ARMADILLOS in formation
like soldiers
march through the southwestern deserts
millions of them
marching on Phoenix
marching on El Paso
and after them, the scorpions
then the rattlesnakes and javelinas
entire armies
and they aren’t taking any guff
A Michigan poet I truly enjoy is Diane Suess. Besides wining the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Critics Circle Award for Frank: Sonnets, she was born the same year as me. So there’s that. (I also feel strong admiration for Joe Montana for that reason.) Here is her poem JUKE. It was posted on the Poetry Foundation site the other day. Have a nice read.
LEAVE me, I want to sleep
like a naked tree, silent
and still the entire winter
when morning returns
like spring I will awaken
and bloom once again
Have you ever struggled with a garden, and crap just doesn’t seem to grow for you? That’s one of the many sad stories in the Life Of Jobe. I can’t grow a damn thing except lemons. I have a shitload of those.
If that’s you, here’s a nice piece of memoir that might leave you feeling a little better about it. LIVING ABUNDANTLY, by Rayla D. Mattson on the Braver/Wiser site. Even if it doesn’t help a you a bit, it’s still wonderful just as story.
CAPITAL bridge, sacramento river
the bridge rises up for a tall boat
shape-shifting into a huge letter H
traffic stands by like children waiting
for the ice cream on a hot summer evening
the children are excited, the boat slides
past. the letter H has once again mastered
the wide river, swift and cold and powerful
TEN random things (not a poem)
Sometimes California is sunny and heavenly, at other times it might be earthquakes or fire. Maybe a tsunami on the coast or a mudslide someplace. Or a seemingly endless streak of perfect days. Or a heatwave. That’s one reason why I love it here.
Getting older, for me, is a bit like keeping track of Climate Change. Stuff is going to hell, more of it, and faster all of the time. Knees, feet, a weird artory that balloons a little in one spot, losing my hair and my balance, my hearing; it goes on and on.
I don’t believe in Gods, or Jesus and the Rapture, or in any form of ‘afterlife,’ but you have no idea how many times I have been absolutely wrong.
I fear for the people of Ukraine and Gaza. The crazy bastards in Moscow and in Jerusalem is not above total genocide. What a horror.
There still could come a day when we all treat each other with kindness and respect. After all, we’re not all dead yet. If we’re still alive, there’s still hope.
My mother, Nena, was quite worried about some of the places I hiked when I was young; it was the names. Rattlesnake Peak, Bear Valley. Like that. And I always told her.
I confess that I don’t understand people who believe in god, as I do not. I do, however, believe in confession, so I am confessing my godlessness to you. It’s good for the soul. If only I could believe in souls.
You can get out of sync with your body, and also your body can just flat out get out of sync with itself. Two different things. And I have both.
Old Charlie Randle was my friend, 18 years older than me, although I am now older than he lived to be. We had many fine adventures together, often fueled by adult beverages. Time has passed, yet he pops up often in my dreams. Last night he was angry at me for moving away. Charlie, don’t you know I just couldn’t stay?
Why isn’t DeMisty Bellinger the poet laureate for Massachusetts? Do you ever think about that? Of course not; you only think about yourself. (She’s my friend.)
Thanks for reading my nonsense, Campers. I appreciate it. This publication is reader supported, so subscribe for free, and if you enjoy it, why not upgrade to paid? Then we can have beans with our rice. Ciao.
jobe