Topanga poem fragment

 

hiking the backbone trail

on the rippling undulant spine of ridge, mama’s backbone trail

spine snaking down to ocean

the way the imminent rain changed the quality of color

dense saturation

the albatross during their crash swoon descent, the peacefulness of the surfrider during sunset

how i could watch the valley and sensefeel the water underneath the land

Iconoclast

Where I'm writing from

not what the writing is about

Carried away --to a wholly different 

place some say down under

And that journey was almost as easy

as where I sit now arriving here

Concepts always get in the way

even when they are sought after

As aides in some kind of play of

direct experiencing presumingly

That one down under --what goes on there?

after thought place name namesake

Hailed by some obeisance to fortitude

among women --what is celebration?

Then arriving where place name rings 

true having followed a calling approaching

Exquisiteness quietude awe the white 

of early winter touching down --here

Arrival is of no consequence as it is 

the ever present way of all things

The patterns of life both leaving

traces and tracing what is --left behind

I find I am here where here there
breaking likeness whilst finding alike

these words just found: what I wouldn't give 
to find myself in a place like this...*

*recorded words at the very end of the song, The Canterbury Tale by Dreadzone

Toronto: “Welcome Place” ( a pilgrimage )

A place that does not alienate

The tired “New Immigrant”

Honoured as well as:

Welcomed

The deep poetics of refuge and refugee
Place that releases exile

                                                   In shoulder to shoulder contact
                                                   I want to believe this city will end all wars

                                                   So many countries represented

                                                   On any bus or streetcar ride

And the rush of movement through underground tunnels

Brings the touch and sound of 220 languages and dialects / Interweaving and distinct

As the doors of subway cabins open and close

As people pour in and out

From my streetcar window

The clearly visible Muslim man approaches

He's tired of being feared

His wife is trailing behind him in her yards of black cloth

( the irony )

She is more conspicuous than incognito / amongst so many dissimilar others

She has expertly sown a glaringly new red and white flag

On his dollar store jacket /  On the chest pocket over his heart

She wants us to see him / See the flag

I walk for days through these neighborhoods

The red Fall leaf in gorgeous decay

Lining the corridors of Jamaica / Ethiopia / Afghanistan

Pakistan / Greece / Italy / China / India / Yugoslavia

Live currency of Loon / Elk / Bear / Queen...and all the other animals that stand

On corners and sit in their old tea houses and dark Horseshoe bars

Smoking the glorious colours / The benign Maple Leaf

The inhale and exhale of Tarmac and the stink of

Still too many cars

“Welcome Place”

I walk back into you / through brick and concrete

That hold my memories un-renovated

This city / alive in space / a sacred message and messenger

Percolating to the sub-soils of my being /  the vibrancy of true recognition

Energized by faces I'd nearly forgotten

Life long friends still searching for home in an

Outdoor museum of unconscious poetry

The interface of struggle and transformation

No walls can contain their influence

Another me

Another me

lives on A and 8^th in the East Village

and has talked to Bill Hader on the street

twice in the last two months. My sister, Marge,

raises an eyebrow and humphs her interest.

I teach her to eat soup dumplings, pigeon

eggs, pho… She pretends to like my setter,

Dwayne, who’s old now. Only daddy loves him,

though. Monday, Marge flies back for her retest,

and I wish her luck. She’s playing the game

I gave up for a career in magic.

My medical coverage—Ala ka-zam!—

Gone! And my law degree—Presto! Change-o!—

License to astound Junior—and bill mom.

Like a hanky, I’ve potential to grow.

Or, rather, like Dwayne’s favorite toilet trees.

Performing at kids’ parties, I feel no

regrets. Tots in strollers make me sigh, though.

IMUNURI Prompt: Place

From PreservationNation.org

Choose a place as the subject of a poem.

Because this is a wide open prompt, here are some extra considerations, requisites, and options you can use or reject:

• Choose a place that starts with the same as your first or last name.
• Write your poem in a style particularly appropriate to the place.
• Avoid mentioning the name of the place in the poem.
• Choose a place you've never been.
• Write the same number of lines in your poem as there are letters in the name of the place.
• Create a picture of the place, or relating to it, to include in your post.
• Look up your place in Wikipedia, and find a passage to include as an epigraph.
• Write a narrative poem set in your place that names at least two characters.

labels: your name, poem, placematters