WATER IS LIFE

I wrote this elegy for a beautiful friend, while listening to If It's Magic from Stevie Wonder's album Songs In the Key of Life. https://youtu.be/fX36mGEqfw4

WATER IS LIFE

I.

Feral man Zach I met as the most willing 

to climb a giant tree in search of bird

 sign. 

A year later at the rookery you were able 

to see seventeen active nests in under a

minute.

Who does that?! That's got to be years 

of study and skills to be able to see all 

of that.

And Fruitvale Bridge last June: you rescued  

the fledging falcon in traffic with your shirt

off.

Your black Jeep: before I did not see them  

around until then I met you and now they are 

every- where.

II.

What if we each gather together our tears

collect them by drops in small glass jars 

that we empty into a silver metal bucket 

in the center of our circle?  What if we 

carry the bucket down the road to the coast

where we create a tidal influenced lagoon? 

What if?! Would otters come? Herons and 

egrets?  Would a northern harrier pair?

III.

WATER  IS  LIFE

Because last month Gloria Ushigua Santi said her 

people in Ecuador - the Amazon forest Indigenous 

people did not know cancer until Chevron showed up. 

Divest from fossil fuels for major contributing factors

from capitalist extraction and white supremacy disease. 

Wildcat Canyon is the foothills above oil refineries where 

you spent your evenings in this special acquaintance

with the great horned owls. You were on the ridge

where western bluebirds know how to hover from 

the kestrels and kites.

IV.

Eagle calls hawk 

                            to mountain 

because we really 

                                miss you.

I aspire to emulate 

                                   how you

were so gentle 

                             and soothing

with my stumbles 

                                and errors.

I aspire to emulate

                                 your 

tenderness.

Here's another song Love's In Need of Love Today from the most awesome Stevie Wonder's album Songs In the Key of Life: https://youtu.be/FGZYWSfiYbM

Cockroaches

...an old poem of mine that I shared last month at the annual Western Women's Tracking Conference (in Cuyama Valley high desert) and it had them laughing, so I'm sharing it here now.


Cockroaches

First I am going to pretend they're really not there on the floor -

maybe two or three to clean the crusted oatmeal off the stove,

but I don't want to think what the dozens do in the food pantry

at night - like what's with that funky taste in the ground corn?!

I declare war on the fuckers. I'll kill each one with my bare

hands, or do it real nasty and bomb the place to hell. Or run

and hide. Or refuse to touch anything near them. Tomorrow

I'll make plans to sterilize and disinfect under the fridge...


I'll try a metaphysical approach and live in harmony with all

creatures since aren't they cute with their little grasshopper

heads? Or wonder if those tales are true about that magic

where their carcasses alert others? Fuck. The story may be

science from Africa discovered millennials ago and it's true

the Mayans have never dealt with such obscenities before,

before, fuckers: it's the United States government. See I live

on the wrong side of town and what would my family think?


I saw the photos of the slave quarters in New Orleans, the ones 

with the roaches in their long haul up the wall with the dead

rodent. Fuckers. They make me think of nuclear disaster.

Fuckers. I live for the time they turn on the masters.

Land of the Free

by Joey Bada$$

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DglxPGLxJPQ&sns=em

marooned

An erasure poem from a page in M. Moore's classic: 
Medicinal Plants of the Mountain West.                  


Rumex crispus 

Yellow dock

                   alternate


whole


even    in   the   snow


ditches   and   sumps

                                 
                  roadsides


and                streams


drier          meadows


                         thick

roots


boil        in       water


                   consume


after

                    
marooned


by         a         pond

RITUAL

Rituals intend to confront a specific life issue with the purpose of bringing about a desired change, vision, or transformation. They are enactments of the myths. They are bigger than ourself and challenge us to action. Rituals are distinguished from dance as entertainment, dance as spectacle.  

     - Anna Halprin                                                                             

                                                                                                               

ring composition #2

twisteveryvertebrae

upsidedownalign

spellincantationprayer

invocationchantmantra

humansong  equinoxsun

elemental oaknests

groundletter

writepowerpowerpow er po w er powe rr poh or pohwe e r 

I create

Standing

      Squatting

 Leaning   back

          Slimy

Sticky

             Hot

On      a    pole

    With   breasts 

In your  face

I create

MYTH

Myths evoke our long buried and half forgotten selves. They are answers to the inherent need to evolve a community expression that reflects the emotional and creative needs in society. They give us the permission to go into the unknown. To explore, discover, and arrive at a new state of consciousness.

                                                                                          

     - Anna Halprin

ring composition #1

magenta sky 

                     copper 

                     memory

of full

                     arch 

spectrum

I breathe 

                     color

untangle 

                    bones

                    be born 

die and be born 

again and again

 an  d  a  gain

comelatewind

arousebeloved

beyondancient
a  wildpatience

underwateragain

and again

turquoise 

                  hem

apricot 

                   linen

                  dream

I breathe

                  color

I won’t sing America

Re:  Langston Hughes' I, too, sing America
& Walt Whitman's I Hear America Singing

The flag that flew over the Occupation of Alcatraz 1969-1971, designed by Lulie Nall, a Penobscot Indian

I won't sing America, a villanelle

I am the white daughter

Told to mind my manners

Sit pretty and sing America.

Marry and have two kids, drive down

Streets lined with asphalt and concrete,

So fortunate to be the white daughter.

Pity the poor and ignorant: buy a gown,

Drink wine for charity and for me, drunkenly.

Why won't I sing America?

After all I got out of the kitchen, kind of, but still bound.

I dined with the company, abided his abuse and neglect

Rather than come clean: I am the white daughter

Photo'd with a smile at the lynchings in town.

(Wills signed and bank accounts prove it.)

Oh no, huh uh, I won't sing America.

Hold my hand. Feel my heart pound.

Don't pine away in fear and sorrow.

Say I am the white daughter and

I refuse, I won't sing America.

Retro 90s part 2

Cigarette butts

I walk city streets daily and see those butts everywhere: the number one item collected on coastal cleanup days that are so toxic to wildlife and the land and water. Someday (hopefully soon) tobacco users will have no filters or reusable filters or pipes only.

Here's a poem I wrote back in the 90s that helped me to finally get off cigarettes, after almost a decade of smoking. It's been on my mind lately...

Cigarette Still Life

in six parts 

I.

You of French spelling in packets of twenty: 

I   am   lured   by   your  co - lo - ni - al   charm 

like in the Hollywood movies of the U.S. of A. -

I am seduced by Bogart and Bergman in Morocco, 

and Hepburn on the Amazon.  I   am   hooked 

on your gold band and leopard-like filter. 

I dig your rising smoke in its swaying style. 

You are oh so sexy. I aspire to your power!

See me on my hands and knees praying 

for your most highest, precious grace...

II.

You got me Marlboro man, pioneer, rugged 

individualist. Won't you come on down 

from that billboard and take me away, 

far away, from these harsh city streets 

and sirens...

III.

Nah, I want to be the tough and fearless martyr. 

Joan of Arc must have smoked. There she is 

in the center of the city on her galloping horse, 

a hand-rolled cigarette dangling from her lips.

IV.

Cigarette Still Life look at what you've done: 

I wanna be working class and buy cartons on sale 

and chain smoke inside with the windows closed, 

the air conditioner on and watching my daily soap. 

Fuck you, you're the best with booze and dope. 

Damn you're cool in pool halls and roof tops.

V.

Oh, this suffering poet needs you my friend, 

my comfort late into the night and early or 

just about any time. Life would never be the same 

if you leave my side. Only a few bucks a day and 

I am filled with pleasure and contentment.

VI.

Cigarette Still Life: you lied to me in dying, old, 

addictive ways. You’re conniving, capitalist greed  

who  told  me  to  smoke  for  fun  and  adventure 

yet   you    are    the    same     boardroom     topic 

for targeting teenage girls. The same tobacco 

of The Slave Trade. The same arrogant asshole 

who smothers Indians and Mexicans. You are 

petroleum by-products, the freon and fiberglass. 

You're that creep on TV with the perverse smile!

You are the murderer of millions. You are death 

hidden behind a cloak labeled "freedom."

Abalone III

Pendant

on  a  brain  tanned                         

                        smoked  to  protect

deer  hide  strand,                                    

                   polished  and  notched 

                       by  Indigenous  hand.

Is it cultural
       
                  appropriation

to wear it?

                                     Real       and           

  

                                                  spirit 

                                               stories,  

                           ancestral       magic.

I   come   with                         

                                         the  hunger  of     

                                an   engine   rattling,

the  greed  of 

plastic   gyres    growing.

How  can  I  know  

loving

is   easy?

The Coup - My Favorite Mutiny ft. Black Thought of The Roots & Talib Kweli
http://youtu.be/FVwEmy1TJFU

Abalone II

Paddle

rain    

           sandhill     crane

elders   tell    Harrington    

words    for    water 

for  laugh

and 

danger.

                     Raw   and

                   border less

loneliness

disguised as

loveless ness

of lost landscapes,

pigeons and gulls.

Abandoned radioactive 

mine/d/s. A ridge. 

Coal arriving to port.

A 26-foot-tall saint

points west in faux sand-

stone on one knee, lying

about Neruda 

not lost to cancer

but  loving  us.

Bob Marley and the Wailers - Concrete Jungle - 11/30/1979 - Oakland Auditorium (Official)

http://youtu.be/BJpiEGzkcAc

    The Chaw Se' Roundhouse

    Pine Grove Volcano Rd, Sutter Creek, CA

Abalone I

Photo of Knowland Park from web search (unknown photographer)

In the needlegrass field

          by the fairy ring -        

                                              

how much can change

                         in a month?

 The mossy 

                     evergreen tree

bulldozed by

rare

                  manzanita,

maritime chaparral,   

                              chamise.                            

A chestnut-backed 

chickadee

and a flicker 

escape from

prolonged 

solitude:

how to build a 

roundhouse

and land trust.

How to avoid

hopeless ness,

a draft.

Nina Simone's Feelin' Good: https://youtu.be/D5Y11hwjMNs

    Photo above from Save Knowland Park website

    10/22/15 photo of the top of Knowland Park (of the Oakland Zoo new development)

PLUTO

We got the updates about You!

Photos from NASA on how Your 

heart shines, and Your five moons:

Charo - and we've heard Styx,


Nix, Kerberos, and Hydra -

that You're cold and distant, a

stygian money making machine

for the City's parasitic hills.


You're like the weeds hemlock and 

broom, who won't read this poem,

just here to command my attention.

Someday I'll learn how to listen.

À la recherche du temps perdu

OAKLAND 1994

Tony Toni Tone - Lay Your Head On My Pillow https://youtu.be/4b92-S8Qexk

Wheat-paste and spray paint over

rum ads we had just barely begun 

the biggest Free Fred on a billboard

when caught by the Lucky Florist man. 

We got away, like the three other times   

we told the po-po the art teacher said so.

They left us with the paint  and  buckets

except our friend Mexican-Indigenous hand-

cuffed and hauled off. She was roughed 

up. We  raised  bail  that same night  

in  jail she ate a  bologna on white 

bread  sandwich.  To  my  freedom-

loving  accomplices  who  know   

we  can  get   better:  Lay  your  head        

on  my  pillow  and  just  relax, relax, relax...

Urban pastoral

Often I am permitted to return to a meadow

as if it were a given property of the mind

that certain bounds hold against chaos,

                                       - Robert Duncan

concrete     pellitory    crack.     ONE  HAND  CAN

red      admiral      butterfly.  SNAP   RAZOR   WIRE 

dead   murres  and  gulls.   I'VE   BEEN  TRAINED 

egret        neck        asphalt.   BY   EXPERTS   WHO   

sparrow     house         finch.    COVER   THEIR   FACES

cigarette    butt      toad.     CLIMB   TALL   FENCES

August        creek       for   SWING  ROOF  TO  ROOF.

tag          spray          every-    RACCOON  CAN

body's     for       cash       SLIDE UNDER 

for     petroleum      oil.    SECURITY BARS

engines      for       whine     NO  ALARMS   SOUND

not        puffin       nest   COYOTE  HUNTS

rock        crevice      lament.   YOUR   CAT

"It's       not        dis-    AND  QUAIL

continued    just    out".  COMES   BACK.

Summer Inspiration

Some other poets' poems I've added for the solstice - postmodern pastorals of the west:    http://www.poems4nature.blogspot.com/p/other-poets-poems.html

Wendy Red Star's print (U.S., Crow; b. 1981), "Enit" 2010

Onomatopoeia

I'm tucking this poem away since my intention is as an Exquisite Corpse, which is yet to happen...any art form welcome if you want to add to it:

momentum of grace*

For Mumia Abu-Jamal, Sundiata Acoli, Leonard Peltier and the 2.3 million people in prison in U.S. 

         

                   
bodies     breathe

                                thick    walls
                           
                                             echo 

for   you          
           
                                            clary        

                                            sage

steamy

jacuzzi

                                         lemon 

                                           balm                                       

huckle-

berry      
    
                                       mountain

                                           stream

from   us

                                    a   million

                                          letters 

a   microphone

                 standing

                             room

           doors  

open

                                     heartbeat

                                         of   fire

elbow

              in   elbow                  

                                          a  line

                                       of   livid

love




*title is from Joy Harjo's poem Emergence                                        

Inspired by "Stay Tuned" Ai Weiwei's sound installation with music, poetry and spoken words by people who have been detained for expressing their beliefs: IN THE CELLHOUSE - A BLOCK   

TRIPLE BURNER

http://youtu.be/acT_PSAZ7BQ
Poets Theater at its finest. Made in Oakland, CA:)

METAL aka WIND

The Great Clod (the earth) belches out breath and its name is wind. So long as it doesn't come forth, nothing happens. But when it does, then ten thousand hollows begin crying wildly.

- Zhuangzi

EARTH

NI  PENA  NI  MIEDO

Without Pain or Fear

- Raúl Zurita

    Don't    You    Worry

      'Bout    A    Thing*



          midnight     blue    

     wild    lilac    bloom

     a    bowl    to    eat    

swollen     root     inner      

       bark     ripe    fruit

            recline    nearly
   
       naked     sunshine

               heart     easy    

     in     stream     near

mountain    meet    sea     

        spring     meadow

   

    Don't    You    Worry   

        'Bout    A    Thing

        cycles    of    leaf 

                fall     where
    
              your     songs    

                        nourish    

                mouth    and    

              warm     eyes       

          touch    luscious   

                            core

                   to    gravity

*from Stevie Wonder's 1973 album Innervisions: http://youtu.be/zywDiFdxopU