A Couple of links to Bloglike poems
Category: Writing and Poetry

   In Case  you ever wondered about the graphic/poem  I'm using today...the coyote poetry one.  This BLAB  tells some of  the story.

  Some days I just plain get angry, been that way since I was 17 and told by a guy named Barney that my dad had left and probably wasn't coming back.  A combination of bad decisions, bankers that wanted to throw him in jail, and excessive pride.  At 17 I blamed the bankers. 
     That was the beginning of the coyote in me.  Independent, wary of authority figures.  That only got worse as time went by.  The house was burned by an arsonist who was probably the kid whose parents owned the neighboring ranch.  The ranch wasn't insured because the agent had been pocketing the money.  The detective investigating the fire tried to get it on with my mother.
     The minister of our church who was like a brother when dad was around pretty much abandoned us.  Certainly didn't help anything.  We moved into the local town, Creswell, a logging town where the family became a focal point for the local gossips.
      So I developed a healthy distrust of just about everyone including my own family, a father who abandoned us all, a mother who kept one sister, abandoned the other to a local family in the logging town, and pretty much left me fending for myself...I was lucky.  I had patrons who wanted me to marry one of their daughters, but stuck by me when  I politely declined.   They respected my talent.
        So I learned that not all people were weak and untrustworthy.  I became like the  coyote, I ran , hunted and sang in packs with other coyotes, artists, poets, musicians,  mostly.  But unlike wolves, there was no real leader...it was all about survival  and enjoying life.  A sense of humor, which often has a bite to it, is an essential  of surviving.  It sorts out the weak and untrustworthy.  You become very  observant as a Coyote. 
       That was how I began my journey as a coyote cowboy poet.    There is one other important ingredient to survival, a mate that knows what it  means to love and survive in a world full of wolves, sheep, Crows and zombie humans  with power.  I am a lucky person.  I found  the person I needed to be  complete.  And we have a wonderful, coyote family.  Independent, caring.   We all bite a little, but they're love nips, so we just nip right back. 
     

9:20 AM - 8 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

have a toothache THE CANCER’S GONE i have a toothache yaeah
Category: Writing and Poetry

I have a toothache THE CANCER'S GONE i have a toothache yaeah

IN THE ROOM I RIDE

  "Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride."
     -- from "The Fool Errant"
                                                            Amy Lowell

from here I cannot
see the kingdom sky
with my eyes the roof
stops rain and light too

stops outside where the
cars park and birds fly
tar and air grass and
clouds the cheer and boo

of every where
and every when
on this watery
ball where I can run

in circles circling
counting bits of ten
the base that speaks of
being done on earth

home of the brave king-
dom of drive I can
not see past the room
the work shop of words

waiting for glory
to arrive for the
power of old stars
to end stop but there's

a surge against the
enjambment edging
air of  dark heaven
luring  in the light

in the room I ride
the broom of love



Make Much of Time
by Robert  Herrick

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles today,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
and while ye may, go lay with me;
For having lost just once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

3:56 PM - 11 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

marking the spot
Category: Writing and Poetry

It's been a while since I wrote  a random piece
of prose or poetry just for the sake of marking a spot in the electronic sand.

But that's what this is.  A photo of what passed for now a few minutes ago with some prose to mark the spot, 050608.jpg; June 6, 2008.

Mark your own space...comment exactly 20 words on whatever your present now is.

----------------
arlo singing bob don't think twice goodbye is too good a word babe i met that
when i was young

4:39 PM - 23 Comments - 34 Kudos - Add Comment

Back at the Barn
Category: Writing and Poetry

----------------
Now playing: Woody Guthrie - Ida Red
via FoxyTunes    

Back at the Barn

Open the door
practical jokes
imitating guerilla
strokes

a purina muslin
feed bag  full of straw
knocks the farmer down
the barn steps

of our Oregon farm
shoulda been
bank clerks
white shirts
dark suits
slit at the ass coat
plain ties
long enough
to cover
banker's crotches
suits

if it were them
it'd be a full concrete
joke to the head

full force
off the steps
joke

150 pounds of square
dents in the flesh
kid stuff with
an attitude
joke

lots of blood
joke.

angels in bushes
goofy girls
behind perfect hands
giggle
joke

but the old man's mad
he's not laughing
he bellows a name
slings curses and mud

into the
milking parlor
with its wooden
stanchions for the neck
of cows
they learn to love
suction at their teats
lash tails and eat
grain while vacating
into a vacuum can
the pump runs

"drop kick me jesus"
on the radio
it's raining
on a dairy
farm

It would've been a
real practical joke.

.

3:38 PM - 12 Comments - 18 Kudos - Add Comment

birds blinders and crows
Category: Writing and Poetry

A small poem about small brave creatures that die in the night, protecting their territories and their young.  Even the large cunning ones are vulnerable to those who wait for the light to fade.

  None of it would be known if there were no watcher.

*******************************

9:46 PM - 17 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Grandfather’s Dead-- a poem
Category: Writing and Poetry

Thanks to Michele McDannold I will soon begin getting these crows out of my system.  Her cigar box publication of the first 12 crow poems will start the exorcism of what those black feathered creatures have come to mean to me.   They weave in and out of those poems, and burst forth as fully formed compulsions, and signs of death, mistakes, and calumny.  This is actually a tamed version of one of the early ones.

"Grandfather's Dead --- Dreams at 11"

8:07 PM - 17 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

Never ask a crow
Category: Writing and Poetry

NEVER ASK A CROW

Never ask a crow
what time it is
particularly if anyone's watching

The Crow knows
all about time
knows it only matters
when it's run out

You don't really
want to know that
and if anyone's watching
they're liable to tell you
that you're only as old
as you feel.

That's why you were
talking to a crow
in the first place
because
you were feeling kind of old
and now you're feeling

kind of crazy for asking.

----------------
Now playing: Woody Guthrie - Jolly Banker
via FoxyTunes    

2:57 PM - 19 Comments - 38 Kudos - Add Comment

concrete crow talk
Current mood: restless
Category: Writing and Poetry

Concrete crow talk 2 

                                    evil portion of

                  it              Sleek  

              black      aye  

         oH  eye    shaman elf the reptilian dark

 CROWsleek fat  dicks of

                 black in the woods

                       c   i   a

                       l        m

                      a           u

                     w                r

                    s                     d

                 caw               er

      flat stiff           on asphalt

    *********************

*       Crows on my mind         *

I think it's the  Pacific Northwest type weather

that does it.  But I get restless, a little crazy and

just compulsive enough to play with "Concrete" poetry

which as you can see, is a kind of poetry that plays with

the appearance of letters and words in a poem, and of course

the denotative, conotative, and historical meanings in the words.  The idea is to make the  letters and words look like they mean.  It beats the hell out of drinking too much, doing stupid things and writing about them.

9:41 AM - 16 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment

Coyote Poetry
Category: Writing and Poetry

   In Case  you ever wondered about the avatar I'm using today...the coyote poetry one.  This blog  tells some of  the story.

  Some days I just plain get angry, been that way since I was 17 and told by a guy named Barney that my dad had left and probably wasn't coming back.  A combination of bad decisions, bankers that wanted to throw him in jail, and excessive pride.  At 17 I blamed the bankers. 
     That was the beginning of the coyote in me.  Independent, wary of authority figures.  That only got worse as time went by.  The house was burned by an arsonist who was probably the kid whose parents owned the neighboring ranch.  The ranch wasn't insured because the agent had been pocketing the money.  The detective investigating the fire tried to get it on with my mother.
     The minister of our church who was like a brother when dad was around pretty much abandoned us.  Certainly didn't help anything.  We moved into the local town, Creswell, a logging town where the family became a focal point for the local gossips.
      So I developed a healthy distrust of just about everyone including my own family, a father who abandoned us all, a mother who kept one sister, abandoned the other to a local family in the logging town, and pretty much left me fending for myself...I was lucky.  I had patrons who wanted me to marry one of their daughters, but stuck by me when I politely declined.  They respected my talent.
      So I learned that not all people were weak and untrustworthy.  I became like the coyote, I ran , hunted and sang in packs with other coyotes, artists, poets, musicians, mostly.  But unlike wolves, there was no real leader...it was all about survival and enjoying life.  A sense of humor, which often has a bite to it, is an essential of surviving.  It sorts out the weak and untrustworthy.  You become very observant as a Coyote. 
     That was how I began my journey as a coyote cowboy poet.   There is one other important ingredient to survival, a mate that knows what it means to love and survive in a world full of wolves, sheep, Crows and zombie humans with power.  I am a lucky person.  I found  the person I needed to be complete.  And we have a wonderful, coyote family.  Independent, caring.  We all bite a little, but they're love nips, so we just nip right back.

BTW: I haven't even begun to talk about the influences,  mostly women who have energized my life.  I'm not going to do that story today.  In fact, I may decide that perhaps some things are just "table talk" which is a very important concept.  Sometimes it's strictly family business.  Inviolable
  

2:05 PM - 17 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

crow’s parade

CROWS PARADE 3  Crows are my dark totem.  they are the guides that take me places I don't think I should go, mentally and physically.  I have nearly died a half a dozen times and they were always there waiting for me to arrive.  Sometimes I have helped them with a death wish; the erotic lure of death is strong.  To ignore them is to die and become food for something else in the universe.  I frighten them with an owl.  I hoot like an owl; the bogeyman of crows is the owl who invades their nest at night and kills their young.  Ironic that the evil of the day can be killed by the viscious shrewd wisdom of the night creatures. This poem is  the  prophetic march of  the Crow, the Crow's Parade.

Last summer
before the tumor bloomed
a dozen crows came
they strode kneeless

shadow nazi troops
across the front lawn
they don't eat worms
what food do they chase

so bold and so dark
strutting parade dress
birdly marching team
no banner no drums

sway stiff pinfeathers
in murders of black buds
the crows are gonna
get gonna eat some

growth in the homeland
allies of the crows
the crows who now flash
black ass feathers

praise the flesh eaters
of my lung under
X-Ray shadows
of normal nipples

carrion eaters
sing of the wild cells
the gonna get me of
the Crows Parade.

6:14 PM - 16 Comments - 26 Kudos - Add Comment