Flight

In the end was the beginning
As the light crept forward
Before there were monsters and demons and gods and angels
Then the cleft slipped and sang to shine
There were stories said the captive light
Of jackdaws and skylarks of mice and bluebottles
And the tide came in to tell millions more
As yes battled no with no hopes of compromise
Sliding pools storied in clam shells
Waiting for the tide
Yearning for far away places
Ripped in the retch of today
The light blinked and a story retained
Love wove in gravel returning to sand
And cyclic wandering lives
Footsteps melt away in tide
Driftwood turns to tell shadows
Trusting stories wave repeat
And there is gone
Some legion some metaphor some unknown
That dares to slice deep, to penetrate
That darkest of coal, spun, lit into light
Reaching beyond beginnings
Spits of sand spilling their ways
Turning leaping stop to go
Shapes probe mysteries words into spaces
Silent and deepening
Land slips touching another
Then a bottle a letter a hope
Open to flight

Denis Streeter   12/25/15

Mr. Blank and Nerves

One of my favorite children's writers, outside Joan Aiken, William Mayne, and L.M. Boston is  Canadian writer Brian Doyle.  There's an odd tall tale humor to his writing that's deeply effective.  Set in 1948 Ottawa, listen to how he creates Mr. Blank and the dog Nerves:

     Mr. Blank hated Nerves.  He hated to come home from work after a
tiring day and as soon as he walked in the door have Nerves there, imi-
tating him.
     "Why can't I have a normal dog?" Mr. Blank would say to Mrs.
Blank.  "I hate this dog.  Look at him.  He's making fun of me.  Nerves!  Be
yourself!  Develop a personality of your own!  Leave me out of it!"
      And Nerves would glare right back at him, doing a perfect imitation
of him.
     Then Mr. Blank would sit down with the paper in his chair and let
out a big sigh and Nerves would get on the other chair and sigh too.  A
rat's sigh.
     And after a while Mr. Blank would look up over his paper and say,
"I hate you, Nerves."
     And Nerves would show him his little teeth.
     And sometimes when Mr. Blank would try to kiss Mrs. Blank or
cuddle up to her while she was making the supper, Nerves would be right
there with them with his front paws around Mr. Blank's leg, kissing Mr.
Blank's pants with his ratty little tongue. 
     And then maybe Mr. Blank, just so that he could relax and eat his
supper in peace, would put Nerves outside.  Then he'd sit down and start
to eat and he'd lift up his fork with the spaghetti hanging from it and
the fork would stop right about at his open mouth because he'd sud-
denly see Nerves, outside, staring at him through the window, licking
his rodenty little chops and nodding his head as if he were saying,
"Good eh?  Is it good?  Is it?  Is it good?  Go ahead.  Eat it.  It's good!  Is
it good?"
     "I hate that dog," Mr. Blank would say, "I want to take it to the
Humane Society and have it executed."
     "Oh, don't by silly dear," Mrs. Blank would say, "It's only a little dog."
     Nerves was almost like a mirror.

Brian Doyle, The Low Life:  Five Great Tales from Up and Down the River - Easy Avenue (1988), page 190.

For a great collection of tales, get The Low Life.

The River at Greene Knowe

This is the third book in the English children's classic Green Knowe series written by L.M. Boston with wonderful illustrations by her son Peter Boston.  These books are possibly the most imaginative series of children's books to come out of England.  And the Green Knowe estate is real.  I'm going to visit it in October.  It's near Cambridge.

A favorite quote from The River at Greene Knowe

"What do you imagine worms would sound like?"
"Like wind through a keyhole."

page 63, The River at Green Knowe, L.M. Boston, page 63

Try reading The Children of Greene Knowe first. 

the heart to wonder why

he turned on the light and the dark disappeared
to be transformed into something different
he didn't know what
some sort of flash, perhaps a recognition
the cells in his body couldn't process
but it was real emotion
like the body was playing between rules
there would never be a rule book
not for this
light and dark a transform
sliding between notes and moods
symphonies that measure our soul
that heartbeat beyond control
fueling fear and love
tearing cathartic release
plying our invisible distance
unknown but free to explore
fear of love the heart must
take care there might be a knife
shadow stepped beyond reach
your shadow plunges forward
light on a tether and I wonder
it's not either or but sometimes
I'm trying to get closer to you
but I don't know and can't explain
you just have to be there
and sometime maybe
I will have the words to tell you
and you will have the heart to wonder why

denis streeter   9/6/15

Here's the thing

It's like a puzzle
All the words are interchangeable
"Chasing spoon with a butter knife"
     could just as well be
"Floating bone in a dog fish barn"
Some nice images same syllables
But they live in another dimension
Words slip in and out of themselves
Lines drop and rearrange
It's still the same
I'm plagiarizing myself
Words rehearse by feel
Filling the flow then disappear
Ride out on a trite
Some reappear only in edited reverse
"With a butter knife chasing spoon"
"In a dog fish barn floating bone"
None of it makes sense
I really don't know what to do
It's part of the game, this puzzle
I guess I'm trying to figure myself
In this deep dish template
What was metaphor don't work
Lies in obscurity
I take my breathing utensils and let them air
Wander my smorgasbord eating indigestion
Oh but there's my template
I can digest again
But I digress
The longing that's real
Where's the food?
It's like a puzzle

Denis Streeter   6/7/15

The Wind in the Willows

My father read this book aloud to me when I was nine.  I never read it on my own until now.  In this passage, Rat and Mole search down river at dawn for the lost child otter.  It make me cry every time...and captures its poetic spirit:

     "Then a change began slowly to declare itself.  The horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look;  the mystery began to drop away from them.  A bird piped suddenly, and was still;  and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling.  Rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while Mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness.  Mole, who with gentle stroke was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity.
     'It's gone!' sighed the Rat, sinking back in his seat again.  'So beautiful and strange and new!  Since it was to end so soon, I almost wish I had never heard it.  For it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening for ever.  No!  There it is again!' he cried, alert once more.  Entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound.
     'Now it passed on and I begin to lose it,' he said presently.  'O, Mole! the beauty of it! The merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping!  Such music I never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet!  Row on, Mole, row!  For the music and the call must be for us.'" (page 123-4)

Read this classic again. 
Find your new favorite passage.

Janqetty

One of my customers used the word jankety.  I loved the sound but had no idea of the meaning.  I told her I'd use that word in a poem.  The internet dictionary say it means something like confused or messed up.  I prefer spelling with a q, like junque.  The pseudo-French spelling lends a certain dignity to this rummage of words. 

Many a night
I dreamt of scotch tape floating
And fountain pens in the sun
In their tic tock times
With the fish tales long
Lost in the forest of sea
When the mermaids sing
Long in the slippers wake
Let the letters slip
And the drafters daft
Watching shores realign
Seen through salmon song
Teething in prime
Circles eddy drifting in space
Pitchers popping perfect blind
Moonshine in line
Janqetty.

Denis Streeter  6/6/15

What does God require of you

When I got out the hospital there was a man juggling knives off the freeway
That was April last year
Rockslides and floods, mind roaming roads in stuck
Racing sliding thoughts
Add a year
Last day in May
Birthday in June
I took out my age compass and shook
No true north
0-18, 18-36, 36-54
June 30 birthday
Mid year, compass center, where you are
Graduation, point at zero, lead at 18, times 3
What does God require of you
Is that even the right question?
Flowing through pleasure and pain
Immersed in own thought
Graduation
18 times one two and three
Where does it lead
Speeding through life, not looking at beauty?
Graduation. 
What does that mean?  Last free education?
What is the more
Church works some assurance, deepens connections
Slow, work and restore
Sharing, trusting, learning, betrayal
What is your prayer shifting aware
Rock slides and floods.  Minds road in stuck
How do you juggle
Can't read through banners, wander
How to walk humbly in this world
Mission your trip, building community
How will you spend service
Difference as equals
Subtraction extraction
Death of grandparent or pet
What is the lost connection?
Compass centers where you are
Splash or slash
Grace and truth mixing apps
What's the impact?
Longing for love and connection
Stepping out beyond self, shy out of shell
How do you know what to trust in yourself?
We are our music, dance hide in banter
We are our prayer
What is your banner
We covenant with You and with one another
May God help us and be with us
Come to find sanctuary

Denis Streeter  5/31/15

the next wave

seeing the wave in my eye wander
there was no where to sit and cry
benches too hard to alone.
beaches to dry spit behind
I raise my left arm to sky
leaving the bees behind
wandering a gander flew the winter
no squawk the flight is often
no boundaries only minds
sitting around getting unadulterated
berated I left fist to sky
and god left back
we went a few rounds
I wonder if he was cheating
I couldn't tell the shoulder left behind
nothing but ladder and no one to blather
hiding their way to the psalms
quashing and qualms
having their way
mixing my summer in winter
finding the sand spit behind
praying a gander
hiding in stalls rolling in grammar
laughter rising till the next wave

denis streeter  5/30/15

Sermonalysis

The Dishonest Steward

The orator says
Let's put this in a cultural historical context
This was written in the time of the Roman Empire
So rendering to Caesar what was Caesar's was not much choice
So Jesus was creating a parable of a corrupt sytem
Something anyone could relate to, by showing how life really was
The guy swindling his master is found out
And told he's fired
So he thinks...
What can I do?
I can't dig and I won't beg
I'm financially ruined
So he thinks...
I know!
I'll reduce the debt by 50% for one and 20% for another
He does and the master is impressed by his shrewdness
Lets him keep his job
And why not?
His master is more likely to be repaid
You know
Lower your interest rates...
It's in your own interest
It rewards a shrewd even devious nature
Jesus is saying
Look we live in a corrupt system
I'm just pointing it out
You know it's true
Nobody really did that
Counter-intuitive
So how do you live in this world
Well some scholars say this
Some scholars say that
Let's put this in a cultural historical context
No one can decide what to make of the parable
Just work around the edges like the grand equivocator
Theologians, philosophers, historians
Are rewarded for seeing the "big picture"
Even when it doesn't say anything
Working around the edges
It's a devious nature that sucks in the intellectuals
Reaping rewards
Certainly beats digging and begging
Who wants to get their hands dirty
Well...what about knowing the system and working within it
With your own...some would say...God given gifts
What about working with clay
Sculpting your own images
It doesn't have to be clay
It could be poetry
The sculpting of ideas, shaping of words
Make something different
Delve into the mud and create
Iconoclast your way
Remold and cast away
You will not lose your interest
And you may keep some change.

Denis Streeter  5/17/15

walking in plural

long before shadows sent knees
possums bent plural
taking willows to whine
one word at a time
taking cover whilst shifting
first one then the other
bent arse wise
leaving tongues to fool
at the fish curfew
leaving dry to fry
and bucket to tea
with the spiral left overs feeling mean
adjusting coffins disparage wise
daft as night
leaving tomorrow the barrel three time five
lick the cheese, turn to leave lest the squirms fly
spring sprang and lost
as laughter whined beyond cognition
no one recognized
one leg out and one leg in
snagged two for tea
tongue tied before the shouts were out
feeling toothy but not uncouth
and the soap dish at noon
kneading conclusion
watches the spoons fold in quarters
gingers time in wakes of cream
drunk in shallow tea the door drop whiskers
sideways to hear
walking in plural

denis streeter  5/13/15

twice as nine

the horseshoe shines too long
under the rook read sun
and the logjam wanes
while fish trap their corners
under the rubbish bin
and the bush backstage
in their cat tail collars
watching the nines overflow
shamming between glasses
over rooftop windows
shattered
in the tumbledown darkness
washing tops of night
aware-ing irritation
shamming moon tops
into frugal abyss
washing nines overflow
centering time's backbone
reaping each flaw
rewording darkness
rabid following under-gendered
shot through in roses
where the rabbits dwell
horse play shadows
watching cattails sine
in walls of echoes and grass
holding fingers of light
waking the eaves
shorn in shadows
with their buttons tucked in
as sleeves waken trees
floors checker their watch behind the knees
bending backwards
floors rumbling night
before the rubbish arrives
hung on horseshoe hook
rook reading corners
lemon as lime
shine as a shizzle
and twice as nine.

denis streeter    4/30/15

sordid orange

pits of pieces hiding comfort
left hand out right hand in
sound as a ship might shallow
orange to left of right
sordid here and there
in mantles of shadowy light
words left behind
orange you there
flying peels of shine
spitting wind as trousers flap
trip trap in shoelace run
pavement in a bind
waiting to wash thumbs cold
words left behind
to water divine
from flowering staff to olive
broken strings in husk
moving staying alone
normally rind yet weak of mind
and in decline watch the line
sure as velvet stops
hurts and lies design
watching fools sideways
mixing heart and light
orange left of right
declining nein
flaps in flies
wining forgotten fools
left in right before
normally rind
sordid orange

Denis Streeter   4/8/15

Pyramids

how much it is so
the gravely inken barns pass by our youth
bolden and brayen
seamless to the tongue yet erring to go
and all the condusive flow
that gives lectionaries the bile to blow
into the weeds of the cartoon show
and its wavy little wake
those sharp left corners
just below the glow
over what we know and below what we don't
and the trance incidental
where nothing isn't
no need to decide
and the arbitrary maps fall into place
to believe a distance
no more than a stork could be found
and a butter burned stone
enticed by night's shimmering knees
and its flickering leaves
those shadow drinking pools
driving the dead to stool
further than coins can swallow
and the baby bathers toss and throw
while the mind quails between the knees
and the oceans bit their mighty roar
strong as mite and bit of tongue
the tarengers wake
what the tooth throwers left behind
and the docks hid their shores
behind the quail signs
tossing the nines
inside the pyramids of my mind.

Denis Streeter   3/16/15

Hidden ways

I head down my hallway
Dust mouse scurrying the floor
A Gryphon screaming after
Scatters me off my toes
Growing plural
Jumping keys playing fortissimo
Cocoa stirring cups
Some sleepy nightcap
Souls wrestle their dreams
Hips joint their confusion
Eyes twinkling moonlight
Wobble their sockets
Second life electric
Startled synapses
Another planet in the brain
Unknown to our origin
Fossiling ancestors
That deep matter
Submerging then rising
Kissing our flow
Sets it aflounder
Torch to our waking hours
Watching over our days
Our daydreaming deep
Its dark humor rise
Reading each sign
Each human encounter
Light filling and draining each vessel
Searching for some understanding
Inside each unknown dream life
Some continuum wanting love
Exploring all directions
The heart moves discrete considering variables
Or so says the mind who does not like to share
Just learn and take credit
The heart moves some internal know
Head and heart misplacing metaphors
To gather in a basket and sort later
That history leaking our dreams
Scurry our pavement
Dust moat our minds to gryphon conclusions
Playing our keys
To our belief
Wandering living pastures not dead to dreams
Wakening our human condition to yearn
The gravity of our journey
The hidden ways we read and misread others lives

Denis Streeter  3/8/15

Description

He wore a tink tank top
Toggled as normal
Whispered as blind
He tore a nice schnoggle
And the blitters were fine with him
He wore a blintz blind poggle
Some bin biffered pants
And a shortle that accented his eyes
But it was the bliblepin that truly set him apart
It was three inches wide and four inches long
Skin as floffle as bawn
His nose was as high as his inch was long
And when he swallowed all you could hear was the boffle
He was a wide sort of chap, yet three times long
You could say he was dimensionally challenged
But I say he was a work of art, no matter how you bloffle
His intentions were always blime though his works toffle
You couldn't fault him for being obscure
With a name like Flifflefloff
He wore a wig of blintz blance blind
Really more blaff than bloffle
But he was keen as a hair piece
That he toggled as normal
Some thought him rather noffle nawp
Others thought him lorm de lime
No matter which, he continued to flaff fliffer his way
But nobody said he was flawn
Oh no nobody said he was flawn
He was a simple man yet quite complex
Some found his manner flounder
Others found him mix de mor
But no one could account for his bliblepin
It was too much yet too little
Sometimes when his biffered pants shortled him
He would tink and not tot
Women would worfle and why
With a name like Flifflefloff
But they liked his schnoggle
Even though he was a wide sort of chap yet three times long
They could tell he was dimensionally challenged
Some were rather flawn by his manner
And drawn by his blime and toffle
But he didn't know what to say as he baffled away
He hid in a bloffle when he was feeling less than blaff
And then he would blorn and not blern
But he was a blerf of arc
Oh yes.  He was my blerf of arc.

Denis Streeter   3/2/15

Still

It wasn't long before I stepped out the door
My counselor had arrived and it seemed like
I could see into anything before it even happened
I could see every pebble in the pavement
The exact geographical location of
every storefront, billboard, and the water tower
I loved the water tower
I told details of every location I visited in extraordinary detail
My counselor listened and we walked
It wasn't just the neighborhood I could see into
It was the whole universe
All my synaptic connections popping my head
And when it was so bad I wanted to die
But I didn't want to die
I said universe
I said the craziest shit I could think of
And laughed knowing how crazy it was
How embarrassing it was
I just wanted to survive
Just to survive
It was a crazy game where
Saying universe in the tiniest voice
And then universe louder until I was shouting it
Was my way of saying how bad it was
My head was a maze of numbers calculating everything
Nothing would compute
And then I was back at the entrance of my condo
Shouting universe universe universe
Shouting names of people I loved, thought I loved, might love
I was pure unfiltered
And I thought I was going to die
I was fighting with every ounce of my energy to stay alive
Then the police and medics arrived
I was flailing out into the street
Into oncoming traffic
It took three or four men to restrain me
My head banging the pavement just to feel
My right hand pounding the pavement until it could not feel
My condo neighbors came out
Didn't know what to make of me
I was fighting for my life
It took three or four to restrain me
They tied my hands together
They tied my feet together
Restrained my head
Lifted and strapped me into a guerney
Drove me to Northwest Hospital ER
I'd been there a week earlier
This was worse
The food, the care, the screaming
I would feel better and then I would think I was dying
I would push the buzzer for help
It seemed like forever for them to come
Perhaps I was screaming
I kept ringing and no one would come
But they did
And then I couldn't remember
I couldn't remember
They wouldn't let me have paper
I forgot everything a minute later
I forgot everything
I was restrained
They wouldn't let me have paper
And finally I was feeling better
I didn't think I was going to die
But I still couldn't remember
Finally I got paper and
I recorded everything
Nurse names, their titles
My friends names, their phone numbers
They took me out of restraints
I got paper
I looked over the room
Figured out how everything worked
The hospital bed
The equipment
And I knew everything
I got everything wrong
I got everything right
Everything half right
A world of opposites
And yet I knew I was half wrong and half right
I couldn't tell them apart
Everything
Everything
Needed notes
I left Northwest ER the next day
Taken to Navos Mental Health in West Seattle
I took forty pages of notes the first day
Just to remember
I couldn't remember
There I connected with the writers
The brainiacs the super intelligent
The broken ones
The food was horrible but I learned
There was nothing to do but exercise and learn
It felt like a twisted vacation
You could say anything and no one would remember
It was the ultimate freedom
The men and women were separated
For obvious reasons
Still the attraction was there
But the meds messed with my sex drive
Over two weeks and nothing
Getting better I wrote less
Remembering more
Helping others fit in
Sometimes backfired
Mostly helped
Who to trust
Who to stay away from
Letting go to
Guide those to their type
Perhaps allowing their self-destruction
To keep myself intact
Moving through each step toward freedom
Three weeks later
What I learned
I'm still learning
I am still
Learning to feel

Denis Streeter   1/26/15

laughters jungle

leasing castle stormed rooms
searching mirrors clowning climb
emptied desert of desserts
lending least for last on scales forlorn
cattle morn and bladder fed
sensing wind in bends of time
lion roars tempest smile
too small for a forlorn kiss
too long for a sentence sign
walking blight in lines of winter
washing words undressing
confessing to pros in an unknown rhyme
lessening forgotten tongues
printing proses in plays of sand
as sea land slumbered
lasing the least to lease the lass
tune as a tin can cupboard
twice as drawn and blind as pine
watching leashed lords lime in lie
tired as puckered shiners
blessed and cursed in crime
sure as glass and tossed as time
testing silence in tubular song
addressing tightrope as wims
monuments in mime
bent of phrase in rapt remind
crissing crosstones
crimpled as chrome
laughed in firth
bent as bind
tumbled of sign
meeting malarky

Denis Streeter   1/19/15