You left too soon (In memory of Jim)

Hey man,
You left too soon.
Nobody wanted you to go.
You should have asked before you left.

What's going on?
Was it getting hard?
We would have told you to stay.
The world goes on; but we're most bereft.

Sure, it was
up to you.
You're life was draining, I know.
Still this smacks of mortally unfair theft.

Hey man,
We're waiting, you know,
For you to come back, you know,
the door's still open.
We don't mind you took a rest.

But, okay, if you decide
to stay, if you feel a little better
far away, if you've found a better,
healing way

Well, good.
But let us know, somehow.
Tell us what you're doing, how you are.
Ah, but you've had your say, done your deeds.
You cleared a field upon this world
and closed the door.

We'll try to understand, that maybe this was planned, to go forever, to go
for good.
But hey man, you'll be missed, man, for what was best, for that was best.

Their Timeless Might

The Oregon coast of which I boast

has vista views so vast, I cannot grasp

the miles of waves, the strips of white,

their foamy fate, their timeless might.
The barren sweeping throbbing waste,

slow motion ripples, anti-haste.

And though I cannot be here when

those motions send their undulations

through the glare, purring forth in

rarified air ten, a hundred thousand

years from now, still I know

how they will look and sound and feel

if eyes and ears and nerves remain.

And so I see the future in this thing

of which I boast, this craggy, cliffy,

windy, sunny, this eternal Oregon coast.

3/11

The floor begins to slide beneath me, my heartbeat takes a lurch

No longer can my chair bequeath me safety on its perch

Minutes pass, minutes pass as on the floor instead

I strain for balance as I grasp the framing of the bed

In the stillness, in the waiting, more tremors haven't come

The pounding of my heart abating, damn earthquake's finally done

My evil princess

Your pretty eyes, beautiful smile
Oh, my evil princess,
I fell for you
When we touched, electrified
Oh, my fallen princess,
what did you do?

You Used to Run Across this Sand

You used to run across this sand

Your breath, your heat, your straw blond hair: the chemistry of you

impressed the sand, diverted waves, colored the air

An essence like flame, invisible in light,

a hearty presence at night amidst

the mist, glowing in the white halo of the moon,

against black water laced with white strips of roaming foam,

in forever rushing receding clunky roar

You, a swelling in the air, ghostly flower flame, still running, still girlish, still vital; still.

Oh, I touch the sand and feel your warmth

I ply the waves and feel your splash

I breathe the air and taste your breath

Your footprints are still here, and though long ago gone

you are still here:

separated from me only by time

Even nonsense rhymes will do

It doesn't matter what I write as long as I start
Even nonsense rhymes will do as long as they're tart
I say this plainly though it would make some cringe
But I don't really care as I'm out here on the fringe

You'd better not be leaving me too far from here
Then you'd have to catch me though I thought I'd made it clear
I would not be drawn back in again to take those pounding waves
Set off by every slipping fault, by all those stormy days

Writing nonsense like this has such a calming effect
But now that I'm trying to make those rhymes, the effect is wrecked
Doesn't really matter, I can still keep on trying to do this
I can always fall back on cliché, but that's so hit or miss

Ha, hah! I laugh to myself; that was a funny joke, wasn't it
Using a cliché to illustrate a cliché, I really must admit
that I'm cleverer than I thought, that these ideas just come to me
And here I am on this computer just giving it away for free

Now I'm wholly immersed in another world that really isn't another
It's a story that didn't really happen, though it kind of did, oh brother
The coincidences between the details and sudden remembrances
All those things that really happened are providing all the nuances

Remember now, it doesn't matter, I don't have to be Mr. Poet here
Just keep up the good work, keep up the good cheer,
Just a few more months and this long year will be up
As I type and stare at my coffee-filled cup

Ten or fifteen minutes walking in this searing morning heat
By the time I get here sweat is draining down my arms onto the street
They all say it's been unusually hot this summer but I think that's folly
These past few years have been mild, I say, it used to be this hot, by golly

I raise my gaze from tiles to the sky and run my eyes
from those tiles to the steel table, bushes, dirty white station, girder tower, white clouds, and icky blue sky
Not so keen on all this today, so I guess I'll just pretend
And since it doesn't matter what I write, on that note I'll end

Yesterday while drinking ice cold coffee at my table at Aobadai
I started reading through my B**** G*** story, and I don't know why
But even though I was not planning on finishing it until after my workout
Some phrases came to mind, and in a few minutes the ending came about

And a sad one, too, oh, the weight of a broken heart
Even though he hardly knew her, even though they hardly had a chance to start
She just walked away, maybe by instinct, tactic, I don't know, it was just so her
And though the story is over, I'm already thinking about the next chapter...

There again are those tiles, bushes, train station, tower, clouds, dirty blue sky
Through the other window is the train bridge over the road; doesn't say Miyazakidai
Says Kawasaki-shi Miyamae-ku in big black letters on a faint green background
I'm here because it's the only coffee shop around

Of course, I like my place, my table in the brightest place in Aobadai
Though it doesn't have to be there, there are those places from where I can spy
on the girls walking by the glass wall on the floor above, but must be careful not to stare
when they get too close in short skirts that fail from this angle to cover their und*rw**r

Oh, shut up. Yeh, I know I'm not supposed to get a kick out of that
I'm supposed to avert my eyes and pretend it's not something for me to look at
It's the way of the world, I guess, to claim one thing and do another, especially when it gets too hard
Oh, what do I care, I'm just typing here, trying to be a bard

Here I am at the Starbucks in Aobadai where I wrote an email to Rob
It's fun writing to him, because I think he understands things. He doesn't have a job
now and is writing music for his future as a musician. I hope he succeeds
If nothing else except for the motivation it in myself also breeds

I'm also creating a synthesis of all the versions of my Message in a Bottle story
All those attempts to follow editing and writing rules made me sorry
that I tried to fix it for public consumption, forgetting that it’s the storytelling
that will give pleasure, not the mechanics, which, though important, just keep things from jelling.

Still have 55% percent of my battery left. Pretty good since it's been three hours
But I feel a lunch coming on, guess I'd better go eat before the showers
What am I talking about, it's not going to rain today, or anytime soon
That's right, I did that for the rhyme, just like this next phrase: hey, it's almost noon

The other day I got to watch the number 10 ranked woman squash player hand out an ass-kicking
The guy looked like he didn't know what hit him, maybe he didn't know, but he got a licking
Of course I couldn't do much better, especially now, with everything hurting like they do
I still have to be very careful about twisting my leg like a screw.

I finished up Cosmic Time Warrior and did some more Time in a Bottle synthesis
It took just a few hours of work, well, not really work but play, not bad Chris
Gotta go back to my place, maybe type some in or practice guitar
Writing stories, writing music, writing manuals, which one will take me far?

Ugh, nonsense is nonsense, so is this spiral into the negative
Oh yeah, done this before, forget it, be positive
Just figure out an exit strategy, you can always go back to who you trust
How about some pie with crispy sweet crust

Look who won

White foam chases me across the sand
But I stay just out of reach
Until the sea recedes and leaves a band
of that white foam ― stranded on the beach

Deep Summer

Light recedes, shadows creep 'cross
Simmering city streets
Sidewalks cool in the shallows of the shade

Sultry days, swamp hot nights
This steamy teapot life
Her body slick with sweat as she gets laid

The Message in a Bottle (unfinished)

The message in a bottle weaves a trail through wind-blown bream
Bobbing and drifting among the swells
No light reflects, no darkness hides its voyage
on the generating stream


Until against the shallows rolling peaks begin to foam
Tilting and tumbling, collapsing waves
Swift breaking curls, chaotic mass, it rides
on the ever charging comb


While surfing on the dashing waves, it's finally thrown ashore:
when Sifting through boxes among the shelves
I knock one down, it breaks apart and spits
out her letter on the floor


My tingling fingers penetrate what I had set adrift
Pulsing and seething, the air recedes
the past bursts in, alive again, I reel
at the momentary rift


A fragrance wafting through the air conducts a pungent past
Phantoms and shadows recall themselves
Faint echoes claim their voice again, they form
a reconstituted cast


Now throbbing through my dusty blinds, the yellow streaming sun
Rhythm's familiar; I know that shade!
The almanac corroborates my claim
It's exactly the same one

Mourning Song

From this earth her beauty's passed,
and wracked by loss we weep in pain.
Vain tears of sorrow fill our eyes,
but unbeknownst to breaking hearts,
also blur our view
of that time, that place beyond this mottled, mortal world
where we will meet again.

If when you remember me

If when you remember me,

Whenever my form takes place in thee,

Tears flood your eyes in honor of me.

Then our bond shall never sever,

As merging with eternity,

I shall live forever

in your haunted memory

But when the light behind your eyes

goes out, when the world no longer tries

to wake you, when your memory finally dies,

Who will be there to remember?

Whose will will make sure ours survives?

Or will forever vanish

in the morrow's grave sunrise?

Birth of Time

Shan't a moment passes by
The leaves reflect the cloudy sky
The moment's gone and round again
Birth of time, now and then

Captured light falls through the trees
Sailing wind throws off a breeze
Shadows circling, bound for night
Time is creeping out of sight

Burning air and rainbow peaks
Orange red purple shimmers streak
Another chime, another way
For time to strike another day

2010

New year's in, old year's out.
I want to shout
with happiness
that that mess,
2010,
won't happen again.

Standing on a Sandy Cliff

Standing on a sandy cliff my face against the wind lines of white across the blue roaring in the din. Twilight promise of the night the boldest stars begin to light the swells whose nighttime glow beckons moonlight kin. Drawn by whispers of the breeze the ocean calls from deep within Alas, I must now turn away and say good-bye again.

The Leaping Sloop (or Over the Bar and Onward)

Pounding through the waves

jouncing like a cork

twisting in the churning rift

body-bending torque

Sinking dip, springing rise

sideways sudden jerk

back and forth across the moon

the mast swings half berserk

Praying it will stop

this voyage can't end too soon

I'll soon be flat out on my back

staring at that moon

Moonlight Soaked Swells

Moonlight soaked swells undulate,

Steely gray this summer's night.

White waves foaming penetrate

the dunes, I jump away too late.

Crabbing

Crab rings surface

Clattery crabs

Flipped back like Frisbees,
they row away

Rain is Falling Through the Air

  Rain is falling through the air, soaking up all sound
  Softy roaring rain, pouring pouring pounds the ground
  Tiny droplets dripping seeping slowly all around
  Earthworms creeping through the grass,
      to sidewalks they are bound

Oh, Those Critics

So qualified and full of sighs,
They cannot wait to criticize,
They know their stuff, these clever bards,
Their game were poker, then their cards
Would always be a royal flush
With all those jokers up the tush.
How could they lose, 'cause they're so wise?
Crouched to pounce should you generalize.
An easy win! Or is it so?
Cheap little victory, but don't they know
That every time we speak
We guide our brains to make the leap
Across the gorge between our words
and trace the course that must emerge. 

The Making of Carrion

In times of past the wings will fly;

and messages carried by pigeons on drafty winds

will, if in time, save the day, fewer will die,

or else vultures will fatten on splayed kings.

O'er such distance flown wrapped round tiny leg,

so urgently come, what must they say?

Rushed scribbles fuming terror, desperately beg:

"You know your dept, now you must pay."

Dark shadows shiver on frozen castle walls,

Torches hissing black smoke through flaming light

gather heroes to answer their dooming call,

air squeezed by dread and drained by whispered flight

Quiet orders prepare restless mounts.

Seers brought forth to foretell fate

quiver wordless as they count

the time left to those nearest Hades' gate.

While far away queering panic numbs

the courage in fleeing breasts. As pagan Mars

whips up the coming storm, they leave their young

to merciless conquerors for their swords to carve.

Evil nymphs out from the forest; they dare

to work their evil covered by terror's nettles,

their victims never knowing from where

the arrows came as to the earth they settle.

Culled victims mouth wordlessly to White Death

while nymphs rob their prey in remorseless theft,

losing all, violated until their last breath,

whence brute ogres spring from their lairs to drag away what's left

Sudden beguiling calm, is this respite?

or the receding tide sucked in by the seething

tidal wave? The silence: Might

the Gods show pity and intervene?

But hurrying demons harvest their last.

A fine yield it was and not much trouble.

The carnage is coming they know, and fast

as they retreat back to shadowy forest hovels.

And warrior waves crash in slaying, screams

terrorize the fleeing, their lives not long

as swishing axes leave bloody seams;

engaged in the timeless making of carrion.

And rescuer heroes on wheezing horses run,

eyes fixed ahead, but they cannot see

the last few minutes of their lives that are done;

and whose carrion will nourish a sapling tree.

------------------------------------------------------------

that grows up high over hundreds of years,

spreading wide branches whose leaves enchant

us as we retell this tale of long dried tears,

shaded from the sun on green grass so fragrant.

Does it matter anymore what happened here?

Does its tranquility mock unfathomed history?

In a distant flash of time men would die for things so dear,

and be forgotten for the rest of eternity.

------------------------------------------------------------

And their carrion has fed this tree,

Where we sit so comfortably.

The quiet breeze, the soothing calm,

Where we live so joyfully,

Where they died so terribly.

Oh, Site of carnage, unconsoled fear,

Coated by time, the tumor has disappeared.

And no one knowing what fate did here.

What does the caressing breeze conceal?

And a casual dig ... reveal?