When I write from an
openness of soul it is so wondrously
dangerous... I want only to write for
those I love, that they would feel it as it
was for me as it came
into being.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Thursday, March 24, 2016
FOR CRISSAKE
for Elmer Kadera, Happy Easter
Yes, I should be home soon and
Thanks again for watching Delta.
What's that Gramps?
"You should a seen
Dthat dog this morning.
She goes all dthe way
Dthe hell out to the farthest corner
Of dthe yard like she's tryin to get
Away with sumtin...
an craps... an as
Soon as she's done -- Shoom!
Like a rocket, Running like the Wind, all
Crazy like! All over dthe yard."
BECAUSE I BELONG TO ISAIAH
I said to him "Pastor,
Woe is me,
I am a man
Of unclean lips."
He said "What is it
My son?"
I said "It's that
No matter what I say
or do, there is always
And forever this one
Fucking little crusty corner
Of my mouth that
My damn $24,000
A year caregiver
Can't seem to find
With the God bless-ed washcloth."
Friday, March 18, 2016
Like a Kiss
So now what?
Have you any more lines to write or
Doves feathers to pack away into your leather satchel?
No, flight you cannot come, you mustn't! Only a feather
I will leave you, in your suede wonder, darling,
From time to time.
Have you any more lines to write or
Doves feathers to pack away into your leather satchel?
No, flight you cannot come, you mustn't! Only a feather
I will leave you, in your suede wonder, darling,
From time to time.
THE TITLE IS
Monastery man
Dreamweaver
Don't say that one
Prince of practically nothing
Prophet of maybe later
Mumbler
Shew's the dogs
The faster pastor
Who the fark are you?
Answers no one
Sits in silence
Waits to laugh
Struggler
Finisher
Refiner of after while
The Last Word
Dreamweaver
Don't say that one
Prince of practically nothing
Prophet of maybe later
Mumbler
Shew's the dogs
The faster pastor
Who the fark are you?
Answers no one
Sits in silence
Waits to laugh
Struggler
Finisher
Refiner of after while
The Last Word
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Friday Voices
Friday Voices
Dawn. Late morning. Birdsong out beyond the opened blinds.
I am telling you
all of this because
I have never met anyone so at peace and
willing to listen.
There are two cardinals. One is a red flare on a bouncing
twig just above the shed, the other
a plaid on the peak of the swingset.
I go on and on about her and her and him and
this other one and the thing I said or should have.
Both fly away now. The neighbors let their dog out, a caramel candy with claws.
How can you be so gentle and concerned yet
so relaxed? I talk to you about it because when I say it
you don't fall apart or make a face. I can stomp down into your floor, solid
and just keep talking.
Wind gets gusty. You hear the neighbors voice. Calling out for her.
Dawn. Late morning. Birdsong out beyond the opened blinds.
I am telling you
all of this because
I have never met anyone so at peace and
willing to listen.
There are two cardinals. One is a red flare on a bouncing
twig just above the shed, the other
a plaid on the peak of the swingset.
I go on and on about her and her and him and
this other one and the thing I said or should have.
Both fly away now. The neighbors let their dog out, a caramel candy with claws.
How can you be so gentle and concerned yet
so relaxed? I talk to you about it because when I say it
you don't fall apart or make a face. I can stomp down into your floor, solid
and just keep talking.
Wind gets gusty. You hear the neighbors voice. Calling out for her.
Friday, March 11, 2016
Beat a drum, Randy
Remember Indian Guides?
Was I running deer or brave deer?
I just texted my brother. I just saw the story again. What a brilliant flame shot up straight into the midst of the darkness.
Our father wore a headdress. What? We put on costumes whenever we were together, I earned my feathers, I was proud. My father's name was Proud Deer.
I will write all day long, I will walk with him quietly through the forest carrying the other end of the canoe. They did not go without me, anywhere. Though they did miss me sometimes and I them.
But at the Indian Guides retreat we were all together, our tribe, the Pottawattamie, orange and green vests with patches sewn on by mom. Please let's make a fire and circle round it so I can remember who I am, who I was.
The ordeal forces a young man to stay with it. I don't care, go ahead pee your pants. You will eat later if you get through this. Nobody else likes these biting flies. We all smell like rotting meat, take a number. Shut your shit hole. I know, I know... but one day you will be able to smell this sweet scent of pine sap. You will pine for a rugged journey.
Was I running deer or brave deer?
I just texted my brother. I just saw the story again. What a brilliant flame shot up straight into the midst of the darkness.
Our father wore a headdress. What? We put on costumes whenever we were together, I earned my feathers, I was proud. My father's name was Proud Deer.
I will write all day long, I will walk with him quietly through the forest carrying the other end of the canoe. They did not go without me, anywhere. Though they did miss me sometimes and I them.
But at the Indian Guides retreat we were all together, our tribe, the Pottawattamie, orange and green vests with patches sewn on by mom. Please let's make a fire and circle round it so I can remember who I am, who I was.
The ordeal forces a young man to stay with it. I don't care, go ahead pee your pants. You will eat later if you get through this. Nobody else likes these biting flies. We all smell like rotting meat, take a number. Shut your shit hole. I know, I know... but one day you will be able to smell this sweet scent of pine sap. You will pine for a rugged journey.
More LIVE workshop... on the horse, 2
Sometimes things have to go wrong so they can go right.
Back then it was the cancellation of several college classes due to low enrollment, today it was a caregiver too sick to work. At that time it meant I'd be home for at least three months, I felt relieved, I embraced those winter months. I gave myself to the winter and to Western dreams and writing.
Today [Winter, 2008?... 9?] again with nearly a foot of snow on the ground, my sister-in-law Jackie along with Bonnie and Schuyler, have come to fill in; to care for me. My house has been a relatively soundless place. This is the sound of creativity, homeschooling, writing and dreaming all day long together. The three of them are brilliant each in their own right. That is definitely Uncle Randy's opinion. Throughout the day only rarely do I leave my office, do we engage. And when we do its "what do you think of this dragon, I'm adding stripes to its wings" or "listen to this quote from Lewis" or my niece, 15 shares a poem where she walks down a deep stairway into her own heart. She turns a phrase "you are here with me in this place" or something to that effect. I wonder if it's me she's talking about, or mom or dad, or god forbid the boyfriend. I touch her face with my eyes. "It's beautiful Bonnie, absolutely beautiful."
Later in the day we get pizza, I play them my favorite new music, Jill's home and we laugh our way into Friday night. But for most of the day, the four of us settle into the silent house, into the work of creation. Sketching landscapes, putting words onto pages, addressing the universe. I paint a world with a gym, where I'm seated with people listening to my sermon, Schuyler slays the dragon he drafts and is off with a sword to the next dire challenge, Bonnie swims in romance and teen-longing, Jackie rides a bike with a friend, retracing another of God's faces.
We live for that time within the world's we create, four world's in one house. I realize this not in some spiritual posture, intentional meditation but while relieving myself. So often things will occur to me when I let my body give back what it does not desire to keep. Each of us are there in our own world, within one house. One house on one street and then (keep the camera inching back, please) see a block, a neighborhood with houses dabbed in till outnumbered by the trees. How many take potty breaks and rediscover the world, apprehend in a sigh of release, their own molecular dimensions, the contours of the cosmos? Keep stepping back until you're in God's lap witnessing endless worlds within worlds, limitless creation. Only a benevolent creator can give a gift like this. It's not a restroom, it's a sanctuary -- behold the throne of God. It is a place to receive the gift of winter and words, the present prize of endless worlds.
Back then it was the cancellation of several college classes due to low enrollment, today it was a caregiver too sick to work. At that time it meant I'd be home for at least three months, I felt relieved, I embraced those winter months. I gave myself to the winter and to Western dreams and writing.
Today [Winter, 2008?... 9?] again with nearly a foot of snow on the ground, my sister-in-law Jackie along with Bonnie and Schuyler, have come to fill in; to care for me. My house has been a relatively soundless place. This is the sound of creativity, homeschooling, writing and dreaming all day long together. The three of them are brilliant each in their own right. That is definitely Uncle Randy's opinion. Throughout the day only rarely do I leave my office, do we engage. And when we do its "what do you think of this dragon, I'm adding stripes to its wings" or "listen to this quote from Lewis" or my niece, 15 shares a poem where she walks down a deep stairway into her own heart. She turns a phrase "you are here with me in this place" or something to that effect. I wonder if it's me she's talking about, or mom or dad, or god forbid the boyfriend. I touch her face with my eyes. "It's beautiful Bonnie, absolutely beautiful."
Later in the day we get pizza, I play them my favorite new music, Jill's home and we laugh our way into Friday night. But for most of the day, the four of us settle into the silent house, into the work of creation. Sketching landscapes, putting words onto pages, addressing the universe. I paint a world with a gym, where I'm seated with people listening to my sermon, Schuyler slays the dragon he drafts and is off with a sword to the next dire challenge, Bonnie swims in romance and teen-longing, Jackie rides a bike with a friend, retracing another of God's faces.
We live for that time within the world's we create, four world's in one house. I realize this not in some spiritual posture, intentional meditation but while relieving myself. So often things will occur to me when I let my body give back what it does not desire to keep. Each of us are there in our own world, within one house. One house on one street and then (keep the camera inching back, please) see a block, a neighborhood with houses dabbed in till outnumbered by the trees. How many take potty breaks and rediscover the world, apprehend in a sigh of release, their own molecular dimensions, the contours of the cosmos? Keep stepping back until you're in God's lap witnessing endless worlds within worlds, limitless creation. Only a benevolent creator can give a gift like this. It's not a restroom, it's a sanctuary -- behold the throne of God. It is a place to receive the gift of winter and words, the present prize of endless worlds.
LIVE in a workshop
The poet Joy Harjo once remarked that she enters poetry on horseback.
This morning I ride the old familiar painted. I let her pause to nibble at the grass as often as she likes. I am not in pursuit of a destination, but I am back upon the horse I once rode when I was writing my great Western. Two Rivers [an operating title] ran through me back then, throughout the winter (perhaps two and several other months.) I was living there in the writing, in the world of Owen Jessup and Speaks in Cloud. The only effort then was to scribble their lives down with black ink into the small spiral binder that set on the old antique desk from some 18th century schoolhouse in Iowa. It rested there waiting before the window of the world, before worlds, two of them, held in confluence and great dissonance. Were there two rivers also symbolically trying to call out to me?
One of "this world" and another, "the next?"
Yes I see this pattern. Some of what I had said before led me to old writings I wanted to return to. Here I am again, now on my horse, and where does she lead me? Back, again?
Breathing beside the stream, watching the mist linger over the face of the waters flow... I want to cherish what has already been spoken, what has come to me, what stays. I also sense my resistance to letting them go as pieces of artwork, as moments that were profoundly formative. Again a word seems to beckon.
So yes, now again, I will refer you to another piece of writing from "before." Please be patient with me. You will even see in what is presented next a desire to do the very thing that I am now doing. One reflection leads back into another and so on. There's never just one story and although all rivers may lead into one great watery bliss, we experience many streams in flow, all at once.
So let us continue...
This morning I ride the old familiar painted. I let her pause to nibble at the grass as often as she likes. I am not in pursuit of a destination, but I am back upon the horse I once rode when I was writing my great Western. Two Rivers [an operating title] ran through me back then, throughout the winter (perhaps two and several other months.) I was living there in the writing, in the world of Owen Jessup and Speaks in Cloud. The only effort then was to scribble their lives down with black ink into the small spiral binder that set on the old antique desk from some 18th century schoolhouse in Iowa. It rested there waiting before the window of the world, before worlds, two of them, held in confluence and great dissonance. Were there two rivers also symbolically trying to call out to me?
One of "this world" and another, "the next?"
Yes I see this pattern. Some of what I had said before led me to old writings I wanted to return to. Here I am again, now on my horse, and where does she lead me? Back, again?
Breathing beside the stream, watching the mist linger over the face of the waters flow... I want to cherish what has already been spoken, what has come to me, what stays. I also sense my resistance to letting them go as pieces of artwork, as moments that were profoundly formative. Again a word seems to beckon.
So yes, now again, I will refer you to another piece of writing from "before." Please be patient with me. You will even see in what is presented next a desire to do the very thing that I am now doing. One reflection leads back into another and so on. There's never just one story and although all rivers may lead into one great watery bliss, we experience many streams in flow, all at once.
So let us continue...
I gaze at it because it traps my belly lint
Return to your breathing -- focus = freedom = flourishing for self and others.
You should keep notes that help you self coach
along the way and then just include them in the stuff you're
doing; the story, the poem, the world you're creating for
them and for yourself.
Where in the world did you go?
You see, right up front, it's just the wrong question. When they
posit "the world" they assume we are all
filling the same space. Which of course we are. And
we are not. We never have done so. Return to
Your breathing and focus.
You should keep notes that help you self coach
along the way and then just include them in the stuff you're
doing; the story, the poem, the world you're creating for
them and for yourself.
Where in the world did you go?
You see, right up front, it's just the wrong question. When they
posit "the world" they assume we are all
filling the same space. Which of course we are. And
we are not. We never have done so. Return to
Your breathing and focus.
Honey
HONEY
The only thing better than going to bed green
is waking up green and by that I mean
like Ginsburg, off at the mouth shoot shoot shoot
fear not the rat-at-tat of poppies popping
I'll take my balm, I'll be that finger
touching ugly sores... oh my children, my children
I must give you what this feels like
I must today let it drip upon your weary lips
this is not your deathbed, it's Honey.
The only thing better than going to bed green
is waking up green and by that I mean
like Ginsburg, off at the mouth shoot shoot shoot
fear not the rat-at-tat of poppies popping
I'll take my balm, I'll be that finger
touching ugly sores... oh my children, my children
I must give you what this feels like
I must today let it drip upon your weary lips
this is not your deathbed, it's Honey.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Monday, March 7, 2016
What are Nothing Poems?
Nothing poems are just so naturally nothing that they just come out of your mouth
without you even thinking or feeling much other than a recognition of that hmmm hum
in your throat just behind your tongue and wondering about the rich
buzzing in your teeth, other than that nothing poems are just, yeah, I already said that.
without you even thinking or feeling much other than a recognition of that hmmm hum
in your throat just behind your tongue and wondering about the rich
buzzing in your teeth, other than that nothing poems are just, yeah, I already said that.
See how they are?
SEE HOW THEY ARE?
She said
Everything is a poem, to a poet!
Three times now, do you want your glasses?
What? I'm cherishing an inner voice
Congratulations, we're late for church
Could you say that again, wait no
Could you write something down?
I want five minutes, is your microphone on?
Is that other note still in your purse?
They find a spot to park, an open pew.
It is a nice service.
Later it's sausage with scrambled.
She said
Everything is a poem, to a poet!
Three times now, do you want your glasses?
What? I'm cherishing an inner voice
Congratulations, we're late for church
Could you say that again, wait no
Could you write something down?
I want five minutes, is your microphone on?
Is that other note still in your purse?
They find a spot to park, an open pew.
It is a nice service.
Later it's sausage with scrambled.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Old Mantra #7
Old Mantra #7
Sip it slow. Smooth.
Sabbath sated, see
Life is only
This moment,
That's all,
Seriously.
Sip it slow. Smooth.
Sabbath sated, see
Life is only
This moment,
That's all,
Seriously.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
Camper, have you tried rebooting it?
Read
Write
Pray
Play
Engage
Now that I've got the editor quiet and the body comfortable, I'm going to let myself think about possibilities... like writing a handbook on the Spirituality of Camping.
Which could tell about going without some things as a choice,
A choice to live
that way
on purpose.
Which conveys only the indescribable. How could anyone ever catch a fish?
How on earth could you ever begin to tell us what you see, there at the center of the glowing embers?
They are his life.
Write
Pray
Play
Engage
Now that I've got the editor quiet and the body comfortable, I'm going to let myself think about possibilities... like writing a handbook on the Spirituality of Camping.
Which could tell about going without some things as a choice,
A choice to live
that way
on purpose.
Which conveys only the indescribable. How could anyone ever catch a fish?
How on earth could you ever begin to tell us what you see, there at the center of the glowing embers?
They are his life.
Friday, March 4, 2016
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
...who lovingly whispers "Horse."
March 2012
Allow me to tell you about a time when I made my way down the bike path to visit my dear brother horse...
Now I had seen him with his mother grazing in the grass at the corner of Beeline Road and 147th day after day after day... and for some reason once upon a time I had it in my head and heart enough to move me outside of my schedule and outside of my home to walk down to the corner and see if I might greet him.
So on purpose it was that I brought myself down there... and the walk it was much longer than I had anticipated... but when I arrived, sure enough there he was out beyond a small pond drinking whereupon he lifted his head and saw me and regarded me and took his approach there to me... and I sat quietly at that fence in amazement at his approach, eagerness to come and investigate and be with me... and not each of us, mind you, he and I, without some fear and trembling.
And let me relay to you that here, upon our very first ever meeting, what I knew... I knew the wildness and softness in his eyes and lashes long and lovely... I knew the twitch of his careful ears back fearful... forward trusting reaching out... I knew the suede of his hide deep red on pure white painted... I knew the touch of a silken mane weightless on the wind and feathering my face my cheek my skin my lips... the warm nuzzling of lips and nose soft as a summer peach... and his breath upon my neck... the fresh air sustaining his life breathed out over me... breath of life breath of God breath of dear brother horse I knew... and what love that day...
That day indeed whereupon I told myself as though making the profoundest commitment... a vow of fresh fidelity and brotherly love... as I rode away I said to him -- I'll be back my friend, more than you know -- I'll be back...
But sadly it was not so, as upon returning to home and to computer and e-mail, to schedule and commitments and cell phone and voicemail and to rush and tumble and tangle of too many things for too few days which I chose and I chose and I chose... sadly it was not so... and though I drove past him in my van day by day at miles and miles per huffing hurried hour... I did choose to visit him not... and knew full well the sadness of it...
Until that day when the sun was warm and some grace of space was open to me and I decided to stop - pull the car over and get me out to go to him and reunite... I did so with the timid expectation of a prodigal son. But sadly, So sadly as I made my way over... I saw the green grass of his pasture and I saw the quiet pond where he and his mother usually drank... but as I got closer I soon discovered that I would see him not for both of them were gone, had gone away I knew not where nor when they would return.
So somewhat dismayed I took myself down another path... over a hillock or two through a swell of rich sweet soil... down several yawning acres over bridge and stream following the path across farmy fields with many rows of tall drying corn... and in that effortless sense that one can have, so much like flight when flowing down a quiet path, I sorted through my sadness at missing the very presence of my horse brother who had how long waited for me... while I had so much other living to do?
But over time I, nevertheless, gave myself some grace in retrospect figuring along the way I had done the best I could and that maybe it would have to be another time and another choice I would make to go and see him again. And just shortly after entering into this resolve, this new found peace and readiness, I thought, it now being sunny and rather warm, to pause for a moment and find me some shade. Up ahead I saw a broad shawl of Maple leaves held out over the pathway cool and waiting and then as one sometimes does when waking from a dream I blinked my eyes -- and I lived and moved and breathed and in an instant I was there.
There... I was... beneath the blessing bough of a tree, eyes resting low unfocused along the pine nettled floor of a grove, beside another fence... there I was... approached by a lovely Dappled Gray... who saw me before I saw her... who was with curious gladness readiness openness loping over to me so full of living horseness... I looked up and there she was coming close to me as a living God might do.
A God ready to nuzzle close and breathe upon me again... a God knowing me and wanting me known -- to know another horse... another way will always come... and that love will outreach longing as I live and move and breathe, horse after horse after horse.
Allow me to tell you about a time when I made my way down the bike path to visit my dear brother horse...
Now I had seen him with his mother grazing in the grass at the corner of Beeline Road and 147th day after day after day... and for some reason once upon a time I had it in my head and heart enough to move me outside of my schedule and outside of my home to walk down to the corner and see if I might greet him.
So on purpose it was that I brought myself down there... and the walk it was much longer than I had anticipated... but when I arrived, sure enough there he was out beyond a small pond drinking whereupon he lifted his head and saw me and regarded me and took his approach there to me... and I sat quietly at that fence in amazement at his approach, eagerness to come and investigate and be with me... and not each of us, mind you, he and I, without some fear and trembling.
And let me relay to you that here, upon our very first ever meeting, what I knew... I knew the wildness and softness in his eyes and lashes long and lovely... I knew the twitch of his careful ears back fearful... forward trusting reaching out... I knew the suede of his hide deep red on pure white painted... I knew the touch of a silken mane weightless on the wind and feathering my face my cheek my skin my lips... the warm nuzzling of lips and nose soft as a summer peach... and his breath upon my neck... the fresh air sustaining his life breathed out over me... breath of life breath of God breath of dear brother horse I knew... and what love that day...
That day indeed whereupon I told myself as though making the profoundest commitment... a vow of fresh fidelity and brotherly love... as I rode away I said to him -- I'll be back my friend, more than you know -- I'll be back...
But sadly it was not so, as upon returning to home and to computer and e-mail, to schedule and commitments and cell phone and voicemail and to rush and tumble and tangle of too many things for too few days which I chose and I chose and I chose... sadly it was not so... and though I drove past him in my van day by day at miles and miles per huffing hurried hour... I did choose to visit him not... and knew full well the sadness of it...
Until that day when the sun was warm and some grace of space was open to me and I decided to stop - pull the car over and get me out to go to him and reunite... I did so with the timid expectation of a prodigal son. But sadly, So sadly as I made my way over... I saw the green grass of his pasture and I saw the quiet pond where he and his mother usually drank... but as I got closer I soon discovered that I would see him not for both of them were gone, had gone away I knew not where nor when they would return.
So somewhat dismayed I took myself down another path... over a hillock or two through a swell of rich sweet soil... down several yawning acres over bridge and stream following the path across farmy fields with many rows of tall drying corn... and in that effortless sense that one can have, so much like flight when flowing down a quiet path, I sorted through my sadness at missing the very presence of my horse brother who had how long waited for me... while I had so much other living to do?
But over time I, nevertheless, gave myself some grace in retrospect figuring along the way I had done the best I could and that maybe it would have to be another time and another choice I would make to go and see him again. And just shortly after entering into this resolve, this new found peace and readiness, I thought, it now being sunny and rather warm, to pause for a moment and find me some shade. Up ahead I saw a broad shawl of Maple leaves held out over the pathway cool and waiting and then as one sometimes does when waking from a dream I blinked my eyes -- and I lived and moved and breathed and in an instant I was there.
There... I was... beneath the blessing bough of a tree, eyes resting low unfocused along the pine nettled floor of a grove, beside another fence... there I was... approached by a lovely Dappled Gray... who saw me before I saw her... who was with curious gladness readiness openness loping over to me so full of living horseness... I looked up and there she was coming close to me as a living God might do.
A God ready to nuzzle close and breathe upon me again... a God knowing me and wanting me known -- to know another horse... another way will always come... and that love will outreach longing as I live and move and breathe, horse after horse after horse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)