending on the moon, he may want to rumble, or even have a good caterwaul. Just look at his tattered ears. You know he can whip out a claw with switchblade precision. Suppose you were a ladycat, you could walk right up to him and drape your tail right across his shoulders and say... How about a little red sneaker, baby? But somehow you sense he's not in the mood, so you stroll up to him real cool, toothpick hanging out of your mouth and say, Hey man, got a light?

9/10/1979
Published in Shadowbox/Sonoma Mandala

FRAGMENT HORSE

I rode her through the years of growing
Her steady black legs carried me forward
into the murkiness of beyond.

9/19/1979

Teaching journal, California Poets in the Schools, Day 1

Oct. 29, 1979 teaching journal for California Poets in the Schools. Observation notebook. My first observation is at Fitch Mountain School, two second grade classes with Lee Perron. today is create a story. He tells a piranha story with a mosquito who says I’m strong, and then we continue the story they were working on last week, and we talk about jungles, lions, elephants. 

Pam Raphael is also observing. We invoke magic and change characters. It’s a free-for-all. Lee asks have you ever been a piranha fish? Somebody tells us they were once a frog. We go with it. And we slog away to the north pole where a polar bear joins us and we keep adding elements to the story. Repetition is the key and that tends to get them enthusiastic enough to finish. Participation is important to draw the individual into the story. Imagination is everything. 

We wrote their own stories down and there were several different endings. It was an enthusiastic class and the kids were very willing to participate, the second class, the kids were more open and finished their stories. The kids then repeated the exercises.

The second class with Mrs. Carroll is a bilingual class. Lee picks up the story where he left off. And the Wolf said I’m going to eat you. Kay said please don’t eat me and then then Kay changed into lion and then Kay and the mosquito began to talk. Mosquito says, hey man I am strong, and you are weak. Lee says, I will tell you the story again later. So this was a continuation from the last class and participation is important to make up another line and make up all the possibilities and what would Kay do or say and everyone makes their own ending and then they draw their story if they can’t write— there are some that are less willing to write the story and I had to ask what it was they drew in order to tell the story.

We go over to Healdsburg Elementary School to meet Mrs. Sugars’ fifth grade class. Lee tells me we need to write up a lesson plan and I am confused because everything is all cattywumpus. He reads a poem from the previous week’s poetry lesson, which involves class participation. He asks who wrote it? And gives positive feedback. I tell the cumulative Welsh tale of Taliesin, the brew of knowledge and how everything changes into something else to escape danger, the knife, the rabbit, the fox, the barn, the rabbit, the stone that fell out of her mouth and rolled down the hill. Someone said she is the pond. 

Everyone makes up a line, and one kid changes into a witch and then runs away and the which changes into a purse, how, I don’t know. It becomes very complex and hard to remember the order. We did the exercise together first in front of the class to start them off. It is Halloween.

I can see there’s some confusion. How to pace oneself. Each class is utterly different. Yet all are willing participants. We visit other artists in the classroom at their invitation. The second grades are so different from each other but it doesn’t mean one is better than the other, both are equally enthusiastic though the progression rate is not the same—probably because of language barriers.

BLUE EYES

Blue eyes have always startled me
As if I could touch them with my hands
Are they cold and is my hand sticking to dry ice
Or is the flesh of my fingertips melting
And assuring itself to their surface?

10/26/1979

RRWG at Garbo’s

JAZZ NOTE

JAZZ NOTE

was that a

blue bird in a

bay tree

or a jay bird

in a blue tree?

10/12/79

I AM A HAWK 3 takes Michael Dow workshop

I am a hawk circling upward in a thermal draft, 

and the sky is blue. You are a cricket on a dusty path in summer.

I am a feather spiraling down to earth from the tail of the red hawk

You are a red leaf floating in the breeze

The pileTed woodpecker knocks on the tree

and we drift into autumn, as one.

10/3/1979

Michael Dow workshop

I am a hawk circling upon a thermal draft and the sky is blue.

I am a feather spiraling downward to earth from the tail of a hawk.

I have rested on the leader limbs of the Inverness pine

And I am the mouse whose tiny paws grew feathers

I become the hawk and launch into space

A blackbird and I head south as the storm approaches.

10/15/1979

The roots of the Inverness pine were planted in t he earth by my grandmother when I was a child. Then, the free was no taller than me. Nearly two decades later, it looms up into the sky, the very symbol of strength and clarity. Many times I have been the hawk resting on the leader branches, I have also been the mouse who climbs up to the top to see what it can see. He is afraid of heights, still he climbs upward. The  top sways in the breeze, he clings to the pine needles, with tiny paws. He sees beyond his scope. His fur sprouts feathers, he becomes the hawk, and launches out into space.

10/19/1979

I think I attempted to make this work several times over, to no avail. What I know now, compared to what I knew then. 11/2/2015

BAMBOO

BAMBOO

I send you white chrysanthemums
frigid as the setting moon
bamboo crickets rub legs
in rhythm to rustling sheets

9/23/1979

CRICKETS

CRICKETS

chatter of birds bring in your rhythm
trees listen listen to the song of the wind in your leaves
a breath stirs the evening sky
it is a pool of water
clouds drift into darkness hemmed in by floating stars

crickets hum in autumn
crickets everywhere it is autumn
the equinox measures it
the moon drifts forevard to the edge
the final quarter is measured by crickets

bones stir uneasily in the night
sleep is hemmed in by the sound of crickets
leaves of summer it is moving towards winter
winter tugs at your stems
wind follows the song of birds
migrating to the sea of cortez
there are wrinkles in the sky
it is evening
clouds gather and crickets, still you hum.

Autumn Equinox

1979

added 2/2017

Garbo’s Readings, journal

I read at Open Mike at Garbo’s on August 14. Probably work from my Diane diPrima workshop in June (we also had a reading at the SF Zen Center in June), or my Michael Dow workshop in July.

On Sept. 10, I read some new work at Garbo’s. Imagine the red wind, the sighs of women, the clinging order of the sea. A group reading and Open Mike, I read with Ken Valentine, Gordon Carrega, and Tom Roth.

On September 17, I read again at Garbo‘s, this time with Mendocino poet, Leonard Cirino, Annette Woods, Dan Propper and Tom Roth. I read from the white goddess, imagine the red wind, the sighs of women, the clinging odor of the sea. Still uncomfortable reading the personal revealing work in public, but people seem to like it.

I’m scheduled to read again on Oct. 22, another group reading with Ron Schilling, Lee Perron, Marianne Ware and Our Garbo’s Benefactor, novelist, Margie Summerfield.

Yay, I will be a featured reader on November 19 with Gregg Loew. More time to read, two sets, and there’s only two of us reading rather than a round robin.

• December Sonoma County Poetry Readings

BEHOLD THE RIGHT EYE

BEHOLD THE RIGHT EYE    
                                                                                             
you watch my nakedness
watch my body turning
in the room i am naked
your eyes upon me
are naked
your left eye gathers me up
the right eye keeps distance
my breast calls your name
you gather me up with your cock
& your right eye closes

8/15/1979
rev. 1980

UNTITLED LOVE POEM perfume of flowers

UNTITLED LOVE POEM 

the perfume of flowers

sitar sound

drumbeat

music slips into the ear

bellies slip down

make love

8/13/79

TREMORS

TREMORS

(in two voices)

It's their existence I deny

Maybe I really am getting old

Only well after the fact

Somehow it makes it seem all so valid

I prepare for their eventual occurrence 

That's the climax, the waiting

The event itself escapes logic

When they come i 

don't associate the 

falling off of stools 

for no apparent reason 

clumsy i guess 

nor do i comprehend 

the rattling of doors 

with the shuddering 

earth...oh it's the cat 

or maybe it's the wind 

on the 11 o'clock news 

the epicenter was in millbrae 

a 4.8 on the richter scale 

they have these marvelous 

machines that measure the 

earth's pulsations 

those machines its those 

earthquakes they do exist 

it can't be predicted 

when they will occur 

in the spring it gets hot 

it's the weather that gets 

muggy during april 

it's the waiting for the 

event, the eventual release 

of the earth's shudder.

Aug 6, 1979

(See Coyote Lake Earthquake. It was a 5.7. I remember that it threw me right of the stool I was standing on in Cotati. Makes sense that I might not have gotten the final strength right. Also makes it easier to date the poem!)

added 2/2017

THE POET'S VOICE

THE POET'S VOICE

There are repeated curves held back
as if by contemporary indifference
And the indifference is the illusion
of intersecting lines within the ear
We are uni-motivated organisms
Lips seek out their own order
Eyes seek out their own rhythm
They beat down upon the drum
the tympanum of ear
What you hear is merely
the voice of the poet.

8/3/1979

THE SIGHS OF WOMEN

THE SIGHS OF WOMEN

As if listening to secretsseaweed heads press into the rocks
like women, always turned inward.

Beneath stinging surges,
sea anenome breasts blossom,
and dine on the fatal attraction of small fish
who mistake them for a floral refuge.
Snails graze on kelp hair
as their flambouyant kin, nudibranchs,
tiny dragons of the sea,
unfurl their finery for another kind of god.

The sea never stops its ceaseless fingering
widening subterranian crevices
until there is nowhere left to hide.

Under swaying sea palms
mauve-skinned byrazoan and coralina offer
small shelter for the flesh.
Sometimes you can hear the sighs of women.

The crab is homeless.
He clings onto kelp
until it breaks under his weight
the sea sweeping him away to another rock,
other women.

All rocks are his home.
Can you hear the women sighing?

Cliff shadows pause on a wall of sea mist.
Cormorants wing seaward to unmapped regions
where the wind keeps their secrets well.
The guano-covered rock is a spray of wave
frozen against the backdrop of the sea.

Russian Gulch
1979
rev. 1980
rev. 1986

Zen of Archery

A black bumblebee buzzes through my bean garden, his shiny body is sparsely covered with hair. Does he know that he may be a new species? He so huge he can't fit into the scarlet blossoms. Is that the reason why my beans bear no fruit?

A delicate breeze touches my skin. Their leaves quake even now. Better than yesterday's wind that blew down from the Northwest. Yesterday 's wind brought the chill of snowstorms in July with it to my bean garden. The leaves turn brown, and shriveled. Fruit aborted, the flowers fell, leaving scarlet snow on the ground.

The delicate breeze caresses the soles of my feet as I lay prone upon the earth between the rows of my bean garden. Above me is green, the leafy foliage stirs gently like the sleepy memories of childhood. Thick hairy stems crawl upward, wrapped around kite string. How do they know which way to grow? I tried to get one to curl downward but it died rather than grow in the direction alien to its nature.

The liquid sound of of the capiz shell windchime, the smell of ink, and freshly ground coffee mingles with the odor of beans growing. Spiders live among them, and woolly bear eats them, as I lie between the orderly rows of beans with my kimono open and my arms akimbo. The word akimbo comes from a keen bow, or a sharp bend.

The center of archery is interrupted by flies coming in on my silence like firefighting jets, remind me of the time I was on Mount Whitney. The jets flew so close, I could see the pilots' faces as a forest fire raged through King's Canyon.

The smell of wolf dung is carried in on the breeze. They howled last night, the moon was so full it seemed to hang in the sky for hours.

What I've learned: never look directly at a wolf, caged as these wolves are, or otherwise. To stare directly at them is a sign of direct confrontation and these wolves will launch at the fence if you do. Suddenly the chain-link fence is much too frail —like the rib cage of your beating heart as you stare into the yellow wildness of their eyes. Odd the town dog catcher raises captive wolves.

Rooster crows in the distance. Does he crow because of the light of last night’s full moon or for the day? Birds twitter like hens laying unnaturally large eggs. And the sound of cars is like the ocean roaring, clumping, and beeping in the distance, as I lay here taking in the morning.

The leaves of the bean vines reach for the sun and the smell of just picked green beans triggers a response somewhere deep inside. A poem is knocking. Let it wait a little longer. Morning is for waking and today is morning.

Summer, 1979
Cotati
added 10/16
Lol, in 2018, I found out it was a carpenter bee....in 1979, I didn’t even know of its existence. Do I change it? Or leave it stet?
https://mohurley.blogspot.com/2018/05/carpenter-bees.html

PATTERNS IN THE STEAM (AKA The Clinging Odor of the Sea)

PATTERNS IN THE STEAM
           —for J.H. Montrose and Yukio Mishima

As I prepare the evening meal

the odor of just-picked green beans

rises up from the steam

and drifts like the taste of sea in the fog

I am reminded of the clinging odor of the sea

in my hair swaying like kelp in the waves

Hair curls to the pattern of sliced watermelon

watermelon mimics a tsunami wave

Red tsunami wave red sky the black seeds

Japanese fishing boats on the water    in the sky

The steam rises and repeats the sound of waves

Shiosai Shiosai

Steam rises from a cup of coffee

milk fat swirls on its surface

my lips curl to the motion in the cup

The cup is the ocean

deep basin to harbor water

our blood runs thru rivers of veins to the ocean

Our blood is the ocean

the watermelon's capillaries pump water

to the heart to the seeds

Take a bite

the moon took a bite out of the sun

it was black like the seeds

the earth took a bite out of the moon

Red moon watermelon moon

dragon's blood hanging in the sky

the crescent moon holds water

pick axe moon spills it white again

The stars       severed ends of capillaries

facing your eye head on

light leaks out day seeps in

old moon spills blood

dies and is carried out in her own arms

she is shrouded in the sky by swirling clouds

Steam rises

like the surface of skin on a lagoon

steam rises

the clouds are oceans floating

steam rises

and carries the clinging odor of the sea

into my mouth

5/79?

rev. 7/27/1979

rev. Spring 1980
Forestville
Shiosai means the sound of the waves
(AKA The Clinging Odor of the Sea)

BACK TOWARDS THE DEAD

Back towards the dead  

(This one may have been typed up. The title seems familiar)

Foxes and wild boars abound 

in red pigment
An imprint of the hand
The hunt, an arrow 

wounded the bison. 

His hour was promised.

Who sought me 

under the high sun 

in the dust of limestone caverns? 

Ancient fire scars 

bones of hunted beasts, 

thigh bones to gamble by, 

while the stars rush outward 

to darkness like mosses 

on the flood tide.

Neither by day, nor by night. 

Cow dung and red Earth, 

granite (then your brain). 

I am stone, I am stone, 

the chief and the priest in one. 

I have not trembled. 

And I'll stare down 

from the brightness of stars. 

Who carries this jewel on one hand 

before the vividness of stones? 

7/10/1979

very, very minor tweaks  11/2/2015

TUESDAY POEM

sitting cross-legged on the floor
we share meals, and the bed-mat
side by side in fairness
your thoughts still follow and fill me
our thoughts touch
what is it, it is what we share
your hand upon my hair
gently cradling my head
you touch me as if in wonder
like a child in awe of another child
and I, in awe of you, touch back.

7/10/1979
slightly rev. 11/2/2015

THE WEB OF REASON

THE WEB OF REASON

it's not a simple seam
It has a power, not in the parts
but in the whole
That divinity which is earth and sky
Receives the power of the mountain
receives the power of the dance
the king wearing the bull's mask
receives the power of the mountain
The bull is running, the dancers
seize his horns and leap over his mountain back.

7/10/1979

HOH RIVER VALLEY

GREY MORNING LIKE THE HOH RIVER VALLEY GREY

last night the moon was unbelievably full and i slept alone

as the clouds raced by with 3 a.m. nightmares add to today's grey 

coffee in hand, i curl around the couch like fog and stare

eyes focused
the hum of the fridge, the clicking of the oven and the clock

keep a 20th c. profile
one foot rests inside the arch of the other like lovers

and i think of tongues traveling up my leg

today i will go to work and the day will be long

the sun lightens and i'm still drifting in the pacific northwest

the quality of rain on the hood canal made the trees seem even

more green there,
i waited it out in a day shelter with morning coffee

made on an electric stove that runs on dimes
rain comes in on all fours and the water licks the rocks
where i gathered oysters

the sun breaks like mendocino sunlight or monterey sunlight

mysterious rays filter through pine trees and illuminate carmel

fort bragg and here

grey too, this morning curls around crisp edges
of yesterday's intense heat. 

grey to block out the stars and last night's moon

i slept heavily, comforted by the presence of fog

i hated to awaken from sleep, my mind still in a nest of bed,

carves that sensation of relaxed skin, just loved skin
tingling as the blood flows through

grey cement, grey tin roof, day and the contemplative cat

stares at the sky. i reach for a warm cup of coffee.

the red pelargonium is deeper against the muted greys and greens,

against the weather-stained redwood fencing and cedar shingles

the biggest red cedar is on the olympic peninsula.
there's a shortage of red cedar.
not enough to keep up with the demand. i place

my hand on the trunk of that tree and feel its rough texture,
the camphor smell in my nostrils. sign says

the tree is worth so many millions of board feet.

better touch it while you can.

grey morning again. i wake to a sky of high fog. is it early

and i can't see the blue yet

or is it late and what's out there is fog again?

if I don't get out of bed now i'll be making love in my mind
for the rest of the morning. the rest of this morning
and many other mornings have been grey.
i sit here, heavy lidded, waiting to write, relaxed in an oak chair,
cushion for my ass, feet propped up on the only other chair i own,
and the cat is being a freaking past. he thinks he needs love,
and being a true marinite, he wants it all now,
and lays on my writing, stroking my pen with such tenderness.
Hell, we all want it all now. why won't the words come?

my mind rambles and i tell myself, did you know that quark
comes from Ulysses? quarks and outer space.
the sound of seagulls and the man sitting in a pub in dublin
drinking down his beer, quark, quark.

there are black holes in outer space and seagulls in LA cry smog, smog.

It is still grey morning in the fridge sounds like an air conditioner.

i think i'll have another cup of coffee. one is enough to get off.

sometimes it gives me the shakes, 2 cups have me positively shook.

and I wait for the words to come, for the grey to go.

7/9-25/1979

Hoh River Valley journal entries, 79. 15 & 25

Gray morning like the Hoh River Valley gray . Last night, the moon was unbelievably full and I slept alone as the clouds raced by with 3 AM nightmares, which add to today's gray. Coffee in hand, I curled around the couch like fog and stare, eyes unfocused. The home of the fridge, the clicking of the oven and the clock keep a 20th-century profile. A foot rests inside the arch of the other like lovers, and I think of tongues traveling up my leg. Today I will go to work and the day will be long.

The sun struggles and I'm still drifting in the Pacific Northwest. The quality of rain on the Hood Canal made the trees seem even more greener, I waited a squall out in a day shelter with morning coffee made on an electric stove that runs on times. Rain comes in on all fours and the water licks the rocks where I gathered oysters. The sun breaks like Mendocino sunlight or Monterey sunlight mysterious race filter through the pine trees and illuminate Carmel, Fort Bragg, and here.

7/9/1979

Gray too, this morning, the fog curls around crisp edges of yesterday's intense heat. Gray to block out the stars and last night's moon. I slept heavily, comforted by the presence of fog. I hated to awaken from sleep, my mind still in the nest of bed, that sensation of relaxed skin, just loved skin, silken,  tingling as the blood flows through gray cement, gray tin roof roof, the contemplative cat stares at the sky. I reach for my tepid coffee. The red pelargonium bleeds deeper against the muted grays and greens, it bleeds against the weather stained redwood fencing, and the cedar shingles. The biggest red cedar is on the Olympic Peninsula. There's a shortage of red cedar. Not enough to keep up with the demand. I place my hands on the trunk of the tree and feel its rough texture, the camphor smell fills my nostrils. A sign says that the tree is worth so many millions of board feet. Better touch it while you can.

7/15/1979

Gray morning again. I wake up to a sky of high fog. Is it early and I can't see the blue yet, or is it late and what is up there is merely fog again? If I don't get out of bed now, I'll be making love in my mind for the rest of the morning. The rest of this morning and many other mornings have been gray. I sit here, heavy-lidded, waiting to write, relaxing in oak chair, Coushin for my ass, feet propped on the only other chair I own, and the cat is being a fugging past. He thinks he needs love, and being a true Marinite, he wants it all now, and lays across my writing, stroking my pend with such tenderness. Hell, we all wanted all now. Why won't the words come? My mind rambles and I tell myself did you know that quark comes from the novel Ulysses? Quarks and outer space. The sound of seagulls and the man sitting in a pub in Dublin drinking down his beer – quark, quark, quark. There are black holes in outer space and seagulls in LA call: smaug, smaug, smaug. It is still a gray morning and the fridge sounds like an air conditioner. I think I'll have another cup of coffee. One is enough to get off, sometimes it gives me the shakes. Two cups have me positively shook up. I sit and wait for the words to come, the great to go.

7/25/1979 ,

UNTITLED LOVE POEM Please stay the night

UNTITLED LOVE POEM

please stay the night

   again the night

once again the night

             stay

7/7/1979

KINDERGARTEN DROPOUT

I walk down the road
It's a mile to the highway 

and the bus Is waiting.
School, where children grow to fit.

But a snake lies across the road.
Is it a rattler? 

He's a gopher snake 

blocking the way. 

No school today.

I board the yellow bus
The faces and the noise 

distract and confuse me.
Who walks down the road 

a mile to catch the bus.

Bus stops at the highway.
This child won't go to school.

Too many distractions along the way.

I watch the sun warms the grass 

and play in my new school clothes. 

Next year, the bus will come 

all the way up to Baranca Road. 

First grade will be completed.

2 July, 1979

rev. slghtly 11/2/2015

I don't think this poem was ever typed up.

TILLING THE FIELD Michael Dow workshop

DRAFT (don't know if I ever typed this one up)

The moon is almost fitful tonight.

A train whistles and moans

midway between night and morning
Cylindrical wheels resonate,

a throbbing echo and clatter.
The ticking of the clock echoes

the throbbing train, and the heart.

Systolic/diastolic. Open & closed.
There is a storm gathering 

in the direction of her eyes.

A line should be the length of a row.
It's the breath feeling, 

a staccato furrow of assonance 

dissonance and consonants.

The break in the link 

the breath and the line 

is a unit of breath.

Maybe we should go back,
chant in the rhythm of the hunt,
chant in the rhythm of plowing.
A line runs the length of a row.
To make a verse is to turn back on itself

and go against the direction of the row.
Go against the direction of the chant
boustrophedon, as the plowman walks.

There is a gathering storm.

July 1, 1979 Michael Dow workshop

minor rev. 11/2/2015 (mostly consolidated line breaks) 

Child in Changing Times Conference  

Arts in Everyday Living

6/28 to July 1

SSU

HISTORY CONTAINED IN THE BREATH

this whole history is contained
in the breath, he said
fogged on cold windowpanes
her eyes—
don't draw on the windows he said
it leaves fingerprints
when the breath dies
her eyes keep wandering
our history lies with God, he said
but he interfered with space and time
and her eyes keep wandering
shadows of darkness drawing her in
and her eyes keep wandering
to far horizons, distant shores

6/30/79?
this may be an earlier poem, there's a note: "old poems rediscovered, 1979"
slightly rev. 11/2/2015

GATHERING STORM

I need hard copy of this poem  DRAFT

I awoke with this sentence:

there's a storm gathering in the direction of her eyes.

She stands waiting

for him by the green pond. 

Conversation drifts by with the water, 

floats with the hours. His lichen eyes, 

impenetrable as the surface,

leave her stranded 

by all the ponds of the world

As he turns to leave, her image ripples,

her eyes gather in the storm.

Tonight there's a promise of rain in the air. 

June 29, 1979

Michael Dow workshop

Child in Changing Times Conference  

Arts in Everyday Living

6/28 to July 1

SSU

HOLLYHOCK Michael Dow workshop

Michael's Hollyhock DRAFT
In the afternoon room of dust and summer's heat,
Michael picks up a flower from the red carpet
where it had fallen from her long a gleaming hair.
The hollyhocks edges were bruised,
withered from the wearing.

Pollen scattered across its petals
Yellow flecks on the maroon petals
He raised it gently to his nose to inhale its scent
so like the first sip of tea in the tea ceremony.
It had no special older, just color to keep it afloat.

The flower thirsted for water, or even nectar.
She plucked it during the hard heat of day
The sap that coursed through its veins
in such sweet green succor
like a lazy river on a summer's day,
severed from the umbilicus.

The flower adorned her hair
by the hand that robbed it of life.
The humming bees in the flower,
their legs, laden with pollen,
dandled around that plucked blossom.

Flower trumpet faded, read into the carpet,
red in the hand, withered in the hair.

6/29/1979

Michael Dow workshop

Child in Changing Times Conference  

Arts in Everyday Living

6/28 to July 1

SSU