Sometime in late Septober / The last babies are to bed--Begonias, Brugmansia, all our tender jewels--dormant in their 40 degree greenhouse. I return to my blog--so unfaithful to thought. Buried in the soil--protecting garlic from choking weeds; planting more veggies; now protecting more; harvesting; putting up to jar and freezer; sharing; the wood shed full; tilling; re-planting the bounty of garlic and shallots. #So much for good intentions.
Now sometime in the baby '15 / I take to the key board--God I wish I could play music--tickling, no raging the ivories like Mikey or Gordon, or all the ones who just know. Not that great at typing either--but this dyslexic can get criss-crossed letters right the second time. Here we go.
The faithlessness to my blog is couched in fear. To say something significant when it has all been said is to dare that it can be said knews. I wished I could say like my friend and blogger, Talon Buchholz (Flora Wonder) I have written every week for 5 or more years singing the praise of maples & beauty & sometimes pedagogic about any wild hair. I salute you.
So I want to brag about fixing my tractor. Does this qualify as news? Somehow the cap on the fuel tank blew off after my last fueling her. Big winds and inches of rain down a three inch diameter opening for weeks means H2O oops, if you can believe that wind thing. Assess the problem: water in the tank. Drain tank until no water is evident and in the meantime discover that the fuel filter has one inch of red nasty rusty gunk. Go to Napa Parts how I wish I was in the other Napa, sunny wine country sipping, tasting, gulping till there is nothing but a dry green bottle of air that rattles like meditating on the sound of one hand clapping. Maybe your clapping with two hands for me because my tractor actually ran. What is the lesson here?
We love vino or fructo or distilledo. It is like most of the ways people can live with all of the injustices of the world by accepting the discounted $4.48 for daily consumption, knowing it isn't the best taste. Knowing what a good bottle tastes like--save 10%: $9.90--Wow for a special occasion-- like tonight. And I can forget the poor man hugging the steaming grate; with the cheap stuff I can forget but I will take personal responsibility for H20 in my gas tank.;" We all want to change the world." I don't know how to revolution, do you? "THERE'S GOING TO BE A REVOLUTION..." like the Beatles, but that never happened; was somehow hijacked because there might have been more change besides long hair and herb on the table; and people pointed to hair and buried the meaning of the movement. Conspiracy to obfuscate--the old three card monte. God, that was my Sunday religion. Now it's the Church of Basket Flat. Couldn't create a society of justice based on love. Says an old man getting on the latter side of 65; though I wouldn't say long in the tooth. (How old do you have to be, to be considered long in the tooth and why don't the say long in the teeth.)
And there's the thing about the circle. The older you survive, the faster the circle spins. Repeating, but faster. Recession--dare not call it depression--so call me selfish. I want some seeds to plant. Lots of seeds to try and to try and reduplicate the best times they were planted by little ole me. I can't help what's going on. They'll kill you with some crazy person like they did John and Martin and all the others. Don't whisper "conspiracy" or they'll call you crazy. They do it every time things start to get real. Just give me some seeds and a few cuttings and I'll be happy. Did I say what powers my life? You don't have to guess for 30 years--she has taught me everything about loving and it's picking raspberries to crush (Red's Raspberry)--not to go on about Marieke. Seeds and weeds rhyme too easily and the harmony is there if both happily coexist. Me, I want to be happy. I want a riot with some order to it, and I don't want violence trying to make a point but the point is lost because of the act of negation. It's hard to get it across to a hard head like me. It takes a few clangs to the head for me to understand.
So let's talk poetry. Call it good. Call it bad. Give me scorn or acceptance. But give me verse:
Winter
The winter is cold
The winter is long
The winter is hard
The winter is wet
Pray for the baby Jesus
Finding You
Most choices are guided by fate
The roads diverged
The next step was taken
Before you knew which path to take
There you were
The farm not returned to
A disguise with cookies
The apple from Eve
Her greatest gift leaving
Then there was you
Open sesame
It didn't matter where your steps led
Only that you were beside me
And in me
And out of me
The wooded trails are wild
Truth be told
They all lead to you
Its the Season
Its the season of the larks
Don't believe all their hark hark harks
They believe you believe their repetitious cry is true
They very slowly turn the screw
Fight the flock underground
There will come a time chased by these hark sounds
No more tea-filled ships from England
Dumped in harbors trampled in sand
I cannot leave this Sacred Ground
To fight a hopeless war
But we won that 76 one
Could you and I win in 15
Vegas odds are slim
Bearing Gifts To Nothing
Can man ever change his flaw
Single I stand not wanting to be right
Asking only the chance to plead my cause
I cannot say but here is my light
Generic masses hold tragic failings
They die of greed or humility
In Dutch phantoms or Caine sailings
Swearing oaths god damn their inability to sin
Who will kill you ugly hydra
I can only pique make you madder
Only to suffer as poor Phaedra
Does truth care does it matter
Blame the gods for such faulty workmanship
Or the stars not you dear Brutus
Your fathers worshipped the flag why not shit
One mans questions are koto notes in the wind
Island or continent time grinds to sand
Despite our breathings for all our toilings
So I try to forget I am a weak man
Foolishly bearing gifts for nothing
