HERE AND NOW
(AGAIN)
 Poems and stories in this post will come from my book, Always to the Light, and later poems never collected or published in a book, as well as from other poets I haven't selected yet.  Listening to Mussorgsky Listening to Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” From the speaker overhead just as I start to write my poem, Wondering how my little hiccup of a poem can imagine a place for itself In the same world as the great gates of Kiev, Having second thoughts, in fact, about writing anything today, Deciding in the end, to be true to my philosophy that the value of art is in its doing, Not its product, that product being merely an artist’s footprint, Sign to the tracker that the artist was there, Valuable to collectors of fine footprints but as irrelevant to the artist’s nature As the remains of a grand banquet laid out on a cluttered table, Evidence of a feast, but not the feast itself… So, hear me, dear reader, I am afraid this poem will never mean as much to you As it did to me in its making It was a great pleasure for me And I’m sorry I can leave only the bones for you  Poesis interruptus I stopped off at my friendly Gas-grocery-beer-cigarettes convenience for money After my usual morning coffee and newspaper read At my usual table At my usual diner With the usual Sunday morning dueling church folk To the behind and either side of me, Including an extra place or two Filled by the twice-a-year Christians Who, it seems, get all the saving they need on Christmas and Easter, Securing all other Sunday mornings for sleeping late or golf… Discovering After my third cup that I had no cash but for four pennies, three dimes, two quarters And a Canadian coin I’ve trying to get rid of since our trip to Vancouver two years ago, Leaving me to pay my $1.94 tab with my debit card ```````````` It is at this point in the story that the poet is interrupted By life outside the poem – poesis interruptus – and the question is four hours later As to whether he can get it up again to finish what he had most ardently begun… At first you might think that returning to the earlier story half-finished Is a process of separating the wheat of earlier inspiration From the chaff of the humdrum interim… But that’s not the case because, with proper poetic recognition, All could be one and each could be the other with no separation necessary or possible Integration is needed instead, finding the wheat in the essence of all chaff And the chaff that infiltrates all wheat – Like the small shopping center by the gas-grocery-beer -cigarette store Where I stopped to use the ATM machine, Anchored by a large vacant $1 store Close up to the “X-treme Impact Church” Next to “Alive MMA – Brazilian Jiu Jitsu” Adjacent to the “Gathering of Grace Church” Neighbor to “Fantasy Nails and Tan” Snuggled up tightly to “Tattoos and Piercings” Sharing a common wall with “Gin’s Chinese Restaurant” It is all, in this world, like the shopping center, All the disparate bits and pieces, All the wheats and chaffs of everyday urban life Swirled together by the Mix Master of everyday living, Making the single and complete Here and now of this particular and unique Easter Sunday morning, Another party to which I am not invited because I will pay the price of admission – Separation of sinners from the saved, rather than embracing unity of all mankind, Some sinner in every saint And a bit of saint in every sinner Wheat from chaff, I am one and I am both And cannot separate my own self from the other Or either from You  Happy Confederate Heroes Day the biggest problem with being a non-believer is I miss all the best holidays... Christmas and everybody tra-la-la-laling all over town and I'm in a funk because every place I like to go is overcome with manic Christmas fanatics driving me crazy with their lousy Christmas spirit and I know after six months of this the day will finally come and everything I like to do will be impossible for twenty-four hours because everything will be closed so people can go tra-la-la-ling at home with their tra-la-la kids and if I see that damn scrooge or that yellow brick road or that stupid angel getting his wings one more time I might just get medieval with my TV and right before that there is Thanksgiving which requires me to eat turkey for three weeks and I don't even like turkey... and next, just as that dumbass angel finally gets his wings we jump into Easter and the whole cascarones breaking confetti-filled eggs on my head thing, leaving me with a headache for two days and a week and a half of pulling paper bits from my hair... those are the big ones, except for the 4th of July which would be great if it was the 4th of October or something like that instead of right in the middle of the hottest part of summer when I'm supposed to eat bar-b-que in the park, outside and watch fireworks and listen to the symphony, with help from the canons at Fort Sam Houston, play the 1812 overture outside outside outside outside everything outside and who the hell wants to be outside when it's 114 degrees in the shade and there's damn little of that that doesn't leave me with anything but Confederate Heroes Day which causes family issues with one great grandpappy on one side and the other great grandpappy on the other and the minute we start talking about it we have to fight the whole frigging war all over again who needs it! (NOTE: Confederate Heroes Day dropped in Texas as a state employee holiday about 20 years ago in favor of LBJ's birthday.)  The catch of the day Is not the fish we catch Or the one that got away The catch of the day is the time we stay and the walking home together  Eastern sky the eastern sky red like an angry rose by any other hue would it sweet so smell end of days of 2012 approaching a new year’s ending beginning in two days and I have no reflex for an old year a new year an in-between year a sky red as an angry rose the hue so sweet no reflex to measure the new number the old just a day you know like any other day no reflex for seeing new what I’ve seen before or new days or old days or roses angry red no matter how sweet hue the smell it’s just another damn day in another damn year just another damn moment just another damn angry hue and I have no reflex to understand or to teach it must another momentary rose angry then gone like me hasta la vista huesome rose On the South Texas Coast  This poem is by Carol Coffee Reposa. It is taken from her book Underground Musicians, published by Lamar University Press in 2013. This is Reposa's fourth book of poetry. A professor emeritus of English at San Antonio College, she has received three Fulbright-Hay Fellowships, along with three Pushcart Prize nominations. Los Amantes de Sumpa First she died And then he died Ten thousand years ago. She was twenty. He was twenty-five. Both were well off for their time. Mourners laid him next to her, Placed his arm around her waist, His leg across her thigh. This man and woman Could have watched The sun come up each day In bursts of red and gold Or listened for the early morning birdsong While they thatched their roof. Perhaps they married Had a feast She might have borne a child. I look at the tangled bones His skull crushed From centuries of earth Hollows of his eyes Filled long ago with bright desire What remains of him still turned tdo her It doesn't matter When they died Or why, or how All that counts this afternoon Or any other Is his arm around her waist, His leg across her thigh.  Written today, if written tomorrow perhaps entirely different. Too long, too personal, written in poetry form only because that is the form most natural to me, like breathing Taking stock A picture from 50 years past, Me, In the tiny trailer I lived in While returning to university After military service A pen in my shirt pocket, always, Even today a pen in my shirt pocket, A jacket, part of an Afghan soldier’s uniform, Received in a trade with one of the soldiers Who guarded our compound, that I wore that day Even though it was a little too small for me Years passed since then Long ago, those days when the end of life Was a dim dot, a spec, far away, Far enough to easily forget it was there Years passed since then And today the tiny dot Is a black pit I stand at the edge of There is no forgetting the dark At my feet Years passed And I feel a need to take stock… Born and raised In a small South Texas town near the border, High intelligence creating high expectations around me I lacked the will to meet, A disappointment, even to myself Leaving that town at eighteen, Finding opportunity to grow closer To the me others expected me to be, But, still floating on a dead sea, I lingered behind Until military service, I fought the call, but gave in to the inevitable, And, once in, achieving rank early Despite being mediocre at my job at best, The beneficiary of expectations, those who led me Seeing in me a future leader Then, military service complete, University degree in hand, The beginning of a career that fit me As if made for me, Ambition discovered, power and influence, And though temporary as such power always is, I liked it and took advantage of it To do things that, on the scale of my life, Seemed great things But the great things that gave me such pride Passed, like the power that created them, The accomplishments that seemed so large, Eroded to doodlebug dust like the power That created and sustained them A second life then as a poet, Twisting stories of my life into A form of poetry mostly known To be unknown, a blip, then forgotten And then a third life as an artist, A talent-free artist, creating art No more memorable than the poetry And now the pit lies deep and dark Before me and, leaving all that past Behind me, my stock, my portfolio, Is simply this, a wife who loves me And a son in whom I have as much pride As anything in my passing powerful past That’s all… And it turns out, It’s enough  Old homes left behind taking a little trip in a couple hours a two-hour drive to the coast, to Corpus Christi first, the city where I lived for fifteen years before ambition drew me to the hills twenty years ago I'll see if any old haunts remain - it seems every time I visit, a few more are gone, the old city slipping away, a whole new city grown up on the south side where grain and cotton were the only cash crops before… I’ll wander around downtown, called now in my hotel brochure “The downtown entertainment district” (Which it was some years ago, until the folks at the old folks' home complained about the noise - we’ll see, I guess, maybe all the old folks died or have become accustomed to noise with their oatmeal) breakfast tomorrow morning at the top of the Omni, the bay and bayfront laid out, the water rippling in early morning tide, shinning orange and red under the rising sun, the lights of the shipyards tiny pin holes through dim early morning on the other side of the bay… --- taking the long way home tomorrow, across the bay bridge to North Padre and Mustang Island, stopping for pictures of the beach and the fishing boats in Port Aransas, then the ferry across the ship channel, back to the mainland, first Aransas Pass, then down the coast to the little cities that lap the water's edge, Ingleside by the Bay, Rockport, Fulton, with lunch at Charlotte Plummer’s, pictures along the way if I can find anything I haven't snapped before after lunch, west to the flat highways of the coastal plains, plowed fields on either side, fields settled in for winter, awaiting early grain, and the wind farms, new, spread along the coast, facing southeast to catch the constant gulf winds, winds converted to electricity, the sustenance that feeds our civilization, then, pasture and old oaks spreading wide across low hills that grow over the miles to the curves and up and down highways of hill country highways, just past my home in my little divide between rolling ridges and the creek that runs alongside it… home at the end of day, old homes left behind again  Ride the tiger early clouds turned to wide-open sky as the sun rising burns away the night cramps of dead memories and lost dreams a new day, old swept away in the dark processing of midnight shadows and the sighs of slow-hobo winds the old day surrenders its night, back broken by the crack of an orange horizon, the bright new tiger stretches, gathers together the hours of its dominion, metes them out to us with the lick of her red tongue, sharp extension of bright claws… ~~~ welcome… ride the tiger as you must, until the next dark sends her slinking back to her shadow den  Here are three short poems from my library. The poems are by Eric Greinke, taken from his book Wild Strawberries, published in 2008 by Presa Press. Greinke is the author of several book, including poetry, fiction and non-fiction. He has a Master's degree in Social Work and has twenty-five years experience working with disturbed and disabled children. He has also taught creative writing in an alternate high school and has worked in the Michigan Poets in The Schools program. Dust Obnoxious cosmetics Drip from the face Of the Statue of Liberty. Diamonds gleam From teh President's teeth. Old dogs argue Over the skulls Of rock stars and senators. A battalion of metal roaches Dances around the captured flag. In the middle Of a moonless night Old men remember the Third Reich. Alarms ring in gladiolas, Cueballing yet another Spring. Northern lights A roar of jeweled leaves Titillates the dark northern sky Celebration above the trees Aurora flares Sun spots dance the edge Owl turns to small sound Marten clings To a a red pine branch Outside my sleepy head Liquid Wild ducks Scoot a landing On blue eyes  Usual suspects the old guys are here and the tattooed fat lady is here and the always neat and clean homeless guy with his tightly wrapped foam bedroll, heavy-looking backpack and professorial look with little half-lens glasses as he spends the day reading in the air-conditioned cool, and the mama with her little blond girl trailing behind, baby-doll in one hand and pink little purse in the other, and little plastic dangly bracelets on both wrists that she shakes as she passes, and the young mother with two little girls, heading double-time for the bathroom, passing a new guy, a long, white-haired Sam Elliot looking guy in short pants reading "Guns and Ammo" magazine, and a couple of medical student regulars, and the short-haired cowboy guy with the bad arm, and the two gay guys that show up a couple times a week (and, OK, maybe they're not gay, but they sure are sharp dressers) and the middle-aged woman, a mid-life student who always looks like she's mad at me because I always get here first and take the table by the door next to an electric plug where she'd like to be, and the dorky-looking guy and his dorky-looking wife who come in and stare at each other and never say a word the whole time they're here, and the old guy with thick glasses and a magnifying glass who writes tiny numbers in columns in a spiral notebook, eyes inches from the page, and the table of law students, arguing with each other like it was a Supreme Court appearance, and the Asian guy reading Shopenheimer haiku and the girl with long auburn hair and acne scared cheeks, a cheeky girl with a constant air of amused observation, and I'm thinking if she was 50 years older she might share the joke with me, assuming it's not me that's the joke, of course, a possibility I do not discount... all the familiar faces in all the familiar places on a mostly typical Thursday...  Campfires around campfires beings not so unlike us as we imagine, told stories of the trials and victories of the day, shared news of the hunt with their clan brothers and cousins many stories reached into the hearts of those who heard them and were told again on other nights around other campfires, passed on through generations and geography… traditions were born, expressed in all the many languages of man… and we who call ourselves poets bear the weight of that tradition with every word we write, a burden, but not heavy, light instead and full of promise an invitation to join kindred souls, to retell the old stories and sometimes our own new story, so well told its telling sets a new spark rising in the dark night, passing from our own campfire to others brightly burning, we will never see… keeping aglow the ancient embers… it is our job, undertaken with the humility of those who understand their place in a long and vibrant history… it is our joy, however well or poorly we do it  Diorama morning north wind blows hard against me, cold hand on the nape of my neck, trickles under my coat down my back clear blue sky sharp as a diamond’s cutting edge bright sun like broken glass falling long night’s sleep, waking to a five-year old’s diorama world, construction paper city construction paper world bright colors sharp corners Finishing this post with a reading from my book, Always to the Light, available as always wherever eBooks are sold.
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