Can you?

Can you see inside?

Where sensations manifest as words:

light and dark

                loud and soft

                cold and warm

soft and hard

bright and dim

and thus become the other

Can you see outside?

When words transform:

Love to hate

Happy to sad

Joyous to desolate

Love to sadness

Can you feel?

Gentleman in the White Coat

I think he came here

to die, I don’t know, 

he won’t talk to me directly

he has been coming around for four or five weeks

not schizophrenic like the others, not wild

he has remnants of decent behavior

but his dress, once elegant and of fine pattern and cut

hangs loose and frayed soiled beyond daily cleanings

tells a story of hard life

scares his eyes, surely bright at one time

hazy and red rimmed with scar tissue

slow to move, to focus

he does eat when its time

and clearly once regal

stares the younger ones away until he is finished

but he eats little

before his morning nap

or afternoon stroll around the pond

he likes to be acknowledged

with a friendly pat on the shoulder

or smoothing of his long hair

he had a home once, his habits display,

but perhaps steady and calm wasn't for him, to confining 

and he preferred the chase of the wild

he has taken to sleeping outside my window

perhaps he feels the need for human companionship, through the glass
or does not want to be alone, in this chapter 

The Cheerful Tortoise

Did the turtles know they had numbers

painted on their backs, with various shades of fingernail polish,

when they were placed in the polished plywood track

that circled the bar, with lanes marked with green paint,

that the turtles ignored?

Every Thursday night, when the taps hardly moved,

in an effort to sell more beer, thus providing a nutritional diversions,

to those desperately studying, those who hadn’t flunked out yet,

hanging on by a thread, in the spring,

to their deferments

It was the that same spring when Lyndon went to war

and after a stirring speech, evoking  the Perdenales

at least three times, revoked the students deferments

from those erstwhile students, who ceased studying on Thursday nights

to become turtle racing aficionados

almost three years later, in the winter, a guy came to have a beer

and watch the turtle races, just killing a few hours,

after a very long day trying to register for the spring quarter

yes he had flunked out, he told the registrar, but three years had passed

and he would be a good student now, the registrar reluctantly accepted his paper work

the bartender asked for his ID, he pulled out a worn military ID card,

all that he had, he had hadn’t been back long enough to get a driver’s license

he looked like the picture on his ID—regulation GI haircut—gaunt tired looking

the bartender looked him over pretty good and finally with grin said

the turtle racing was shut down by the state, and we don’t serve your kind here

The voice of your brother's blood....(Gen 4:10-11)

I wonder
where is the outrage

for the dead  boy in San Antonio?

as I see Berkeley burning

and Ferguson rebuilding, honoring one

I pause to think

about university presidents

laying on the floor of their homes Chanting  “I can’t breath”

about classes being suspended

so students can march across the bridge, to honor one

I wonder

where are the demonstrators? The fire starters, the bottle throwers?

as a  few friends gather

to hold a prayer service

and carry signs about justice for one dead boy

I am amazed

that these three were all killed by police

but two demand national attention

two demand national violence, national headlines, national outrage, and the president

and one’s name is forgotten in a moment

I am sadden

By the unraveling of the fabric of consensus
 threads loosen and become separate,

with no connections to  other strands

until the ground is littered with indifference

(his name was Cameron Redus)

Published  January 2015 Voices de la Luna, San Antonio, Texas   http://www.voicesdelaluna.com/

damp woolen clothes

More and more frequently I explore dreams of

damp woolen clothes  and wind tossed rain

at the  cold, mist-shrouded foothills,

of the Oregon Coast Mountains, covered with Douglas Fir , huge ferns, and moss

running north and south with craggy volcanic fingers

pointing west into the sea

damp cold clothes trying to keep the heat in from

walking along barren promenades,

rain swept-clean, taking errant sand back to the beach

no one walks in this weather

no flotsam to collect, green glass balls from foreign fishing nets long gone

all is clouds and windswept rain, obscuring the horizon

the tide is slack

but there are no clam diggers this morning

wading in the shallows , or surf fishermen,

in chest-waders struggling against the tides, or old men in lawn chairs

sitting at the high tide mark lines thrown far and stretched taught by the undertow

all not here today

empty streets and shuttered shops

a lie told in the winter

to hide the summer’s tide of gawkers and walkers,

and salt-water taffy eating mommas

struggling with children, trying to run free

a leash? Really? Do you think that restrains the inner struggle?

today the gulls sit irregularly on the beach

hunkered down faces into the wind

whites and grays with yellow beaks

the wind is too strong for them to whirl on the updrafts’

to strong to  fish for small meals in the shallows

obscured by wind-blown waves and sea foam

cold wind in my face, turning around walking backwards

Thinking about my thinking

I know this vision is too idyllic, fanciful.

But, the view of foggy craggy mountains and rain swept beaches

stands in stark contrast

to the view out my window

My doctors tell me

to watch what I eat

I do, I watch each morsel on my fork or in my spoon

From bowl to mouth first passing the nose

I never take my eyes off my food

Like a lover entranced

I take my meals in certain restaurants

Where my senses are overwhelmed

And my heart races in anticipation of gustatory bliss

Dribbles of savory fat

A multitude of sweet or salty crumbs

tablespoons of fragrant tangy sauce  

a soupcon of basil

a whiff of mint

a dollop of cookie dough

and always fragrances

of baking

of roasting

of garlic with pan seared meat and vegetables

in a pot of broth

waiting for onions…

my revelry ends and I think,

sadly,

the doctors meant something else

So I began to cook for myself

and soon l would make these wonderful experiences

for myself, and I did

I bought a new kitchen

And pots, pans, and cookbooks

knives and fancy dishes

I measured and counted pieces, calories, and memorized glycemics

I faithfully chanted “death to the whites”

whilst genuflecting in front of my new gas range

I am obedient to those who “practice” medicine

(how much practice do they need?)

But where did all these damn dishes come from

drug residue

1. Eggs
while cracking two eggs
in the sink
then dropping the shells
in the pan
I wondered about memory
in the moment

2.Breakfast of one's (They said)

one egg

one piece of rye krisp

one cup of tea

one dozen Milky Way

3. Do I need these keys ?
on a lanyard around my neck
i get a ride to the store
and leave my lanyard in his car

later; ring ring the phone
"you left your keys in my car"
"I can't drive today, so I don't need them"

"I'll drive over tomorrow and get them"
"is late afternoon okay?"
"okay"

4. Planning
for your liver eat only carbs
for your diabetes early only protein 
for your mental health eat candy

winter in the life of a tree

The trees are sleeping now

the warming sun  gone   

the days and nights turn cold

causing leaves to flee

dancing and twirling

in the gust and bursts and dust devils

finally resting against the fence

never to attach again

branches have  memories of leaves

that embraced them in the spring

and danced with them all summer

time changes everything

from bud green to rust brown  

fleeting  attachments for the leaves

merely frivolous flirtations

thoughts of forever for the branch

The end is always the same

Time changes everything

nothing is permanent

the branch wont be bare long

Midday

The ground is littered

with lottery tickets

torn through and scattered

there is no trace or track

to show what path

I might take

that others may have taken

Who has come before me?

I feel like the first soul here

Where did they come from?

Where did they go?

When were they here?

How long did they stay?

The sun moves to the center of the sky

A breeze starts, the lottery tickets begin

dancing across the ground

like dreams,

unfulfilled but remembered, 

leaving traces in the mind

Dawn

Where am I?

I don’t recognize this place

What journey did I make?

I am not fatigued, but lethargic

How long have I been here?

I am neither hungry, nor full

Where is the sun?

I was walking on a beach and stopped and turned

To look at the ocean,

And in that instant

the beach disappeared

the winds, the clouds,

the gulls, the sun:

replaced,

during the blink of an eye

by a wasting venue 

I know not where
or when

Cooking a cowboy steak

1. Buy fresh from the butcher a Cowboy Steak or Cowboy Ribeye Steak
2.  About 2.5 inches thick (6.35 millimeter), 2.67 lbs (1.2111 Kilos)

3. Let the steak sit out for about 30 minutes  brushing with olive oil, garlic, salt, pepper, baste
          A. 1/4 cup of olive oil
          B.  1/2 tblspn minced fresh garlic to taste
          C. 1/2 tblspn kosher salt  fresh ground
          D. 1/2 tblspn pepper fresh ground

4. Heat oil in a  thick bottomed 'frying' pan to  nearly sizzling
5. add steak  searing for 2 minutes

6. Turn steak at two minutes or when a nice brown crust starts to form

7. When both sides are equally seared transfer the steak to a grilling pan and place in over that has has been preheated to 325f (162.78C).

8. Cook until internal temperature of steak is to your liking. The following is a guide to internal temperatures

I Went Into Maverick Bar by Gary Snyder

I went into the Maverick Bar   

In Farmington, New Mexico.

And drank double shots of bourbon

                         backed with beer.

My long hair was tucked up under a cap

I’d left the earring in the car.

Two cowboys did horseplay

                         by the pool tables,

A waitress asked us

                         where are you from?

a country-and-western band began to play   

“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”   

And with the next song,

                         a couple began to dance.

They held each other like in High School dances   

                         in the fifties;

I recalled when I worked in the woods

                         and the bars of Madras, Oregon.   

That short-haired joy and roughness—

                         America—your stupidity.   

I could almost love you again.

We left—onto the freeway shoulders—

                         under the tough old stars—

In the shadow of bluffs

                         I came back to myself,

To the real work, to

                         “What is to be done.”

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Gary Snyder, “I Went into the Maverick Bar” from Turtle Island. Copyright © 1974 by Gary Snyder. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Autumn

Cooler evenings and mornings make being outdoors

A blessing

Sun’s heat at full force by two but the intensity of summer

is fading

plants and birds know

and celebrate 
surviving summer

without regard for the coming winter

Hey You !

Up there by the driver

Getting on two stops after me

Dark eyes sparkling in the sun

Where are going when you get off two stops before me?

Downtown near market square, shopping? working?

Every day the same time, the same stop

Regular like a clock, that gives me 15 minutes

to say hello, someday

New Cat ?

Four bowls, three cats

But today the extra bowl was in use

Four heads down, all places at the table taken

Counting, two blacks, one grey and white

Those are known

but there is another, a black one with a different face and beady eyes

and twin white stripes running down its back

hey you’re not a cat,    
run kitties run !

The Protesters were Gone

The protesters were gone

leaving the streets quickly

when the tanks showed up

with soldiers trailing behind

feeling nervous, not invincible

in their hurry to clear the streets

to make room for the army

people dropped placards 

their demands answered by armed men

later when the tanks passed through

orange suited prisoners, with brooms and buckets

making  50 cents per hour

swept listlessly, restoring the street

but their brooms missed the ideas

that demonstrators brought and left behind

Robin Williams

a young 20's something
football player friend of mine
reminded me how Robin Williams entertained him
when he was a child watching reruns of Mork and Mindy

and I recall as a 60's something
how Robins Williams entertained me
from Mork to John Keating and beyond
throughout my entire adult life

we both are sad 
beyond words
that are empty vessels anyway
too small for their cargo

enormous feelings overwhelm me
trying, it seems, to burst forth 
from the center of my being
and once free, gain explosive control

but constraint is manifest
as I use words too small
to name how I feel

The Jewish Cemetery at Newport

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,

      Close by the street of this fair seaport town,

Silent beside the never-silent waves,

      At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep

      Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath,

While underneath these leafy tents they keep

      The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,

      That pave with level flags their burial-place,

Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down

      And broken by Moses at the mountain's base.

The very names recorded here are strange,

      Of foreign accent, and of different climes;

Alvares and Rivera interchange

      With Abraham and Jacob of old times.

"Blessed be God! for he created Death!"

      The mourners said, "and Death is rest and peace;"

Then added, in the certainty of faith,

      "And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease."

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue,

      No Psalms of David now the silence break,

No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue

      In the grand dialect the Prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,

      And not neglected; for a hand unseen,

Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,

      Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,

      What persecution, merciless and blind,

Drove o'er the sea — that desert desolate —

      These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,

      Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;

Taught in the school of patience to endure

      The life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread

      And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,

The wasting famine of the heart they fed,

      And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cry

      That rang from town to town, from street to street;

At every gate the accursed Mordecai

      Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in hand

      Walked with them through the world where'er they went;

Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,

      And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast

      Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,

And all the great traditions of the Past

      They saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted look

      The mystic volume of the world they read,

Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,

      Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!

      The groaning earth in travail and in pain

Brings forth its races, but does not restore,

      And the dead nations never rise again.

• 
  

Politics

Consensus, like fine cloth, an agreement between warp and woof

for many different threads from different spinnings

to lie together creating a common image

cloth loosely woven, porous, allowing the wind to waft through

made with a few thinner threads, presents form

without substance, serves but does not last

tapestry tightly entwined provides and protects

many threads, stout and fine, holding firm against the elements

a strong visage representing all the filaments

the winds of time and change blow strongly now

the tapestry I thought I wore, the once common image

dissolving into faded madras 

as I stand here freezing

Upon the Slaughter

Bialik, Haim Nahman (1873-1934)

“…in 1903, the Kishinev pogroms deeply
shocked the whole civilized world. After interviewing survivors of the
atrocity, Bialik wrote "Al ha- Shehitah" ("On the Slaughter," 1903) in which he calls on heaven either to exercise immediate justice and, if not, to destroy the world, spurning mere vengeance with the famous lines:

Cursed is he who says 'Revenge!'
Vengeance for the blood of a small child 
Satan has not yet created. 

http://www.eilatgordinlevitan.com/volozhin/vol_pages/volstories_bialik.html


 Upon the Slaughter  Heavenly spheres, beg mercy for me! If truly G-d dwells in your orbit and
round, And in your space is His pathway that I have not found,-- Then you
pray for me! For my own heart is dead; no prayer on my tongue; And
strength has failed, and hope has passed:
O until when? For how much more?

How long? Ho, headsman, bare the neck--come, cleave it through! Nape me
this cur's nape! Yours is the axe unbaffled! The whole wide world-my
scaffold! And rest you easy: we are weak and few. My blood is outlaw.  
Strike, then; the skull dissever! Let blood of babe and graybeard stain
your garb-- Stain to endure forever! If Right there be,--why, let it shine
forth now! For if when I have perished from the earth The Right shine
forth, Then let its Throne be shattered, and laid low! Then let the heavens,
wrong-racked, be no more!  While you, O murderers, on you murder thrive,
Live on your blood, regurgitate this gore! Who cries Revenge! Revenge!  
--accursed be he! Fit vengeance for the spilt blood of a child The devil
has not yet compiled... No, let that blood pierce world's profundity,
Through the great deep pursue its mordications, There east its way in
darkness, there undo, Undo the rotted earth's foundations!

--Haim Nahman Bialik      Translation: T. Carmi

Heart Rate

She gently took my hand

Turning it palm side up

Fingers pointing towards her

gently laying a finger on my inner wrist

Thumb supporting my hand

Looking at the clock on the wall

“can you hold still?”

“I thought I was.”

“wait.”

She turned my hand sideways

Thumb up

Palm facing her body

there securely positioned

my palm against the curve of her breast

she stroked my inner wrist with her finger

she gently placed her finger just so,

and began to watch the clock

while I began to watch my hand

“do you feel ok?”

“your heart is racing”

“No shit”

To find out if I am alive

To find out if I am alive the medicos have put me through my annual set of tasks

I have completed echo cardiograms, and chemical stress tests,

pulmonary function test, jiggle test,

chest CT-scan, abdominal CT scans,

extensive lab work for my diabetes

and someone even looked at my toes.

No salt, no sugar, no carbs and no fats

That is my new mantra

tree bark is good

and sand

quit smoking

                I did this already and it seriously complicates the diet of no food!!!

stay out of the sun

stay out of the rain

stay out of the wind

(write a song)

stay away from crowds

movies, restaurants, and parks,

parties, meetings, students

from cats , and birds

            fortunately not together often enough

to cause me problems

stop rolling over and asking me,

with your eyes

to rub your stomach       please !!!

           (unless you are not a cat, then please continue)

from children who might be sick (all)

from adults who might be sick (many)

from republicans (damn that is 90% of Texas)

start walking

           well I walked two miles this morning

looking for my reading glasses

I never left the house

and neither had the glasses

Weekend Pass

When the sun reappears

on the weekend, even late Sunday

The cover comes off the BBQ

Quick hurry-trips to the store

Bricks, Beer, Burgers  and Brats

Top the list

Chips, and dip, and salsa

carrots and celery, Tomatoes and onions

for the fresh breasts

grapes dangling from bunches 

firm between the thumb and forefinger

sweet to the tongue

Early watermelon and whole-freezer corn

don’t forget the foil, the butter

the paper plates

the ice

Faces change for many

from work-week-desperation

to frantic-anticipation

All are desperate broken down

a weekend respite—rejuvenation

away from the tedia

Weather changes plans

and all are confronted with each other’s malaise

dammed to indoors with no sports-summus

When the sun reappears

the race to the store is on

a weekend pass

The Storyteller

Can you hear me?

Do my words have meanings?

do they manifest  insight,

as you hear them,

by the fire?

Or do you just hear the sounds

weaving together,

without the meanings?

“There, I’m done

I heard every word.”

What do you know,

then,

about me?

What insights have you gleaned?

from the stories I have told?

I am more than a set

of symbolic sounds crucially placed

next to other collections.

With each word, each sentence

I paint a picture for your mind

Futures not remembered,

pasts revealed, visions of the present

meanings live between the words

I ask only that you take

what is freely given

I am keeper of the oral history

past, future, and present

I am storyteller, knower of signs and omens

I am spoken

I am poem

Poetry Workshop's Poetry Month Competition

WINNERS & HONORABLE MENTIONS - Poetry Works Workshops –

Mary Margret Carlisle, Director

2014 National Poetry Month Competition

May 15, 2014 at 10:39am

Thanks to the many poets who submitted poems and helped to judge the work of other poets, and many thanks to the final judge (a poetry editor from Missouri) who wishes to remain anonymous.  In celebration of National Poetry Month (April, 2014), Sol Magazine Projects - Poetry Works Workshops awards four Barnes & Noble gift certificates, and one book award in the 2014 National Poetry Month Competition.  Congratulations to the winners:  Nelda Curtiss, Rebecca Jackson, Gary Wade, John Salacan, Harold Rodinsky.  Honorable Mentions follow prize winning poems.  If you are a prize winner, please MESSAGE me privately (do not post your address publicly) with your full mailing address so I can send out your prize.

CATEGORY: NONE

AWARDED AT RANDOM

Barnes & Noble Gift Card

Nelda Curtiss

CATEGORY:  JUDGE

AWARDED AT RANDOM

Barnes & Noble Gift Card

Rebecca Jackson

CATEGORY:  HAIKU  

PRIZE FOR FIRST PLACE

Barnes & Noble Gift Card

Violets are thick

in that part of the forest

Jack was scattered there.

~Gary Wade

CATEGORY:  CREATIVITY AWARD

PRIZE FOR FIRST PLACE

A COPY OF S.A.L.V.A.G.E by Phill Doran

 eBOOK

and what do you have?

a blip in the night

a gaggle of gawking electrons

you pay for a wink

a chink in the dike

that keeps the words in place

& where will the used ebookshops be?

& what pages will scent the air as you flip…flip what?

(& who will be changing the banned into right?)

it took an army for qin shi huang

to bury the scholars (books no longer needed)

now it takes but a flick of the snake’s tongue

~John Salacan

CATEGORY:  GENERAL

PRIZE FOR FIRST PLACE

Barnes & Noble Gift Card

FIRST PLACE

Then, Now and In-between~Harold Rodinsky

The mind tantalizes with assorted images of then and now

growing up at the ocean’s edge tide pools to explore

boy’s life dungeness crab, razor clams, fishing from the rock jetty

smell the salt air, feel the fresh cold ocean spray on your face

when the waves throw themselves on the beach

another time walking the streets that Rexroth walked, when he was 20

riding the orange line train past the old stockyards, see faces of workingmen

mark the corner where the Haymarket Riot took place

Rexroth stood over there, a boy really, watching soldiers shoot civilians

Waiting to go to jail, for a month, a suspected sympathizer

looking out at a garden, buds summoned by the warmth of the sun

early bees setting up housekeeping for the summer

birds signing while building their nests, dodging the cats with ease

lemon and pomegranate trees survived the winter

and the chilipequin is leafing out nicely, next to the still sleeping lantana

where will I live today?

HONORABLE MENTION POEMS

FIRST HONORABLE MENTION

white fire of daytime

brings forth the cricket’s wing

and night’s chill song

~John Salacan

SECOND HONORABLE MENTION

Home Made Bread

I can smell it in my sleep

A sour dough dream come true

Bread kneaded by arthritic hands

Rising early to meet the day

We wait in the kitchen

Like expectant fathers

Pacing, drinking hot coffee

Counting down the arrival of the prize

Setting out butter and may haw jelly

My mother feeds us loaves of love

~Diana Meade

THIRD HONORABLE MENTION  

Bastard Cabbage reigns

Where once Blue Bonnets flourished

Diversity lost

~Rebecca Jackson

ALL OTHER HONORABLE MENTION

Howling winds, dust clouds

pranksters to Cavaliers

halt highway mayhem

~Nelda Curtiss

warm thundering rain

dark limbs sprout tiny green buds

pink of dawn clears clouds

~Julia Tanner

The End of Keystroking

Ladybug lays claim to my desk

As her personal gymnasium.

Tiny legs tickling computer screen,

She awakens its touchiness.

~Kathy Kehrli

the empty of blue

stretches over the green pine

one black bird looks down

~David E. Cowen  

silver rain shifting

something sudden from the sky

rainbow hued sunlight

~BettyAnn Whitney

Friday~Harold Rodinsky

like an adoring groom waiting for his lover to arrive

she promises to come but only on the appointed day, at the appointed hour

the grains of sand move slowly in the glass

Helios appears chained in the east, his transit a snail’s pace

Friday night at sundown the queen arrives

each Saturday, at sunset, she leaves and the longing begins anew

each passing day is filled with hard hands and sweat stained clothes

sunrise to sunset the substance of toil never ending

but in mindful of her, relief comes marking off the days

until she returns again

Lady Luck

Luck won’t be a lady; it’s just not her thing.

She is fickle, flirtatious – with many a king

gracing coins in her pockets; from fountains that spring

up: hope! – love! – desire! Eternal, but fading.

Like a gambler who lines extra Aces-of-Spading

inside his jacket, Luck does the same thing,

with too many chances that never took wing.

Maybe you’ll see her, one fortunate day,
when her bright fickle eyes may just look your way.

~Lois Mintah

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