PoetsWest Selected - a page for poetry and essays

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POETSWEST ONLINE
Volume XIV, No. 2

Poems by Keenan Cheney, J. Glenn Evans, George Gott, Burton R. Hoffmann, Charles Portolano, Mike Puhallo, Len Tews.

And a special message from John Peterson of Poetic Matrix Press http://www.poeticmatrixpress.com/.

If poets and lovers of poetry don't write, publish,
read, and purchase poetry books then we will have
no say in the quality of our contemporary culture
and no excuse for the abuses of language, ideas,
truth, beauty, and love in our cultural life.

Brambles

******************************
Trying

I just am, and
I don't claim to be just,
but I do try to just be

Though this trying widens, by it's gusty spread
into fissures unseen, creates them in action,
a distance created, between being and the wanted,
knowing and becoming without trying

When before this fissure, of thinking we're bound
to try before being and becoming,
there was none, there was
no gap between self and gain

There is, in this malaise called try,
a certain illness of mind and will
splitting life it cracks the eye,
a force that gaps the closed circuit of this I,
away from all-inclusive, into
some self-imposed effort of doing
more than necessary, oft-desperation tinged
but for belief in a self power dimmed, magic
and miracles no say in trying, when
infinite muse is the fuse that makes us be and desire

This trying corrupts freedom in creation, gapping us
far from our heartfelt desires, each moment of trying
we've put that cloak on again, cursing the effort we believe in,
keeping our sought-after
from touching our skin and entering in

Though the word try was learned young
while we learn to pronounce and walk, drive and talk,
it only cleaves manifestation's unity now, a canyon
of three letters, capable of splitting self from goal,
me from be, and you from true

Rather an adornment worn by billions amiss,
who tried and failed, and repeat themselves
while fortune reveals if blinded and peeled back,
that all that was truly ever done was try - and nothing else

If just being is all that's needed,
to be just as I am without effort, and all the same us each,
I release effort's trying blockade,
from this self-made form of all-that-I-am
to this self I know I already am,
this conglomeration - of everything
I've ever stopped trying to be

© 2009 Keenan Cheney
An Oregon native, Keenan A. Cheney has lived and studied abroad in Peru, India, Thailand, Italy and other countries. A photographer/printmaker, former concert violinist and folk rock musician, she's preparing her own music production while getting ready to publish at least 3 books of poetry and much more. She has written poetry, been a visual artist and musician continuously for most of her life, with over 500 poems, various logos and visual art contributions, and numerous songs composed. She now resides in Portland, Oregon. Her main web site is coming soon, with others to follow: www.keenancheney.com

That Old Oak Tree and Me

Hot day on the way to Grandpa’s
I lay down in the forest under an old oak tree
Whose girth quadrupled mine
My head rested upon its root
No sunlight pierced its green leaves
I had walked from town and its shade felt good
I hear a slight breeze through the leaves
I shut my eyes and listened
As the tree exchanged its thoughts with me
Asked how are things in town
Chaotic I said, and why I love to walk through the forest
What do you think of my problems
I have no idea I said to this tree many times my age
They once hanged a black man from one of my arms
What did you do about it
Are you being a smart mouth to your elder
No sir, but what could you do
I was a witness and I told him I was sorry
He looked at me with sad eyes
He once sought  shelter under me in a rainstorm
Later he had a picnic under my shade with his girlfriend
She was white and they killed him for it
She came back here, hugged me and cried
What else do you remember old friend
Many years earlier a group of Indians
Gathered here and told stories around a campfire
They shared their fears with me
They had visions that whites were coming
To slay them and take their land
What happened
I saw them slain right here under me
I felt a little wacky laying here with my head on his root
And carrying on a conversation with this old Oak Tree
I got up to go and heard him say
Before you leave friend would you rub that orange paint off my other side
Sure but why
It means they are coming to get me
It would not rub off
But on my way back from Grandpa’s
I painted a charcoal over the orange
Every time I pass through the forest
On my way to grandpa’s farm
I stop and rest in the shade of that old oak tree
I am spending time with an old friend.

J. Glenn Evans
J. Glenn Evans is founder and managing director of PoetsWest. Has written three books of poetry Window In The Sky, Buffalo Tracks and Seattle Poems and a novel, Broker Jim. Has written several local histories under the name Jack R. Evans, and two local biographies. A former stockbroker-investment banker, he has engaged in mining and co-produced a movie, Christmas Mountain, featuring Slim Pickens. Widely published in magazines and anthologies. Awarded the 1999 Faith Beamer Cooke Award by Washington Poets Association in recognition of service to the poetry community of Washington State. Listed in Who’s Who in America and Who’s Who in the World. Past president of Seattle Free Lances, Academy of American Poets. On the advisory board for the University of Washington Extension Writing Program. Producer and host of weekly radio program on KSER 90.7 FM.

Abbexa #0156

This is a tapestry
that has become our habitation
and also our mystery.

What would you say then
to philosopher and snapdragon
quarreling in the moonlight?

Whatever makes us disagree
may suddenly become obsolete
before we are pacified.

#7925 by George Gott
******************

Compost #001

Herons remind us
we are not herons.

Remind each of us
we own nothing
and we own everything.

That yacht over there
as we glance at it
is ours in our reflection
and our luxury.

It is like that day
we discovered wild plums
were becoming a myth.

It is like Plato
and his favorite companion
lonely for nothing at all
but the desired metaphysics
of an unwritten melody.

#7927 by George Gott
******************

Compost #002

I am the tree frog
looking for adventure.

And I am the insect
too.

Devoured without hope.

And devoured without mercy.

Make of it what you wish.

You are neither the tree frog
nor the insect.

You are the impeccable tourist.

Perhaps abused by your country.

Without hope.

And without desire.

#7928 by George Gott
George Gott is a retired teacher from the University of Wisconsin-Superior, where he taught for many years. More than 700 of his poems have been published in numerous magazines in the United States and abroad.

A Stitch in Time

So much of the universe
Is related to time.
The pulse of the heartbeat,
The tides of the sea.

Time governs our lives by years,
The seasons by months.
Our vacations are usually by weeks,
Working days by the hour.

Emotional states cause time
To be more elusive.

While waiting
It endlessly drags.
If in a hurry,
It races past.
When we’re happy,
We can be oblivious of time.
If depressed,
The minutes drag heavily.

But time marches on.

Burton R. Hoffmann
Burton Hoffman was born and raised in Manning, Iowa. He attended Grinnell College and Columbia University, receiving a doctorate in 1970. His play, Carrie’s Choice, was produced in 1989 by Arena Players Long Island. His book, Family Tree, was published by Press-Tige Publishers, Catskill, N.Y. in 2001. His children’s book, Millicent the Magnificent, was published by Polar Bear and Co. in 2004. His poetry and memoirs have appeared in small magazines across the U.S.

An Albatross around Our Necks

Our garbage travels far
across the ocean,
floating on the current
to the tiny atoll of Midway,
dead in the middle
of  the Pacific Ocean.
Our throw-away culture,
where everything
is disposable,
impacts the inhabitants,
killing many thousands
of albatross chicks
after they eat chunks
of our plastics that
they mistake for food
that we just toss
away without a worry
of where it might end up,
tossed away after
being used only once;
if only we could all
bear witness firsthand
those baby birds
flapping around,
gagging as they choke
to finally flop down dead
on the sandy beach
to quickly decompose
due to the heat,
the rain, and the insects,
thousands of dead birds
litter the beautiful beach,
their decomposed feathers
and the eaten plastics
are all that remains.

Charles Portolano

******************************

Into the Darkness

As the sun goes down,
Peter shaves off
the last of the hair
on his now skinhead.
He stands at attention
in his light brown khakis,
saluting himself
in his bathroom mirror.
Next he smears on
black camouflage paint
all over his baby face,
a tight-lipped smile
spreads across it.
Just 18, time to leave
this small town behind.
He has taken the oath
of the Order,
tonight his initiation;
time to kill
for the genetic purity
of his proud white race.
Time to sharpen
his six inch blade;
time to sneak off
into the darkness
to slit the throat
of any non-white;
time to stop
the browning of America.
His darkening heart
starts racing
as he laces up
his military boots;
time to prove he
is ready to be a man.
He slips his knife
into its sheath,
slamming his front door
hard behind him,
he goes off in the night.

Charles Portolano

******************************

Incorrigible Kids

It’s a Mother’s nature
to be kind, but
mother is mad,
madder than we have
ever seen her,
raging mad
for we her children
have been bad,
taking her kindness
for weakness.
We have walked
all over her,
taking her for granted,
making a mess
and not cleaning up
after ourselves,
not attending
to our chores or
caring for her house;
forever fighting,
hurting each other,
as a torrent of tears
fall from her eyes,
her heart is trembling.
Gone her sunny way
of smiling down on us,
now she’s spitting fire
to shake us up,
get us to listen,
get us back in line.
Refusing to pick up
our toys spewed
all over the yard,
she’s taken them away,
to teach us a lesson
we can’t go out to play,
for Mother is mad,
Mother is sad,
for we have been bad.

Charles Portolano

******************************

Good Samaritans?

It started as a disagreement,
then quickly turned into a bet,
when Reggie stated, claimed,
that few, if any, white people
would stop to help a bleeding,
black man lying on the ground.
His good, white friend, Josh,
got red in the face, angry,
“Oh, yeah, put your money
where your mouth is,
I’ll bet you twenty dollars
that you are wrong.
Any good, white Christian
would stop to help anyone,
no matter the color of their skin.”
“You’re on.  I know I’ll win.”
“Oh, yeah, then make it $100.”
“Even better, you’re on.”
So early one Sunday morning
just as the 11:00 AM service,
the last service of the day,
was coming to an end,
Reggie with fake blood,
laid down by the stop sign
of the First Lutheran Church,
and waited for the members
of the large congregation
to exit to go out to eat.
Josh waited in his car
watching from the front seat
as each and every car
of white Christians stared,
then quickly looked away
as if they hadn’t seen
the bleeding black man
lying on church property.
When the parking lot
was completely empty
Josh helped Reggie up,
then handed him a “C” note.

Charles Portolano
Charles Portolano started writing poetry 13 years ago to celebrate the birth of his daring, darling daughter Valerie. “I wanted to preserve all the memories of the first time she walked, talked. Valerie was born with many obstacles to overcome giving me much to write about. Writing soon became my way of saving my sanity. Valerie is doing great now; she is quite the young writer.”
His collections of poetry include:
Storytelling, 2009
All Eyes on Us, Rockford Writers Guild, 2007 (trilogy of three chapbooks: The Devil’s Advocate, Into the Wild, The Triad)
Inspired by Their Spirits, Wyndham Hall Press
The Nature of Darkness, Wyndham Hall Press
The Soul Decision, Wyndham Hall Press, 2003
Firsts (written with Valerie Portolano).

Mike’s Meadow Muffin
I wrote this on Earth Day, right after I finished sharpening my chainsaw!

Mother Nature

Aint no ditsy hippy chick,
With flowers in her hair.
She is the teeth, claws and attitude,
Of an angry mother bear.
She is the bitter winter storm,
The merciless desert heat,
The wild mother...
That sees another’s child,
As nothing more than meat!

Nature knows no right or wrong,
Her rules are quite distinct,
You find a way to get along,
Or you get to be extinct!

Mike Puhallo

Mike Puhallo, an avid student of the culture and history of the "real west," has been a working cowboy, a saddle bronc rider, a packer, and a horse trainer. Mike has been instrumental in establishing The BC Cowboy Hall of Fame, and has served four years as President of the BC Cowboy Heritage Society. He is the only cowboy poet to have had his work read into the official record at a NASA launch and in the Canadian House of Commons. He performs at cowboy gatherings and festivals, as well as taking his poetry into schools, libraries and community halls throughout the West. Has emceed at annual Cowboy and Bluegrass festivals. Winner of 2007 Will Rogers Medallion Awards for Outstanding Achievement in the Publishing of Cowboy Poetry from the Academy of Western Artists for his collection Rhymes & Damn Lies (Hancock House Publishers, Blaine, WA). In 2008, Hancock House Publishing, released the second edition of his first book, Rhymes on the Range. Check his website www.mikepuhallo.com.

The Founder:
Martin Rehm 1818 -1900

I visited your old place today
the farmhouse was abandoned.
I crossed the yard where we carried
kitchen chairs onto the lawn
after a holiday meals, tipped back
joked and talked in our Sunday best -
white shirts, dark suits and ties
mostly farmers, on a summer afternoon.

The door opened to my turn of the knob
so I trespassed into the farm kitchen
where a long table had stood
that had seated nine of your grandchildren.
Dry leaves were blowing across the floor.
I moved like a ghost through the rooms -
my memory placed the furniture
and filled the home with voices.
I felt the gaze from dark squares
on the walls where photos had hung.
I looked out the upstairs bedroom
and saw the ruins of the old flower garden
and your royal ferns strugglinged near the house.
I felt the dreams you realized here.
I remember the house when your grandson,
my great-uncle Johnny, lived here
during the Forties and Fifties.

I was told you arrived in New York
penniless and eighteen, having no
more than ambitious dreams
and a small, energetic body.
You hired on, to help dig the Wabash Canal,
married a tall Yankee woman
accumulated, piecemeal, this large farm
on which you built a stalwart farmhouse
and even spurred the community to build
a Methodist church. Yours is an exemplary
immigrant story - saving money,
working hard,getting ahead
Becoming respectable.

Yet I am wondering where to go
with this poem, whether to preach
about the folly of dynasties,
or where to build mansions
or would they get to know you better
if I skipped to the time, when, grumpy
in your old age, you tried to hook
my grandmother with your cane,
wanted her to get down from a shed roof
where you had told her not to play.
Or how you surely
would have been shocked, had you
been alive, when my great Uncle Johnny, your grandson, while boot-legging whiskey from Canada, went over a railroad track so fast he blew out all four tires and pulled into the yard of his pious family with bullet holes in the back of his car, like Dillinger.

Len Tews
Len Tews retired in 1996 after teaching biology for thirty-two years at The University of Wisconsin. He moved to Seattle where he took up the writing of poetry, first as a genealogical pursuit, believing the most important memories of people are their stories, then moved on to other subjects -- Buddhism and nature particularly.
He became active in the Seattle poetry scene reading at open mikes and publishing. Some of his poetry has been collected into four chapbooks: Family Poems, Dance Steps in Brass, The Moon Is Not Yet and Frayed Ends. His work has also been published in Bellowing Ark, Mid-America Poetry Review, The Wisconsin Review, Fox Cry, HA, Writer's Haven Press's Moons Upside Down, Stars in Rows, Cascade, and other places. His poetry has won prizes from Peninsula Pulse and The National League of Pen Women. He was nominated, but did not win, Seattle’s Poet Populist. He recently moved back to Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he raised a family.

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