A Visual Poem
Congratulations, Elizabeth Herron, Sonoma County's New Poet Laureate (2022-2024)
Here are 3 wonderful poems by Elizabeth
Memphis
Sleeping in the narrow bed in his study,
surrounded by his books,
I think of my father’s hands,
a scholar’s hands -- still,
hands that fixed the toaster, hands that
took apart and put back together.
Through the open window
on the clear cold wind after rain, the long
whistle of a train coming
closer, then passing.
This morning beside his hospital bed –
honey rose opening, the blessing
of falling away from old hurt.
The maw of grief already waiting,
Love, I said, pretending I am not afraid.
surrounded by his books,
I think of my father’s hands,
a scholar’s hands -- still,
hands that fixed the toaster, hands that
took apart and put back together.
Through the open window
on the clear cold wind after rain, the long
whistle of a train coming
closer, then passing.
This morning beside his hospital bed –
honey rose opening, the blessing
of falling away from old hurt.
The maw of grief already waiting,
Love, I said, pretending I am not afraid.
Wishbone
They aren’t quiet, the dead. We hear
their clamor, words jammed and jostled,
so we don’t know who’s talking
and who’s talking back.
From the four directions
we gather our drawn limbs and our wits.
The day reassembles itself
in the singularity of each rock, each
pair of eyes, a sunny sky. Well,
here we are in the post-post world
with its glassy silence. Our tongues
have been mended, but what can we say?
Most silent is Dear Innocence -- a barge for her
laden with lilies, roses and rosemary.
Look at her face, eyes wide as heaven
in surprise. She’s dead!
But she won’t shout with the others,
whose interrogations and insults
trouble even the dark. We close her eyes
with a moonstone over each socket,
so she will know the gaze
of her own bovine love. We did
the best we could for her.
She wore you thin as a wishbone.
She wore me thin as a whip.
their clamor, words jammed and jostled,
so we don’t know who’s talking
and who’s talking back.
From the four directions
we gather our drawn limbs and our wits.
The day reassembles itself
in the singularity of each rock, each
pair of eyes, a sunny sky. Well,
here we are in the post-post world
with its glassy silence. Our tongues
have been mended, but what can we say?
Most silent is Dear Innocence -- a barge for her
laden with lilies, roses and rosemary.
Look at her face, eyes wide as heaven
in surprise. She’s dead!
But she won’t shout with the others,
whose interrogations and insults
trouble even the dark. We close her eyes
with a moonstone over each socket,
so she will know the gaze
of her own bovine love. We did
the best we could for her.
She wore you thin as a wishbone.
She wore me thin as a whip.
Dust of Life
Bui doi they called the half-American
children of Vietnamese women, dust
of life. I learned this the day I heard
a baby was found alive in a trash compactor--
the same day a homeless man died
when the dumpster he was sleeping in
was picked up by the truck.
Dumpsters are warm because decomposition
is an active process. That might be what
kept the baby alive. The homeless man slept
perhaps like a baby. I lie awake
and rummage the dust and refuse
of my mind. It offers up what it can. Tonight
I forgive myself
for not being able to spin straw to gold
or make shoes, or sing a baby to sleep.
children of Vietnamese women, dust
of life. I learned this the day I heard
a baby was found alive in a trash compactor--
the same day a homeless man died
when the dumpster he was sleeping in
was picked up by the truck.
Dumpsters are warm because decomposition
is an active process. That might be what
kept the baby alive. The homeless man slept
perhaps like a baby. I lie awake
and rummage the dust and refuse
of my mind. It offers up what it can. Tonight
I forgive myself
for not being able to spin straw to gold
or make shoes, or sing a baby to sleep.
The Luna's Book
Please take a look at this tender heartfelt book by my friend Washington poet Chris Luna and his son Angelo. It would make a wonderful Father's Day (or any day) present. Exchanging Wisdom
George Carlin's Philosophy on His End of Days
I highly recommend that you watch the two part completely honest HBO documentary George Carlin's American Dream. All of you are quite familiar with the great comedian/philosopher. HBO does a deep dive into Carlin. I loved it! Take a look here at Carlin's bleak final views on the prospects for the human race.
Photos From Cafe Frida Reading(s)
Please send me more if you have them.
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