Sonoma County’s Finest

The fruit on the blackberry bush are shriveled and black.

The gravel driveway has washed-away and then there is you.

The gutters are clogged and falling-off the roof,

Due to the weight of neglect, and then there is you.

There are a few broken panes that we covered with cardboard,

To keep out the draft. And then there is me,

Going over the bills at midnight while you are asleep.

There is the two of us clinging to each other to conserve heat.

The beer bottles are piled-up around the kitchen sink.

The screen doors are torn to shreds and wasting away.

The crystal meth is apparent on our face,

And there is no escaping the obvious truth of you and me.

All the apples have fallen and the deer are having a feast,

While Sonoma County Sheriff knock and grind their teeth.

Ghost Imprint

I never know if you really existed.
I remember only your ghost imprint,
a flowing white cotton nightgown,
your naked silhouette apparent by light.

I remember the fragrance of jasmine,
pots of hot oolong tea,
curry salmon with mashed potatoes,
and spooning while half asleep.

Your image is of questionable reality,
a breeze blowing through the window,
the dancing of the curtains,
no one ever really knows for sure.

What is real is uncertain.
What happened is forgettable.

Open Window

Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.
Stir-up the curtains and rattle the glass panes.
My body lies on death’s bed clinching to a pillow.

Waiting for love to float in like an apparition,
to rescue me from this desperate affliction,
to dose me out of this drear hallucination,
to whisper into my ear, to speak of the years

long ago when love was real. When warm tears
were streams of joy. Sing softly as I am fragile
and yearn for the tenderness of the past.
Breathe into my lips so that I might last

one more day in your deep song of affection.
One more play in your ghostly presence.
Approach me in my sleep, come to me in dreams.
Blow in as a breeze through my open window.

The Apple Blossom Parade

For the last 66 years, as the apple trees bloom,  my little town of Sebastopol, California hosts a ruckus festival and parade downtown and at Ives Park. Until recently, people were allowed to walk around with open containers of alcohol. While that is no longer permitted, heavy partying in the bars and at the park continues throughout the weekend.  Sebastopol is a quarkly town that likes to do things their own way. Much of the proceeds to this annual event goes to our local schools. The Press Democrat photo above is from yesterday’s parade. Below is a poem I updated for the occasion.

The Apple Blossom Parade

In 1914,

The First Methodist Church,

with its bold wooden steeple,

was burnt to the ground,

for preaching prohibition.

The good folks,

of Sebastopol,

weren’t buying the sermons.

Today,

the Apple Blossom Parade,

marches past the rebuilt church,

past the Masonic Temple,

past Martha’s ol’ Mexico,

selling soup bowl Margaritas,

past the Old Main Street Saloon,

overflowing with bikers,

past Jasper O’ Farrell’s,

The Hopmonk Tavern,

The Greenhouse, and G.T.O’s,

with their bottomless Bloody Marys.

Yes, as the apple trees bloom,

once again the entire town,

including marching bands,

and dachshunds in costumes,

spill past the restaurants and bars,

into Ives Park,

for a two day party,

featuring Wonder Bread 5,

and six dollar beers.

All to support,

Analy Union High School.

No wonder,

Luther Burbank and Charles Schulz,

called Sebastopol their home.

And The First,

Methodist Church,

now made of stone,

is the only quiet place in town.

The Pipe Burst

The pipe burst, showering
the bathroom with scalding water.
Forcing me to flee naked into the cold.
I quickly grabbed a bathrobe,
and an old dim flashlight,
to scurry under the house,
and turn off the main valve.
Covered in mud in the dark,
I found myself looking at stars,
the blueness of the sky,
and the violet hue of sunrise,
silhouetting the mountain range.
The smell of coffee wafted outside,
as a pan faced barn owl swept by.

Adrienne Rich: RIP 1929 – 2012

(This article is a work in progress. Over the next couple days I will add to this posting.)

 

A poem by Adrienne Rich, from her collection “The School Among the Ruins”.

To Have Written the Truth

To have spent hours stalking the whine of an insect

have smashed its body in blood on a door

then lain sleepless with rage

To have played in the ship’s orchestra crossing

the triangle route

dissonant arpeggios under cocktail clatter

to have written the truth in a lightning flash

then crushed those words in your hand

balled-up and smoking

with self-absolution

easygoing pal of youth

leans in the doorframe

Kid, you always

took yourself so hard!

2003

by Adrienne Rich

Adrienne Rich often wrote about death and the human condition. Shortly after her divorce, her husband committed suicide. During this time in her life, Rich became an outspoken feminist and anti-war activist. Yet, when I read her poems, I also feel like Rich is in someway acting like a psychologist trying to work out human pathologies.

In 2005 I was among one hundred fans crammed into a tiny bookstore in Marin, California, to listen to the 76-year-old poet rail against the “War on Terrorism” and the U.S. Government in general. In between her sharp criticism, she would read a poem or two, and then go back into her outrage with U.S. policies, covering a wide rage of issues. Yet, throughout the lecture and reading, Rich maintained a stillness and confidence which made her passionate performance not one of anger, but one of a combination of stirring intellect, honestly, and raw emotion. It was amazing how a 76-year-old woman can awaken an audience of all ages, simply with her words.

According to Poets.com:

“In 1997, she refused the National Medal of Arts, stating that “I could not accept such an award from President Clinton or this White House because the very meaning of art, as I understand it, is incompatible with the cynical politics of this administration.” She went on to say: “[Art] means nothing if it simply decorates the dinner table of the power which holds it hostage.”"

Adrienne was the best example of a poet that lived her life believing, and proving, she could say and do anything and no one was going to hold her back.  Rich was an activist, poet, and inspiration to many. RIP, Master Poet Adrienne Rich.

Letter to Ex

abandoned house by arphot.diviantart.com

Letter to Ex

There are no more walls in my house.

I hang my pictures on the air.

My carpet is made of grass and moss.

My bed is the corn husks of your heart.

Your mind is the fire for my stove.

I cook my soup with your words.

I have no need for plates or bowls,

As I dine on the wisdom of your soul.

I have no need for tinted windows,

Nor drawn curtains and closed shutters.

I have no roof, no floor, no doors.

And thanks to you, no secrets any more.

I have nothing left in life to hide.

Now that you have robbed me blind.

(originally published at www.ExpatsPoetry.com)

Salvage

She rummages through dumpsters,

procuring old picture frames,

earthenware, and nearly new clothes.

Scavaging back alleyways,

scouring through life’s thrown away.

Discovering emeralds,

coffee tables, and golden cows.

She knows exactly where to look.

By day’s end she fills the truck.

Stacked dresser drawers full,

of books, pearls, and girly gifts,

things he will never understand.

Yet, he receives each found treasure,

with the openness of being in love.

Winter in Bodaga Bay

Winter comes with wisps of fog

that slip into the gullies

and pour down the thin riverbeds

that lead to Bodega Bay;

“A quaint little drinking town with a fishing problem.”

Crab pots stack atop tiny white boats

with blue trim and Christmas lights drift by.

A captain wearing Santa’s cap and his crew

in reindeer antlers wave as they pass.

Inside Lucas Wharf,

red nosed clowns sip warm cocktails by the hearth.

Friends of the local folk band Stiff Dead Cat

jam for dollars and the occasional free beer.

All the while the ocean slaps ashore and roars.

In sync with the celebration.

Debris

 

We were
a heap of debris stacked
nearly five feet high.
Broken branches,
trimmed hedges, brown leaves,
even a few pulled up weeds.
The ruins of our yard.
The clippings of old growth
sheared off love.
We felt
a little gasoline would help.
And next we knew,
Fire, Fire, Fire, Roaring
up toward the sun.
Rippling waves of heat.
Forcing us to step back
and watch our garden
turn to ash.

Remember
Ishtar was enslaved
in the fires of the underworld.
Yet the waters of life
were sprinkled upon her head
as she danced with bells
past the seven veils.
Her bosom
was filled with precious stones.
So too,
the apple tree blooms,
while the rose buds open,
and honey bees pirouette.
In the instrumental breeze,
in the harmony of spring,
tiny sprouts of wild grass
pop out of the ash.
And so too,
even I must ask,
Will this love outlast
the pain?