Thursday, 28 September 2017

nothing

the difficulty of finding a motivation.

the sense that it is all one big mess and anything I do will amount to nothing.
But I come from nothing, as we all do, so finding a motivation should be as easy as being and being is so easy that we don't even notice it until it is nothing.



Sorry is just a word.

The day begins, the sun comes up outside,
the wildlife gets to it and inside
I sit and think about yesterdays.
The shouts exchanged, the cruel things said
that were not meant...
but we can't take back our words,
can't unsay what should never have been said
and as the light grows outside
I hope that words only vibrate
I hope that words that aren't meant
have no force...because we can't take back our words
and can't unsay what should never have been said.


Saturday, 26 August 2017

Racing

Pole to pole
out of control screeching
into and out of each turn
rubber burning
wheels gliding
clouds of dust and wiping your eyes

these crazy racers
bi-polar heads
bi-polar minds
bi-polar visions
bye polar regions
the desert beckons

it's well-furrowed tracks
never having to look back
only looking to get back
around, dried out ground
cracks so deep they can keep
the light from shining
but the foglamps
made for blinding
do their jobs expertly

Pole to pole
the only goal
to get around and then
to get back.




Disappointment, Expectation's Sister...

Just what is this dead thing I find in me?
Like some poor roadkill beast, pathetic and flat...
it smells of disappointment,
it reeks of expectation and it feels like wet clay in my mind.
It seems "I" won't be getting what "I want".

Are these the legs of this thing?
Not able to carry me anywhere,
not indicative of the path forward...only pointing stiffly at me.

Yes, words get spoken,
we say things that we hope to make good on
but then comes the world, running over these and making lies on
this stinky tongue of unfulfilled longing.

Bittersweet it could be, this self-pity and self-loathing,
if not for the odor of carrion that infuses it's very being.
The ambivalence of the tugging of emotions
to decide who I will see
when I look deeper into it's mirroring eyeballs
disappointing disappointed me.

And worse still, the thought that all of this
is caused by me, poor baby in actuality,
not by they whose words are left incomplete,
irresolute between speech and act
intentions paving a familiar road
of disillusion leading straight to the pit
to climb out of on the back of this dead beast.

The matted hair, once a mink coat of luxurious hopes
now dried up, hard and spikey,
as my expectations...
revealed for the folly they are.
Ears that no longer hear
are the deafness that brings
me here to this place of
slowly clearing blindness
now that my muted voice seeks return

So I write this and then I write that
scratching claws
trying to decide whether to eat this dead thing, crap on it
or to toss it to the winds and let the vultures have it.
Luckily the words take the form of bat-winged arrows
and I, bowed before them, launch disappointment
out the window to patrol the roadway
looking for some other
poor fool to antagonize
beak and claw and tooth.







Friday, 11 August 2017

Waiting


Waiting










is not




what it









appears to be.


Waiting is not the

empty space,


the presence of absence,


the longing and yearning
of her place filled by
the being of her body


the void
devoid of any sense

whatsoever.


Waiting

for her is filled with the memories
of time spent together
the smell of her rose skin and sweetness of her voice
the mystery of her whispers in the dark
the embraces and kisses and caresses
shared

My arms
locked tight
around her torso
the way she likes me
our tongues pressing
to discuss the depth
of our love and passion
her heat sweating me to puddle

Before she comes to my side, while she is underway
she is a fullness almost unbearable
an extension of myself to the furthest reaches
of the universe
pales
by her expansion of my very self to
the limits of loving.

Waiting

for her


is not a hollow
it is not a space of doubt and need

I wait for her in gratitude and will wait
until she seeks my hands again

ending our waiting.


Unimaginable...

My wife passed away from leukemia on the evening of July 4th. 2017. It took her almost no time to die. We raced through the night in the Red Cross ambulance, but to no avail. My wife was too far gone from all the efforts made to diagnose and treat her cancer. I am devastated. I had no idea how sick she was and she refused to give the slightest hint of what she had to know was coming with horrible speed.

I will ALWAYS miss her presence in my life, but I rejoice in the life we shared, the time spent in loving company, the respect that had grown from our crazy arguments to the mellowness of just letting our opinions differ. I have learned a great deal about men and women in 42 years. I am a better man for having been married to my sweet Carla.




Friday, 6 November 2015

Vespers...

The real challenge in farming comes when one starts to lose the contest against the insects, the fungi, the inclement weather, the heat, the rain, the wind.
It takes all I have to want to continue on this seemingly thankless task when the challenge becomes too much.
Ironically, the challenge is the biggest part of farming. When I start with seeds, planted in trays or in the beds, I assume the result will be 'glorious", like I thought of my daughter when she was but an infant. But I also know that I will be dealing with all the vectors of disease, despoliation, the chances of a 'freak" mountain storm ("un garuero" we call it) and all manner of mysterious infections etc.
It is a function of human consciousness that I would expect a good harvest, "Hope springs eternal" we say. But I already have years of experience doing this and I still set myself up emotionally for the disappointment that comes so naturally...all the while knowing that my chances of a good harvest are beyond my firm control.
As I write this, I feel all the emotions of the several disappointments that this farm has given me lately. I had lost 200 tomato plants just as winter was coming to an end. A mountain storm blew in one night with severe rains and winds that exceeded 60 miles per hour. Despite the extensive system of ties and supports that had held the plants in place for the prior month and a half, the wind smashed down vertically and then whipped horizontally and left us with 3 plants that were not affected too badly. 197 plants, all the work that had gone into them, all the expectation that we would be able to offer a good crop at market time, they were all smashed to broken stems and tattered leaves, the most pathetic plants hung from their ties, roots ripped out of the ground.