Two hummingbirds

I saw a hummingbird
Outside my deck window
Sunday morning during breakfast
White chest, grey head, black tail feathers
Perched on bare brown branch
Then it would flutter off
Chase another hummingbird
Smaller, less brilliant white
Courting perhaps?
I don't know
Return to same bare brown branch
This cold season
December 30th
This unexpected witness
Fluttering awareness
Renewal

Denis Streeter  12/30/12

Shhh

The lids flew wide
Opening seas
Whispering shells
Crackling stones
Mineralizing
Taking stock
Waves break
Crush and smooth
Shhh they say
Into sleep
Breaking dreams
Shhhing everything
Their gentle roar
Inside audible
Making all the changes
In tongues of seas
All made known
In the shhh...
Poring my open

Denis Streeter  12/28/12

Christmas

There was a day
In years past
When an extraordinary child was born
Under unusual circumstances
Whose ways and teachings
Of love for each other and ourselves
Respect for all
Though willing to upset the moneychangers
To choose what is the better lot
Not changing to stone
Flexibility into our future
If He were living today
And I believe He does
In each of us...male and female
And I believe
That Jesus is not a denomination
You might as well cast lots
And I could be wrong
But I think there is something of Jesus
In the best of all religions
To discover what it means to be a Christian
Is to discover what each of us mean to each other
It is not an easy path
Perhaps seeming like a camel
Passing through the eye of the needle
The threads we sometimes weave
Into sharp points of agony
We read our bible
Weave our insights into our world
A terrible and beautiful world
And all inbetween
The constant thread of Jesus' birth
Is love.

Denis Streeter  12/25/12

known

the time of giving was gone
the time of doing was there
present past future
just instinct
a prayer
life what it was isint
some control letting go
with the flow
and human endeavors
what isint so
going through controls
taking and leaving
on instinct
a prayer
here to there
no graph to chart
zone unknown
and futures tense
going through controls
just instinct
a prayer
time of giving
here to there
known

denis streeter  12/16/12

revelation

I had been reading George Eliot's "Daniel Deronda" and then took a break to check my email.  Then I wrote this piece and sent it to myself...titling it "revelation".  Finally I took the nerve to post this attempt on my blog.  It wasn't until I logged off my computer and started reading "Daniel Deronda" again that I realized the section I was reading was called "revelations"...

revelation

sometimes in the fire of flames
something arises
a shell, a horn, a lace
a shoe tucks in for the night
and the matterhorn sways the distance
gathering shadows
a spoon, a fork, to pick things up
hooks with hand like fingers to do
and the spasm begins
like the horn of old
shorning tools and shedding boxes
all that remained was the clutter
and the task that what remained was not enough
there was a prayer that was not a prayer
remaining out of reach taunting our unknowing
like some apple to be plucked from a tree
given to some teacher
our search for knowledge
and something greater
perhaps some legacy
carried on when we are gone
loving in nature
strict when necessary
the father thats not the father
the prayer thats not the prayer
the out there, the wilderness
crows parse for crumbs
we weed our words
toss them in flames
warmth rekindling our livelihood
our indefinable nature seeking definition
warmth from our cold
our contradiction
seeking gravity, seeking sides
to be known, to be loved
a plucked prayer
to toss the extraneous
like breathing to let more in
lightening load
love for life
relation
revelation

denis streeter 12/9/12

Extraordinary

I was sitting at my cluttered dining room table eating breakfast
Reading the bible passage chosen in the Upper Room and the commentary
While listening to my music station and hearing a tune
That seemed to resonate oddly with the passage and commentary
And I thought of that old adage from Solomon's Ecclesiastes
"There is nothing new under the sun"
And I thought to myself
"But there is"...
At no point of time in all human history
Has anyone listened to this tune
Read these passages
Reflected on the way everything came together
Into that one moment...
For me
At that point in time
There was something unique
Something discovered
Something extraordinary.

Denis Streeter   12/7/12

Safe

The roses count their sheep
Under where the wine spills
Dashing up pieces
The shards left behind
Tiny little beaches
Little universes ourselves
Lessons behind
Bound forward
Waiting for us to catch up
While we look back
And the road curves
Oh...we say
A complete circle
Back where we started
Inching forward in dreams
In life what it seems
Isn't real
Some overload dreams us back
To contemplation
Some explanation
To go forward
Meet what we know and can't explain
And converse
Meet what can't explain and know
And our world turns a twenty four hour revolution
How will we revolve, devolve, evolve
Involve with each other
I don't know
I only know the change
And empty my pockets
Find that special
Rock, twig, or leaf
That reminds me to share
And I feel safe.

Denis Streeter  12/2/12

apostrophe

the gurgling begins again when the flies flew backwards
upward in prose attacking my toes
i drew up my guard against them
streamlining tunnels and bathroom walls
all covered in shes and alphabets
nonwithwhich the sandwich threw
colored horizons simple as day
and the samitch blew out its dimples
over the ham fried display
where people toss and pray
nothing found in the hay
touchscrews and alabaster
tried cried by the moon
and the waning wind wooed
this and that over and out
transister stores closed
best buys open
geek squads wait
ready to pounce
catnip computer junkies
cowboy riders
hotwax sandwich
where did you go
im talking to you
where you go
and all that was left was the
closets doors and chests
the wool
pulled over my i's

denis streeter   11/19/12

life spills

all the olivers in a row
stand sideways to dance
in equilibriums temple
of minds sordid past
greek emeralds and swedish mime
glazed temples of sweat
god being the gold
the letter missing
the familiar path left behind
in the snow flakes of being
blinder than binders sent from the shell
altogether distraught
what the hell
in the readers laughter
to punctuate verse
no wordsworth
waking up counters
the worlds tick and tock
showing up with spoons and forks
nothing to slather
ill have the leather
pass me the letter
unfold unrolled
ladders up
its a long one
disaster hit
too late for buns
you showed up
in the after after
leaving me before before
in townships harm
chapels fall
becoming igneous rock
unrecognizable
like you when you die
and the life of your spirit
is in the doctrine
is in the imagining.

denis streeter   11/19/12

Thanksgiving

I just finished Brian Doyle's book "The Low Life:  5 Great Tales from Up and Down the River".  Take a look at my previous blog titled "The Low Life" on August 9, 2012.  Briefly Brian Doyle is a wonderful Canadian writer who spent his life in Ottawa up and down the Gatineaux River near Low.  It follows the life of fictional characters he created in this region from 1895 to about 1995.  I'm going to read the following passage at Monday night poetry...from "Up to Low" (1982).  Some character background...
Young Tommy - the hero
Baby Bridget - his friend with her poor arm
Mean Hughie - a mean and troubled man.  Baby Bridget's pa
The Hummer - a flood victim

Mean Hughie is dying of "the cancer" and has disappeared from his large family.  In this part of the story Young Tommy and Baby Bridget find him...

I won't be able to read this without crying...

     He had made his own coffin and climbed into it.
     He was trying to die.
     His coffin was made of slab wood and barn boards.  The frame
was made of grey two-by-fours from the rack of the old hay wagon.
It was too big for him now.  He made it to fit himself before the
cancer got going faster in him and made him so small and light and
thin.
     I had the feeling that I could have reached down and lifted him out
like a long bony baby.
     And when he spoke his voice was so small it sounded as if he was
talking over a telephone while you were holding the receiver away from
your ear.
     "I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," he said
with his tiny voice.
     His voice was so small that he sounded as if he were away down in
the bottom of a well somewhere.  Away down in the bottom of a mine
shaft somewhere.
     "I shouldn't have hit you that time you lost your poor arm," the voice
said.
     Then, like somebody way inside a cave somewhere or someone on
the other side of the dam, the voice, again.
     "I'm sorry, Baby Bridget."
      Baby Bridget put her ear closer to Mean Hughie's lips to make sure
she heard.
     "I'm sorry, Baby Bridget, I was so mean."
     Baby Bridget looked at me through her hair.  She was asking me with
her eyes if I was listening.  Did I hear what Mean Hughie was saying?  Did
I hear the same thing that she heard?
     I leaned over the side of the coffin a little more.  Mean Hughie was
too weak to hang on to the side with his claw anymore.  He let his head
back down.
     "I'm sorry for what I done to you, Baby Bridget."  His voice was as
thin as paper.  Baby Bridget leaned over and put the stub of her short arm
near her father's hand.  His fingers felt it and they curled around it and
he groaned.  He closed his eyes and stroked her arm, petted her arm with
his fingers.
     Then, Baby Bridget, in the nicest, most gentle, soft voice I ever
heard, the kindest voice, the most forgiving voice I ever heard, answered.
     "It's alright, Pa," she said, she whispered, she breathed the words
close to her father's ear.
     "It's all right, Pa.
     "It's all right, Pa."
     I got up and moved over to a stump quite a ways away so they could
be alone.  It was getting to be a beautiful morning.  The sun was shining
right through the cracks between the logs of Ramsay's old house.  A cou-
ple of chipmunks were chasing each other somewhere in the bush.
     Old Hummer had said there was healing here.  Old Hummer said
Baby Bridget's friend was strong.  I was the friend.
     Strong?
     What could I do?  I knew her arm wouldn't come back.  I knew she
would be disappointed.  I knew she would get up off her knees after a
while and turn around and her arm would be exactly the same.
     Strong?
     There was nothing strong I could do.  All I could do was sit there and
watch.  A big crow called out from the top of one of the knotty pines.  I
looked up and spotted him.  He called again.  How lucky he is, I thought.
Up there, away from everything, fly away whenever he wants.
     "I know, old crow," I said up to the crow, "that there'll be no heal-
ing going on here."  I must have been pretty exhausted, talking to
crows.
     I looked down again and saw Baby Bridget standing up beside Mean
Hughie's coffin.  Everything was quite hazy because my eyes were full of
the bright blue sky behind the crow.
     She was walking towards me.
     I could tell that Mean Hughie was dead.
     I was trying to focus my eyes to see if her arm had grown back.  I
knew it was a stupid hope to have, but I couldn't help having it.  I was
feelng more sorry for her than I ever felt about anything before.
     Her arm came into focus.
     It was the same as before.
     I was trying to think of something smart to say.  Something that
would make her feel good.  Tell her a Frank story maybe.  No.  Sing a lit-
tle bit to her maybe.  No.  Throw a rock at the crow.  No.
     "He said he was sorry he was so mean to me," she said to me, looking right
at me, her eyes full of water.
     "He said he loved me and he was sorry."  Her eyes were big with
water, but she looked good.  She had a nice look on her.  It wasn't a happy
look.  But it was a kind of nice look.
     Then all of a sudden I knew.  I knew what that crazy old Hummer
meant.  Healing.
     Healing.  There was healing.  But it wasn't her arm that got the heal-
ing.  No.  Not the arm.
     It was the heart.
     The heart got healed.
     Baby Bridget's heart!

pages 390-2, The Low Life:  5 Great Tale from Up and Down the River, from "Up to Low"
by Brian Doyle.

When I look at Thanksgiving, I am thankful for this deeply resonant writing.

    

    
    

Sometimes an answer

Startled by the moon
Cowed to the side
Blasting holes seven days wide
Cant elope without my pay
Lattice works to reach the moon
Starts to weave and starts to loom
Two feet up, four feet down
The strings kept swaying, pulling in tide
Moonbeams howl and crow
Wolves shiver muffled voices
Climbing lattice work
Four feet up, two feet down
Reaching the top
Voices call voices pray
One foot per day
A week goes by
Moonbeams tug and bury
Mary

Denis Streeter  11/10/12

Time change

I've been reading Swedish poet Gunnar Ekelof.

The night ate day and the day ate night
Nocturnal screams in dust and ashes
Wax effigies ourselves
Dreams in disguises
As razors slice moonlight
Gathering emotions second by minute
The moon wax lines
How they roll
Catch
How they mend
Resetting sight lines
Gathering emotions second by minute
When time ate day and day ate night
Eight into seven
One hour moved.

Denis Streeter  11/8/12

Backwards

I ate with the snails for fasting begun
Backbone and strallop
Years before the hinter games
Hinter and thinter like some grappling in place
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
Like the snails before
Backbone and strallop to the core
Dawning that magic before telling tales
And the winterforce of summer turns untoward
Tender morsels from the sun when the back goes out
Wishbone and ashes and strumpetting song
Ears to deer to back to bear
And all the bear deer can eat
Watching the propensities who never know
And the laughing gas porter on the side
Sunk sideways under the admiring mire
Script as scrolls can be but backwards
Caught in the timbrel rain
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Laughing came unfringed
As the tender morsels lunged forward
Wishboning ashes and strumpetting song
Watching the propensities who never know
With the fasteners wet and the sweaters uptight
Spears and pillows play hide and go seek
All backbone and no strallop
And I ate with the snails for fasting begun.

Denis Streeter   11/3/12

opening to real

dropping that corner
that manner of display
hoping you're seen
that way
that unknown fold of love
dropping in your corner
that feeling of understanding
your guard dropped
vulnerable
is what love feels like
tingling and wonderful too
denial
is what love feels like
wanting to know everything
wondering the unsaid
is it reciprocated
everything drops
punctuation
capitals
what becomes important
is a fresh frontier
unknown and worth exploring
but oh
the vulnerability
that manner of display
that way
that unknown fold of love
opening to real

denis streeter  10/29/12

Deposit central

The sands are moving
Smoother than sin
Under the ocean's unruffled blouse
Just sinking in
And the cowbells are singing
Animated as pie
Landlord of the fly
Strange as advice
That lonely goodbye
Bedford cheats and lonely cries
The crabs underfoot
Trimming my nails
Nihilist ails
As the trunks sweep my winter swim
Nothing out, nothing in
Just a few crabs crackin on by
Washing aboard some slippery pine
The elm left behind
The shedded boots
And the long tire rack
Mounted to boots
Under the ignition switch
Where nothing is stable
Sipping wine under the hollies
The holies bled in confessionals
And the teeter tightened the totter
Nothing more to express
Laughter under the bust
Public transportation
Cryptic when hand washing
Changing from sense to dollars to dimes
Opening up into steam, that translucent dream
Walls slide top to bottom not side to side as planed
Beach balls wait, watching their dreams
Onion skins cry for their interior
Posting bottle caps on the side
Streaming sands of underwater bait
Salmon wait before they jump
In dreams of eight
To tenticle their catch
Washing over captured cells
The rods left behind
The roads departed leaving sand
And dirt in their crab like wake
Storms brewed, coffee makers shook
That tingling under the skin our nervous fate
Dreaming sands of underwater bait
When joy separates sorrow and the last first
The bible shorts out and we go off grid
Lost in streams of rural ghettoes
Washing our toes with flint and steel
Hoping we catch fire
And someone will put us out
And let us in when we scratch the door again
Such children in captured cells
Wonder why we wait
Let's kill it all and find out
Passage through aggression
Let's kill it all and buy in
The whys of our troubles and the wheres of our life
The means of the lies and the cost of the price
Like some educator or politician to make it seem important
Or three times
Let's kill it all and sell out
Three times the denial
And the worrisome tabboo
That what we mean is what we do
Let's just kill it
The fourth time you know the charm
And what to do
Talk it through
And leave
Set it up
Parse it out
Do what you do
Reality dreams.

Denis Streeter  10/28/12

eva ot

An experiment in sounds.
Read as you like.



fish kom gon
don feedin troff
ova  billa hill
ahl tan trold
las up ben gon
ahl ah no
sho suga shook
messed gon thru
tumel tot
lank sids
bon gon wen
larf sidwaz
gon plinkin
sit sot up
down dimwiz
mort wahl
timmer tot
ahl non
eva ot
ahl ah no

denis streeter  10/28/12

That is how I vote

I'm obviously getting tired of all the politics now.  I've already mailed in my absentee ballot but am upset that my sister's ballot is being returned from China because the address couldn't be read.  At least this satirical piece came out of my frustration...and yes I eat a fistful of romaine each week.  Written in the form of a bizarre political conversation...

That is how I vote

I will only vote for candidates
Who believe in a fistful of romaine in every household
And I mean a fistful of romaine!
What do you mean by a fistful?
Do you mean baby size or Paul Bunyan size?
I have allergies to romaine.
Well...okay...
I will only vote for candidates
Who believe in something like a fistful of romaine
In every household.
What do you mean by a household?
I live in a condo.
I live in an apartment.
I live on the street.
Well...okay...
I will only vote for candidates
Who believe in something like a fistful of romaine
In the dwelling place of their choice.
But I don't like anything like romaine.
Well...okay...
I will only vote for candidates
Who believe in something or nothing like romaine
At the place of their choosing
If that's alright with them.
That is how I vote.
And that is how I will make choices for the American people.

Denis Streeter   10/27/12

A birthday poem

I wrote this for my co-worker and friend, Carolyn, who enjoys her walks...as do I...

The trails stumble through leaf lit drives
Cement walkways leafly woven
Spongy underbelly after rain
Cushioning my feet while wary of falling
Looking upwards trees waving leaves
Like leafy wind chimes
The darting bird I know but do not recognize
I look at the time to capture the moment
But it's the beauty of nature
Refreshing my soul
The moment captured, pictured
I want to revisit
Again and again
That restores my soul.

Denis Streeter   10/24/12

Reception committee

Sometimes the tops flow where I don't know
And I pull off the top and open the sharpener
Leaving the cannisters open where they roll
Hopping on dry ice riding the thunder
I don't know I don't know
When the fishing gear came tied with the huntsmen
Bent to beards laughing with ladders
When the old folk came tense with participles
Drinking lunch time wine and mercy
Opening the food vents waters flowed in
Flooded in glory and laughters sin
When the first came last and the last came first
Salamander wine dried my lips
And pulled my skin to gather in
Mats of flats and weathers glory
And the door opened out answering winds song
Breathless as creepers tangleweed bound
Bible side up with the middle removed
Cauterized top down
The senses were showing
Too late for the flood of tears
And the rooms opening light fought for more
Tears opening awareness
The mercy and wine
Breaking the ice cubes love left behind.

Denis Streeter  10/18/12

Tail wind

The barbers reached their max at two after nine
Spent chemicals and goldilocks down the drain
It was anyones enemy who came next
First the peaches then the plums
Someone had to pull out a thumb
And a thimble to put them in a stitch
Out the peephole looking at time
Reaching back to two after nine
Some mints returned looking happy
But they were having trademark issues
With the bears and the loopholes
And the after after was not here
Left behind on some slather flat
Through looking glass windows where Jack ate Sprat
Eating letters spies a rat
And the cook to cut off the tail
Toss or weave a rope
I don't remember
I don't even remember the words of this poem
If this is a poem
Or just nonsense streaming from my head
Better toss the pork rinds
Belly buttons are up
As a reasonable commodity it is such an oddity
But maybe not
Maybe I'm just saying that because it rhymes
Well not this time
It's two after nine
And the space mints are looking awfully spiritual
How did they get there I wonder
Under my tongue where Jack sprat rat
And the postman delivers under my mat
I don't know why I write these things
I just do
And I don't like to edit
But sometimes I do
Like to repeat myself
And the space mints are looking awfully spiritual.

Denis Streeter  10/17/12

Pillow head

Oceans laughing post
Billowing place
Last episodes of fear
Reading dinosaurs of eddies
Before bed under shock
A basket of spheres
Juggling to siren tunes
Emptying baskets time
Filling and failing
Sore behind knees
What knew was falling
Temperature gauge counting
Zones in place
Shackled tomorrow
Seasons fly
Perhaps fruit bat
Bringing some basket
To picnic
Better times
Radar in
Tilted sideways
Bouncing up
Feeling freedom
Under moon cushions
Flowery heads
And night pollination
Fills air
With expectation
As spheres drop
Oceans flow
Radar wise
Pillow head
Expectant dreams.

Denis Streeter  10/14/12

Two bags

Each day
I pray for strength
And humor to see
Me through each encounter...
And Friday night after work
I check phone messages at Safeway...
One inviting me to a Friday night show
At Cafe Racer.  I say no.
The other instructions about Saturday's dance performance.
I walk preoccupied into Safeway...needing only brown sugar
Walk out with two bags of groceries
Including one bag with Cherry Pom juice...
Drive home, check my computer, answer messages, and realize
I came in with one bag of groceries.
Check my coat pocket and read grocery list...
Realizing I missed my bag of Cherry Pom.
Drive back to Safeway, half mile away
Talk to cashier, showing list, and apologetically explain I left the bag behind
He says that he remembered me leaving with two bags, but
Go ahead and grab your three Cherry Pom.
I do and show them to the cashier who has me put them in a bag and
I walk to my car...
With a slow realization...
Open passenger door and check under seat
Where I see the bag had slipped under...
Go back to store and return new bag of Pom
Another apologetic explanation
And they understand...
Two bags, too stressed, split understanding
And I remember my morning prayer
And laugh, knowing I will relay this tale
To a better understanding of myself
And others
As they relay their moments of
Two bags.

Denis Streeter  10/14/12

Off day

I can not handle
The death of your mother
Your brother's liver cancer
I can only listen
But not feel
Feeling means involvement
I don't have the energy for that
I give to charities, co-workers, customers
I feel nothing
No sense of accomplishment
Of helping others
Even though I know I help
Knowing is not enough
To bring happiness
I feel numbness in others
Walking in their mental fog
Just like me
Their wheels turning
Taking nothing in
But their own lives
Preparing for Halloween
Walking corpses
Hoping festivities
Connections
Will bring life back
Again and again.

Denis Streeter   10/9/12

Whippersnapper

What is a whippersnapper?
Is it a fish
Flipping vigorously
In your net?
Perhaps a quick crab or a scorpion
All I know is
It is what it isn't
Go wikipedia it
Now why did you do that...
The sun weighs the ocean down
You reach for oxygen wells
In sheep tank gas
Oxygen masks remain hopeful
With nothing left
The lethal injection
Fortified food supplies
Left by math students
Right by physicists
In the following cranes
In the floods to follow
In the cranes to watch
Of your math thesis
On a bad night
Of nought
But storms and pudding
Warming the bathroom
Testing the mines
The shortcomings
The collapse
Your happiness
Your glee
Your pudding by example
I laughed you sent me your fee
That the cranes watched before me
Heroning
That whippersnapper
That catches
The early worm
Worn smooth
Skipping rocks
Climbing ladders
Dressing and dancing
What you think you know
Is what it isn't
Snap.

Denis Streeter   9/29/12

I couldn't figure out their goal

The harmonies went to converse
In stacks of flowers gone reverse
I couldn't figure out their goal.
The shadow puppets made in line
I couldn't figure out their rhyme
In rivers gone reverse.
The cotton balls were living tall
I couldn't find them not at all
They'd disappeared on flame.
On flame the same I couldn't name
The junctions were so hard to tame
I took another bite.
The bite I took gave up the fight
In reels riding out my kite
I fingered out my thumb.
The fingering oh sang a song
The tune a flute could play along
I watched its upward bounce.
To bounce and flounce in crosswords true
I couldn't figure what to do
I joined the wrong at play.
In singing silly songs off tune
They left me little else to do
I brought my baritone.
There was no right there was no wrong
I couldn't tame a terrible tong
I breathed upon my glass.
In tongs of terse they'd gone reverse
The harmonies went to converse
I couldn't figure out their goal.

Denis Streeter  9/25/12

Headless

The shines and the shinnies
Went up to tea
Over behind me
Finding their wafflehead muffins
Their cream liqueurs
With the frosting on the side
It was not difficult to decide
One took scrambled, one took fried
And the tea went ballistic
Must have been the cream liqueur
Another romantic tussle
Over by the field house
The mouse shined the liqueur's shinny
Went to bed popped off its head
And morning up
The shines were shinneying
A horse propped up its head
Went out to tea
Headless.

Denis Streeter   9/25/12

Dripping in pine

Speakers were sanding
Dew drops to pine
Symphony standing
Crowds in a line.
Cup and the water
Tipsy and blue
Kiss the surroundings
Thinking it through.
Dog bites arounds us
Caught as a sneeze
Shadows surround us
Short as a breeze.
Simpleton soundings
Shattered in sand
Blunt ones around us
Shattered and tanned.
Grease of the mountains
Fountaining spray
Rolling the canvas
Shingling hay.
Transporting jungle
Weakening wine
Ending among us
Dripping in pine.

Denis Streeter  9/23/12

Internal debate

Hot in the tin
The drats go down
Chimney holes and drafterstucks
Under trees and laughter hooks
When leads of laking
Turn out snaking
The bushes too quiet
For worm holes to confide
And the death deliver
Life on the side
Two livers and a side of beef
Not overdone to stick to the teeth
But the mouth shadows the sun
And the beef shadows the moon
Just under the corn cob rising
Two teeth, a shadow, and a quarter
When the walls close in
And open like a tomb
Of fresh flowers and rivers run dry
Of Eucalyptus trees pining to cry
When the trees run wrong and poison shot
It was left to the tiger lilies
To play their trumpet song
To the fanfare of the fiddle
Head ferns in their jostling hassle
Just one screw ahead and a joist away
Creaming the maples starting to sway
And the lands dearth darkness
Wizened in threes
One two three to branch the trees
Of our own lives
Becoming introspective
Rooting
New age
Changing
And changing back
Unrooting
To white skinned crackers
And black skinned wafers
Communioning the between
Commissioning the unknown
What some call Jesus others call God
What goes by many names
And theological conceits
Wafers and crackers to dust
We are some breath
Of someone better
Than we know
But might become
If we knew
If the hardness didnt settle in
The barriers set up
Resistant to the letting
The presupposition
That we are right
That the politics are know
In pools of water
Its holiness overflowing
Should we know and rejoice
But we arent there
All the time
Our minds are out
Oaring about
Seeking our...our...
You know the word
It comes to you in those joyous connective moments
And the names are legion.

Denis Streeter   9/23/12

Dictation

Still the wakefulness
Still and done
Under the sun
Where the crabs dry and the clams bake
You came
The woman of none
Dressed in whistles
When the old fish light went out
And came the buzzard storm
Full of whiskers and lies
And sizes and cupboards
When the rain came
Too soft to grow
In the animal change
But I don't know
Soft as a toothpick bigger than a dime
Round and round
It didn't hurt to catch up
But it hurt to wind down
Too much empathy hormone
And love where you go
You're wearing me out
Your wearing me down
Cups and saucers wait
Shingling to do
In the unconcious morning
Census takers
Check for worms and elbows
Watching the OJ snore
Yawning in the wind
Tapeworms and footfruit
Indentured servant
Your my lie
The laughs go fingering
Not up to me
Keep crying the foot bridge
And the tools it leaves
Crossing the other side
You might suspect
The wills greater than the means
And the torrents
Lesser than two evils
One went out to town
One stayed in for breakfast
And the fast was slow and the slow was fast
Dictation
Under the moon lit sun
You shot my dictator
Laughing
Fast as a dance slow as a curtsy
And the tools left the fireplace
Quietly as they let in
The crossing guard suspect
The watchers within
And the toys played
But not with me
And not with you
Arranged like dominoes
All fall
Seasonal outlook
What's your disorder
Camphor and flies and sin
Gather in
Play the harmonica
Stop
And listen.

Denis Streeter  9/19/12

mussels of time

the dutch monsters capped their faces
pulled on their hoods
to discovered bent out traces
of hood winked rat traps
whales of oceaning fins
samples when the waves come in
chocolate covered horses
beat their shadows
watching capped faces
doggerel each line
and the pantywasted
the color of lime
in seaweed shrugged shoulders
wound up to die
those summer evenings
i started to cry
baboon fulls of trucks
it didnt matter
the shorelines were gone
the ovens were open
the cares shed their feet
shadows bit darkly
all the campbells they could buy
shambles away
quietly capping
each shadowed shore
overlapping time change
where the peace falls
a hunger away
inherantly wrong
lovingly right
as shores shed kingdoms
down to their shoelaces
those gums into guns
disappear from sight
a sigh ahead
a trickster to come
those that poke their head
dreaming then none
and all the coaches
clap their hands
wondering what crabs what clams
the tidal removal
and all the names
weve forgotten
bits of sand
morsels of memories
mussels of time

denis streeter  9/18/12

justice served

trials and errors
blog the stream
blistering silence
into blue watered sound
while toothbrushes sigh
signs of cynicism
watching the skies
feeding the bones
fruit salad
when scones
will never do
and the dust waits
as it always does
under ponds of loveliness
those sands of loneliness
where the graveyards flow
and the sounds correct
no punctuation
some pretense
watered by preachosity
under scopes of prose
sweet sense of time
that no body knows
and the preacher lies
on the laps of time
hoping whats learned
will be covered
and the dust will fly
what the flies will dust
and the dead will dance
the all
that sweet dream
that does not know or dance
just types the words to fit the lines
and just the right number of cans
to know better
to fill the words
that sweet dream
to spill the times

denis streeter  9/16/12

Jolly Joe

This is a song/poem my friend Scott wrote. 
I transcribed it off my cell phone after several times of careful listening.
Has the feel of a blues tune.


Jolly Joe

Three wheels good
With the freezer behind
Same tune playing
All the time...

Pop goes the sicle
Putting up the hill
Kids on the back
Dripping green drool.

Lime is good
And cherry ain't bad
But the Sidewalk Sundaes
Best you ever had.

Missiles are good
Drumsticks are better
Fudgesicles rock
But creamsicles never
Creamsicles never.

Riding on the back
Of a three wheeled Joe
Same tune playing
I still don't know.

Popeye?
The weasel?
E-I-E-I-O?

Dripping orange drool
No more school
Creamsicles never
Til September

Scott LaRose   8/26/12

Waited for the peaches to come

The labors were waiting
Intense as a log
Under the vanilla sun
Brrr and freezing
The kitchen mirrors were leaning
Golden flash in the morning
Clear as the tunnels of night
Long as the day clears butter
And the locksmith locks down
Two beds and a coat
Under the underarm drawer
Waiting for more
Just as the prophet warned
The nephew showed up
All full of litter down the drain
And the leftover leftover
Waiting for the lists too long
Under the underwear drawers
Where the fear travels long
But not too far
Just the length of a spindle
Large enough for a bang
When the printer is working
It's on and off sound
It's just a timpani
Warming up for the musical
With the wire off and the skin on
Nothing for the holding
Just leather and beaches
And the ok coral
But you were looking for peaches
When I ate the pits
Lessons of the hereafter
Were leaving me behind
Just behind the jet skiis
Where the onions fried
And the toasters gerbilled
Their tongue twisted ways
Before the aftermath
Left them speaking in tongues
I could not add it up
How they all got here
It made me tense
Present tense
Before the removals arrived
Their assistants left behind
One walrus, a petrie dish, and a muffin
I didn't know what to do
So I fired up the bunsen
let the new york specials fry
Cooked capitals but the flavors changed
And the water whined
Just before the kool aid turned
To vinegar and the water to wine
Jesus on the trampoline
Wining and dining
Waiting for his tea
And all the muffins
When the hours would meet
In  past tense harvest
Of yesteryears sucess
And your failure to know
It's not your fault
But it is
And it's mine
But I'm in denial
Just like friends
Wearing superficial remover
When the time comes
For debate to follow
And the rest turned up backwards
But the forwards wasn't too bad
Dressed in its covers doing the math
It would not add up
I removed myself
Dusk between the sheets
And waitied for the peachs to come.

Denis Streeter  8/26/12

Notes from a dream

Next time that you have a dream

Pull out your phone

and call me up

And tell me where you are

So I can meet you

We can fly around

Until we find the perfect tree

For you and me to rent a branch

With an apartment

It’s a little run down

With lots of stairs

That go somewhere

But the porch is huge

with clawfoot tub

And an old piano

Then next time you have that dream

Where you make up a brand new song

The piano will help to write it down

So you can remember

There is a lake inside the tree

That we can walk our dog beside

On bark strewn shore we watch

The ships at sea

Driving home we take

The secret freeway

The one below the

Freeway blocked with traffic

But ours isn’t

While we were at the lake

Inside the tree they cut it down

And built a concrete one but

Left our branch alone

Next time that you have a dream

Pull out your phone

and call me up

And tell me where you are

So I can meet you

A friend told me this in a dream
8/21/12

Childhood friends

There is the history we see
And the history we dont see
It is what we don't know about each other
What we think we know about each other
And what has changed
That gets us in trouble
The assumption that
Knowing each other from childhood
Well...that's really all there is to know
When you have that much history
That much misunderstanding
That much bad blood between friends
It's hard to be forgiving
And emailing thoughts across the net
And it is a net we get caught in
Even when both sides are trying to understand each other
I understand the saying "Agree to disagree."
But with so much history, it feels like a pathetic platitude
It isn't
We should talk
We should pray
Because sometimes
The amount of felt anger and mixed up history
Seems insurmountable
So
Could we talk
Can we talk
I pray we can.

Denis Streeter  8/19/12

Nothing

I just finished watching a Hal Hartley film called "Simple Men".  It was a pretentious piece of

Nothing

The signs began when they were first stopping
Opening doors in fields of nowhere
And the discussion came
Ruling out possibilities of hope and destruction
Centering on the good and the sick
I got out my razor blade and started cutting
First one finger then the hand
But the bone always got in the way
So I stopped cutting
Leaving the rest for some zombie apocalypse
But it was realism that you want
I could not give it to you
So you walked away
And I'm sad for another day
But then you said something I couldn't hear
And I thought it was okay
Until I realized I didn't know
And hope fell
Until I asked you what you said
"Nothing"
I could still feel the zombies eating my brain
But that was nothing
Finger food
What the hand hides
You cannot show
All the lies
You don't know
"Nothing"

Denis Streeter  8/18/12

Only one

Tying up the posts by the midnight pan
I banned the swimming, the fishing boats
And swam with the sinners by the midnight sand
The bells were swinging, the bees were singing
There was nothing left to do but join the chorus
So I put on my rose flaked shirt
Dressed my trousers as Sam
Put on my overcoat
Painted up a song
Of gun whales and sheeping gas
But it was retarded so they made me leave
Saying I was unfit for the political present
Needing a practical understanding
The gun whales shook their heads
The sheeping gas let out a wail
The fleas jumped just to be thrifty
And the song ended before the mime could begin
There was nothing in the singing
Just some political unrest
That no one could explain to me
At least to my satisfaction
Perhaps because I called them stupid
The monkeys jumped up all excited
And they hadn't even entered the narrative
Tongue tied and twisted as pistols
There was nothing in the marination
Except some coronation
Bent sideways with the sheeping gas
The sun had warmed them it was coming
But they turned off the water with their two fisted fleas
Bundled in overcoats the size of stockings
Just behind the screens and the lathes
Wondering if it was time for them
But it wasn't
So they turned off the sun
Put the tools away
Laid them in a manger
Called them Jesus
And loaded them in some star overhead
Hoping theology would be enough
But also down to earth enough to keep trying
So they let the cat box out
Don't know who or why
The tins were making an awful racket
Some tennis ball posing as a fly swatter
I couldn't get enough
So I put on my sweater and slipped through the loops
The bothers were backwards so I let out the seems
But no one could be bothered
And the ants kept whining that there was no one to play
I could only think of one
Only one.

Denis Streeter   8/17/12

Blundering what to do

I blurbled through the day
Blundering what to do
Blister bent backwards
Bent to twist two ties
But the work ladder bent on hallowed ground
Searching for metaphor
Ending in obscurity
The poet's name and signature
No real worth
Besides it was bent up to show a left hand L
If it had another foot it would be an upside down capital T
But the land fell down surfing the plains
First down upsome street
Then up ladder avenue
There was no settling for less
The bridges were up and pissing the passes
And the price of fried eggs were down
Just to a bug or two
Blundering what to do
When the hammer bent the bicycles in two
Why not three or four
I don't know
It didn't fit the hot randomness of the attire
And the lids weren't happy either
They went outdoors and scolded the bleach
Sending in tongues of cat skins
And other things that make you go gross but don't know why
Or maybe you don't care and this rambling piece has just gone on too long
Why oh why didn't he write a haiku
Five seven five
Seventeen syllables
Instead he wrote this
Blurbling through the day
Just a bug or two
Blundering what to do.

Denis Streeter  8/17/12

Opening possibilities

The day is waking up
Warming up
Yesterday filled with the full spectrum of human experience
Sometimes keeping me awake at night
Sorting through conversations, past experiences
Sleep deprived yet excited
What another day will unfold
Looking outside my window
I hear cars passing on 15th
To their destinations
At some point
Our lives may be interwoven
Life is mysterious and beautiful
Unexpected and sometimes not kind
My energy is high
I can feel the changings
The flow
The give and receive
Opening possibilities.

Denis Streeter  8/16/12

Customer service

I feel like a new year is opening up
Maybe because I'm on school schedule
Some are already beginning
The rush for school supplies has begun
And with it all the changing emotions...
Excitement, wonder, apprehension...
I've seen people I haven't seen for years
All sorts, all ages
My age, kids grown up
What is seen and yet to be seen
The flood of humanity
True kindness, temper tantrums, lists
What will I learn
And each day I have to center myself
To business picking up
After the slow summer months
Feed into the energy
Without wearing myself out
It's actually a wonderful time of the year
Filled with so many possible connections
I wonder what will open up
Today...

Denis Streeter  8/15/12

Happy Birthday!

Birthdays are special
The birth day is not
Chances are your yearly birth day was not special
Except in your mind
The outside world moves as it always has
Oblivious to any specialness
Anything could happen
Some days are better than others
I know...I'm stating the obvious.
The best day you have this year
That is your birthday
I want it to be uniquely yours
Your joy, your connections, your you
Is everything I want your birthday to be.

Denis Streeter  8/12/12

51

Birthday is June 30.

Odd but not prime
3 and 17 are in my prime
Which seems closer to my age
Sometimes
Though experience
Or lack thereof
Tells me otherwise
Odd
Things for a man to do
Dance and read children's books
Write nonsense verse
Work retail
I want to be different, but
I want to relate
Odd but not prime
To see is not to know
To know takes time
It is emotions and intellect
How they weave and separate
Is ongoing
A part of the fabric
Darn
Release
Stitch.

Denis Streeter  8/10/12

The Low Life

I've read two stories in the five story collection called "The Low Life" by Canadian writer Brian Doyle.  Seriously it's very funny, poignant, well-written, and reads aloud well.  All these stories have a regional feel as they are set near the Gatineaux River near Low in Quebec.   I've read all these stories years ago and was delighted to see them compiled in one large book.  They stand the test of time.  I read the following excerpt from "Angel Square"(1984) during Monday night poetry, which was well received.  Some background...It is set in 1945, the teacher is "Blue Cheeks",the narrator is Tommy, his best friend is Sammy...whose father got beaten up:

     Blue Cheeks could turn his head right around without moving his
body.  His head would start turning slowly and it would keep turning
and turning until it was facing the other way.  Then it would start back
until it was back almost to the same spot.  He could turn his head left
and right so far that he could cover the whole 360 degrees without
moving his shoulders.  His head must have been on a swivel or some-
thing.
     He would write grammar sentences on the board so that we could
copy them out and then tell him what was wrong with them.
     All the sentences he ever wrote on the board were wrong.
     Some were quite funny but if he heard anybody laughing or
snorting, old Blue Cheeks's head would start coming around, slowly,
slowly.  And we'd all sit there, hypnotized by how far his head could come
round.
     I used to think it would unscrew and tumble right off onto the floor.
     But then, of course, if that happened he could just catch it just before it
hit because his hands hung down there near the floor anyway.
     I was thinking about Sammy's father, so I must have been staring
into the blackboard like I was hynotized.  Dad said later I must
have looked like a cow watching a train go by.
     "You!  What is wrong with this sentence?"
     He was pointing at the sentence he had just written on the board.
     "Read the sentence, please," he said.
     I read it.  "Ralph edged closer as the moose sniffed suspiciously and
snapped the picture," the sentence said.
     "Well?" said Blue Cheeks.
     I looked at the sentence again.
     "Tell us Mr. Daydreams, what is wrong with this sentence."
     "It's something to do with the camera," I said.
     "It's something to do with the camera, is it?"  His head was right
around facing me full-on now and his shoulders were still facing the
blackboard.  It seemed impossible.
     "And the moose," I said, "and something to do with the moose."
     "The moose and the camera," said Blue Cheeks, sarcasm dripping off
his lips like syrup.
     "And Ralph," I said, just to make sure, "there's something wrong
with Ralph too."
     "And what do you suppose it is that is wrong with Ralph?" said Blue
Cheeks.
     "He hasn't got the camera," I said.
     "And who has the camera?"
     "The moose seems to have the camera."
     "And why has the moose got the camera instead of Ralph?"
     "I don't know, sir.  It seems strange, a moose with a camera."
     "Why has the moose got the camera?"
     "Maybe he took it from Ralph?"
     "Why hasn't Ralph got his own camera?"  Blue Cheeks's face was dark
blue now.
     "Maybe it isn't Ralph's camera!" I said, thinking I was on to some-
thing.  "Maybe Ralph hasn't got a camera and the moose has a camera
and Ralph's sneaking up on the moose to steal his camera!"
     "Read the sentence again!"
     "Ralph edged closer as the moose sniffed suspiciously and snapped
the picture."  I almost knew it off by heart now.
     "What is wrong with that sentence?"
     Behind me sat Geranium Mayburger, the dumbest girl in the school.
Geranium loved to whisper answers to people.  Specially people in trouble.
     "Hooves," she whispered behind me.  "A moose can't take a picture
because his hooves are too big for the button."
     "Five seconds," said Blue Cheeks, "or you stay and write lines!"  He
sounded like he was choking.  I was desperate.
     "A moose could never hold a camera properly or snap a picture
because of its large and clumsy hooves." I said, trying to make the best
sentence I could.
     I knew I was doomed, so I sat down.
     Blue Cheeks gurgled, "One hundred lines--'I must learn my gram-
mar!"

page 105-107, "The Low Life:  5 Great Tales from up and down the River", 1999.

Brian Doyle has a wonderful style of writing and has created such characters as Fleurette Featherstone Fitchell, Toe-Jam Laframboise, and Nerves the dog.

Two weeks later

I can feel the gears in motion
Mind, heart, and soul
Something different is happening
But I don't know what that is
Some new understanding
And when I know
I'll let you know...

First day back working
It was good!
Talked to Paula,
The Real Change vendor outside Whole Foods
I talk to her nearly every morning walking to work
A friend of hers rescued an injured butterfly
It was trustingly resting on his index finger
He gently placed it on a flower
On one of the outside Whole Foods flower bouquets.
He took a picture with his cell phone
And showed it to Paula and myself
A beautiful highlight of my day.

At work
Carolyn brought out a book signed by all by the department
H.A. Rey's Curious George Goes to the Hospital
I was completely charmed!
Curious George gets a tummy ache from swallowing a puzzle piece
I'm a bit curious and puzzled why I got a hernia
Perfect choice!
Two co-workers gave me Toblerone bars
I love Toblerone!
I just ate one during this typing
Another co-worker treated me to lunch
It was so good to see my co-workers again after two weeks recovery!

I took it slower at work and sat down more
Was careful not to lift too much
Careful how I sit
Getting up from knees to stand still painful
As is standing in one place
Still restless...
Discovered I could get just as much done at a slower rate
Because I'm thinking more clearly and thoroughly
Less wasted do-over time
My customer service is more thorough and relaxed
People happier.

Went to dance practice tonight
So good to see them again!
They were so helpful during my whole hernia operation and recovery
Giving me a ride to and from the hospital
Bringing me food while I was home bound
I discovered if I slowed down and didn't kick high
I could dance just fine
That gave me hope
That I will make it to the Thursday
Contradance.

And even though I still feel some pain
I mostly feel
Grateful.

Denis Streeter   7/10/12

Preparation

Steeped in the recovery time of my hernia operation, I occasionally branch out to see a friend, go for a short walk, or take care of some business.  Time has slowed down for me, but it hasn't for anyone else. I start work again after two weeks off on Tuesday.  I think the hardest will be getting used to the speeded up world again...and of course the social dynamic that goes with it.  Time and prayer will tell.  I'm just trying to prepare myself. 

History lesson

I'm still raving about Jack Gantos' 2012 Newbery award book "Dead End in Norvelt".  It is a truly unique creation.  Set in 1962 Norvelt, Pennsyvania, 12 year old Jack Gantos is the main character in a plot the inside book jacket genuinely describes as "melding the entirely true and the wildly fictional".  I haven't written a decent poem in weeks, so at Monday night poetry I read them the following excerpt:  Oops...a little background...  Jack has been grounded for the summer and he's only allowed to help feisty old neighbor Miss Volker type obituaries...
     "When the sun goes down each day it turns its back
on the present and steps into the past," she started with
a strong, even voice, "but it is never dead.  History is a
form of nature, like the mountains and sea and sky.  His-
tory began when the universe began with a 'Big Bang,'
which is one reason why most people think history has
to be about a big event like a catastrophe or a moment
of divine creation, but every living soul is a book of
their own history, which sits on the ever-growing shelf
in the library of human memories.  Sadly, we don't
know the history of every person who ever lived, and
unfortunately many books about historic people, like
the lost Greek and Latin and Arabic texts, are gone
forever and are as lost as the lost world of Atlantis.
     "But here in Norvelt we had one of those librarians
who collected the tiniest books of human history.  Mrs.
Hamsby, who died today at age seventy-seven, was the
first postmistress of Norvelt and she saved all the lost
letters, those scraps of history that ended up as 'un-
deliverable' in a quiet corner of Norvelt.  But they were
not 'unwanted'.  Mrs. Hamsby carefully pinned each en-
velope to the wall, so that the rooms of her house were
lined from floor to ceiling with letter upon letter, and
when you arrived for tea it appeared as if the walls
were papered with the overlapping scales of an ancient
fish.  You were always welcome to unpin an envelope
and read the orphaned letter, as if you were browsing
in a library of abandoned histories.
     "Each room has its own motif of stamps, so that the
parlor room is papered with human stamps as if people
such as Lincoln, or Queen Elizabeth, or Joan of Arc had
come to visit.  The bedroom has the stamps of lovely
landscapes you might discover in your dreams, and the
bathroom has stamps with oceans and rivers and rain.
Each stamp is a snapshot of a story, of one thin slice of
history captured like an ant in amber.  There is history
in every blink of an eye, and Mrs. Hamsby knew well
that within the lost letter was the folded soul of the
writer wrapped in the body of the envelope and mailed
into the unknown.  And for this tiny museum of lost
history we citizens of Norvelt thanks her."

pages 259-261, "Dead End in Norvelt" by Jack Gantos, FSG, 2011

Many poets were curious about this book...
skimming through the pages..
perhaps pondering their histories...

     

3, 2, 1,0

Earler this week I set my electric razor to a 3.  Then this morning on my birthday I set it to 2, 1, and finally 0 (just the razor).  I wanted to capture what my face would look like at each step of shaving history.  Most of all I wanted to see my full shaved face on my birthday, though I razored my head too.  Now it's just bald with a light spackling of white and grey...like light dirty snow fall in the beginning of summer.  I left my eyebrows.  Somehow they're the only thing that's brown...with dispatches of white.  My face is no longer itchy, particularly under my chinny chin chin...though it's red because I safety razored it too close.  I must have been thinking that if I shaved it closer, I would shave the itchiness away.  Now my chin is all red, like the hole in my chin was drinking too much.  I guess I wanted to try a new look on my birthday...and metaphorically I want to start that by having my whole face and head exposed to the elements...see what seeps through and what it becomes in the future. 

Hernia recovery zone

Night five in the hernia recovery zone.  I took a shower for the first time since Tuesday, cleaned place for the first time since...  We won't go into that.  I think I got tired of smelling my pajamas.  So I did a load of laundry, changed into real clothes, had real meals today.  Usually I've just had nuts, bananas, and pills.  I guess that explains a lot.  My appetite is back though I'm still icing myself.  I think that's why I took a shower...to wash the icing off.  Now I'm lower cholesterol.  Maybe the upped dosage of Oxycodone is making me loopy...though I'm getting lost of rest.  I finally broke through from my place of confinement from Herniacane Dan...and took about a half mile walk.  I understand now why the jock strap and lots of icing.  I know...TMI  Speaking of TMI, I had my first bowel movement in four days.  I guess I'm eating enough now.  I officially sound old now...getting excited about a bowel movement.  I was warned by an older poet who has been through many surgeries that this day would come.  Time to finish this blog, have my nuts and Oxycodone, read, and sleep.  I'm supposed to have food with medication but I'm already bananas and nuts.

Vacuum cleaner RIP

I think I killed my vacuum cleaner.  That's probably a good thing.  I think most people clean their place once a day, a week, a month, a year.  For me it's been...well...I won't say.  But I feel better about my place.  I threw out a bunch of papers and put my "lost" books in their shelves.  The bathroom and the kitchen are cleaned up.  I swept everything onto the rugs.  Then I turned on the vacuum cleaner.  It wasn't long before it started to whine.  Then it started to smell like burned rubber.  I continued to vacuum.  Finally as it began to lose power, the whine turned to a whimper.  I made it clean up a few last clumps.  It's my mother's old upright Hoover vacuum cleaner.  Time to get something new.  Who knows...Maybe it will encourage me to clean more often.  Still have a lot more to do, but it feels manageable now.  I have the windows open now to get rid of that burned rubber smell.  I think it's the smell of guilt...

Dead End In Norvelt

That's been my surgery recovery book.  It's the 2012 Newbery winner by Jack Gantos.  I've been reading his books for years and am embarrassed to admit I finally realized he won the Newbery for this book about three weeks ago.  They announced the Newbery nearly six months ago.  I heard about it first during an radio piece on Jack Gantos.  Then I bought it a week ago. It's a very strange book to finish reading while recovering from a hernia operation.  It's morbid yet incredibly funny.  It's wildly creative yet filled with interesting historical facts that weave a madcap plot that seems true.  I don't want to give away the morbid yet poignant joys of this book.  Just read it.  There's a good reason it won this year.  There were many times in this book where I had to hold back laughter, because I didn't want any stitches to come loose.  If you've never read any Jack Gantos, I suggest reading any of the "Joey Pigza" books...a kid with ADHD and and an incredible set of characters.  Having read "Dead End in Norvelt", I see Jack Gantos' style in all his characters.  He knows how to tell a great story.  I also highly recommend his 1993 memoir "A Hole in My Life"...which in some ways feels like a very frank yet funny account of his later years.  With everything that has gone wrong in his life, Jack Gantos has a great sense of humor.

Wednesday

Tuesday I felt fine after hernia surgery...so I didn't take any pain pills before going to bed.  Mistake!  Woke up at 3:30 AM and gradually rolled and pulled my way out of bed.  Walking to the kitchen probably registered about a 9 on the pain scale.  I was shaking, my forehead sweating, felt nauseous, and could barely walk.  I took one pain pill with food and went back to bed.  Eventually got some sleep.  Took another pain pill four hours later, but wasn't feeling any better...had no appetite.  Called the doctor.  He said to up the prescription from one to two, so before noon I had two pills, read for half an hour, and went back to bed.  This time I had a good sleep.  Woke to a phone call.  My clogging group, the Eclectic Cloggers, was going to bring food over for me.  This time I felt more mobile and less pain...and half an hour later food arrived at my door!  I felt so fortunate.  My appetite is coming back.  Even though I'm still in pain, I feel lucky to have so many people looking after me.

Tuesday

That's the title to a great picture book by David Wiesner which won the Caldecott in 1991.  If you have not seen this marvelous book, you're in for a treat.  To say more would spoil the mystery. 

Tuesday is also the day I had hernia surgery.  It went well and I am grateful for so many who held me in prayer and support.  I will be about a week or two in recovery...we'll see.  I usually heal quickly but won't push it.  I feel good now.  We'll see how I'm feeling in the next 24-48 hours.  I have Oxycodone and Senna Plus to help me out with that...which I will only take when necessary. 

I have lots of reading and hopefully poetry to write.  If I write or read something I feel is good, you'll probably see it here.

Good karma

I was waiting in a long line at Safeway to buy groceries.  A man about my age behind me voices his frustration..."You mean there's no more cashiers?"  I say without turning around "I don't know."  In my mind I'm thinking of downsizing, people on breaks, people who didn't show up.  I also realize I'm in no hurry, but he appears to be.  I have a large amount of groceries and a $100 gift card that I'm not sure will work.  He has only a few items.  I turn around and tell him he can go ahead of me.  He says, "That's okay.  I'm in no hurry."  I tell him I have a lot of items and a gift card that I'm not sure will work, so it may be awhile.  He smiles and says "That's okay."  Then I say, "I have an ulterior motive.  I'm having hernia surgery next Tuesday, so I could use all the good karma I can get."  He laughs and says, "That's a good reason" and goes ahead.  My transaction goes through more smoothly than I expected.  I felt better and the man behind me in line left in a much better frame of mind.  I'll see how Tuesday goes...

Vision

And when the world's conceit got walking
There was nothing left to see
Just an owl or two
And a few crocodiles
Eating clocks to stop time fly
The worms woke up
Blunt and pointed diggers
Creating tunnels and caverns
That made plants so happy
And when the world's conceit got walking
The trees breathed heavy sighs
Of relief as birds and squirrels and...
Tickled their branches
Their roots
And the moon smiled
Glowing nature's wakefulness
Thinking this festival for her
And when the world's conceit got walking
There was nothing left to see
Conceit woke their busyness
Noticing nothing in nature
The moon blinked away
Waiting to rise in fullness
Though fully present
Waiting
Nature
Waiting
There was nothing left to see.

Denis Streeter  6/17/12

Pappa Pellerin's Daughter

"Blackflower, moonlight, snakeberry plant..."
These are the words Loella hisses at people in a bad mood.
"Whiteflower, sunshine, squirrelberry plant", when she's in a good mood.
Loella is a fascinating creation by Swedish children's writer Maria Gripe in "Pappa Pellerin's Daughter (1965).  She lives in a small cottage in the forest where she cares for her two small twin brothers.  Both her mother and father are gone and she prefers not having company...with a few exceptions.  She is nicknamed "Loopy Loella" by townfolk and built a scarecrow named "Pappa Pellerin" which she dresses in her long gone father's clothes to keep people away.  However child welfare services take the children away and Loella learns to live in the town orphanage...where she never stops dreaming for the return of her father.  I don't want to say much more about the book.  There is so much for you to explore.  The plot has a perfect story arc and emotional resonance.  There is darkness but also light in the beautifully written book.  Despite Loella's many travails, she never gives up hope.  It's out-of-print, but probably available at the library through inter-library loan or find an inexpensive copy online.  In an odd sort of way, it seems like the perfect Father's Day book.

The Glassblower's Children

I just finished reading this book by Maria Gripe.  It was originally published in Sweden in 1964.  I first read it about 25 years ago and it somehow remained in my memory.  I like it just as much the second time around, perhaps more because I admire her vision and craft.  It's like a Swedish fairy tale gone horribly wrong but with a good ending.  The illustrations by her husband Harald Gripe complement the writing perfectly.  I did a bit of research on Maria Gripe.  She's sold more books than any other Swedish children's writer except possibly Astrid Lindgren...of Pippi Longstocking fame.  Check out Maria Gripe's books from the library.  I did.  I intend to re-read the "Hugo and Josephine" trilogy and "The Night Daddy".  The next book of hers I'll read is "Pappa Pellerin's Daughter"(1966).  I never read that and it won the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award.  I did a little research on that.  These are books that were determined could sit proudly on the same shelf as any books by Lewis Carroll.  The awards started in the 1950's and ended in 1979...the year I graduated from high school.  It's really a shame they stopped presenting that award.  Look for yourself.  Many of children's literature's best books are on that list.  You may be surprised how many you've read.  I know I'm going to check out more books from the library based on what is on the award list.  So...go to your library and check out anything that resonates with you by Maria Gripe.  I don't think her books are in print anymore.

Another Swedish writer/illustrator to check out is Elsa Beskow.  I read two books of hers years ago and loved the illustrations..."Peter in Blueberry Land" and "Children of the Forest".  I re-read them recently.  The illustrations are amazing...a beautifully imaginative fairy tale like quality.  In fact I think I've seen some of her prints on greeting cards.  I believe her books are still in print and there are several copies at your local library.

Too many books...but I guess that's a good thing!

oblivious

all the waits forward
some signs of sight
sighing to be out
where the tempests bloom
beside the casket closing
not that anyone noticed
pushed aside waded through
nothing left
but the dry hoppers why
and the ink exposed
waving in the wind
kestrels of distress
while the by and larges
caught up with barges
histrionic cliche social studies
in the heart
living apart
spell checked
when wedding bells burnt the fire
shot the wings
some travesty of divorce court
counting twos by threes
no settlement
just that long drawn
out continuum
in life
bottom top feeders metronome scope
disinfecting your mouth your mind
just cold
all controlled
more out than in
and the staging begins
your smaller and wiser
sharp as a dull metaphor
matador met a door
walked through it
just cold
watching his oceans flow
some plank his eye pulled out
oblivious
to the known
in some unknown
understanding.

denis streeter  6/3/12

When the tears came

Maybe the mountains were simple
When the drawing began
Sunrise set rainbows
Growing shells on lake bottoms
Sometimes grief is like a shell
That opens out and clams shut
Shared then solitude
Massage into healing
Cells to awaken
When they will
Our lives a present
In the horrors of living
Turning to each other
Perhaps that Higher Source
That goes by so many names
Stirring up something as simple
As those mountains within
Not so simple
When the drawing began
Feeling the silence
When the tears came
And the words began to flow
Opening out our within
Growing larger than our known
Into something like
Love.

Denis Streeter  5/31/12

something missing

echoes of nightfall move my speakers
down in the room where the cold rains
and the cellar leaks when the buckets dry
moling distance between empty and cold
just before the sandworm technique
and the offices went out
all party and no paint
nothing to catch and nothing to dry
just cellars of clean teeth
the sense to know better
when the leeks came
and the shadows shook
sure as a cornfield disaster
when the tongues cease
and the corn hopper cant
justice in two bright faces
the refrigerator door hops
and flees into the wings
just as two bones make a fly
and turn to light
let the capricorns decide
and mirror their dismissal
of the ugliness within
and the fairest present
waiting for when
i always knew
the sands of drifting were over
let the reels spin
when it changes who can tell
not me im the middle man
on the cloven road
only space will know
when i will cross the rivers and canyons with you
but that aint happened yet
and the metronomes are crooked
and ive missed a beat.

denis streeter  5/27/12

Blundergone

This piece was inspired by British children's writers William Mayne and Alan Garner...two brilliant writers with an amazing sense of place, dialect, and language.

It war a lar larky whimble
Shrouded ten brick high wandin' sor-west
Table roun' drinkin por soppy
Drop stenched
And da flies dancin' himmel
Nowt ofer
Larfin' tin whistle
Nowt in tin
Bar up da korner
Shadow shack gon
Livered shy roun' blister bent
Up da bedpost an bye
Dreamin'
Bluelarked
Blundergone.

Denis Streeter  5/21/12

The hides

Shoulders unrest the floating tollbooth
Down table clothes of silence
In the golf of the night
That set the scene screaming
Doors open and close
Baskets dreaming
The carpets floating
Uncovered planks showing their sheen
And the planks buckled
Some crazy xylophone
Unearthing subconscious dreams
Floating a tollbooth away
And into the hides the searching begins
Treasure or our worst fear
Are sometimes the same
And beneath the planks
The table cloth of silence
A communion
Should we enter in.

Denis Streeter   5/18/12

The House on the Brink

First published in 1971, "The House on the Brink" by John Gordon is a classic.  I first read it about 25 years ago on one of my book trips to Vancouver, B.C.  My mother read it as well and would often comment on how this odd book haunted her...a terrified lady and a seemingly malevolent log moving up the beach toward her house.   I also felt haunted by this book...and in an odd way makes me feel closer to my mother who died six years ago. This time I picked up the richness of the physical and emotional landscape, electrifying poetic word pictures, along with an equally compelling narrative...buzzing with energizing creativity.   

Let me give you a sense of the writing.  This passage is about a boy daring himself into stealing a rowboat...

   Act now.
   He looked quickly up and down the wharf.  Still
alone.  He went to the edge.  The cruiser had its fenders
out and was held even farther from the wharf by a wide
baulk in the water.  A couple of yards.  But there were
handgrips along the canopy over the cockpit and a
ledge for his feet.  He leaped, reaching for the grips.  His
feet hit the deck.
   A boat is a floating drum.  The thud of his feet
echoed within it, and at that instant he thought of
people on board.  He clung, and fear stripped him as
clean as a skeleton.  It happened once in every real dare.

(page 13, "The House on the Brink")

Read his words aloud.  His writing truly comes alive.  Equally effective creative writing is John Gordon's "The Giant in the Snow" (1969).

Shiftings

bring in the detachments
those suffering litters to come
red with brown beetles
littered by the sun.
bring those who hunger and thirst for righteousness
For His Name Sake
All capitalized like it means something
When it might mean nothing
bring in what you will
the can is waiting for you
It can not hear
It only listens
Some plane overhead
Never you
And that is the same with our holy god
All lower case like it means something
bring in what you will
The meaning
Ever changing, ever the same
The can is always there
In your shiftings
Into each present
And under the shiftings
Something solid
Call it what you will.

Denis Streeter 5/4/12

Waiting for more...

I'd actually be curious what direction you would take this...


Waking up
Four and a half
"I'll be chuffled!, he said
Looking in the mirror
There were two of them
The mirror looked back
"There's another!"
The lights turned off
His glasses off
The clock turned thirteen
Brushing his teeth
Hoping for lumination
The words shut down
Dust reading sweaty palms
Waiting for more...

Denis Streeter 4/20/12

Come willingly

When the past was dreaming
I got up walking
Sedimentary dreaming
When the walks were warming
Bicycle caps and hubs of tears
Of car crash dreaming
The radiators shot
And t-shirts sweat and glow
Not for want of lacking
Just under grounds of dismissal
Where the car chases lie
And the damsels tie their distress
Where the sheep herd cattle
Under the onion ring sun
Cheap as a sun lit dollar
But bigger than a dime
When the removals came
All boarded up
Before the cowlicks arrived
All cud and grass and no arrival
When the washboards teared
When nothing was done
Under the sun
And the flesh pots ate
What nobody knew
Just before the dawn of time
When my living room woke up
All legs, feet, and torso
When my feet arrived
And started talking
Head arrival unknown
Except the clock in my mind
The dresser in my drawer
The silence within
The confusion to follow
And the will to take it all in.

Denis Streeter 4/5/12

Tunneling

When the sands were dry
And the dust began to cleeve
The clearing ahead
Of cloak and ashes
The coal left behind
Planting morning fire
In the residue too soon
While the jackets dry
And the dust danced
Drift settling in sand
The waters primal flow
Spirals leave shells
Behind drifts of light
A starfish leaps
Barnacles and leaves
Waves awake
Tapping sleeves
Just before noon
When the sun dips low
That pegasus flight
And the shadows
Hunger light
The bowls disappear
And frankincense demures
The mirror shatters
Two faces
Seen dimly
Through sifts of sand
Shells of tunnels
In lands of light
The coal compression
Facets reflection
Mirror inspecting
Before the sands reply
And the dust began to weave.

Denis Streeter 4/15/12

Riddling

I shaved the riddle backwards, but it ran in circles
Knocking off noon when summer came around
But it was still Spring, so I put it in a tunnel
Burrowing its hole so it couldn't be discovered
I sent a worm after it, but it was slow and confused
I sent an aphrodite, but all it did was giggle
I sent a clam and now they're lovers
I used my secret whistle and it ran in circles
I shaved the riddle backwards when the sun began to thaw
Knocking off noon as a knocked up clam
And now I hear little riddles all the time
I still don't understand what they're saying
But it fills me with delightful confusion
I love to hear their laughter and
They love to see confusion
So I clam up when the sun begins to thaw
Burrow down, catch one by the leg
I shaved the riddle backwards, but it ran in circles
Washing shores in a wet lipped goodbye
Riddling oceans with laughter's song.

Denis Streeter 4/3/12

What is it

Now the box is open
Now the box is empty
I opened the door but it leaked out
Exploring fibers yet unknown
And its breath was salty and fresh
Light and dark
Filled with contradiction
Or perhaps different ways of knowing
I laughed, it laughed
But we meant different things
Now the box is empty
Now the box is open
Go and chase your unknown
May it lead you to love.

Denis Streeter 4/2/12

Inbetween land

The links are changing
Almost without measure
I don't know where they've gone
This month alone
Hospitalization and death
Engagement and birth
A century continuum
Cut down the center
And I am fifty
In that inbetween land
The links are changing
And it's all about connection
But how do you connect
In a world half crazy, half sane
Is it your doctrine, your belief?
And what is that, really, at its core
Enough about me
Where are you
Where are you going
Inbetween land
We're mostly water
Swimming, hoping
Someone will catch our hand.

Denis Streeter 3/30/12

Wooden bridge

The desk opened tales never been told
Etched into oldness
The secret of the termite who lost its skin
The sapsuckers dream of words forgotten
The mystery in inkwells and pigtails
Etched in oddness
And the wood laughed beginning to splinter
Broken words breathe then drown
Cross wooden bridge
Some ark of leftovers
Some forgotten ancestor
Waiting for the future
To retrieve its past
Between breath and creation
The past comes alive
Dreams retrieved
Etched in oddness
Oh but the pain
Against the grain
Of the forgotten
That sunken ship of dreams
Don't pass us by
Open your trunk
Transform us
Desk us
Don't let it all be
Forgotten
Catch our splinters
Words of pain
Of misunderstanding
We always meant
Has developed
A life of its own.

Denis Streeter 3/25/12

Itsnt

The keys to the meadows drew blanks
More for the parking lots to explore
Meandering valleys of dog scratching heads
And post office explosions set pavements atremor
Hoses wrap wings attempting to fly
Nothing but starlings starting to cry
And the deepening meadow of fishes fossils forgot
When time startled all boundaries
Leaning where ever it could
Just before the naps of contrition
Dust settling to dirt
Laughing posts of night
Daytime conclusions
Dreaming of what itsnt so.

Denis Streeter 3/23/12

"My name is Mina"

"and I love the night. Anything
seems possible at night when the rest of the world
has gone to sleep."

That's the voice of Mina in the first two sentences of David Almond's (2010) prequel to his 1998 classic "Skellig". I absolutely loved this book! It's not for everyone. Like "Skellig" the word pieces sometimes seem disjointed, but be patient. In some ways this seems like a visionary primer on how to teach poets and artists. He creates an incredibly deep resonating tapestry that connects spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually. "My name is Mina" is a beautifully constructed work of art. It's also probably too challenging for most readers...who may find themselves scratching their heads at the structure and some of his ideas on reincarnation and religion. The man is a genius and will probably never be read except by weirdos like me, book critics, and perhaps a few others. Coming soon to a remainder table near you. I seriously hope I'm wrong.

A quote from David Almond's book "My Name is Mina":

As we ate, Mum talked about birds and souls. She
said that some people believe the soul never dies, but
it moves from one body to another, even to the
bodies of animals. This is called the transmigration
of souls. It's a kind of rebirth, or reincarnation. She
talked about Plato and Hinduism and Buddhism.
She said that some people believe that if you have
not lived well you will be reborn as an insect, or
even as a vegetable.
"Or as a fruit?" I said, holding up my
banana.
"Yes, some people believe you could be reborn
as a banana. Or as a pea, or a Brussels
sprout."
I bit the banana.
"I wouldn't like to be a sprout. But a
banana! Imagine being such a color and having such
a taste!"
I bit the banana again. If there was a soul
inside it, would you taste it? Or was the soul's
taste the essence of banana-ness?
"Maybe good souls turn out bright and
tasty," I said. "And bad souls turn out being green
and yuck!"
"Maybe. Then raspberries, for instance, must
be very good souls. And if you became an insect,
what would a good soul be?"
"A dragonfly," I said. "Imagine being able
to do what a dragonfly does and look like a
dragonfly looks."
"Or a good soul could turn out to be a bee."
"To be a bee," I said. "To be a bee."
"And a bad soul?"
"A cockroach."
"A bluebottle."
I pondered.
"I'd quite like to be a bird," I said.
"I can imagine you as a bird." (pages 79-80)

Isn't his writing and ideas amazing! No one writes like this for children or adults!
All ages.

Okay

I want to be authentic, but
Sometimes I just lie
When I'm hearing
"Hi how ya doing today."
"Okay"
No, I'm not, but what can I say
He's a customer
And I'm too tired to come up with any other response
It makes me feel bad
Even these lies of necessity
Because I'm always hoping I can say something truthful
Be helpful, be authentic
But I'm too tired so I say
"Okay"

Denis Streeter 3/16/12

"I'm a mustache"

That's probably my favorite line in this picture book I just finished reading called "Hubert: The Caterpillar who Thought he was a Mustache"(1967) by Wendy Stang and Susan Richards with illustrations by Robert L. Anderson. A co-worker found this "Denis" book for me on the free table. I had so much fun reading the whole thing aloud to the staff. It brightened my day...and theirs. It's silly and magical and appeals to my sense of life's absurdities. It only takes about five minutes to read aloud. Okay...let me give you a sense of it...

"Hubert was a very mixed-up caterpillar. [illustration]
He thought he was a mustache.
Of course, it's plain to see why.
'I'm a mustache.' [illus.]
When Hubert was at a party,
he was always left alone.
Because when he was introduced as
Hubert The Caterpillar,
he would reply proudly,
'I'm not a caterpillar.
I'm a mustache.'" [2 ill.]

It's very funny as it goes along...and the multiple meanings give it depth.
Find it, because I'm not reading the rest of the story to you.
If you aren't laughing or at least smiling by the time you've finished this oddly poignant story, you're not alive.

Denis Streeter 3/10/12

Friendship

Services you don't know
Walk in tubes
Waiting for the unknown
The fractured envelope
The empty tray
Waiting for the casket
To open some design
A side pocket
A bent arrow
Waiting for close
To open
Self-contained
That bitter root
That contradiction
Seen face to face
Grab it, hold it
Breathe
See the sunlight flow in.

Denis Streeter 3/7/12

Friday night poem

Moon gazing down
Shaping roses in stardust
Sky glittering pollination
Mice skittering I awake half dreaming
Moon cracklings underfoot
Mind opening, speech asleep
My universe expanding
Its frame.

Denis Streeter 3/2/12

Wasted time

Dusting the morning spells aways
Fields grew rivers and swells grew oceans
Under the carts that bend and sway
Traveling sunlit roofs gathering shadows
And the moon bent its suspenders up
Too soon for the rugs and pastures
One lie leading to the next, or was it fancy
Clocks ticking when you aren't in
The way knives dress coroners half asleep
Through window panes and onion shaped doors
Enough to cry through rabbit holes
Until the dust cleared and the tadpoles stayed
Sense changing each day like real life
Under some core of your wandering
Trees wave pocket books of dust
You get out your check book and wave
It doesn't make sense. Never did.
But somehow you feel in your element
A lightness in your gait beyond explanation
Was creating opposites always so natural for you
I sat under my chair to cry, but the legs were holding me up
Toothpaste and lemon juice setting up cheer
Where the last of the ladles lay
I tried to put them on, but they didn't fit
Washed them and they fit perfectly
But the clocks were running fast. I lassoed one in.
Time struggled so I released
Realizing this game I was playing
Wasn't going to end
It was beginning.

Denis Streeter 2/27/12

Trust

Some work days take up your nights...

Learning by the window sill
Typing turning mind a till
Tilling earth inside my head
Hoping for some sleep instead.
Bleary weary done undone
Disconnect this attention
Hyper-vigilance in bed
Messes with your sleep instead.
Late night popcorn did not help
Dipped in chocolate all about
Morning stomach learn achurn
Stomach head some earthen learn.
Turning toward some prayerful thought
As things are and as they ought
That communion will involve
Hoping for some kind resolve.

Denis Streeter 2/26/12

A perpetual baptism

Beyond the spring pages that march by
The captured moons in their moonshine buckets
Miming happiness that carried them away
Lay the rainbows start and the rainbows end
Some hatchlings of color some mistings of grace
And at the center the learning curves
Asking for moonshine in braying buckets
And the buckets listened but never heard
The misting of waterfalls shot up to pray
Thinking learning comes that way
A perpetual baptism
Curving midlife gone astray
And the curves keep correcting
Listening hearts in moonshine buckets
Mime our time, plummet our depth
Turn our pages, sharpen our prayers
Whittle our essence, bray away
Learning curves
A perpetual baptism
Towards, away
Some mistings of grace
Lay our rainbow start and end.

Denis Streeter 2/24/12

Storyteller

Read my March 4th 2011 post titled "Elsie Piddock". I'm now reading Eleanor Farjeon's book "Martin Pippen in the Daisy Field"(1937). Now I know a little more. Martin Pippen is a traveling singer/storyteller who wins the heart of Gillian in the previous book of tales "Martin Pippen in the Apple Orchard" written years earlier. I just finished reading "Elsie Piddock skips in her sleep" again. It's even better a second or third time! It reads aloud perfectly! This intricately told charming story has amazing depth. I can't tell you what it's about. That would spoil the spell. And it is a spell Eleanor Farjeon creates. It is stories like this that inspires the storyteller in me. I just wanted to read it aloud to an audience of one, two, five, or a thousand. I don't want these stories to disappear! Luckily you can hear some of these stories for free on librivov, but I want to become a professional storyteller. There's so much I feel I need to do. It's the way you spin the words I want to learn. It's visual cue...how authentic you are as the story unfolds. It's truth unfolding in the form of a story. And if it's true that each of us has God given abilities, then those who have the abilities to tell stories should share of themselves. It is who they are meant to be. Now I feel like I am preaching. I don't mean to be. It's just that stories are so important to me and some are already gone. That's how I felt after reading "Elsie Piddock skips in her sleep". They are slightly dated and could be considered impractical fancies. But it's beauty is in the telling and the way of the storyteller.