About Blythe

Blythe, California 

through no fault of its own
this desert town
cannot be pretty
it’s a gritty sandpapered bald spot
sitting like an anti-oasis
surrounded by hundreds of acres
of verdant farmland

the Courtesy Coffee Shop
sits amid the burger and coffee chains
a true oasis of its kind
the interior retains the 1961 décor
no one would change it—
it’s oddly comfortable
for the few travelers who stop in
persistent locals and those who return
for their high school reunions

the formica counter is worn
where one’s arms would rest
reading a newspaper
eating breakfast
having a conversation
sipping strong coffee—
tough farmers meet here to talk
about crops and water
and children moved away

even still—
there’s an uneasy heave
in a traveler’s first breath in Blythe—
the landscape and aromas of the town
farmlands and desert wilderness
are three pieces of a peculiar puzzle—
an arid way station
within an agricultural mecca
surrounded by an unrelenting desert
eager to invade—
they don’t quite fit together
yet together they abide

Portage of a Vision

Beyond the visible.
What is that?
Love?  Anxiety?  Truth?
God Waiting—

Where?
The Unseen—
The Experience—
Something Profound—

no explanation—
left with inexplicable emotions
that chew—

waves on a coastline—
there are voices
unsettling to one’s world view
affirming to another’s—
beyond the visible however remote
from there to here
language beyond language
we carry within

The Migrations of No Ones

The Ships of States that lay out there
heaved a mighty sigh,
sending the No Ones scrambling—
some went here, some there, back and forth.
“¡América!  De ti cantamos.”

Are these the poor, huddled masses,
the tired, the wretched refuse, the riff-raff,
the dirty, yearning destitutes
scurrying toward our dim northern light?
Perhaps the border crossed them?

Someone called this a Promised Land—
Come get a new Anthem and a Waiver,
Officially written on Official Paper—
The irony of the so-called storied pomp?
Out here there is no Ellis Island;
no welcoming Madre de los Exiliados.

The kitchens are tidied by the riff-raff,
the wretched refuse mow the lawns,
the huddled masses harvest the fields.
Those Clever Foxes, wrapped in the flag,
call it The Invasion, with a clack of their heels.

The No Ones ask:
“Where is your celebrated lamp?”
“Where is the golden door?”
“¿Por qué sea tan difícil?”

E pluribus unum?
Not so much.
At that, the No Ones cry,
and no one says Amen.

Elk Prairie

first I fell into silence and nightfall
wishing to be finished with unnecessary things
then it rained steady and windless— 
I lay awake under my taut canopy
of thousands of little drumbeats

water ran off the two lowest edges
the foot of my sleeping bag soaked through— 
oddly my feet were refreshingly numb
no sleep will be had tonight I thought
yet I did–and how I don’t know

at sunrise (a peek-a-boo through the clouds)
a dozen Roosevelt Elk
of formidable stature and beauty
stood around my water-drenched shelter
they were covered in droplets collected from the mist
that brought the meadow back to Earth
from its nighttime Journeys

they shook water into crystalline haloes
backlit by that early peek-a-boo
I sat up–knees at my chin
and gazed at this extraordinary scene
accepting its invitation to pray in gratitude—
I’d guess the Elk
being far smarter than I
saw me as harmless—

we must have traveled together for the night
with the rainy meadow on which I slept
through a portal into another Silence
from which we returned I’m sure
having touched the heart of God

Willcox Playa

A memory: Summer 1960

it couldn’t just rain in Willcox —
a mass of grit and silt blown from the playa
had to fill the air teasing everyone
with the odor of wet dirt —
how odd that we could say it smelled good
while tons of the stuff flew
through town at fifty miles an hour

even inside we were not entirely
out of the storm
the onerous grit infiltrated
windows and doors
adhered to our teeth
filled our noses and ears
coated our game boards with an annoying
layer of silt

the wind howled like
ancient blood hounds released for the hunt
wire fences glowed and crackled with static electricity —
soon lightning hammered off Thor’s anvil
careened across a furious sky
crashed into the earth in a blinding flash
letting loose window-jarring blasts
sometimes so close we cringed —

then it would rain

a remembrance

ca. 1961 Willcox, Arizona

I remember when I lived
with the sweet smell of dust and dirt
drifting off the Willcox range
the earthy aroma of leather and feed
horse corrals and the flies of summer

Episcopal church services
were held in the Methodist Church
with its heavy air and odor of candles —
led by an itinerant reverend —
an Englishman who drove up
from his parish in Tombstone
every other Sunday evening —

I was fearful of the purple-haired
old ladies in the congregation
with their strange perfumes and powdered faces
who seemed to own whatever earth
they were walking on at the moment —
I avoided them —
they had mysterious powers of some kind
I was sure of it

mostly I remember the arid openness
cattle hanging out at water tanks
gnarly cowboys and handsome horses
sweet kids like Judy Pride
Lee York and Bertha Skates
pit BBQ for Rex Allen Days
Dos Cabezas and the Chiricahua Mountains

still I’m wondering why
after so much time and distance traveled
I have (just once in a while) a scary dream
about purple-haired old ladies
who reach out stiff-armed
grab my and my brothers’ faces and say
in voices deeper than Willcox thunder
oh what handsome boys you are — 

apple core

settled on rough ground
pads sleeping bag and stars
a consequence of hasty decisions — 
starting too late for a long drive
too tired to begin with

somewhere out there not far 
off the southern Arizona back road
the old man listened
to a herd of javelina
shuffling and jostling one another
grunting to be the first to indulge
in the prickly pear fruit
on the lowest pads

now sleepless he marveled
at the darkness and spread of stars
missed since childhood — 
in the remaining firelight 
he examined his dried cuticles
then gave his fingers a little flick — 
the outline of a great horned owl 
flew over with barely a ripple

he ate an apple bought in Sierra Vista
made a production of crunching and chewing
mumbled ‘baltimore’
then tossed the apple core 
for the javelina

after sputtering up its last sparks 
the camp fire settled into an easy glow
the old man gazed at the stars 
satisfied for the night

Antiques

an old man (eighty-nine they said)
a traveler of the oldest generation—
the depression and dust bowl
world wars and everything since—
so much life for one lifetime

his shirt sleeves were rolled up
by rough hands with swollen knuckles
his forearms still had their muscular outlines
but his tattoos approached obscurity
looking more like bruises
it took a minute to see what they were

an anchor on one
US NAVY written above it
in what used to be a robust
omnipotent script—
on the other
clenched in a knotted blue-grey fist
a dagger pulled from a disembodied heart
still dripping—
a macabre and irresistible curiosity

he was perusing
the antiques and collectables
laid out on counters and shelves
picking up
holding—
inspecting the castoffs of others’ lives—
this – not this he breathed—
putting down
glancing at his fading souvenirs—
remembering—

then he stood
at an old Lionel railroad layout
he ran his fingers on the tracks
gazed at a parked locomotive
just out of reach—
he nodded and smiled—

but I could see he was getting tired
so very tired
ready to return home
clutching his remaining memories

Dirt

Willcox, Arizona 1959

I can remember
when I was a boy
living young and purposeless
next to what I thought
was the wild range — 
I saw many strong men gardening 
their vegetables and marigolds
apple orchards
lettuce and corn fields
herding their cattle

(their dogs and horses had names like
Milly & George, Maggie & Uncle Sam)

I admired 
their solidity and tenacity
both feet on the ground
defiant of all the odds
that pushed against them
and sometimes won — 
but defiant still — 

they carried aromas of leather
manure horses and cattle
of forges and branding irons
workshops of mechanical things
the odors of life and creation 
and the ground they walked on

they wore 
their dirt as a matter of fact
from the small plots to the large fields
to the grit 
that rises from cattle herds

and oh boy 
could they rope and dance — 
good God
a sight to behold for sure

and more than once I heard the women say
“...yeah, and he sure cleans up good.”

Thirteen

Ave Maria I
the deep soul-ache
beyond the eyes of tears— 
the grip on my throat

Ave Maria II
those in pain
those in joy— 
hear it
feel it— 
it does work

1930-1942
strange solitude this— 
walking on
neighborhood sidewalks 
root-heaved and broken
autographed and dated

Wolf
what’s better— 
the flirt
a man sends a woman
or her smile
afterward

Talking
parties and friends— 
the mass of chatter sounds the same
in any language

Gargoyle I
the Playa— 
a strange childhood memory
from there arose a vague
dust-driven monster

Gargoyle II
at a distance
a peculiar malice— 
the wild scream of wind 
and dirt

Moustache
old man 
chewing tobacco— 
a leaner— 
drifted to the curb— 
to spit
occasionally

Problem
some difficulties
which many believe insoluble— 
then many people dwell
in dire insolubility

Garden
dirt turned
fragrant compost
seeds planted— 
watering watching 
impatiently coaxing— 
“Blossoms, come forth!”

Book
turn the pages 
gently
of this volume
read by 
scoundrels and saints
alike

Come Hither
tilted hips
subtle smile — 
her backward glance
asks him — 
“Well . . . are you coming?”

Challenge
write a poem
that begins on earth
ends in heaven — 
in thirteen words

Mom

it’s strange to think
as I sit in front of her
that she’s nearly 86
for most of my life I didn’t
imagine her as ever getting old — 

frail and white haired
her memory has thinned
more than her hair
the names of her children
sometimes elude her
old friends are dead or nearly so
she’s lonely and bored
more than a little bitterness hangs on her sighs
her days escape her

I can see the desperate frustration
on her pale face
the frown 
the weary blink of her misty eyes
her pursed lips
then a wave of her hand
a dismissal
a sign of helplessness

she says she has had enough
she’s weak and tired
wishing she could die finally — 
I admit that her condition
scares me

I have to remind myself of the obvious — 
she gave birth to me and my brothers 
a strong young and beautiful woman
with dreams 
of living some kind of a good life
raising us boys
watching us grow into our own lives — 
many things
did not go the way she had hoped — 

it’s scary to see 
my destiny and futility 
sitting before me
I know I’ll be there one day
not that long from now
losing my memories
my body falling apart
unaware of the days that slip by
I'm simply hoping my children
will not be frightened

If We Have Journeyed

In Four Short Poems:
Myth, Forgiveness, Awakening, Epilogue

Not long into the age
of challenges and gambles, 
you, that rare Bird,
like the one named the Griffin,
polished your verbiage and other plumage
with the fragrant madness of love.
Ragged-edged, you took flight and
finally loosed your thrilling screech — 

❦

I can relate to the well-seasoned 
August monsoon,
full of wind, lightning, and rain
that sizzles on my window panes.
Once, thunder pounded on my door,
begging to be let in, calling me to let go 
my primal yawp! while the storm was at its peak.
What a relief that I freed my primitive cry, 
carried away as if only a baby’s sigh — 

❦

For a time, outside of time, 
she sat across the room,
watching and watching, so beautiful and gracious. 
No one could hear her. She had become 
a vision of silence,
in a place known only to herself,
until the whispers off a thousand tongues
reached into her heart.

❦

There are things we have seen;
secret Truths we have learned.
Put to language, they are diminished.
Explained, they fade away.
To Journey is to walk within the mysteries.

jig saw puzzles

jig saw puzzles
3000 pieces of fun
you work for hours
fitting piece by piece
then you discover one or more
pieces are missing

don’t you just hate that—

your heart sinks
certainly those pieces
have to be somewhere close
you look under the table and chair
sweep the floor
pull the cushions off the sofa—
you look everywhere

you leave the puzzle on the table
the empty spaces
stare at you like black holes
wanting to suck you in to fill the void

you expect the missing pieces
to appear magically in some odd place
in your bowl of loose change
or the litter box for instance

finally you sigh—
the missing pieces
were scattered by someone’s tantrum
or a careless toss of the box
or the cat pretended they were
easy prey and carried them
to its kill site—

finally you return the puzzle to its box
thinking those pieces might turn up one day
the pieces that will make the puzzle whole—
so you keep it safe

good men

memories
of such things
visceral
prickly barbed
smelling of sweet
sweaty landscapes
unvoiced
still clamorous

strewn among our bones
our heads and teeth
in the iron of our blood

unseen
unfelt
until the unpacking
sometimes a reminder
a trigger
the snap —

where on earth
were we going
with all those things —
was it somewhere
beyond everything littered here —

we cannot minimize
the truth of the things
we left behind —

when old men die —
finally learning how things work
how life should be lived
right when they understand mercy
humility and women —
they die too young

in the end
from what abides at our cores
we cannot stray
from there we unfold our souls
to the last unknown

Rowers

so tired—
for years our boats
have been too full
we have rowed as far as we can
as hard as we can—
depleted of energy and spirit
there is nothing more we can do

no more
can we endure the roiling turbulence
nor the struggle to stay the course
nor haphazard engineering
nor incompetent management
nor attempted passenger mutinies—
heart and passion drained
fire in the belly extinguished
we are run out—

we wonder—
How old do we have to be
to ignore the ways of the world?
How many things
persist in silence and solitude
other than the moon?

Will we see
days and nights that have
long eluded us?

Leaves that will bud in green
drop in yellow red and orange
and gather in wind-blown piles?

Will rain still come beautifully
with lightning and blustery grittiness
perfectly designed for its perfect place?

ahh . . . of the time newly remaining
we’ll breathe—
Now . . . where shall we go?

becoming old men

Old men ought to be explorers...
T. S. Eliot, “East Coker”, ln. 202.

from somewhere nearby
a nervous bell clangs
pushing my eyes
out of dusk into dawn
out of fog into something
resembling fog —
it feels like time

I’m older —
wisdom seems less important
than humility
returning to the same place
is not the same place
not in light
not in time
not in memory or frame of mind
or in those who have come and gone
not in the chewed words that have been
used and used again
depleted finally of their poetic flavors

the past (what little remains)
resides in pools
vaguely translucent dots on the landscape
some stirred by a seeker
for what might surface —
clarity or a clue or an answer
or simply balance —
others are left to evaporate

what remains ahead
is in the process of becoming —
the way of the present
always becoming

How To Rig A Piano

wooden pegs
saws and pliers
nuts and bolts
among the wires

bits of rods
of any gauge
shredded music
of John Cage

the last day of Mariposa

around her bed filling her room
her family and friends murmured
short phrases
abbreviated nouns
clipped adjectives
attempting to summarize her 90 years
like the photographs hanging on the wall
or the clippings in her scrapbook

her hands fussed
with the edges of her sheets
clenching
releasing
straightening—

she frowned
what can they possibly know
about the weight of beauty—

she asked
about the soup for the day—
if there would always be
wine
chocolate
coffee—

she wondered
where her shoes were—
which toilet she would use—
if she would have time
to unpack and iron her clothes—

weary and disheveled
she closed her eyes—
someone took another picture—
annoyed she sighed
I would love to fly again

On Passing By

She stood on the corner
among the noon-time crowd,
waiting for the light to change,
her face awash in spring’s delight,
full in my disorderly eyes.

A singular strap, loosely balanced,
barely hovered above her sunlit shoulder.
Her dress, hemmed with scalloped
and delicately patterned lace, billowed
about her knees.  How lively it was.

A thin red ribbon, tied somewhere
in her hair, swirled with her hair
around a hint of cleavage.  And there,
in her hardly tied walking shoes,
her wildness, scarcely held captive,
was, for the time being, remarkably tame.
Eyebrows raised, I continued on my way.