Poetry (Oh, a Tree…)

another episode, same old characters

I had a remarkable unplanned encounter
with my old sweetheart the Moon;
I was just heading back from the usual little 
walk down the hill to the store.
Barely a few houses up Olentangy Street
I happened to look up for a glance;
But my look was captured, our lights were linked
and my feet froze to the cement.

Heavy cloud cover seemed to part
just in that one bright circle.
And though the dark grey continued to roll
from the south, with a chill breeze in step
down here below, we both stood engaged
the dark edge would advance but at last moment part
just enough to leave that one circle uncovered
slowly growing as stretched by our gaze.

I stood waiting for coverage, but the parting went on
Until a larger space shown with clear blue around
and subtle grey circles in the overall black
radiated out an enlarging sphere pattern.

Although the moon has promised to help
my vision if I remember to gaze
there still was a little lack of focus
and double-vision projection below.
This made it seem like the moon had a chin
and the space in-between gave it a grin.
As the moons parted and the old familiar
features of my friend sharpened, the double
moved down into a long white beard.

Eventually, of course, the chill of the sidewalk
Moved up through both the thin soles and thick socks
And I had to break off and move along, dizzy.
When I looked up again, the features were blurring
And the blue space was smaller, though it grew as I watched.
We continued this way as I went up the hill.
As the walking got longer, moon's features grew dimmer;
angry memories returned of the last time we talked,
and the words that as usual got stuck inside me.
Looking up from the bridge at the top of the hill
dark black swirls had moved to the fore.

the afternoon before the evening of

Heavenly Blue Peak
Shrouded in smoke and ashes
May flavor return

r.i.p Noah Shull

so, I said to my cat, (instead),
no I’m not mad at you;
yes, you can live here, that’s just fine;
you stay with me, you and all the spirits.
Maybe I could have said that to Noah
Maybe I could have said that to Pete
Maybe they would have been too much for me to handle, let alone help;
but what good am I if not the last refuge of the lost musicians
who kept washing up on my
sure
If not the one who brings the bad trippers out and down
Pete, Noah, Chris… well, I did harbor Pearcy for some time, years ago. But, then I didn't.
Why couldn’t I take them all in, and work the magic
write the magic words on the magic almonds
that transfer the people’s disease into me
and then I just shake it off, like I do.
See me shaking? yeah, it will be over soon.
Shaking it right off.
So I had a rough decade or so after allegedly saving that last tripping stranger’s life.
I’m sure it was just a coincidence.
probably.
Maybe I did, just now, say it
to all of them, all the spirits
in or around the cat.
The cat is trying to speak for all, he says.
Is that what he said? I keep getting it all wrong.
All right. Alright.
Oh, Glory. Glory, Glory. All Glory, all the Time
time, time

‘Oh, Glory’

doomed beauty

As I stumble about
amidst the beauty of the trees' network of
nearly naked limbs, modestly dotted with birds against
skies of a grey mixed of oranges and purples,
lit from below by the glowing boxes,
I am often filled with a heart-breaking nostalgia
for the way things are.

There was a peaceful moment
just a little agony over facing the inevitable struggle with eggs or cereal
I even pulled up the shade on the back window for a rare look
and the bare fingers of the spindly trees posed against a long lit cloud for a two-tone fashion
subtle greys bottom and brashly contrasting summery top.
Then, there was a scratching at the back door
Did the porch cardinal suddenly decide to present demands?
No, scratching to the left and right there are never so many birds (would that, as we were just)
No. It was the wind again.
The director called strike this set
the cat started yowling again
or the cat was the director, I confuse
That cloud was rolled out stage left tout suite
Hold onto your hats

Sketchbook – Vol. 1 Part 2 – Chapter 6

Still in my late 20’s (in the late ’70s). A LOT of writing, saying it all, back before these truths and lies had become self-evident and then I didn’t see why I should keep writing it. And my hand didn’t yet hurt too much to hold the pen. Then, finally, evidence of attempted graphic composition: what would become my second lithograph.

When I was completely unmoored, at 28 years of age. Never to quite return.

Oh a Tree Corner – “Fall” (from The Seasons, early draft)

For some reason I kept hearing about poetry on radio and TV today. Went and looked in the occasionally lugged along legal pad, and sure enough there was a scrawl from just about a year ago I guess. so I typed it up with just a little second-draftism and here it is being shamelessly squeezed into the inter-tubes. Possibly part of my seasonal cycle.
————–

so, then it was fall for awhile – (let’s call it Fall.)
not just the leaves, something, things, else is falling
Maybe longer than usual, I hear but
here we are so close to the end seems like nuthin’
Last good day, maybe, probaly falling falling
Last good day of this round who knows
if it will go around again
I see it falling chalk dust falling
behind the lake
Sure it was so beautiful, those few moments
When I got out
Heartbreaking at sundown,
hue saturation so cranked up
the crinkle of the vegetable kings’ violated borders so sharp and rough
even these old eyes can feel.
The bleeding heart of clouds, bleeding sweet wine
(for all the good you bleeding hearts do us untouchables)
the overacting of the leaves’ death dance in stage makeup
the tiny flush of rose from within dark draperies.
life shrouds floating around that young woman across the street.
Does she see the sky like I do, also sticking a tongue out to try to catch a drop?
does she see how I see the sky?
How sweet would it be to be walking with her at this moment.
(oh? Like I always say, good to be alone at a time like this)
What juicy world juice we could pass back and forth.
I bet it could make this paper sack I carry my senses in seem like a velvet purse.
But no, not now, most of then and and then neither;
Mostly just a few flashes in the darkness. and whiteness.
Now it’s the white again, falling down across
the backdrop.
Just the first light coating of pastel.
I see it filling in as I reach the lake
so thick with family funflies just the other day,
now all wide open & clear – guess that’s
how the landscape goes:
First the people , pfft, gone,
then the rest slowly faded
as the whiteness falls..
layers of chalk, or maybe it’s that asbestos-laced talc I used to
shake onto the litho stone
drying the ink; now that i think…
   That looked like this – the image gradually disappearing-
     but the little horizontal block now raised on edge and
   stretched from edge to edge.
and my skin separates and stands up
white, white, white
   preparing for when it floats up to
      meet the snow.
Before the talc sinks in the grain
gets coated by dust and soot, ink and earth rising around the flakes.

here it comes, here it comes
comes the gray, darker darker
lovely charcoal smudges hover over
the cloudy folks in the shiny street.
today on the heading out bus, looking down to the end
wasn’t raining but the sky looked damp, straggling clumps of leaves losing the last of their yellow, leaching
“It’s turned to soup,” I thought.

Category: Poetry (Oh, a Tree…)