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morner@astound.net
September 7th
the Death of my Father
heat clouds over Diablo
Venus burning 10 o’clock high
red dust hills in a red dust world
even the waning moon
wipes sweat
traffic sounds pound
through a stillness
that lies about reality
there’s something here
pure and down to the nub
not that you’d ever ask for it
effort has nothing to do with it
just the straight
not-so-level playing field
of what is
and the loss of
one man who cared
in our red dust time
Neo-Confucian Ode
Strophe
The people suspect softness, ridicule
polite behavior, hate sincerity,
and they admire any bluff that can fool
the multitudes. There is no clarity.
Thick and black the gunk in social drains.
All is clogged. There is no parity.
Can we wean from waywardness a populace
that has grown contemptuous of charity.
Antistrophe
The vans are needed daily, hourly, minute-
by-minute, psychic rooters that dig
their snakes with penetrating sharp fins
into the stuff that stops us up. Whirligigs
that do what we could never do-start
a flow of confidence and help us jury-rig
a pipe that takes us back to credibility,
our social fabric dependent on a thingamajig.
Epode
But will there ever be enough psychic rooters
to take on this job? New channels shut down
faster than the rooters can work. Cynical hooters
shout fresh slogans, and its hard work down
there in the drains. We better role up our sleeves,
put on our rooter gear before we all drown.
Ten Marathons
with apologies and cheers to:
Pheidipides, Han Shan, John Donne,
Jack Kerouac,
Walter Stack, the anonymous author
of the secret
of the golden flower, Herman Melville,
Robert Frost, Hubert Benoit, Andre Bretan, the unknown author
of I’ve Been Workin on the Railroad,
Teresa of Avila,
and all my friends on the way to
cold mountain.
1.
people want to know
the way to cold mountain
cold mountain
do you really want to go there
well there is no way
no roads go through
in summer the ice doesn’t melt
in winter you strip off your clothes
it’s no matter
so don’t ask
for whom the starter’s gun fires
the bang is for you
2.
all wilderness is in the west
so they say
and in the east too
it’s all one that wilderness
north and south
inside and out
whether you like it or not
so ya gotta get away
if that’s your way
don’t stay don’t play
get away
3.
start out slow and taper off
like old walt stack said
if i catch you later honey
you’re mine
Walt would call to the girls
but the girls just smiled
knew he could keep it up
the pace
but could he get it up
after the race
in the days before viagra
it was all in good fun
4.
the dung beetle rolls a pill of dung
pure effort concentration
of spirit
if life can come out of a dung ball
how could it not emerge
from a body concentrating the spirit
to where the celestial mind rests
so be on the lookout
for some kind of interior economy
for the action of every soul
as it moves toward solitude
and take a ride to the sunny side
of the street while you’re
at it
5.
it was a clear steel-blue day
the firmaments of air and sea
were hardly separable in that all-pervading
azure
the pensive air was transparently soft
with a woman’s look
and the robust and man-like sea heaved
with long,strong,lingering swells,
as Sampson’s chest in his sleep
the final chase for moby dick begins
this moment right now
do you know where you are
6.
and miles to go before you slake
miles to go after blisters break
satori, transcendence,.....
choose your word or don’t
words never were to to the point
but whatever your blank space is
don’t expect it in some moment
crowning an ultimate success
but more like a texture inside
the one and ever failure
7.
early evening
a marvelous epoch
more beautiful that a breast
is opened to new lips
the refreshing touch
of rose blood
joins the green sky
a young child shivers
counting the stars
you have no way of knowing
when the marathon started
nor if it will end
8.
i’ve been workin' on the railroad
all the lovelong day
i’ve been workin' on the railroad
just to pass the time away
can’t you hear the whistle blowin’
rise up so early in the morn
can’t you hear the whistle blowin’
life waits for you out there somewhere
lots of ways to miss it
only one way to find it
9.
find the interior castle
its location is between heart and hara
you’ll know when you’ve found it
when you can drop the portcullis
and shut out the pain
ja da ja da ja da ja da
jing jing jing
10.
wrap your grief in a mantle of motion
The 200 Meter Butterfly
Considered as Tone Color
for the Muscles in Four Fluid Movements
Molto Vivo
lively muscles dive into emerald translucence.
pumped
like a brass fanfare with percussion
Gabrieli Purcell pride
in their expression
of firmness
form and control
the whole enterprise basking in
exhilaration
of risk
exultation
in power
Allegro Moderato
undulating easily a cheerful
body
warms
to immersion in yellow energy
woodwinds and strings plunge into full
orchestra
Debussey’s
“play of waves” invites
relaxation
and expansiveness
if there is an aura around butterfly
motion
here
is where the golden circle rises
Allegro Ironico
orange arms windmill an ultramarine surface
as in
a Fauve painting
Matisse
Vlaminck Derain
but the upbeat tempo produces a slowing
pace
horns
muted enter violin and cello
the harmonies harsh Prokofiev
Bloch
effort
is expedited until warnings
near
the end of the dial
flick on the blinking red light
Adagio
slowly engulfed by the ultra-violet largo
an invisible
“I” searches
black light for evidence of fluorescent
skin
the interior
orchestra becomes
a string quartet of moaning meaning
like
late
Beethoven
the urge for excellence verges
on the
mystical or is broken
in futile surges of splash
Published in Carquinez
Poetry Review 2003
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Biographic Information
Stan Morner lives in Walnut Creek, California. A retired high
school
English teacher with wide-ranging interests, his poetry, essays, travel
articles and fiction have appeared in numerous magazines including
California English, The Kansas Magazine,Clockwatch Review, Anais,
An
International Journal, Collages and Bricolages,The San Jose Mercury
News, and Carquinez Review. Stan has been a member of the Walnut Creek
Masters Swim Team for 26 years and is a Vice-President of the Ina
Coolbrith Circle. He enjoys attending the readings at Valona Deli
whenever possible.
Tsunami
A Beach Allegory
No one could say this beach lacks charm, so sweet-
Of perfection the very image. They
All frolic, swim and laugh, whole clans who meet
And play in peace. No thought of break away
Wild wave surge or flood tide can spoil their treats.
These innocents will intermix their right-of-way
with sea and sky. Their psyches fear no harm,
And they create a scene of infinite charm.
The pattern disturbs me, although it’s hard
For one to admit it. Yes, we who are
So strong, so self-reliant, whose regard
For Number One has been our true pole star,
We all smile at the ill-starred, rear guard
Humanity of this quiet communard.
We know no good can come from such neglect
Of care and caution, absence of intellect.
And sure as shooting, wayward waves rear up
Like humps on the horizon below red sun.
The swell of water lifts a boy’s small pup
And rolls the helpless ball beneath a ton
Of surf. All bodies ripped, heads pop up
And they are mowed down by hit-and-run
Tsunami splashing followed by the suck
Of tide retreating. I am awestruck.
Pathetic bodies banged against rocks,
Whole families are dragged out to sea.
A dazed girl grabs hold of a tree and talks
Herself into not letting go. The lea
Of vacated beach land reveals some pocks
Of life- a picnic basket here, some debris
That hangs from bushes there. The warning sign
remains in tact but floats in a pool of brine.
“Beware the waves and watch for swells and tides.”
All there in black-and-white for all to see,
Wouldn’t you say? A predictable suicide
To our objective little bourgeoisie
And to their curiousity-minded ride
To cultures it finds piquant and ill-starred.
And still, no one could say this beach lacks charm,
Especially when one is safe from harm.
This plush hotel, unique you must admit,
Is fortress, womb, and status symbol all
In one. Here we can spoil ourselves and sit
Detached. Waves may roll and storms may fall,
But we will be secure. Yes, we can flit
Through tasteful room decor as nature mauls
The outside world. Our fleur-de-lis showcase
Motif is balanced by Queen Anne's lace.
But friends, is life just one fine fricassee?
The restaurant, I find, is in poor taste,
A hardhearted, dark flight of fantasy
In a wrongheaded and stark world of waste.
Oh, perhaps, I might overstate my plea.
Remember, I was there, saw diners face
The sight of natives, arms akimbo,flair
Like helpless herring. No they did not fail
to eat their quail, their snails, their bales of greens
With pales of ale. Expressions they would make
Of pity, empathy, and care between
The servings seemed polished and fake.
A silent voice was heard off-screen,
The kind of sound that comes from inner ache.
“God helps those who help themselves,” says the rule.
If you don’t know that much, you are a fool!
A claw that pointed towards heaven’s face,
Her hand had hardened in sand. So small
A girl to stop and wave. This earth’s a place
Of inequalities, a free-for-all
That staggered my being. I would race
Away, put distance between this seawall
Of unfairness and myself. Had I not
Abandoned my place in touch-me-not
Complacency by leaving “warmth and charm”
Made manifest in tourist’s fawning leer?
Through death grotesque I sift the sand and farm
Debris for blooms of life. Could I but hear
A mournful moan or see the twitch of arm
Or leg, I’d know that prayer interferes.
Unfair and grisly though the order be,
Our world is not without some pedigree.
“There’s nothing! Only stranded fish that bake
On breached beaches beneath sun as red
As anger. Universe, you are bastard, fake,
not worth our pain.” I swore. The calm, Club Med
Inscape of ocean before me, pancake-
Like flatness replacing waves that had fled
And disguising the dead, it prettified
The truth and spit me out all cockeyed
And tongue-tied, a man without a plan.
I bolted, left the scene. No way to stay.
But get this. Even before I began,
Those richsters took to the beach to play
In peace with salves and oils, their Bain
De Soleil and such like popinjay
Accouterments. I’ll bet they’re still there
Because they love their lives- fair or unfair.
The End
Road to Emmaus
All he said was,”Aren’t you missing something?
We thought he was missing something, this man
Walking the same road with us, a dustpan
Of a downcast guy with a dirty sling
Hiding one side. Crazy, is what we thought!
Then, he did speak. “Watch out, here comes some
sleeze”
We just smiled at each other. But, jeez,
He made some sense. If fact we both got caught
up. Surprisingly, he told many old
Stories like he knew what he was talking
About. We were all hungry and the walking
was getting hard, but he made us want to take hold.
So we decided we had been wrong.
This guy was a good man to have along.
L.A. Fast
Lane
Smell of oil near Long Beach,
Crude slush that used to leach
Through black mud in old L.A.
Before millions came to stay.
We head north on the 405,
Top down the BMW a live jive
Of a ride up to and past LAX,
Smell of exhaust fumes and fresh sex.
This basin’s like a quantum rapid fire
Gun shooting bullets of desire.
Whatever’s not prohibited is
Compulsory;all the rest goes up in fizz.
City smoke seeps into our tight
Nostrils, runny eyes seek Civic Center light.
The whirling freeway cyclotron slops
On. Only wrecks have the right to stop.
Human particles and parts of cars
Slide along hidden rails and bars
that bend into annihilation reactions,
spitting out the pieces of their fierce traction.
The time of frenzied wits ablaze,
The place to front the killer maze.
Seated Woman
A woman sketches with her back to us,
Her water glass beside her comforts her,
The floor of Yosemite around her.
She hunches forward waiting to hear. What
Moment is this that speaks so clearly, that
Addresses her eternity in wry
But golden terms? Do dead red thistles talk?
Or sycamore with leaves of crumpled dust,
Do they feel the sharpness of October
Trembling in the high-above-them, rounded
And stone-encrusted future? Yes, she is strong,
This woman, centered on the wooden bench
With red windbreaker waiting under her.
For she is painting. That’s why water’s there,
For colors to transmute the ore, the dry
Colors of autumn, to make them last,
Not forever, though that would be nice, but last
Longer than she will last, longer than one
Can contemplate and hold off the late last moments
Of October. Still, she loves October,
The month that her first son was born, the month
Of white steam gushing from Wisconsin
Locomotives in a far away time,
And, oh, of so much more about that month.
A woman who will face her death with grace
Is not a woman who worries about months
Or years or times past, but one who can make
Her colors answer questions about the gold
Of autumn she sees before her. She is one
Of one, the very spirit of this time
With creeping shadows, a heart of strength in rock-
Encircled late afternoon Yosemite glory.
Huang Po, known by several names, was a Chinese monk who lived around
800 A.D. and is regarded as the founder of the Lin Chi or Rinzai Sect.
Huang Po said, “Those who, in their singleminded
attempt to reach
Buddhahood, detest the sentient world, thereby blaspheme all the
Buddhas of the universe.”
Poem for Huang Po
Some sages say
there are no Buddhas
neither are there sentient beings.
And yet tonight
when soft rain fell
the feel of my lost life
fell on me
like young fingers
running down
my springtime spine.
Three Haiku
The thin pheasant hunts
scratches beneath black branches
turns up some fresh grass
Smell of wild oranges
on the slope of Spring Mountain
peacocks cry again
October sun sets
a crane wades far from shore
chrysanthemums bend
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