Last of the summer, leaves

Down the road of change

I watch while the last of the summer leaves

the last of the summer leaves,

cornered by color, bullied by wind,

pushed from their tenuous

one-finger perches. Dangling

from hope, they yet cling to what was.

To what can never be again.

 

Buttressed now by stealth and stain,

the trees hold their breath and, in bloated hues,

leave behind what could never have been kept.

The molten days of August, now

Eastward creeping, cannot match

the closer dawn of winter’s darker agenda.

Change waits for no one.

 

Our frightened but fawning fraternity,

grips the once-dangling inside jokes. 

But our song-sick companionship, bends

to sight and chance and change.

Beyond the clutch and ken of

drowning dreams, old stories, made young

again in the telling, sleep in

the quiet choirs of shared experience.

 

Love, always trumpeting her own exploits,

is writ larger against the dim and shrinking page.

Huddling for warmth against the inevitability

of inevitability crouches the promise of the new,

ripped and wrapped in golden heaps of trust.

 

Grasp too tightly to the branch and nothing

comes to shape what shadow left behind.

Trading form for frame, green for gold,

gone for glow, tired specters of older

days return to their places to sleep,

and dream of dreams.

The pledge of change.

 

What is left after un-leaving

stays bleak but for a moment.

Soon, the barren skin of dawn

must shed to bear and bare what only

death could bring.

 

Everything.

At the corner of validation and forgot

 

At this drunken shoreline, patterns return, in

quilted quiet. I can revel again in spiced hours,

deaf to the biker-ghosts, bad-mouthing

this demure, paper posture.

Thoughts are a little rumpled, like the sea,

what with these ferocious memories; un-manacled,

like cottonwood dreams, blown out into the world.

This world I am watching.

* * * * *

She walks down the street, locking

every wandering glance; stolen stares from

other hungers. Sad limbs, built for laughing strolls,

carry instead their weight in

desperation, the roll call gestures of

fragmentary magnetism. To look down is to invalidate,

the one thing that renders such creatures immobilized.

She never looks straight on. Being seen but

unknown has honed a peripheral awareness

to a hawk-like precision. It’s the hollow

look of the lonely.

* * * * *

That’s a tiny dog for such an imposing guy.

It must have something to do with an ill-

fitting black t-shirt. I still love AC/DC, too. But

the designer sunglasses match the grey goatee and flip

flops well enough to doubt the bravado, question

the impartial coarseness; his language just color-

ful enough to hide the deeper grey.

The fear of more.

* * * * *

Her weighty eyes climb his rusting frame; a gaze

made full in the weight of familiarity. His jaw-

line, thin, like his tired neck, perches on

shoulders, stooped, but unburdened by

neat and tidy, pressed, quick, or stoic. Endless pages

pass between their easiness, two souls in single,

unflinching presence. He remembers less

than the love she feels, spoken through his

wrinkled palm in hers, their fingers entwined.

The tapestry of their years.

* * * * *

The penny arcade discoveries of wide-mouthed boys –

more magic through a cheap telescope than my pretense of self-

imposed juxtapositions. Their cocky, self-

assured swagger breathes the new air, heedless of my

artless anxiety in their art of care-less play. Can voices

really be that loud? So much more gets spoken in

the repetitions of unpracticed

wisdom. Their code is a skateboard sculpture. Life

on a flat, four-wheeled universe. Soon,

when fearful complexities begin to gnaw

through the ropes that tether youth to

moments and days, will they remember

this foolish display of seaside

time, gloriously wasted?

* * * * *

This guy has no story to tell. At least

that’s what is suggested in the gymnastic

dodging of eyes and steps from

that hand. Oh, that hand, weary, upturned for

that drop of grace found in spare quarters, lost

among our Visa receipts. Well-rehearsed

well-wishing will never match the possibility of just

one good conversation. His stench, reminder of loss,

friendship’s nemesis, gift of forgottenness,

taunts him. It’s one more reason to avoid him.

He owns nothing.

Well, except a checker board. But, that’s designed 

for company.

* * * * *

A tide and a thousand waves later, a laptop

overheats my knees. It reads 17%, the same possibility

I’ll remember their faces by the weekend. I am

like them – just another stigma.

Or, maybe another story waiting to be written.

Unwritten.

Rewritten.

Here at the corner of

validation and forgot.

 homeless-man

 

 

 

 

 

Images found here and here, respectively

First and Last

Whenever it seems like a day asks more than it should

from one, hollowed out and worm-ed through,

remind yourself, though morning’s light came first,

the first word is yours.

Haiku Prayers II

lily pads

 Caught deep in my throat

Are songs too light for singing

You sing them instead

 

My senses stutter

My ears unfit to listen

And yet, still, you speak

 

Dark clouds come sighing

But shadows run from daylight

Light too raw for words

 

In communion, come

To taste the bread of freedom

And brandish a cup

 

Like apple blossoms

Fallen from their lonely place

Are we, so planted

 

Sever, now, my tongue

And replace it with silence

Then, alone, I sing

 

Gift of paradox

Understanding brings little

Freed in conundrum

 

Sweet breath of Mary

Mother to all, then as now

Speak the name of God

Slip shod past The Wimplebee…Schloop was shloshed at Schniffery’s

Woodriff Schloop
Woodriff Schloop
Slip shod past The Wimplebee
goes Woodriff Shloop, at half past three.
This Shlizzmagora found his way
to Littleman’s Wharf, or so they say.
Then Woodriff’s portulimpical arc
sat still while still he could be park’d
at Donegal’s the story goes
to drink eleventy more of those.
Now, the dishlee, Griff Labasherimm
found Woodriff Schloop and asked of him
to kindly wait till half past three,
to slip shod past The Wimplebee.
* * * * *
Half a day and half again
since Donegal’s had seen the man
who trundled round the farberquim-
the porter claimed he’d not seen him.
And grumpy Griff Labasherimm
insisted he’d seen nowt of him.
Then near to half past quarter ten,
a-spied he was near Quibulen,
with characters of shifty sort
and women, or so they report.
His coat in tatts, his trousers torn
his nose a’blooded, face forlorn.
with scuffed up shoes and smudged up knees,
for Shloop was shloshed at Schniffery’s.

Maybe

Bleeding music

Stop. I hear the running colors,

bleeding their way into staves of

yesterday’s piecemeal hide and seek.

They have a way about them, stoic and

unyielding in their passion.

 

Maybe it’s the seagull songs,

where nobody knows the words?

But the shear intensity of

competing voices marks territory

for newcomers and ne’er do wells.

 

Maybe it’s the ease with which

lyrics come back from high school sweet

heart songs? Backseat strolls, stretching

out winding fingers, unseen aches;

the Marco Polo jaunts of un-easy un-initiates.

 

Maybe there’s blood in the notes

that tease from privileged places,

hung high upon their low lying lines,

the wide open spaces where old things ease

and new things grow? The music of veins.

 

Maybe clapping these rhythms merely

confuses our steps to a dance, unfrozen,

that teams with uncertainty, like deer on the highway?

This dance, best left alone, makes off

with all remaining reticence, leaving behind

only tired partners.

 

Maybe, like the salmon choir, we submerge in

subversive harmonies, fit only to glide

through effortless musings on riddles of

the underworld? Faint words and muffled sounds

force us to listen more closely.

 

Maybe, instead of the insistence of virtuosity,

primping and perfectly postur’d, we should let

our barstool voices take us where

only friends can go. Sometimes,

there are better tales told under tables,

than solos sung from spotlights.

 

Maybe, the worried demeanor of

our shaky performances stalls itself,

out among the cocain’d critics and shadow-puppet

friends? Would that we only pursued

what’s dangerous, dying in the process, than

soil ourselves waiting for graceless applause.

 

Stop. I hear the running colors,

taking up their places, im-prism’d.

Reinstituted truths of tales best left

un-sung, songs best left un-painted,

casting long shadows on the longer land.

 

Image found here

 

 

Where the real things are

There is wonder in the weeds,

stallions in chicken coops where

the tame things are –

waiting, transfixed beyond the scale of our

misconceptions. Only the breathing green-

sleeves of jacketed noon ever make it

past the sifting of a targeted light.

 

Not everyone fears what everyone fears.

Sometimes all the berries congregate at the

bottom of the bowl, past the necessary stuff.

Sometimes we self-gift with what matters least,

except for whomever owns the mirror.

 

Could it be that someone pushed too

hard and a cart pulled a horse? Would that

be so bad, given the size of a cart,

the nature of a horse? Down-trodden

are the nightmares of the demure ones.

Instead, let the hunger feed its own will.

We’ll take our tea in bed.

 

It gets into you, like blood on cotton,

thorns in feet. They only pull when we’re not

watching. Waiting their turn to

preen the pastiche until

its awake enough to turn and

face another cautious page, inked and

waiting – where the real things are.

One Stop Shop Blog Hop

So, this is part of a fun blogger’s initiative called a “Blog Hop.” Here’s how it works. I was invited by writer/poet friend, Lesley-Anne Evans, to join what amounts to a writer’s pyramid scheme. The rules of the game? Tag three other bloggers, all of whom will answer four questions about writing and the writing process. We post two weeks after the previous crew. Therefore, every two weeks, the number of bloggers posting grows exponentially!

The goal is simple – to connect writers who blog in a tighter community and hopefully, enrich others looking for answers to their own writing questions.   Lesley-Anne is a gifted writer and poet who spends much of her time beautifying neighborhoods, cafes, street corners…wherever really, with poetry “installations.” She also does a fun thing called “Pop-up Poetry.” To see her contribution, click here.  

We begin:

1) What am I working on? 

Light Write, June 26/14
Light Write poetry/photography exhibition, June 26/14

These days, apparently, poetry is the language I speak. I’m learning to speak this language with more weight (as Lesley-Anne would say!), clarity, and authenticity. But also, simplicity. The degree to which my language learning translates into quality production remains to be seen. But, like my poetry, I’m a work in progress.  

I’m pleased and proud to be an active participant in the process of broadening the literary/artistic voice in the Yakima Valley. This is a valley of varied, often harsh, beauty. Many poets, writers, artists, and musicians have stepped up to sing her praises. Recently I was chosen as one of thirty-four poets to contribute poetry for a mixed media art show featuring the work of local photographers. The event? Light Write. Read more about it here.

A snapshot of my work and process will soon be available on an exciting new Facebook chat room, Altarwork.  Alongside finishing a new EP with my son, Calum as producer, I’m working on a book of sacred prayers, poetry and liturgy, listening for a book of poetry to emerge with the working title, The Beauty of Wasted Space and helping my wife in her own process of writing a novel.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Piper Renee-Richmond and I at Light Write
Performing at Light Write with Piper Renee-Richmond

On one level, I’m not so sure it does. However, as a poet, I am deeply influenced by old school poets. But, I seek to bring their influence to my own emerging voice, all the while writing in more contemporary genres. It gives a certain “traditional non-conventionality” to it.

I am an advocate of language for its own sake. The beauty of the words themselves brings a joy that predates the images and meanings derived from those meanings. But I also love the challenges offered poets from adapting ideas and thoughts to preexisting forms. It’s my tip of the hat to iambic pentameter, triangle poetry, Haiku or sonnets!

3) Why do I write what I do?

My words here will echo every other writer I’ve ever heard who’ve answered this question. I write because it is a compulsion. That compulsion might be out of anger or frustration surrounding some issue about which I need to weigh in, usually for my own conscience! More often than not I write because I’m inspired to ‘word up’ what I see in the world around me. My experience of that world yields a seemingly endless supply of emotional detritus needing to find its way out. When it does, I’m either writing and/or composing.

For me, poetry is contemplative prayer. It is as much a spiritual exercise as it is literary, and one of the primary ways by which I connect to my center and to the Sacred Center of all things. What is most freeing about this arrangement is how seriously and, at the same time, laissez faire, I can take my approach to the art. At least right now, it grows from much that is yet un-mined in my spirit. If you’re okay with it, I am too.

4) How does my writing process work?

Assuming the process actually does “work”, it differs depending upon what I write. It has also changed. In terms of poetry, it is becoming more about less. It was at one time a game of output. Now, it’s more about input. I read much more poetry than I ever write.

Composing prose is more an act of ‘pin the tail on the donkey.’ I chase around an elusive gem that needs to be caught, tamed just enough to stay on the page, and released back into the world for the consumption of other hungry readers. I have discovered that writing works best for me when I simply barf up whatever is bubbling in my literary stomach and then ‘read the leavings’ for anything substantial, worthy of further consideration. I’m not generally an outline kinda guy!

Well, that’s it for now. Thanks for listening! For the next stop on the blog hop, I’ve tagged the following stellar individuals.

Seymour Jacklin is one of those delightful serendipities. A fellow ex-pat, he is becoming my friend alongside his considerable skill as a poet, blogger, editor, educator, and story-teller. We’re also mutual fans and players of Celtic music! Hear him play right…here.

Kelly Belmonte is a recent friend, having met online as mutual admirer’s of one another’s work. She’s a wonderful writer and a deep soul. But, rather than just tell you, you need to go and discover more about her right…here.

Paul Bowman and I began a friendship journey in 2008 when sharing a cohort in an MA in Spiritual Formation and Leadership from Spring Arbor University. We’ve since graduated from that program and are supportive of each other’s quest to spread salt and light through words to a thirsty world. Find out more about him, his writer-wife and gorgeous kids right…here.  

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If the next blog hop posts aren’t up by July 14, please check again in a few days.  Thanks for playing along and your support of online writing!

Listen for what finds you

Listen loudly for the stirring glass

of day, unknowing. Her constancy

rewards your swelling incontinence

of spirit, grey and unraveled. She lowers

her eyes in hithering glance.

 

Listen for stolen subterfuge and

let your wings unstretch and prepare for flight

to the forgotten address, that place without

doors. Only windows looking out like

grassland sonnets, playing their words

for rusty ears, still ringing.

 

Listen for the ache, for those moments

when the pregnancy of pause reminded you

of anxiety gone bad, replaced by the

hearing of silent songs, brightly sonorous.

Even in your absence,

they sang for you.

 

Listen for the memory of color,

the liquidity of mind, dressed in its own

repast. This is the ocean floor, unmitigated

and confident in its vast demeanor. In these

hands, you are again – and playfully small.

 

Listen, unexpecting and directionless, for

Heaven’s mapping of your vine-choaked heart.

Something strangely reminiscent of good, acceptable,

perfect tunnels down to brooklets of diamond

water, tickling your subterranean way.

 

Listen for the intuited climax of

nothing special, wrapped in candy of evermore.

Blatent in repose, the jacketed wonder of a

good day, surprising you in presence. Listen here.

You have found the nothing

you didn’t know you were looking for.

Your valley-scented breath

Last evening I had the honor of participating in a local effort, here in Yakima, featuring the work of 30 poets of which I was one. We each were assigned a photograph, also by local artists, and tasked to produce a piece that was representative of that photo. It was a fun affair and drew many poetry/photography/art enthusiasts who drank local wine and beer and otherwise supported a great cause: The Yakima Light Gallery. The name of the event was Light Write

The event

The following was my offering (image not included for copyright reasons, and so as not to infringe upon the Gallery’s intention to gain physical viewers…at least until after September!).

_______________________________________________________________________

Your valley-scented breath

Your valley-scented breath, raspy, wind-dried and whiskered,

blusters loudly, secrets untethered from your mountain mistress,

 

haughty and aloof. Your nose, veiled and distant,

thrust shamelessly into the virgin air,

 

undrapes an impish, powdered face,

intruding on the lesser ones.

 

Lacking restraint, you choose to hold back nothing.

Instead, winking impudently, you shrug in brazen withdrawal

 

and tilt the globe to burnish your burnt, brown breast –

glacial bosom, alive, rising above the depths

 

of the hot belching earth, quivering in silence but

creased with ten thousand yesterdays. Dug deep

 

into your dark maw, full of old light and new promises,

there boasts a hardscrabble domain. You wear pitted patterns

 

like a tiara, dousing noon-day heat in cowboy spittle.

There’s a mischievous glint in eyes drawn tight against

 

a yawning sky where your introspections crouch,

petitioning their release from dusty shelves.

 

As the choir of stones sings the well-worn songs,

a valley coos, relaxing on your grizzled lap.

 

An untidy blouse of wayward blue

billows out willing, mottled, stretched across

 

the scarred loom of your ancient back.

There, there it is we shall walk.

 

There, where sallow cheeks of star-burnt faces

hide themselves behind the paint of the green years.

 

Silly fool! What lips have you to kiss these wandering feet,

still too soft, that bleed at your touch?

 

So, cough up your tumbleweed tales of

desperado dances and roughneck rambles.

 

Let your thin, dry tongue trace lightly in meandering lines,

the long-forgotten stories of mound-bellied earth,

 

unaccustomed to such attention. Only then would you

blush and turn the other cheek.

©Robert Alan Rife, May, 2014

The event 2

 The Poets 

The poets