Tag Archives: poem

Two Thousand Year Old Dream

Trekking on the ambient music,

We tuned into space mood.

We needed something outside,

Of chillwave for the road.

We got beat-focused on the down-

Tempo, nu-Jazz,

And rad samples interlaced with

Dance-y beats… and low fill.

Tripping and grinning,

In our new identities,

We rolled the Magnum,

Down the Avenue of the Giants,

To sleep like puppies under trees,

Older than Jesus Christ.

Yeah, that’s how we roll.

Feeling like prana?

Take a deep breath.

We gathered stones along the river,

Snapped photos of each other’s butts,

And watched the rippling water.

We climbed the switchbacks and slopes.

And didn’t let anyone tell us no.

I said, “This world is getting too complicated,

But nature is still the best dope.”

She knew exactly,

What I was talking about.

I still hate double rainbows.

I’m not a psychic.

I also hate tie-dyes and crystals.

I can’t predict shit.

I don’t read horoscopes.

I can’t tell you what’s happening,

Let alone what going to happen..

All of this gives me a bad name,

With the hippies.

Don’t worry,

I’m not a Christian, either.

I don’t even believe in Christ.

I can’t tell you if Jesus,

Was an actual man or just a myth.

I certainly don’t have faith,

He could walk on water,

Or raise the dead…including himself.

But I would love to walk on water.

Think of all those rivers I could cross,

Without getting my feet wet.

I would also like to be a superhero,

Just not with weird, hippie psychic powers.

I’m not a Muslim, either.

Heck, I’m not a Jew or Hindu.

I couldn’t give a foo,

About following your Voodoo.

Nor do I give a shinto,

Over you following your Dr. Who.

Do you dig it?

I’d rather listen to electronica,

Under 2,000 year old redwoods,

And gaze up between the branches,

Laughing and laughing,

About the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I’d rather push aside all the misery,

Conflict, bigotry, and the litany

Of other man-made calamities and ask,

The woman I love standing next to me,

“Is it time to make a fire,

Prepare a meal, and lay our bed?”

So that we can finally,

Throw arms and legs around each other,

Listen to some breakbeat and space mood,

And then sleep..side by side.

As in a 2,000 year old dream.


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I woke to the smell of sage.

She was holding the air. She danced

above the flowers and defied gravity.

I grabbed one of Saturn’s rings,

In order to give her a gift worthy,

Of a soaring witch capturing the ozone.

She lifts trees out of the earth,

And plants them on the moon.

Astonishingly, she inspires foliage,

To flourish in the harsh vacuum of space.

If this is a dream don’t wake me.

I’d rather be a floating particle,

Swimming in the caverns of her breath,

Than a rotting corpse robbed of love.


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Night Strolls


It was nearly midnight and I was feeling restless.

The moon was full when I wandered onto the trails.

The smell of Bay leaves brimmed the air.


Your silence was heard loud and clear. You whispered,

Into my ear nothing but the breath of a woman,

Walking out the door and into her own personal forest.


I wanted to save you but I didn’t have the force.

I was fighting off my own whirlwind, and losing the contest.

I too needed to walk off into the woods alone.


After the earthquake the boards in the old house creaked.

As if she was telling me a home is not a home,

Unless there is a woman unequivocally in love.


I knew I was unable to deliver the goods. I needed,

To walk the trails at night and find my own strange way.


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Sonoma County’s Finest

blackberry bush

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.


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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.


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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.


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The Apple Blossom Parade

Apple Blossom Parade 2012 by Bilde

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.


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.

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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.


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The Hermit

Old Man watching TV by Funhouse.com

(Dedicated to John, and all the “All the Lonely People”, as the Beatles sang on).

By all appearance, he was an ordinary man.
On weekdays he would leave for work
by eight a.m. and be home just after seven.

The curtains were always drawn
so the neighbors could only see the T.V. glow,
which always went off at twelve.

On weekends he stayed at home.
Always alone, always with the T.V. on.
He never had guests, no friends or family.

As a mail clerk, no one talked to him at work.
Nor did he ever attempt to talk to anyone.
Some say that he didn’t even own a phone.

I really don’t know. I never talked to him.
Although, he lived next door.

He died of an unknown or natural cause.
There was no funeral.


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photo by swapmeetdave.com

California will slip into the ocean
while domesticated cats grow wings
and attack all the birds until there
are no more and the sky turns red

and yellow and sometimes blue
but mostly red and beer cans rain
which you think might be cool
but they hurt like hell and human

error will be to blame but no one
can point the finger at their friends
neighbors or enemies for that matter
because their fingers bleed.

Thus all will be good in the universe
and all will be right with the Lord.


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