lilacs again... lilac haiku

lilacs courtesy of Tamra J. Parker of Tam's Think Tank

after two years, our baby lilac blooms again in a mass of changing purples.

i am become all sweetness
i sigh with flowers
a slow push of hues

purple seeks lilacs
deep and full of fruit
slowly color fades to scent

so like these lilacs
i am deep and dark
warm light gathers to softness

flood the air with scent!
i lose consciousness
to all but blooming lilacs

SoundClick: My Blowgun Is My Best Friend

Recorded with Ron a few years ago and resurrected with a magic widget... :>>)) I want to do more, and hope to get working on that...

Fatigue and Sickness

Ooooh, so tired.
No matter how much sleep
I get, it's always the
same bald sense of fatigue.

The cat won't wake up
under the umbrella of curtain.
She lies all day, barely turning,
then with hardly a cat stretch of
arm, she gracefully slides
from sill to side table
to floor to mosey over to
her kibble dish, then back to
her perch to sun herself in the
graying light of a rainy
spring morning.

I'm hardened into this couch
like someone broke by madness.
I've broken the clock and the
bank of all the minutes I've
wasted lying here in this dark
room with a tv drone and a
time bomb to help me
remember my pills.

Not even wanting to hear
your footfall on the stair,
for you to come home from
the piano lessons you give to
hyperactive children and
fascinating men and women,
to attend to me with food
and drink and a little bit of
talk before you must take
your daily nap.

I'd rather be alone like
this princess kitty who
bristles at my hand, who
jerks awake with peeping
eyes and stiffened back,
and I look at her and say,
"Sorry, darling, I was
feeling a little guilty."
(Perhaps how you feel
when you must attend to
your own needs.)

Then I lay back down,
assume the position, and
wistfully, irritably, uncomfortably
fall into the arms of Morphée.

French Postcard Series

Recently, my partner Ron took photographs of all my original artwork that I've done over three plus decades. These four canvases are postcard size and were painted with an eye on four antique french postcards, using black and white watercolors. Of all my art, if i had to choose, these paintings would be my favorites. The first represents Brittany (Bretagne) for me; the second a pious little town with a lovely church, perhaps Amiens; the third warm southern France with an orange grove; and the fourth, la Dame Paris herself. Which one are you most attracted to?

Iraq Haiku Series I: Iraqi

photo is public domaine from the u.s. department of defense

Memorial Day, 2009

from the time they came
these bloodless soldiers
nothing was ever the same

greed starts wars and kills
à table drinking their fill
we lost our children

haliburton first
then a vast global empire
drank iraqi blood

iraq is undone
women weeping blood for years
lost generation

do not turn away!
it is our home and our blood
help us to rebuild


go to Iraq Haiku Series II: American Soldier here

Iraq Haiku Series II: American Soldier

here at this check point
i stop each car with raised gun
women and children

i can't speak the tongue
what the hell does this man want?
he's waving his arms

we get tips at night
of terrorist insurgents
take no prisoners!

we put hoods on them
to keep them quiet, i scream
shut up and listen!

stop i said stop stop!
but none of them understood
i had no options

second iraq deployment
where else would i go?
what else do i know?

you get used to it:
four thousand brothers have died
i must stop whining


go to Iraq Haiku Series III: Female Soldier here

Iraq Haiku Series III: Female Soldier

why won't he leave me
always there licking his lips
like an animal

i wanted to serve
am i just a vagina?
am i just a girl?

who will save me now
that i'm meat for the slaughter?
who will watch my back?

i ought to report
how he stalks me everywhere
yet i'm too afraid

he's got lots of friends
they laugh when i walk past them
captain, will you care?

captain, my captain
i don't feel safe anymore
i'm in two war zones


go to Iraq Haiku Series IV: Refugee here

Iraq Haiku Series IV: Refugee

i am in jordan
but i am not jordanian
rights are limited

there are but six left
my husband is dead
so are his and my parents

my children buy bread
they beg on the road
i'm afraid to leave this room

it is i and five
and each one hungry
today i will try harder

i will wait in line
with ten thousand iraqis
and ask them nicely

other young widows
line the marketplace
we hope for coins, in'sh allah

i want to go home
to my relatives
still scattered like desert palms

i am alive but
i just want to die
to lie beside my husband

it is night in Amman
a cool noiseless breeze
blows through cut-out windows

maybe there is hope
perhaps a letter
comes from loved ones in basra

i will wait and watch
soon we will return
i have promised my children


go to Iraq Haiku Series V: Child Martyr here

Iraq Haiku Series V: Child Martyr

i am floating now
above the wreckage
i am free to come and go

mother is at home
she is making our couscous
she breathes in its steam

sister is sewing
a tattered pant's cuff
from my brother's hand-me-downs

i am the baby
the one coddled tight
the light in everyone's heart

mountains rise and rivers flow
cities are spilling
with cars and people

i do not feel pain
as i float past you
i am beyond all pain now

my white-red garments
fall down to the ground
i am a naked angel

my mother adds salt
and raisins to the couscous
sister is singing

brother runs to me
or what was once me
but i'm free to come and go

i bend my two arms
into a breaststroke
i dive headlong into sky

pure iraqi sky
where prayers rise up
like the sweet steam of couscous


go to Iraqi Haiku Series I: Iraqi here

mon amour à moi

pour ron walker, le dernier homme de ma vie

mon homme, je le déteste quand
nous parlons de la mort
je ne veux pas aller par là
penser à notre départ parce que
ma vie ne vaudrait rien sans la vôtre
qui a compris des belles choses,
trop à énumérer, sans parler
du visage que j'aimais tant
et vos boites pleines débordantes
de toutes vos créations qui me parlent:

les articles que tu coupais chaque jour
du journal sur les transports et les ponts
les ports et l'Astoria que tu adorais
avec ses bateaux de pêche roulants sur
la grande fleuve columbia et puis calme
sans aucun mouvement, des mouettes criants
en sillonant dans le ciel gris-noir foncé
mais tu n'étais jamais triste quand il pleuvais
même à Paris quand nous voyagions
à la mauvaise saison

tes disques durs pleins de jouets à acheter
tu étais toujours enthousiaste pour la jeunesse
tes avions de bois que tu as donnés au petit fils
mais tu as gardé tous les trains et leurs rails
pour le petit village que tu ne rêvais que de construire
et les voitures anciennes, vielles dames américaines
et les deux-chevaux citroën, les deuch que tu aimais
dans l'époque à Paris avec la sombre petite amie
ton premier amour dans les années soixante-dix
et à Barcelone tu es tombé amoureux d'Europe
mais tu perdais ta jeunesse en face la traître de
ton propre cœur car tu as choisit une autre femme
puis regrettais ton choix mais trop tard, mon vieux
tu as appris un tas de choses dans cette aventure
et avec moi tu as pu retrouver ta jeunesse
et ces trains qui s'en sont allés
et ces trains qui reviennent

tant de cartes-mémoire pleins de musique
dont je ne sais absolument pas comment écouter ou
sur quelle machine de ton techno génie
car tu suivais chaque innovation comme si c'était
la première fois sur ton premier instrument
mais je pourrais entendre toutes tes chansons
si je fermais les yeux en silence
le silence que tu cherchais toujours
mais qui t'échappait à cause de l'acouphène
comme tu souffrais de cela, en voyant
tous tes jolis sons deviennent des fracas!
mais tu n'arrêtais jamais de composer et
peut-être c'était ça qui t'a sauvé à la fin

j'ai joué de ta musique un jour dans
les corridors du congrès dans la capitale
beaucoup de gens m'approchaient, demandant
"quelle est cette belle musique?"
et j'ai parlé de toi et de ton talent pendant
des heures et il y a une joie dans
cet immeuble orné de l'or sans que
personne ne comprennent de quoi qu'il s'agit
c'étais de toi, mon amour, et je me suis demandé
pourquoi tu n'es jamais devenu célèbre
puisque, oui, il y avait un temps où tu avait été
mais que tu l'évitais après ce temps car
tu n'aimais ni l'ego ni le jazz comme ça

et puis tes photos prises
à toutes les saisons, tu as eu d'elles
des extases et des blessures sans limites
que la vie te donnait en essayant de
comprendre chaque facette, chaque geste
et tes vidéos et pellicules en 16mm
des diapos, de carton en carton
de toutes les jeunes années
et de toutes tes petites jolies femmes
toi si beau et si mince comme tu étais
le jour ensoleillé de l'été où
j'ai fait ta connaissance, presque sage
presque garçon, avec ta grosse moustache
que tu as coupé car elle pinçais mes lèvres

tu étais toujours gentil et patient
avec moi la rock star qui
ne pouvait pas m'arêter de parler
ou de pleurer ma mauvaise chance
mais tu m'as dit, "mais si, c'est vrai"
et tu m'as emmenée vers la guérison, toi
et tes fortes bras qui me tenaient quand
j'étais trop brisée pour me soutenir
tu me berçais dans la nuit
quand mes larmes coulaient d'acide
jusqu'à ce qu'elles se gêlent enfin
et que je m'arrête de pleurer
sauf qu'un autre pleure

tu m'as appris à écouter, et tes léçons
ont fait de moi ce que je n'avais jamais espéré
je pouvait croire dans la constance des étoiles
je dirais plus tard à quelqu'un, "tu peux savoir
que demain est un autre jour, et que chaque pas
que tu fait pour comprendre le soi
te fait grandir plus que tu le saches
et l'amour va venir juste pour toi, c'est sûr

après que vous serez parti,
je ne verrai qu'une montagne de ton oeuvre
au sommet de laquelle je me serais assise
et je crois que je ne bougerai plus
car bouger s'annonce quelque chose de vivant
et après que vous serez parti, il n'y aura plus de ça
il n'y aura qu'un énorme bouché funéraire
et moi à l'intérieur: mais non
il n'y aura pas de feu non plus
car il me faudra vous livrer au monde
qui en aura, comme moi auparavant, tant de besoin
et vos boites pleines de jolies choses
trop à énumerer, pour comprendre
quelque chose qui ne mourira pas

my love, my own (translation)

for ron w., the last man in my life

my man, i hate it when
we talk about death
i don't want to go there
to think about our leaving because
my life would be worth nothing without yours
comprised of so many beautiful things
too many to enumerate, without speaking of
the face i loved so much
and your boxes full to overflowing
with all your creations that speak to me:

the articles you cut out everyday
from the newspaper about transportation and bridges
ports and the Astoria that you adored
with its fishing boats rolling on
the great river Columbia, and then calm
without any movement, the seagulls crying
circling the cloudy sky of deep gray-black
but you were never sad when it rained
even in Paris when we traveled in the bad season

your hard drives full of toys to buy
you were always an enthousiast for childhood
your wooden planes you passed along to our grandson
but you had to keep all the trains and their rails
for the little village that you only dreamed of building
and the classic cars, old American Dames
or the Citroën 2cv that you loved
from your time in Paris with Marla
your first love back in the 70s
and in Barcelona you fell in love with Europe
but you lost your youth in the face of the traitor of
your heart when you chose another woman
then regretted your choice but too late, old man
you learned a lot of things during that adventure
and with me you were able to find your youth again
and the trains that went away
and the trains that come back

so many memory cards full of music
which i have no idea how to play or
on which machine of your techno genius
because you followed each innovation as if it were
the first time on your first instrument
but i would be able to hear all your songs
if i were to close my eyes in silence
the silence that you always sought in
in nature on the banks of the river
but that escaped you later due to tinnitus
how you suffered from that, in seeing
your pretty sounds become prickly things!
but you never stopped composing and perhaps
it was that which saved you in the end

i played your music one day in
the corridors of congress in the capital
many people approached me, asking
"what is that beautiful music?"
and i spoke of you and your talent for
hours and there was a joy in
that building decorated with gold without
anyone understanding what it denoted:
it was you, i asked myself
why you had never become famous
and then, that there was i time when you were
but that you avoided it now because
you didn't like ego and jazz like that

and then your photos taken
in all the seasons, you had
ecstasies and wounds that
that life gave you as you tried to
understand each facet, each gesture
and your videos and 16mm film cans
slides, box on box
of all the young years
and all your petite women
and you so beautiful and thin like you were
that beautiful day of summer when
when i made your acquaintance
almost boy, with your fat mustache
that you cut because it pinched my lips

you were always kind and gentle
with me the rock star who
could never stop talking
or crying about my bad luck
and you said, "but yes, it was true"
and lead me toward healing, you
and your strong arms that held me when
i was too broken to support myself
you rocked me in the night
when my tears flowed acid
until at last they froze
and i stopped crying
except someone else cry

you taught me to listen and your lessons
made of me what i could never hope
i could believe in the constancy of the stars
i would say later to someone, "you can believe
that tomorrow is another day and
each step you take to instruct yourself
makes you grow more than you know
and love is going to come just for you, for sure"

after you will be gone
i will see only a mountain of your work
at the summit of which i will be sitting,
and i believe i will not move anymore
because to move denotes something living
and after you will be gone, there will be no more of that
there will be only an enormous funeral pyre
and me at the interior: but no
there will be no fire either
because i will have to deliver you to the world
that will, like me before, have need of you
and your teeming boxes of pretty things
too many to enumerate

Poetry article features Tattoo and Brooks

I was very pleased to be one of the poets featured in an article about poetry opportunities on Oregon's north coast (including SW Washington) in this week's "Coast Weekend", a weekly insert of the Daily Astorian newspaper, written by Kathy Hightower of the Manzanita Writers series. She included one of my older poems in French, "Prière", with translation and my blog address, amazing! Congratulations also to Laura Ann Brooks, a new member of the pre-Simulationism website, who was also featured with a great poem and who facilitates our Wednesday poetry workshops in Astoria.

http://coastweekend.com/main.asp?SectionID=2&SubSectionID=2&ArticleID=42322&TM=66631.41

tu me manques entre

pour Alain
(glossary below)


the moon is cut in half in
that fat blue-gray of sky before
all the light goes out of it
that line in-between dusk and
darkness: the sky does not open
up at all like they promised
no rent in heaven but the sound
of a torrent on tin that fills me
with deepening sadness

and your music in my head doesn't
help me anymore, belovèd one,
now that you are gone, now that i
feel your absence everywhere i go
that you won't be opening le cirque royale
tonight or l'olympia tomorrow, not
moving from hospital gown to leather
outfit to close out the night with
"malaxe, malaxe, le coeur de l'automat...
malaxe, le thorax", flashing your
modest smile, trenchcoat at your side

i don't know what to do with it
not sure what it means at all now
that you're gone and i'm alone, stuck
on this planet with my fucking pain
and no one to share it with, not like
i shared it with you, my brother, when
curled in my bed, i shed those grosses
larmes to your chansons and sullied
my sheets with the strange desire for
even more of them, never enough
to get at the rot of this existence

who will i share it with, who will
understand, and who will care
now that you are buried in
le père with your amis and your
admirateurs and your voix profonde
and if i try to be strong, will you
be there in my rêverie, will you
grasp at the words that flow from
my mouth when it is moi, le poète?
will you make them sing, will
i channel you at last maintenant
que tu sois cendres?

i can't stand the sound of this
rain on my roof, i detest the
noise from the tv set and
all the crap that falls down
around me when i am stretched
between light and darkness
and i ask, how could you have
left when i'm still this messed-up
femme with half a heart and a
pain condition that never stops?

tu me manques entre lumière
et les ténèbres de mon lit, entre
les chansons qui ne s'arretent pas
même sans toi, même sans toi

Glossary of French terms
tu me manques entre - i miss you between
le cirque royale - concert hall in Brussels, Belgium where Alain Bashung opened his concert tours
l'olympia - very famous concert hall in Paris where Bashung closed his concert tours
"malaxe, malaxe, le coeur de l'automat.../ malaxe, le thorax" - from the song "Malaxe" by Bashung: "knead, knead, the heart of the automatic, knead, the thorax"
grosses larmes - fat tears
chansons - songs
le père - -Père-Lachaise cemetery in Paris where Bashung is laid to rest among other celebrated artists and is especially near the graves to Edith Piaf and Jim Morrison
amis - friends
admirateurs - admirers
ta voix profonde - your deep voice
moi, le poète - I, the poet
maintenant/ que tu sois cendres - now that you are ashes
femme - woman
tu me manques entre lumière/ et les ténèbres de mon lit, entre/ les chansons qui ne s'arretent pas/ même sans toi, même sans toi - i am missing you between light/ and the darkness of my bed/ the songs that don't stop/ even without you, even without you