The Long Dry
by Constance
Late winter snow
squall dropped eight
inches. After six years
of drought it’s not enough,
not now. Ranchers pain.
White flakes blow across
needy pastures without
sinking in. The coalbed
methane water that was
to save them bubbles
merrily from the spigot.
The land suffocates
in alkali silence.
*Originally Published in Wyoming Paintbrush
Night Wind... she liked to jump. A much more pleasant experience than riding Lemon, the half palomino, half appaloosa of a previous post. Lemon was lazy, devious and had to be reminded to do his job, because if you let your guard down, you ended up in a heap on the ground. I found out you can be launched like a projectile right between horse ears, and end up on the ground holding the reins, while the horse looks down with an expression of utter equine innocence.
Four Generations Villanelle For Joan
by
At her age I’d hope I'm more sincere
after a lifetime tempered by revision,
with patience inherited from my mother
whose face in mine lines now appear.
I hit hereditary milestones with precision.
At this age I’d expect to be more sincere,
political views and love not reflexive veneer—
strong enough to withstand subtle derision,
an art form inherited from my mother,
who had the reflexive ability to disappear,
and was seldom wracked by indecision.
By this age I really should be more sincere,
imperfections not too fractured or severe
enough to race destiny to cosmic collision.
My mother was the daughter of another
who liked to fabricate, and engineer,
not comfortable with societal division.
If I reach her age I hope I’m more sincere
for in the end... I am my mother's daughter.
.
My kids are gleeful, ecstatic at the idea of their mother having a phone that's more than one step up from a tin can and string. So far they've decided I need a Chocolate, a Razr, a Blackberry…
I mentioned getting an iPhone, and their eyes bugged out. Until I told them, in properly sober tones, that we don't have a service provider up here for an iPhone. "But… but… you could hack it!" youngest child proclaims. "Unlock it."
He overestimates my geekosity. And my willingness to part with $500 for a phone, unless it comes with an espresso machine built around it.
I read the specs on the latest phones and my brain reels. MP3 player, video recording, Bluetooth, camera, web surfing,
After all, I am, at heart, a klutz. Attempt to take a picture, and suddenly Bon Jovi begins blaring to everyone within a five block radius, I punch buttons, and snap a nifty image of my shoe.
I just want to be able to be able to answer the phone when a child calls (and I get to mediate).
"Mom, can you pick me up at the
"Why can't your brother pick you up? It's on his way home."
"He won't answer his phone when I call him."
"Okay, hang on…" *put son two on hold and call son one* "Pick up your brother at the
"Why?"
"Because I said so, not to mention I bought your gas this week."
"Oh. Okay. Tell him to be ready; I'm not waiting for him." *Click, switch teenagers.* "Your brother will pick you up."
"How will I know when he's here? I'm not standing outside waiting for him."
"They have these new things called windows… try looking out one."
"Can't he just text me--?"
An iPhone would be pointless for these types of conversations. So would most phones other than the tin can and string. Of course, I could admit the real reason. Despite my willingness to embrace technology, I'm damn tired of learning new systems. Maybe I am at heart, what Scott Oden calls a Techno-Goober. I just hide it really well. For four years I've plugged my recharger into the little slit at the bottom of my phone. I don't want to play peek-a-boo with a new phone, opening and closing microscopic little doors in an attempt to figure out which tiny opening fits the "Only Works With X Phone" charging cord. I don't want my phone taking it upon itself to go searching the Internet and airwaves for updates to programs I didn't know I had. I don't want the phone telling me to turn left onto Highway 59 to get to my target, when I know damn well making a right then a left is the only sane way to get on that road, through the construction, and to my destination.
The only pictures I have taken on the old phone are of the Corgis (Big surprise), a herd of horses in the pasture, a triple rainbow you can't really see because the phone camera sucks, and of a hailstone the size of my fist. Not exactly Pulitzer Prize material. The kids claim a new phone will be better, easier, faster, fat free. All those high sales things. I can answer multiple calls at one, text quickly, talk more, etc.. I finally found a way to shut them up.
Struck by the horror of someone not wanting to jabber on the phone all day, the oldest mutters, "Social recluse," as he ambles away.
"That's 'Luddite' to you," I remind him.
The youngest blinks a few more times, and finally manages, "Mom, you're so… old," before he wanders off.
"Yeah? Get off my lawn!" I call after him before returning to my study of new cell phones. I've decided wiggling the charger cord and securing it with duct tape will serve me for a while longer. I'll retreat into Techno-gooberdom, and put off making a decision until forced to by the phone gods.
Hey, I just want a phone to work when I turn it on, have good reception, and NOT organize my closest in its spare time. Is that too much to ask?
I love the complicated and complex lyrics of Bruce Cockburn, and Roger Waters. On the other hand, some artists can take those ‘easy’ rhymes and turn them into an interesting song, one that resonates far more than a glance at the lyrics would have you believe. Tom Petty manages to take rather mundane rhymes, and rework them into something with a raft of underlying meaning. A great deal of the impact of the lyrics comes from what’s not said, the things left for the listener to fill in on his/her own. Back that with a driving beat, and all kinds of happy poetic inspiration jumps to mind.
Ankle Deep
Well, they raised that horse to be a jumper
He was owned by a mid-west bible thumper
His preacher was a
Took all winter to get through the summer
The fieldhand hit the switch and stumbled
Outside the big engine roared and rumbled
The stolen horse spooked and tumbled
She didn't speak for a week
Just kinda mumbled
-----Ankle deep in love [4x]
He was caught up in a lie he half believed
Found her hiding high in the family tree
Washed his hands and put her cross his knee
She said daddy "you been a mother to me"
-----Ankle deep in love [4x]
The video is purely a means to get the song out there. Don’t expect much, I wanted to illustrate how the music builds the lyrics up to something beyond easy rhyme.
I’ve mentioned before that I like Pink Floyd. Between Roger Waters’ lyrics, and David Gilmour’s guitar, I find plenty of inspiration, just not always of the happy type. That's okay, if I was purely a 'happy' poet, I'd work for Hallmark. The underlying dark of some of Waters’ lyrics is appealing in its own way, like a scab you can’t stop picking. Never easy, downright uncomfortable at times, the sly and cynical bent appeals to my inner poetic sadist. My favorite ‘dark’ song would have to be the following. The combination of these lyrics and the slow music always makes me shiver, and my mind switch to poetic contemplation.
"When The Tigers Broke Free"
It was just before dawn
One miserable morning in black 'forty four.
When the forward commander
Was told to sit tight
When he asked that his men be withdrawn.
And the Generals gave thanks
As the other ranks held back
The enemy tanks for a while.
And the
Was held for the price
Of a few hundred ordinary lives.
And kind old King George
Sent Mother a note
When he heard that father was gone.
It was, I recall,
In the form of a scroll,
With gold leaf and all.
And I found it one day
In a drawer of old photographs, hidden away.
And my eyes still grow damp to remember
His Majesty signed
With his own rubber stamp.
It was dark all around.
There was frost in the ground
When the tigers broke free.
And no one survived
From the Royal Fusiliers Company C.
They were all left behind,
Most of them dead,
The rest of them dying.
And that's how the High Command
Took my daddy from me.
There are numerous video interpretations of this song floating around out there, it’s interesting how the visuals layer a third component to my poetic duet of music and lyrics. With lots of middle of nowhere windshield time, I usually supply my own visuals to songs, but hey, this works wonderfully.
Cockburn paints some wonderfully lyrical word pictures. “When You Give It Away” from Breakfast in
“Slid out of my dreams like a baby out of the nurse's hands
onto the hard floor of day
I'd been wearing OJ's gloves and I couldn't get them off
It was too early but I couldn't sleep
showered, dressed, stepped out into the heat
the parrot things on the porch next door
announced my arrival on
with their finest rendition of squealing brakes…”
…Sinister cynical instrument
who makes the gun into a sacrament --
the only response to the deification
of tyranny by so-called "developed" nations'
idolatry of ideology
"Idolatry of Ideology" How awesome is that?
Not to mention Cockburn has several songs that are fine poems in their own right.
“After The Rain”
After the rain in the streets, light flows like blood
I can just taste salt on the humid wind
Here comes that gasoline
Spreading hungry rainbow over shiny black tar
I'm blown like smoke and blind as wind
Except for when your love breaks in…
“Incandescent Blue”
I sneaked across the border
It was threatening rain
So I could stand in this tunnel waiting for the roaring train
And watch those black kids working out Kung Fu moves
If you don't want to be the horses' hoofprints, you've got to be the hooves…
Listening to the songs for so many years, it’s hard to separate out the lyrics and look at them as poetry without hearing the music resonate in my head. This song shows a deft touch with rhyme, slant rhymes, meter, etc., everything a poet should have in his/her toolbox. After being subjected to the insipidities of pop music downtown one day, I rushed home to inject myself with the antidote...
Northern Lights
by Bruce Cockburn
Sunday night, and it's
I'm leaving one more town behind
Mirrors are showing the day's last glow
As we're spit out into the jigsaw flow
Ahead where there should be the thickness of night
Stars are pinned on a shimmering curtain of light
Sky full of ripplings cliffs and chasms
That shine like signs on the road to heaven
I've been cut by the beauty of jagged mountains
And cut by the love that flows like a fountain from God
So I carry these scars, precious and rare
And tonight I feel like I'm made of air...
The final video is purely instrumental, just so you can ‘hear’ the poetry.
