Lucky Mud

 
          God made mud.  God got lonesome.
          So God said to some of the mud, “Sit up!”
          “See all I’ve made,” said God, “the hills, the sea,
          the sky, the stars.”
          And I was some of the mud that got to sit up and
          look around.  Lucky me, lucky mud.
          I, mud, sat up and saw what a nice job God had
          done.  Nice going, God.
          Nobody but you could have done it, God!
          I certainly couldn’t have.  I feel very unimportant
          compared to You.  The only way I can feel the least
          bit important is to think of all the mud that didn’t
          even get to sit up and look around.
          I got so much, and most mud got so little.
          Thank you for the honor!

          Now mud lies down again and goes to sleep.
          What memories for mud to have!

          What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud
          I met!  I loved everything I saw!

               Kurt Vonnegut, Cat’s Cradle
 
 
Gravity.

Attraction begins at the feet.
 
 
Do we dare?  I’m unsure how to say this – polite.  Could I be more clever than I am?  More or less by my own words?  So forgive, as you see fit.  Not only the sky is overcast right now.  Me included.  Forcasted, fog.

Pardon the lengthy quote.  But seems it translates better stated whole, top to bottom-ish.  Sometimes I read and think I have a real-life glimpse.  
Sometimes I forget.  Sometimes a lot.  And god or not-god, this stance is about our response to living.  So Christian or Buddhist or whatsoever don’t matter here.  Allow yourself to receive and see how this fits on you.

We will, we do, make some immediate measure of judgement.  But so much as you can, save that for five minutes after reading is done.  Do these garments linger on your skin?  Can we really – really – know till we welcome the visit whole heartedly?  No drama.  Listening is a gift we give ourselves.
 
 
Isn’t it odd?  I feel my most genuine self when engaged with other people.  Yet what source am I?

What’s the right time for what feelings we allow to roost within?  Not uncommonly I’ve used the word “hate” to colorize, emphasize many of the situations and events in my life.  Make me look bigger.  Bigger than what’s perceived as threat, even discomfort as well.  Two lessons learned.  Who feels that texture, that taste on the lips, that sense of less-than-wellbeing?  Yea, obvious.  And more of personal lost grace, is that extreme attitude really what I mean?  Do I hate the can of cat food I spill on the floor, the slow motion customer in the checkout line in front of me, the person who cut in line ahead of me?  Do I hate the overcast grey sky above?  Do I really hate the weather?  It’s an emotional dishonesty.  And habit takes no measure of appropriateness or desirability.  Buyer beware!

Be honest about what you say.

And the mirror stance here?  Gratitude.  In its active form, generosity.

Decades past I worked on a project that put me ground-zero in Portland’s skid-row district.  Spare me some change, a common refrain we were asked.  My partner and I did some initial agonizing about the “right” course of action.  Would a handout just buy them another cheap bottle of wine?  Were we suckers to give in to their request?  Then it dawned on us!  What if their request story was not true?  What precisely was our sin if we give them money?  Simple.  Our sin was being generous!  If they lied, that’s on them, not us.  We became at ease to respond however felt appropriate in the moment.  Just say what you want, leave the “story” in a bag.  Someone asks for your help (big or small). What do you do?

I want to choose gratitude.  I want to choose generosity.

Suppose I got reasons to fret or worry or adopt ingratitude.  Blood gone astray, seriously.  It has been (and present tense) a challenge to attitude.  No matter.  Every day, another choice.  If any prayer is worth my time, then pray, may I choose gratitude.  No vacation.  No days off.
 
 
choose.  where does choice happen?  describe that who and where and when.

Feeling like kind of a long story here.  Maybe sometimes repetition serves receiving?  I can also feel my own resistance to allowing simple notions to have their moment of truth.  Oh no, that doesn’t apply to – me.  That’s something I can’t really do.  Iceberg tips.  Till I take something full onto my skin, I can’t see if I even really really understand.  Call it an unashamed trial.

And there’s an issue about being naive and being gullible.  Give it up!  Life is bigger than doubts.
 
 
Gratitude.   Generosity.   What is the left hand here?   Appreciation.   choice.

 
 
          What interesting other kinds of sitting-up mud
          I met!  I loved everything I saw!

balance

  
standing on the balcony.
well below body temperature.  I feel.  a token name.
moisture squeezes from sky above.

feet on damp wood, there at one end of me.
legs like wooden stilts.  do they bend?

relax posture from bone to muscle.  feel.
feel tension discover itself.  upright.
two legs.  pillar pairs.  wordlessly ripe.

one center in between.
that’s where weight is held in breath.
a little more here.  then there.

balance.  amazing.  amazing.

uplift.  erosion of doubt.  surprising.

balance moves is the truth.

leaves with feet, traveling

everything close is close to me

there’s a fondness I have for things near my feet
 
 
Thanks rendered to Ren Powell for her intimate photographic essay entitled Left.  Observationally brilliant.  When this poems first blog started, I’d not thought to include anything other than purely language poems, clean and focused.  But I’m coming to recognize the lack-in-generosity of that content filtering.  So here this photo image in kin response to Ren’s imagining (my thanks, and while looking for something else, found this cousin of that image and so here presented, in sighted appropriate kind I think).

neil, december 2020

Saving mother

 
Maybe this time I’ll rescue my Mother.
Pearl Harbor will just be a sleepy port of call.
Nobody came & nobody went away from home.
Nothing lost.  No wedding bells.

We’ll gaze at the mist of plum blossoms
on the wide valley floor.  Feed my lambs, someone
said.  Someone loves like wind.  No shunted hopes,
no brown uniform thrown on the bed.

His face won’t be in that photograph.
His face won’t look like mine.  Nothing
gambled, lost in the high desert dust.
No frozen clothes on a winter line.

Brothers will just be brothers, won’t
go speechless in the silent light of home.
Although that one of them, he’ll still
go to Alaska on a tall sail ship.

He’ll still die, an artful youth of a man.
Some things just gotta be.  Else no
wonder of clay, no sister on my desk.

Maybe Grandfather & Grandmother
will harvest ample roots on the rock-strewn
sides of farmers hills.  No drought.

Maybe Mother will land covered in Spring rain.
 
 
Maybe she’ll smile, never knowing
I changed everything, including me.
 
 
 
read footnotes about this poem

trees in the forest

        what is body doing now?

my body is feeling gravity.  my feet, the dirt.  my hands, my tail, the metal bench.  my body is moving blood.  shake it down into fingertips.  see the pink emphasis.  my body is moving food.  or is food moving, twisting and turning my bodies path.  my body is moving air.  feel the breeze in nose then throat.  pressure inside.  greater than.  swallow the atoms we want to keep.  see breath in cool morning air, reflecting out of me.

my eyes are seeing trees.  seeing leaves, thinking autumn falling down, seeing stone made by hand, seeing knees, seeing hands.  seeing a woman crossing the street, then two men.  seeing bright across the street and above, seeing shadow, like thoughts sometimes.  seeing birds, only in swift glancing flight.  seeing the time of light, seeing change.

my hands are holding shapes.  sculpting shapes.  tenderness.  curiosity.

        here, come close.

skin feels air.  more at the back of my neck when I don’t wear a hat.

my feelings feel thinking, but thinking does not think feelings, just impressions the way water does.  horse and buggy would be an analogy.  feelings feel in several voices all at once.  feelings keep moving south and west and east and north.  is it a matter of heart?

when a tree in the forest falls, the forest feels it fall.  relationship.  
relationship holds us to its breast.  be at ease I inform myself.

and sleep becomes the mirror image of that breath.

no promises

 
maybe it’s not so easy living that meditation wherein we see ourselves in all we see.  clouds and trees and a lady opening her refrigerator door in the dark of evening time.  and gravity.  and home.  the pages of a book.
 
 
      what is, is. what isn’t, isn’t.
 
 
maybe I should say how writing began for me?
should I say prayer?  or say meditation, if that’s a more comfortable word.

      I asked what should I do next in life?

no break in the clouds, no ray of light, no god speaking from afar.  yet a day later one word came in reply to me.

      write

no italics.  no quotation marks.  no period ending dot.

just that one doing-ness to do.  nothing else.  nothing else.
not what to write.  poems were my choice.  not write well.  not write and publish.  nothing else.

not write and heal the world.  nor even heal me.  maybe one cat or a few,
but that’s not a poems realm, just my own.
not write and be well read.  certainly no fame.
not write and fix my car.
not write and do my laundry.
not write and change what language says.
not write and not grow old.
not write and fix my broken blood.
not write and live another day.  maybe today will do.
not write and be loved.  but maybe, maybe, writing -is- loving.
not write and be satisfied.
not write and be happy.

I think I know what was meant by that first word.

I’ve always likened it to father asking me to go mow the lawn please son.
and with gratitude, I did.  I do.

because I was asked.  because it is my honor to respond.  a very good word
is simply – yes.

now my living depends upon the medicine I daily take.  there is another layer in how I look, how I see the world.  invisible until you arrive.

maybe my words will break.  but not yet.  not yet.  and I think I’ll keep mowing the lawn.
 
 
maybe we are meant to live with our insides out?

frontier

 
      I’m your neighbor, I’ll just be listening.
          Something like Loneliness 01
 
we could say boundary, yet frontier seems more right, border seems more right.  more untouched.  more close as breath.  more fertile.
ten fingers, two hands, arms, shoulders, one neck.

I rather like putting new words in the dirt for a while.  let them get dusty and ripe.

a border is where we watch people change.  here people and there people.  fluid the way warm butter is.  tangential.

injuries.  broken leg, four years old, broken wrist, broken kidney twice, broken hearts, broken door, broken blood, broken cure.  keeping this list of injuries.

what is your list of immaculate dangers?

does head know hands, as likewise, hands know feet?

how close is close enough?  would you answer differently one year ago?
one mouth, one nose, two ears to touch.  audible.

writing is meditation.

spoken in public, it reminds me of new and better hope.

if margins are about edges, there’s the edge of a cliff.
my solar plexus is a kaleidoscope moving south.

is there a geography in how you feel being here, being you?  is there a north and a south?  maybe tiger stripes.  are there independently minded states of self?  any civil war declared?

here too, look see, there’s a fracture in the universe.
it’s attention that motivates the flow of time.  and identity.
two eyes, one chin, one brow, two lips spoken aloud.

are you alone in a crowd?  who is the you that feels alone?
who is the who you keep talking to?  who of you speaks first?

are we made of one substance or many, in body and in mind?

blessings.  dawn alone in Pacific Grove, better friends than myself, being loved, being, saving that one seven-year-old picture of me, my cowboy hat, a pocketful of ceramic buttons, listening, listening.  words.

forgetting.  then.  remembering the two of us like a seventh wave.

material is mostly empty space.  as they say.  so then, what’s space?
is space substance?  is there no being alone?  are we bubbles, you and me?  two traces of silver thread?

meditation is writing this.

like the world needs wolves.
 
 
 

01 Something like Loneliness is a short film directed by Seth and Ben Epstein, and based on the award winning play by Ryan Dowler.
 
 
credit where due, thanks to Ren Powell and her Nothing But Metta4, Fish Pose, for starting this ball rolling downhill.

must be elephants

the thing about making things hidden is to put them right in front of your nose.  that’s said by experience.  literal.  figurative.

if I’m kind, I’ll give attention as observational, rather than judgmentally.  habit wiggles its ears, entering the room.  tonight I think, I’d rather not even observe with a mind to correct.  would that be ungenerous to simple honest seeing sight?

there was a point, young-time, and specifically so, when I changed.  long recognized as pivotal, yet equally so, untouchable.

a black cowboy hat with white trim, a sheriffs badge, (and sorry, but) a holster and toy gun.  no boots, just shoes.  I was a walking talking dream on my sleeves.  but costumes are symbols for water running deeper than common sight – props are just props, but past wet roots is an answer to the question of not what – not about furniture – but who.

I remember the day.  I was young.  suppose no one yet had ever said an unkind word to me.  thus ill prepared, another kid said something to invalidate my fantastical view of life.  just now the feeling – what was damaged was my sense of the poetry of myself, my life in whole.  and yea, my choice, feeling smaller, feeling judgmentally curbed.

how did it really feel?  my happiness went to sleep.

alright, no discussion heals history.  neither is that why I am here.  what I always left tabled when remembering was & is who was I before my path went another and half-hearted, blinds pulled down sort of way.

when I looked I looked no further than the point of change!

anger has had more appeal than a wondering thirsty sight.  is it about vibration?  confusing calm versus a loud noise?  even today I notice some second glances when confrontation’s in the neighborhood.  but it’s the traditional ice that once sank a boat.  mostly underwater.

I’ve both fondness and faith in free-association.  reasons might render understanding, but no illumination.  it is more than embarrassing to forget so thought-fully, so shadowless.  maybe a notion in palm of simple kindness?  do I wonder what that child would think of me now?  but more my place to hold the sugar here in place?  forgiveness.  generosity.
 
 
looking is not a passive process.
 
what you bring becomes a lens.
 
 
there’s a notion that much of our sense of self is rope-bound onto place and people.  change those two and history takes a break.  I never did that intentionally but by circumstance.  moving home, arriving seven hundred miles from my life time geography, a different me came into the light.  what was discomfort was now nourishing.

maybe enough, saying hello to a ghost?

vocabulary

generosity associate face-to-face steadfast dilation
wonder wide wider home burning log windowing
ferryboat feathers wings.
 
 
 
first fingers float ocean sea water boat parent speaks
photographic paragraph one & only sight crescent moon
fatherless sand & fruit.
 
 
 
what’s in-between in-between?
there’s a way of wonder, what was
what before a thought.
 
 
 
define tree wind breath motion breathe
nose & mouth and eyes, higher up.
 
 
 
vibrate voice parse confluent
ice cream pie the number two.
 
 
 
eyebrow thoughts, disperse.
 
 
closer lips, illuminate.

here, swallow this

the elephant in the room.

what you swallow becomes what you think.
what you swallow becomes what you feel.

Monday, that’s the when I said I’d begin,
begin taking my new medicine.  three pills.

more than enough.

ten in the evening to be precise.  here,
set the alarm.  distractions are easy for me.

the brain is a survival machine.  but,
define the kaleidoscopic notions of survival.
in one way, that means maybe no pills
instead.  resistance is futile, they say.

imagination is painting paths that include
no harvest of medicines.  how do I get out
of these ropes?  consequences?  yes.

I’m not much for dramatic decisions.
but thoughts are busy butterflies.

the hour approaches.  years past when
they first said cancer I was not afraid.
still not.  but here, creative thoughts.

unkind.  ungenerous.  unconnected.

my blood is becoming confused and sour.
the remedy is toxic too.

do, don’t do.  I think I already know.
but I’m a cat in water with no traction
out.

when my mother’s late life dementia
became severe.  cruel in a manner of
thoughtlessness, better just letting go,
came the thought.

but really, would this be the last sunrise,
the last sunset?  not easy then to say.
not then.  not now.

reasons to go.  better reasons to stay.
let the universe call me home when
it wants.  I have a different job.

when it comes to writing poems I have
only one real rule.  don’t lie.

tell me, where do you see Paradise?

I may fall away from good seeing, but
that is me being blind.  the universe is
eyes open.  no fear.  no lies.  don’t lie.
 
 
      love loves difficult things  01

      the answer to joy is life
      the answer to sadness is being
      the answer to promise is spirit
      the answer to pain is love
 
 
good boy.  nice elephant.
 
 

01 This poem is a rephrasing of All This Joy written by John Denver.

    If life is a question, then the answer is…