The Not So Exhaustive Advice Of A Subversive Teacher (Retired)

Learn how to use solitude for growth and insight.

Look at landscapes and cemeteries;

notice the texture of things.

Get out of the desert in the fall.  Go someplace

that has fall colors.  Paste them onto your faces,

necks, and chests.  Walk proudly.

Laugh immeasurably.

Learn how silence opens the soul.

If you crave magic, paint with the brush of wind.

Walk along a river.  If it’s dry, walk in it.

Wish others well, even if they cut you off in traffic.

Do things that can’t be digitized.

Say things that have no questions.

Ask questions that have no answers.

Stand your ground when it’s right; 

compromise to move on.

Don’t live in fear. That’s living life half.

Kiss. Don’t forget to kiss. Add fire often.

Love passionately and fearlessly.

Stand naked in the rain.

Rejoice in the variety of life.

Seek spirituality.

As much as possible, remain loyal 

to your friends and family.

Proper grammar will not ruin you.

Do something creative often.

Make no more tracks than necessary.

Remember, there’s always a “work around.”

Praise the sounds of nature like music.

Never forget those sounds.

Read books.

Learn to cook.

No matter how old you are, 

you are always young and good looking.

Remember how the kindnesses of men and women

move through the universe.

Clean off the day with a prayer of gratitude.

Practice forgiveness and redemption.

Say, Amen! 

Often.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 17

The Where Of Power Within

Carl Nielsen: Symphony No. 5, Op. 50

We can’t see where the symphony 

is going, so grab on.

Dolce, tranquillo, cantabile,

allegro, adagio, and presto

are like pointers for the listener:

Follow us into these

rebellious melodies,

strange forms,

a persistent snare,

two fugues,

and scramble with us 

through this rugged universe.

We are the fist

between good and evil,

saints and sinners,

dreams and deeds,

silence and chaos,

panic and serenity,

to fight the good fight 

for hearts and souls,

transcending all conventions,

breaking boundaries into the unknown,

pushing against everything dark,

supporting everything good,

emerging triumphant.

At the end, a deep breath,

a swelling heart, a validation of beauty.

That is the what of the symphony.

When I listen to this symphony,

where I am is unknown.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 12

How Is Where About The Blue Round

 The child within the child within— 

I have questions:

How is the sky?

How is an egg?

How is an egg a sky?

What is the eye roundabout?

But...how is round?

Just round?

Or is the eye a round sky?

Or a blue egg?

Or a planet?

Where is the all get around?

Round, round get around like that.

Rabbits and quail especially get around.

How is especially?

Does it run and leap great distances?

Walk on muddy paths in bare feet?

Is a yawn an especially?

Or a speciality?

You mean like Javelinas and Coyotes?

How is madness?

When I saw you for the first time,

reason went mad.

Where would reason go?

When are the mountains invisible?

How does faith go to cry?

What is the how of a horseless horse.

Who is a roundabout 

stuck with the we of God.

From: A Preface To The Universe:

Women, Getting Older, and Other Mysteries

Unpub. MS p. 2

Sacred Realm

Nature is a sacred realm. Lightning strikes where 

it needs to. Nature knows how to make her point. 

There are a hundred paths in your eyes. 

Each one can take you to the Divine Presence.

Age is upon me, but I am not frightened by that. 

More than ever, I crave the essence of all things.

One night the grasslands awakened me, No one 

has seen such trumpery grip the throat of a nation.

I meditate and remember my blessings. 

It’s the righteous mobs that terrify me. 

From: A Rambly Search For Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub MS p. 4

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 Gadsden Purchase 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 Foxies, wrapped in the flag,

call it The Invasion, with a clack of their heels

and a smirk on their lips and lies on their tongues.

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.

Nothingness

The Seeker, then,

is never free from the quest;

who turns restlessly and endlessly about

the Majesty of the Divine,

who consumes us and offers 

the gift of nothingness.

No reason can comprehend the Divine.

The Curandero* who lived 

down the road always told us, 

Recognize what is in your breath.

*A curer and healer who uses folk remedies

and ritual practices. He was kind and wise

and a mentor to my friends and me.

From: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpublished MS p. 61

About Therapy

Memory means something, always,

but it isn’t precise, ever.

So many times I have scattered some of my memories over

a mental landscape for scrutiny and eventual reassembly,

thinking I might find something long overlooked, 

something that would fill in the memory gaps,

reveal a long forgotten name, a missing event, 

reasons for my occasional unravelings, 

or I’d find a new poetic voice.

It is so difficult to know if I should reassemble 

everything in more colorful and musical ways,

thinking that would relieve some anxieties

or make life look better or the memories more interesting.

I ask the therapist to help, who then often asks me, 

How long have you been carrying this around?

You still haven’t fixed this?

I’m looking for understanding and closure…

Despite her earnest efforts, 

inexplicably, I’d still procrastinate,

still lose some things,

never to be found, most likely,

not really missing them, 

coping as I have for many years.

But sometimes, just once in a while, when standing 

in my back acre, my heart emptied of words,

sipping a little wine, 

I feel the consoling voice 

of that one lost love, unforgettable, 

and still I wonder what could have been.

From: Getting There

Unpublished MS p. 35