Wednesday, December 31, 2014

two poems with one heart shared with you-all


These that are things and not things both
They pepper the landscape
The landscape that is so and not so both
I walk amongst them
The I that is not an I after all, yet somehow is

It's not that I wonder about this apparent conundrum
As in feeling troubled or some kind of loss
Rather it is there or with it that I belong
Nothing of this casts me aside
All things that I am and am not Rest here

Whose favor would I garner
To look upon this any differently
Seeing is a communion after all
That each and every one of us
Has within the very fabric of being

Ultimately there is no such thing as compromise
And yet how often is there a sensation
Of All of This somehow tangled
Around my ankles that I possess
The I that has no counterpart

As we see through this aperture
Closure is a function of clarity
Focus celebrating the visual spectrum
Saturating this field in the unseen
An exposé of brilliance and crystallization

Open Open Open

This light pouring forth as everything
needs no on/off switch
Has no sign in the door
indicating readiness for business

And yet we play at the controls
and let us play
in the true order of things
transparent, wild, open without its opposite

This is Yes without a No
Form and formless seamlessly joined
Cacophony and symphony just as it is
We are playing this tune

Let us play
Let us play
No need to petition anything
Amongst this playground

Imunuri Poetry Collective Tribute poem - I try to write a poem about the entire universe…while also harvesting kiwis and it opens up a space in me to hear the laughter the Earth makes as it spins, speedily, round in dance, which reminds me of rolling down hills as a child, how, turning, our rolling traced slow circles, and this helps me understand how the tilt of the earth generates the seasons as well as the purpose for our lives….

For Mother Poet Barbara, who passed 12-27-14

I try to pick the atlas sphere like a kiwi ripening
in the cold sudden sunshine. The vine
of the milky way snakes gracefully, hop
ping and bumbling like an absent
minded pro (con)
fessor across the drape of magnolia
branch (ing). I think I hear ka (achoo)
zoos faintly. Feintly, feintingly
up on the lad(ud)der of gaia-kiwi-plucking
all-seeing, my vision zooms in on the
burgundy polka
dot ladybug irridescing.
We are these kiwis, worlds, galaxies:
of poets and poems.
We are the ladybugs tending the vines of connecting.

For years now, Imunuri poets, we’ve been up on ladders
plucking kiwi-poems from the arbor of gaia’s hair/the constellations of
the nearby universe. We have landed our pens on the passing asteroids
of ancient ideas, giving novel voice (seasonally arising now for tens of
thousands of years) to what has always been true. Hasn’t it?
We have been shout-singing praise-songs, plucking kiwis in
buckets, word-phrases in stanzas, prompting ourselves
up in the morning, into the thick vines, in gruff denim and swaddled in
sweaters of analogy, allegory, and allegiance.
I pledge allegiance to the poetry of the united states (stars/kiwis) of imunuri…
If I am you and you are I, perhaps we are the kiwis, tangy swaddled in
brown hairy cocoons of temporary breath, plucked by the planetary
presences who are in carhartts and fleece. The earth grips us,
this day-being of us, this seasonal kiwi, thinking of how
to savor the kiwi-sweet-juice of us, our poem-songs a kind
of planetary nourishment, ingredients for a meal for the belly of gaia.

In which case, we have generated 148 recipes for gaian delight, we have
gingered the bananas, sautéed our metaphors in crisp, delicious
words, added the core holy spices of love and presence. We
have lit the fire (holy) with the freshness of our poetic breath.

Now we pause, having jumped, walloped, read, spun, sung, earthed,
tenderizing these verses for Earthly sauté. We have been the supple
soufflé, the stirring spoon, the serving fork. We have spun the plates and
gathered up the goblets, hummed the flowing libations into
poetry as offering for the universe unfurling, who is a clatch of chattering
kiwi pluckers, in for a break, air cold as breath, the breath clouds
themselves. All this. And the earth herself too, and the galaxies and planets.
I am you and you are I is not only about humuns; more so projective
empathy and cross-species, cross-being , cross-scale symbiosis. Hunkering at puters,
plunkering at ukuleles, in cafes from California to Oregon, in the dim dark possibilities of poem-birthing night, plucking kiwis, offering these sweet
juicy tastes of
delight to the maker-spheres of our heaven on earthing.

Definitely part of something big, spare, whole. Jumping through,
I come back to you, who, reading this, run the hand on the back of your neck
and yes you feel the kiwi fuzz there, you just start to turn around as you sense
the giant Gaian hand hovering for the pluck. We are being tended, gardened,
and poem-harvested for the delight of things so much larger than us
that all that’s needed, feeling the whisper air of the Earth-hand hovering to
pluck the juicy kiwi skin of us from the vine ripening weave of our connection,

all we
(can) do is

grin the gaian grin of deep knowing
that we are ripe and ready for the festival (feast of alls) of earthly delight
which as we well know
helps the Earth, rolling down a hill on a summer day,
warm, over the voluption of grassy stars, starry night
nourishes the Gaian spin

Scooter Cascadia

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

The Danger and Delight of the Snake Dance as it brings us Death / Rebirth / Transmutation / Transfiguration...

                                         "Tiles"   cement / copper / silver solder  ~ Rachel L.

Joy and Dancing to you Dear Hearts!

I look forward to being invited to the next incarnation of Imunuri.

Going our own way Together

drum solo
unburied from the ashes of a pit fire,
hand painted instruments in hand,
headed north to join
in the cascades of their lives,
Mt. Hood
to blow cornets  in Portland 
to pitch our words 
into Northern Light
mutations of our poetry
incense burning tonight.


A gathering heard
in Northern cafes,
online weekly
in Richmond CA
in Portland OR
in Taos NM
prompted by lively  writer spirits
to play with words
to pen poems
to riff together
now the song ends after
one last chorus
“Going our own way Together”

Adios Imunuri

and an echo of an earlier post (from Drum Solo)

The Finish Line

breathless at last/
happy to have left
a few poems behind the
finish line

Saturday, December 20, 2014

Centrifugal force

Start in the center and move toward the edge.
Born of my mother, I’m moving that way.
Stones on the landscape are sometimes engraved.
    People I’ve moved with—all moving that way,
pausing to sigh on the narrowest ledge.

Once I pretended that I was a judge,
verdict and sentence my privilege to say.
Robed in that power—such power to taste—
    mercy or penalty, my right to say.
When the game ended, the rules had not budged.

Orders I give should be begged from the knees.
Centrifugal force preempts my request.
    Comfort my journey, I pray from the knees,
me and my loved ones and all of the rest.

Thursday, December 18, 2014

IMUNURI Closure: Looking Back

Pink pig bed by Lauren Ari
The first IMUNURI prompt was "Doorway Into Balance." The directive was to meditate on the symbolic Door, and stand in a doorway in order to write.

Way back in 2010, we posted as comments on the prompt rather than as top-level posts. Since then, between you and I, we have posted many hundreds of poems here: free verse, formal poems, experiments, various types of art, video and audio files, explorations, epics—writings. 

Now your hosts sense a high tide of change upon us. We see IMUNURI isn't just changing participants or page design. It is passing through a more significant doorway.

We will invite you to participate in the big re-steering in the new year, but for now, we'd like you to post one more time.

We'd like everyone who has ever posted here at IMUNURI to post again.
 You can take "looking back" as a prompt; or "looking ahead."
You might re-post your favorite prior post, or post a new version of it, or a reply to it.
Or you can post something brand new.
You could put up a draft that never made it.
You could write in response to this artwork.
Or write a prose recollection of blogging here,
or post something that has no relation to IMUNURI except for appearing here.Write about closure or transition.
Pen a sonnet or a catawamp.
Write about spiders or Liberace. (Remember that one?)

Your choice is as wide open as capital U, so please bless this closure with your voice.

Please post before midnight on December 31, 2014.

 Label your post with the keywords closurepoem, and your name/handle.
Direct any questions to efflux at

Wednesday, November 26, 2014


There is always even if unseen a perfectly reasonable reason
Now I understand how the light on dying magnolia looks like snow
In the morning equivalent of gloaming

We start with concentric circles from our heart
And if squeezed, becoming defended, we contract
And this pinched up inward drenching/trenching/quenching/squishing
Means our outsides are pulled in

This inward pinch brings issues of control, dominion
And attack because we’re smaller than we’re meant to be.
Anger, and its covert allies, quicken the pulse.
Finally, decades later, the anger slackens
Just for a day or two, enough to realize
How long it’s been there, pinching and defending.
What saved me will kill me if I don’t release
And reembody the extended spheres of being.
It unclenches.
My energy body recoheres.
I expand, and thus can release the dense clutter/tissue/emotional suppression
That I had been working so hard to clench in order to seem nice.

Unspiralwinding wholeness, loose and free.
Once again, my arms flap and bootie shimmies.
Qigong shaking. Happy dancing. Realigning.
To expand from the contraction also strangely brings more space
And also less clogging.

We set out thirty boxes for recycling in the predawn light.
The same light by which the November magnolia leaves
Appear to hold snow.

By a parallel token, twenty-one years after the death of my wife,
To the day, the anger leaves me. This glistening clearing
Purges even those old pains. To say “I am born anew”
Is babafidrious. Exactly so. Breaking through, bud bursting
And also effortless. A form of chrysalis opening. A time of
Butterflying. At last. At last. At last.

November 26, 2014

Monday, November 3, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: Wordup





Make up a word,

Make it the title of your poem.

Write the poem.

[keywords: wordup, poem, your name]

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Holding Hands with a Rock (Chant)

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones ring. 

clap hands.
clap hands
stones tremble.
stones sing.

sumptuous earth
groundswell blessing
each little continent
whirls in hope turning

shape wrought of fire
wintered pucker, ropy water
bead breaker
seed shaker

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones ring.

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones sing. 

stone egg crack open
heart of stone released
fierce future brings together
stone hearts burst or cease

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones ring.

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones sing. 

future, guide our mending
ancestors, rout our sending
pebble cells and stone bodies
unmake our deadening

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones ring.

clap hands.
clap hands.
stones tremble.
stones sing. 

Stones of Memory Workshop 

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Dr. Charles Charlie Martin

One of the city’s marginal,
laughing in genuine mirth,
passed me going the other way.

That was last week.
Today a barefoot woman
roared at Market Street.

I had my face on,
and I didn’t know (often)
what I should do.

That’s part of urban life:
how busses are big red ads
and a busy street is a zoo.

It might have been the laughing man
who defaced the photo
where suddenly my feet

stopped: a doctor, stethoscope,
magic-marked red mouth,
neat black hair and bowtie,

and wet, beating heart
held on his fingertips
beneath the texture of trample. 

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

And the White Ginger is about to Bloom

“This will be a hard thing that I am going to tell you”
and with a shrimp taco (in red sauce) in front of me
R. told me how he had been to the top of the hospital parking lot a couple of times to look down and see how far he would fall if he went over the ledge and that two weeks ago he bought a half gallon of vodka that he carried up there with the intention of seeing if he uncapped and drank some he would gain enough courage to jump
“R. you gotta call Psych and tell them this and text me you called in”
and he apparently did as I received a text from R. that intake would be the next day
And the white ginger is about to bloom
the giant dahlia is above the deck communing with night blooming jasmine
the persimmons are turning gold/orange
big black “O” the barn cat finishes his perimeter check, sits in the deck door opening
and the white ginger is about to bloom.

Monday, October 20, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: "Read" something illegible (Projective Symbiosis)

One of human's favorite activities is projecting meaning into the dense ineffable catterwaul of nature, culture, and life. Are these moments of fathomless oracular power or hopeless species-dominant voicings? Find something ineffable and actively project meaning into/through/with/in/and/on/as it. The scrollwork of beetles under bark. A painting of modern art. The fugue state of clouds. Bonus to metacognize in your poem or creation your idea about whether you are speaking through, as, or for. Bonus to include a visual representation of your projective symbiont.

Image: Bark Beetle Galleries from Wikimedia Commons

keywords: your name, poem, read

Monday, October 13, 2014

crossings (excerpt)

right after that woman made that racist comment in the diversity workshop
that went unattended about not being someone whose family had gotten here
by crossing a river, a friend and I raced, ran full out to catch up
to the group getting to the boats for a sunset cruise of the canal.  we
lunge with bags hefted and jettison all dec(orum) as we vault bionic
down the convention maze and I hear the duhduhduh of jamie summers as
we dodge left and lap right and leap onto the escalator, panting like dogs for our one last jump.
little did we know we didn’t need to race
for our lives (this time), though for us, whose ancestors crossed on boats
unwilling, shackled; for those whose ancestors crossed desperate or forced out;
and for those displaced and slaughtered by ancestors who came on boats;
we knew instantly how to run as if our lives depended
on it. we are a species crouched on the brink, the future
threatened to break, and we summon our strength, hurdle thump,
hurdle thump, hurdle thump. the waters we hurry to cross
are invisible: the deep, stained structures of ownership, denial, dominion.
what will the stories be, and the skills and cultures, ten lines down,
200 years from now? i hope it’s not the waters of the milky way
they cross, infecting other places. in the north american canals
of willingness, let the lapping waters soften us. it’s what we don’t take
that matters. what we put down. here at the brink. the chasm, the ridge
the cliff, the cleft, the jump-off, the bridge.  like fools leaping
off. or over. let our magic bags on a stick be light. filled with autumn leaves
of leaving, and seeds, magic beans, for saving. launching into the cool waters
willingly, this time, and for joy at how water teaches presence, teaches
that sky and land are one, mirrored partners in beauty, this cloud, this water, this land
without gizmos or plugging in, we are part of the river of life running through.
let us be this clear, there is no where at all to go. water teaches:
we are right here. water: river, ocean, giver generous. quivering sun and moon,
giving these back. flexible fabric of connection. slaking thirst and making life.
at the verge of these inner crossings, we lay down
the need to flee in fear either from or toward some migration to somewhere
else. we no longer know whether our children’s children
of all species will survive. we know some will make it through.
we have the canny craft of those who came before. the whisper
wisdom of those who are to come. we lift up a handful of leaves
and crinkle them into duff. the trees have already contracted the green
the chloroplasts, and hunkered off. make your choices. here in the winter
of planetary life, we contract, saving what matters
which is not something
that can be

plugged in.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Unipedally Riffed

Left, left, left.

I left
Jeff Taft
bereft by a cliff.

He sniffed,
that I stiffed him in the lift.

I laughed
'til I coughed
as I rebuffed his guff.

Our theft
was deft
staffed by Steffi Graf.

He cuffed
me on the cleft,
and that's when I

Left, left, left. 

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Hopped UP


Hopped up

Came down
Ears flapped
Same foot
Pogo sticky left

Written on it:

"Right to bare arms"

W/ thanks to my Muse

Monday, September 29, 2014

IMUNURI Prompt: Hopalong

Xpogo RioCC BY-SA 3.0  Wikimedia Commons
Pogo sticks
Rockets to the moon

Jump on one foot for one whole minute (time it) then write a poem (about that or about anything) - bonus for noticing - how does it change the pace and rhythm of your writing?

Extra credit: pretend you are in a slow motion movie for part of the time, gravity permitting. How does that change it?

Tags: hopalong, poet name, poem

Saturday, September 27, 2014

50 books (50: Books, tombs, tomes, mulching the word womb)

the garbage(recycling) can is filling up and spilling over
so even though the SUN is SH(R)INING as only slantwise autumn lightWISE
birch leaf wind scintillant and tossing arises as only it now can be

i decide to stand up from sitting on the EDGE of the chair and put
50 books

somehow, i have to turn it all over, upend this distended bender of hellion papers
and unbury myself
just as the leaves begin
their gifting cemetery mulching flight
down to the floor of this earthbound slant of light

am i fighting the season to try to levitate 50 books?

although i resist the second law of thermoDYNAMICS
and the idea that everything is falling apart (that
seems such a construction of the disbelieving space
of current limited science flights of fancy)

i must stop this entropy trainwreck
as now i can only tiptoe between the bookpiles

and how can i learn to dance?

The book titles form impromptu material for a poem:


These books! I want everything close
if I could sleep on them I would
These are my family more than people
The feelings of love and affection that flood me when I see them so much more
than most humans I encounter

Sometimes I just want to hug them, carry them around, perhaps a form of clothing
with so many inner pockets, a kind of thermic/psychic/intellectual insulation
I would have to spend an hour every day to decide which books to wear.

The introvert/extrovert divide would be whether the pocket coat
was made of invisible or see through material, or whether the books were turned in...

is that why they start to plaster themselves to every horizontal surface?

the grief
in putting them back on the shelf

i want them all to simultaneously float around me, open, riffled, with the little stickies
all the ideas, perhaps with swift lines like birdflightpaths between the interconnected ideas
(the kind of LIVEly connection that academic citation can never convey)

i realize i have been using the wrong part of my brain to praise these universes:
what i need to do is make altars
for them each, for them together,
juxtaposed and joyful, offering flowers, incense, bouquets

7 ideas are more beautiful than trees
sometimes, or at least just as much, just as alive
(is that why we make paper from them?) this kinship of leaf and sheaf
perches for thoughtbirds and the little jumping off spots of the first flight of ideas
sucking up nurture from the earth and calling down and replenishing the waters

the more i think about it, i can't do it. i don't want to move a single one.
instead, i lie down and
nestle in, pulling them close, curling fetalling in this curve of paper, word, and wit:
the book womb holds me steady, close, and still, incubating in me
the steadiness to move on, to stand back up, nine months from now,
and birth myself and these new ideas
just in time for summer next, for reaching out, like an arm,
hinging upward,
gutting gravity,
bucking entropy:
to put a book
on a shelf

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Broken Eggs

cottage built of old pallets
fruit case ads bleed thru yellowed kitchen ceiling
must/dust cat fur on room rug,
walls bare, except 
Egyptian wall hanging spattered with egg yolk
 Horus weighs a (Red) heart against a feather (Blue )
burn marks on wall 
reflect indoor bottle rocket launches
induced haunts
upstairs one hot room before, 
only furniture a metal four-post bed
four more stairs lead up to a (duck!) short opening to a small room with a child size mattress
bay breeze drafts through windowless space
chills the day after
no window left unbroken