In late 2019, each time I sat down to write a So I See post, I experienced a sudden case of lethargy. It feels like losing my keys, except it’s inside me that I can’t go anyplace. Then, on the first day of the new year, I started writing as if I couldn’t stop. Seems thoughts with words were like heavy rain, looking a lot like poems. That means they’re appropriate to read at the Head For The Hills open mic reading on Tuesday, January 28 at the Hillsdale Library. First, I’ll try a few of them out on you, the four blog readers I know about. I love hearing from you, send me your poem if you have one.
Dialog with Voice
Sitting down to write with lots of ideas today–again.
Voice says, Don’t write.
I said, Don’t write.
Don’t be silly. What do you mean, don’t write? That’s what I do.
It doesn’t matter.
What doesn’t matter?
What you write doesn’t matter.
Because it has been written.
It hasn’t been read.
It has all been written, it has all been read, it is not important.
You did this to me once before.
Yes, I’ve done it before.
Painting, drawing, environment and concept works. Even conceptual works needed stuff to make them happen. Less stuff, but still stuff. You convinced me there is no place on Earth for the stuff I make. I gave up and lost part of me. I understand what you’re saying, It takes stuff to write–paper, electronic gadgets, road trips, precious resources for the sake of words repeating themselves. Should the buck stop here? What about losing myself?
The buck does stop here, Life is about losing one’s Self. Think about it.
It’s a new year, 2020, the one some astrologers anticipate. They say the stars
and planets are arranged, so that everything getting ready to happen, is happening.
I suspect all the things I tried hard to make happen in 2019 happened on the first
days of 2020–finding my ring of keys in a coat-hood was stunning.
Almost every morning’s walk in 2019 was uncomfortably dampened by sudden squalls.
Each day of 2020, so far, I don’t even need the raincoat I tragically lost in 2019.
2020’s news informs me the president of my country shot the top commanding general
of another country. The voice in his head said it would be a good idea.
The other country doesn’t like that idea and wants to shoot back. I wonder if
they will shoot the president of my country, me, my family, or my friends?
A whole host of hope-filled presidential candidates are professing their talents.
No one is better than the other. Seems we need them all, and then some, in 2020.
My planet has been working on a plan to take back the resources we humans have
been stealing to make ourselves rich and comfortable. 2020 may be the time to do so.
I’m old now, on the other side of life. I’d like to think, as my generation moves out, a
new kind of Earth will nurture a new kind of human–sensible, thoughtful, altruistic.
A jazzed Poet-Quintet sways together in an old, silver SUV from Portland to Seattle on a stormy, black and white day, rain falling, rising, flying lane to lane. A motley, little group of Boomers, Hippies and an old Silent–warm, safe with Driving Poet in charge. All animated, alive, awake with anticipation.
Two Portland poets are featured presenters at seven p.m. The rest will join some of Seattle’s best at a quaint, up-town coffee house open mic. Arriving on time, a necessity, is achieved after hastily securing two one-person and one three-persons rooms in a small, nearby hotel.
Hearing impaired listeners struggled through coffee house, kitchen dish-banging to hear exquisite poetic rhythm and meaning. Applause for Portland poetry seems meager. Seattle poet response for Seattle poetry comes with raucous hand-claps and whistles. Perhaps glasses of wine would help, but was an unwelcome added expense.
A happy coincidence for one Portland and one Seattle poet of the same generation is, they were both born in China, not far from each other. Their poems were serendipitously inspired by the Yellow River. A friendship flowered over tea and talk. Rain never stopped that night. Driving-Poet found her way soberly, safely back to the small hotel.
Silent Generation-Poet assumed her position as Chaperone-Poet in the room for three. He-Poet was on the cot. Driving-Poet chose the bed closest to the bathroom. Driving Poet is beautiful and smart. He Poet declares his love for her, remaining appropriate at all times except when he says, “May I tickle you?”
Old, Chaperone-Poet senses helplessness. Drivng-Poet giggles just right, naming her beloved husband’s attributes and magnetism frequently dampening He-Poet’s ardor sufficiently. The next morning, He-Poet informed both females their snores kept him awake. Then, Portland Poet-Quintet took to the rainy road back home to bright, Portland sunshine.
Looking for Something Special?
Did you know there are thousands of firearms, let alone
all types of outdoor gear available for special order?
Stop by the sporting goods counter at your local Bi Mart!
He, sandy-haired, clean-cut white man–mmm, early 40’s?
Precedes her at Bi Mart’s checkout stand.
She, white-hair, white woman looking for the
right battery to lock and unlock her car door.
His cart holds four, empty, kaki, canvas rifle cases,
four dark, heavy steel boxes, and plenty of ammunition.
She, in characteristic visual acuity, notices two more carts of firearm gear
steered by clean-cut men to other checkout stands.
What is this, she thinks, then taps the young man’s shoulder.
He swings around alertly, making stern, pale blue, wide-eyed contact.
eased by her geriatric demeanor.
“Are you going to kill somebody?” She asks, wishing they could talk.
“Oh no”, he says, after a thoughtful moment, “This is for my father.”
She remains confused, as they move on; imagines standing with the
Christmas bell-ringer, watching for gun gear; asking the question…
“Are you going to kill somebody?”
The Christmas bell-ringer will say, “Careful, gal, you’ll get yourself killed, and maybe
me too.” Curious, she still wants to know the answers to that question.
Neighborhood Nudity, Winter, 2018