Home again, home again…

Home again my friends.

Much to catch up on (not the least of which is sleep!) since my visit north to Washington. My thanks to all who’ve visited. My apologies if I have missed keeping up with any comments (I tried). Will now take me a few days to get my feet back into this place. (More poems too that I didn’t have time to really complete rightly before.)

My continued thanks to all who visit, and especially those who also teach me by their comments and what you post yourselves! Sincerely that is meant. You do!

And for those of you following the “comics”, my return was by way of driving back (a plane was kind enough to get me there) from Seattle to here near San Jose. Seventeen hours straight through! (Don’t ever think I don’t include a healthy dose of stubbornness! But the “goal” was simply getting back, and beating any storms across the mountains to home.) And bless the highway road rest stops! (And a special appreciation for the Washington state rest stops – scenic, visitor friendly, with free coffee too. Well done Washington!)

Never meant to do it all at once, but once the fire was alight, each next mile just seemed like I could do that much more. (And stubborn, like I said.)

And part two, yes, my time away, visiting went beautifully. Both questions answered and new ones found. What else to ask for? And whether or not the faces were all obvious, much of what I found was also in those poems written while I was there.

Later my friends. -Neil

Weeds they do

(Just one response to doubt.)

Weeds they do

Weeds know how to write poetry!

They do it every day. Count the leaves.

Just try to discourage their seeds!

Words pour forth abundance.

Identify which is bloom, which is rain.

You can fool yourself so easily.

What is reinforced, persists.

What does not, fades. Early spring

has answers for every seed.

Sow what you will. Breeze will do

the same. Two hands that may

plow in unison. Unity, one word.

When the weed becomes the garden,

just as it always has been.

Weeds know how to stitch.

How to sew, needle

and thread. Soil and sky,

the loom that weaves.

And this is how you write.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Pocket guide

P o c k e t g u i d e

i.

Small steps. You know,

those at both ends of the coin.

She stands waving a few steps outside

her kitchen door. Vigilant. Woven into

that basket named grandmother.

Some voice of me these decades

later still resists saying the perfect words,

lest in fair expression they evaporate.

I keep her life in my pocket,

close at hand.

I am jealous at even the hint of

a passing far thought, leaving without

my open palms.

In the doubt dark of some nights

me and the cats miss you still.

ii.

Small steps. You know,

those at both ends of the coin.

A daughter and parents. Three chimes

through the door. She chews her food

carefully. Father leans in.

How high is a paper wall?

Across the room another page turns.

More like a window opens perhaps?

Small yellow-jacketed, he smiles

at me. I move my thought filled

hand from in front of my face.

I smile back.

Crow pleads the rain on the roof

outside. Please, one more feast!

Father holds the door, they all depart.

I still stir the wonder, what her

letter meant the other night.

And how to reply?

I leave with work undone.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Bookmark

B o o k m a r k

Listening stills us.

Holding it in your hand

brings a refrain.

The wave of your voice grows

roots from my feet. The ink

of this pen turns bright blue.

A child would know. Under three?

You get in free! Doors are for

when you grow up.

Laughter will open any door.

But we all gotta agree!

Leaves too, they don’t hesitate.

Abandon your keys to jingly

places. Keep your ears.

Keep your fingers, your toes.

They know how to turn the pages.

And I’m right here,

page twenty-two.

Neil Reid © November 2009

May I get that door for you?

May I get that door for you?

This is a poem meant to be meaningful.

Did I say profound? Meant to heal

your hurts, mend your fences, be the apple

a day, brighten your eyes.

Make glossy your coat.

Keep that nose nice and wet!

That’s all good they say.

Will great beauty heal you?

How about a big fat roll of cash?

The perfect cup of morning coffee?

And what will mend a pair of jeans?

A needle and thread and

a willing thumb.

Glad I could be of help.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Conversation around the pond

Conversation around the pond

A hand in the air, casting repeatedly.

Gesturing upward, You know, you know!

Looking for just that right shadow in the creek.

Is that where you’re from?

Yet soon turns to his right, smiles past

someone else’s question asked. Then.

Clears his eyes, looks across the pond.

What I’m afraid of…

As grey hairs listen intently. Neither

of them really looking afraid.

An origami smile floats upon the water

nearby. Here, here, this is a better chair.

Some lips open like lillies into high sun.

Eager bright. Some like stone, yet all glad

for the holdfast anchorage they provide.

You’ve got something hanging down here…

Just what an old bullrush would say!

Cream and sugar? Certainly!

Neil Reid © November 2009

Sister lost

Sister lost

You called my name before

my voice broke from dawn, entered day.

Your nile dark braid of hair, a sister’s

rope to pull me from the river flood.

Tall yet near. Your hand a cradled nest.

That photograph.

My eyes found yours. I’m sure they did.

No milky sky could confuse. No olive

moon had your scent.

I’ve grown into years, decades now.

All that you gave, all that we lost, are

rendered in one old box.

Even so dire as white and black, that old

photograph paints your Mediterranean skin.

I carry it now. A pocket keeps.

Sister, do you hear me now?

I am the one with olive groves

upon my cheeks.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Morning cup

Morning cup

I would not be sugar.

I would not be soap.

I would be the star inside a moon.

Unexpectedly I’d be there inside

your early dawn. While sheets are

yet jumbled in storm. I’d be the eye

nobody said was coming your way.

Should have missed by miles, they said.

But didn’t.

And landed plumb here, while you

paint my heart. And I find the tatoo

you never showed to anyone.

Neil Reid © November 2009

Dunne Avenue incomplete

 read write prompt #100

 turning dreams into poetry by bruce covey

 

Dunne Avenue incomplete

 
The house arrived about noon.  Just down the street.
South, then West where the sun would pinhole horizon’s thread.

 

Roses and green, space enough in between for a child to scramble.

Flitting.  Hiding.  Other children almost there, but not yet.

 

We approach like strangers don’t.  Already inside before first face.

It was usual for me to open the door, usual to walk inside.

 

Inside the living room it was grandmother’s house.  Two stories and brown.

The windows looked inside.  Bedroom to the left, Janet’s room.

 

Rosemary Clooney sang on the phonograph.  Past lunch,

a back screened porch and a door with stairs inside.

 

Uncle and I hauled up tools on a skid.  But that was when I was awake.

And when the rooms were eaten up, pastels took their place.

 

Expectations were ten times what we thought, except ten times more.

Rooms became double meanings in eclipse.

 

Lost in a way no one could find me there.  Even evening lights

turned on, no one could see inside or find.

 

Atop wooden stairs you climbed into sky.  Sky like dusted roof

rafters holding the space inside.  Clouds like hewn timbers are.

 

Childish memory knows every path.  No one could see through

empty space.  Hands are essential compass for walking about.

 

Then one door changed its mind.  Changed everything.

Kindling fire wondered out loud.  No arms to reach.

 

And blinking was something else all together.

No ending here, only step away.  Awake.

 

Neil Reid © November 2009

Lost boys

Lost boys

 

Lost boys gathered like grapes on the vine.

Waiting, fidgeting. When will Peter arrive?

 

Patience is a premium too expensive sometimes.

Peter has little for me I think. Over-grown by some?

 

But Tiger Lily has my eye. I’m here for the duration

either way. Just don’t wanna become a pirate is all.

 

Rustle is in the limbs. Shaking leaves. Waiting

for Autumn just won’t do. Boys pile the leaves.

 

Leap. Only natural to wanna fly. We have

big eyes. Horizon is only a belt we discard.

 

See her eyes. Wandering colors like sea

like sky like wings like falling far and far.

 

Dust off happy thoughts.

I trust to that wildness.

 

 

Neil Reid © November 2009

Painted ground

read write prompt #98, whee!
by Dana Guthrie Martin

This week an image inspired prompt.  A crowded fair, movement and lights all about.  What might you think of here?  I’m sure the answers will be diverse!  I looked, I felt mostly blank, then something clever came to mind.  I called it, “The Martians Are Coming!”  Clever enough?  I thought so – well, the title anyway.  Yet it did not satisfy.  I’d like to receive more than mere cleverness.  Simply a matter of what feeds me here.  So I paused, placed my young feet back on that sawdust again, allowed for something that was, if not by words just then.  A place I’d wait to be.  (Read other’s poems here.)

Fair Fireworks, by auburnnewyork

Painted ground

There is every excuse in the world for not meeting you.  Look about, see their colors, how they fly and entangle you.  Sometimes even painted in exuberant voices.

Why wouldn’t I want to join?  Why wouldn’t I want to march in that parade?Yet measured, near or close, just where do they land in your landscaped thought?

Maybe I’d say, don’t forget to look down.  Your two good feet, one for each stride of your balanced tightrope life.  Not a harsh razor edge, but a purpose drawn this side of slack.

And you’re one end of that rope.  That part you grasp in hand, that sisal palm, that’s you you’re feeling there.  Notice the pebbles, ants, debris, the small close world living right there, the soles of your feet.

Feel the weight, notice that earth never resists receiving your every foot and fall.  Friends like these.  Twice right and twice left, yours and mine, our stride.

When the carnival’s packed, left only dust and what was, who remains in this vacant field?  Here, take my hand.

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

 

Gastroliths, Random Conversations

New page section posted today.  Gastroliths, Random Conversations.  Just playing around, words and sentences – just a few.  We’ll see what comes or came, or went!

Letter home

Letter home

 

Dearest

 

Middle of the night, dark all about.  My light on the desk.  

This singular moving thought of you.  Here’s my company.

 

Life is so big and I am only this much right here.

One arms handwidth wide.

 

Middle of the night is an awfully big what if.

 

Small movements are all I have.  Thoughts seem bigger,

but invisible like a rabbit friend.

 

Peace in life is so elusive.  But we try.  Or at least, desire.

 

Missing your warm thoughts close to me.

 

Like a china cup.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

Prairie half hitch

Prairie half hitch

 

No comforting valley familiar shoe.

Like sand dismissed beneath anchor feet.

 

No ridge pole editing, dry adrift, open soil.

Thoughts loose boundary, spread wide.

 

Sentences bare of their periods,

only horizon’s vest, pocketless.

 

Late autumn day a mother, a child

remain in the truck beside the road.

 

Said she, yes, you gotta go look!

 

Some briars, shrubs, leaned myself flat

between barbed-wire.  Boots to climb

short ribbed ridge.

 

Then nothing!  Then everything!

 

Only wind gave curve to folded

slumber wheat.  Earth and sky

become one horizon infused.

 

     Years later now, some far sight

     still hasn’t sailed back to me.

 

Some places open themselves whole

wide wild, complete, swallowing.

 

     Lingers with windward chaff.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

For my teacher, Dave

Memories, you know, don’t say anything about the past.  What they say is how we hold then now.  Interesting critters.  (Take note of the dedication and RWP article given below.)

 

 

For my teacher, Dave

 

I wore my cowboy hat.  My boots were

just ordinary shoes, but I knew better.

 

I had a badge, holster and gun, but honestly

I wouldn’t ever shoot you.  I’m on the side

of what’s good.

 

My hat might be black, but I’m still good.

 

I wore my cowboy hat every day.

Until someone said they didn’t believe,

not at all.  Not even in make-up stuff!

 

I understood, but still it hurt.  That lasted

for a long long time.  There remained many

cowboys on TV, but I wasn’t one of them,

not any more.

 

Mostly I kept that all a secret.  Mostly,

until right here.  Mostly.  I’ve been normal,

I’ve been good.  You’d probably not have

seen that cowboy in me.

 

I hungered, I craved for peace, long long

before it was fashionable.  Be it on the

dust deep streets of Cimarron, or now

here where I work a growd up job.

 

I reckon you’d understand.  As one day

a new teacher rode into town and had

nerve to say, write what you wish!

 

And just so, the cowboy did.  And

it looked just like this!

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

 

A little Tomfoolery, but not.  And there really was a cowboy, you see.

And dedicated to Dave Jarecki, author of the wonderful and instructive RWP posting, children and poetry – the kids will all write.

reflecting pool, illuminate

read write prompt #97
by Nathan Moore

This week using a “cut-up” technique.  Jumble some text from some selected source (another poem here) word by word, randomly reassemble and perhaps add a little something more.  (Read the RWP#97 for more detail.)  For this prompt I’ve invoked a sort of second voice to chime in with the original text, which by randomness is all abstract in form.  It perhaps makes more sense now by sound than literal meaning as such.  (What would be called experimental I’d suppose.)  So be it.

 

 

reflecting pool, illuminate

 

overwhelmed why wouldn’t you know

wisdom, lucky these grapes past ripe

 

encourage horticulture

 

know heroic knowing  if only you would

but right have life right have life

and fortune right lilies bloom as meant

 

have life things be as life

 

why in faith

will things be wise they will, they will

 

your if you, you but will 

just good like light, like light

little silken purse

 

and may that life gathered sand

not be with me

things the ways will become

 

are you do

move right move right

 

your is yours are

you not with wings

do if having in open palm

 

in your beloved one

you you not this call’s for you

 

you be 

 

be not in do 

 

in (your will)

in (your able heart)

 

embrace your image here

as he himself always meant

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009 and

scrambled words by William Stafford, from his poem

The Little Ways That Encourage Good Fortune

Darkly humorous

Darkly humorous

 

Where is dark?

 

Is it under this book?  No, just my desk.

Around the corner, under those old clothes?

Just a carpet, green shag.  Shucks!

 

Oh yes, the refrigerator!  Surely here.

Darn, that pesky bulb.  Every time!

 

Is it in the closet perhaps?  Not when

I open the door!  Someone’s looking 

over my shoulder here.

 

Is it under a rock?  Just worms!

I looked twice.  Pretended to walk away.

Hurried back.  No luck!

 

I calculate the tides, influence of the moon.

Stealth!  That’s it!  Outside at night?

Stars abound!  Dim, but no dark.

 

Aah!  What about between the stars?

Isn’t that black?  Really, just what mortar is.

And a hole is not whole!

 

No cheating!  Please.

What if, clever me, I close my eyes?

Yes, but understand your prize!

 

Standing at the gate to everything

and nothing much.  Yet bathed all the same!

Your might is only over one.  Incredulous.

 

Complete.      Indivisible.

Get the joke?

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

Fisher boy

Recalling that body prompt, a little sea-salt, thus one for the road.

 

Fisher boy

 

 

Like ten years old, I remember waves,

remember brawn that pushed then pulled.

Surely some arm must have been inside

that frothing elemental thrust.

 

Then it shatters milk glass on rocks,

as did my will to remain one stance.

 

Feet tumble, a scattered flock

away, away, climbing sky.  Yet

hands stroke back in sight towards

 

Banded green curves just out of reach

Some fearless breath.  And now

 

I find myself outstretched, beating wings,

waves unmet, counting seven by sevens.

 

Where hands like gulls thirsted far flight.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

My feet touching tide

My feet touching tide

 

Like as is the tide, migratory

and even when away from us

we know the return is only

our arms length away.

 

But tell me then, which is home

sea or sand, as where here we

stand, observe?

 

And is the tide watching us

wondering just the same?

 

 

Dreaming how broad, how deep

what mystery is the orbit we inscribe.

 

 

As too, how might you wonder me

how I come following your every word

your lapping waves upon my feet.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

Seaside

Tuned, more simple word.  ver.2

 

Seaside

 

A wave arrives, froth fingers

raking amber sand.  Seaweed

beyond that sash.

 

We fascinate ourselves as

by a slight of wave, movement

does.

 

The magician’s glove perhaps

is wearing us.  Best kept

family recipe.

 

Do we inform the sea?

As a bow does sketch our

course.  Illuminate.

 

Navigate from home to home.

Swim into mother’s mouth.

 

Another summer season beach.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

 

Flying cloud

Flying cloud, an ocean swan and fastest clipper ship.  Ever.  

But you know, this ain’t about boats.  So dedicated…

 

Flying cloud

 

 

Yes. You. Like
a clipper in the mists
her masts raked
ready for the gale.

 

They wonder why
I love the sea.

 

One glance as mine,
they’d understand.

 

Just as I follow
fallow wind.

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

RWP Mini-Challenge, The Body

Poetry Mini-Challenge, The Body

by Carolee Sherwood & Jill Wickham

 

RWP October PMC, Group and Forum

Seven poems in seven days on the topic of The Body.

 

Poems by Neil Reid © October 2009

 

The Body #1

 

Used but useable

 

The body.  Naked?

But that word says of

itself, implying clothes.

 

I wasn’t born that way.

Not naked.  My skin is

my pants, my shirt, my

socks, my belt and shoes.

 

Pardon if a little disheveled

now, after all these years.

I wash but never iron

the wrinkles out.

 

October 6

 

 

The Body #2

 

As good as a leaf

 

These hands, as good as any leaves,

while not green, more like limb or root.

 

These hands, in duty near constant,

hovering or in missioned flight.  They

sleep when I sleep, otherwise a

sentinel they stand patient, alert.

 

Not eyes, yet they see, inform

the contours of a door, a faucet,

in vibrant feature, your face.

 

When I go for a walk, they walk

twice as far, ballast to balance, life

on the breadth of a wire.

 

Or they may laugh, smile, invoke

friendship more certain than words.

Or whither in disharmony.

 

And then one day, when a bee

arrived, landed and posed right there,

on the back of my hand.  Dressed

and combed himself, content.

 

My honor to be you see,

as good as any leaf.  A place

to rest, a hand to trust.  

 

October 7

 

 

 

 

The body #3

 

Some body does

 

Some one stirred primal soup

Some body clambered, rolled in surf,

landed here, where we read.

 

Some body nested in wet sand

Some body ate the sea, walked,

knocked at your door.

 

Some body’s ganglion snapped

Some body stayed home, planted crops

you ate the apple, invented seeds.

 

Some body lit a fire in flesh

Some body remembered youth

you strode across the fleece.

 

Some body studied French

Some body landed on a moon,

but not me.

 

Some body fell to Earth

Some body became the apple tree

and it all began again and again.

 

Some one said, it was you

Some one said, life’s a play

 

Here, something for the road

take these with you, please.

 

October 8

 

 

The Body #4

 

Carrots and ginger ale

 

I’ve been born, I’ve been grown

well spaced now, neatly rowed

in a former life.  A potted plant.

   pull them from the soil in early dawn

   wash their firm bare bodies in water 

   that’s cold, scrub away some skin

Stepped on some.  Bounded back.

I’ve been watered.  I’ve been loved.

   lay them upon the cutting block

   select an oiled sharpened knife

Maybe I was once mistaken for

candied fruit.  But it wasn’t so.

I’ve been lost.  And obviously, found.

   slice the orange flesh half thinly

   and lay on moderately heated pan

I’ve been saved, like milk in a

refrigerator is.  What’d you think?

   combine with oil salt ginger ale

   seal and simmer, reduce

I’ve been lectured, I’ve been given

the helm of a boat out at sea.  Sail

or sink and swim.  Warm porridge

at salty dawn, feast for any bee queen.

   honey and serve immediately when

   the fluid becomes a glaze

I’ve been cooked, served as soup

right beside the apple pie.

   ginger carrots and all, introduce

   me to your tongue and teeth

Life on the table is good.

I’ve been around.

 

October 10   (a day late, and trying to catch up)

 

The Body #5

 

Swan boat

 

There is or was this seaside town

It had these glass bottomed boats

or it did, once upon a time

 

When I was a kid, it did

And twenty-five cents on the dock,

fish to feed the harbor seals

 

While you waited to step aboard, step

down the slippery seaweed concrete steps

ride the white-swan-headed

glass-bottom gondola-boat

 

And sometimes I wish my body

was a glass bottom boat!

 

October 11   (still one step behind)

 

The Body #6

 

Preaching to my left foot

 

Preaching to the choir,

ten toes.  See, they can still

wiggle hello to you!

 

It has been a struggle.

I won’t count the years.

Don’t have enough fingers and toes.

 

But good troopers they are.

Taking the blame for all my

stumbling ways.

 

Even a pebble will do some

days.  Impede my path to the

grocery store, or to you.

 

Good foot, good feet, good news.

They stood the measure of my

years.  Galoshes when it rains.

 

And maybe I’m two left feet

seeking a mate with two right!

 

It might just be fun to dance!

 

October 11

 

 

The Body #7

 

First kiss

 

Let rain define where we

begin then end.  Navigate where

a hand may inquire.

 

It was that kind of town,

that kind of first embrace.

 

Measure breath.  We translate.

Language a wooden fence, hewn

with a purpose unmet.

 

An old red truck.  Burnside street.

Bench seat.  You sat close.  How

warm a thigh in common resides.

 

Fabric wouldn’t say, reconcile

what memory won’t.  Not so much

skin but eyes are boundaries.

 

Like an event horizon is, where

bodies collide, coincide.  Minutes

that were two stories long.  Wait

again.

 

First kiss came awkwardly

but then wouldn’t rest.

 

And the charts still read, Beyond

here, dragons there be!  Yet into

your eyes I commend myself.

 

October 12

 

 

And my thanks to all who have participated in this prompt!

Faucet

Not like a stone, I change when I wanna.  Italics perhaps makes more clear.

Faucet

 

And then someone says no you won’t listen

it’s your day your hour your time no it isn’t.

You resist, a matter of principle no it’s not

any excuse for a port, brave new waves.

Barely through the door side door like

grandmother did she waved me away.

Love flew from that hand.

 

Thought then only safe not safe at all.

She died.  Great uncle did.  Not me not yet.

But then someone says not listening

not listening it’s your day your time not yet.

 

Maybe I don’t feel so well bright sun

but not me her instead, although not yet.

But close enough to point oh there you see.

She told me her name.

Hands touched.

 

Hadn’t even told her yet every word

were they only shy so tender passion

holds its breath.  Come more close

wasn’t said.

 

Only a few minutes now not yet.

Please not yet I race ahead

where only water remains.

 

Waste not one drop.

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

 

You’ll never read this

ReadWritePoem   read write prompt #95

The poetics of the mash-up, by celebrity poet matthew hittinger.  

Combine two poems, two voices, two somethings, was the prompt.

 

This poem came into being actually independent of the prompt, but just seemed to fit the bill in a way for me.  Combined here are the first and primary voice, then along with a second, those thoughts you’d not normally speak except to yourself, that more private part.  Sort of the way I feel a lot of thoughts co-exist.  What you are willing to say out loud, and what you aren’t.  Like that.  Only a first attempt at this sort of expression, maybe some rough, yet it did feel “more right”, more complete.

Read the prompt responses of others here.

 

Third  version.  It just wanted this.  I went along.  And one more time.

 

You’ll never read this

 

I don’t know you     I love you.

I want to heal you but healing won’t change

a thing of who you are, maybe just love

instead, but I don’t know you     I love you.

I must be blind in some way     I clearly see.

You are more naked more bare     your fears

all of you undressed into my eyes.

More than most would dare more than

proclaimed Eureka’s of tin-panned love

with something somewhere anywhere.

I’ve no right to think anything onto you.

You are translucent     you are afraid brilliantly.

You are a lover in the park     you are alone.

You keep touch inside of you     outside of you.

You fall back into a bed     you rise

like a Phoenix would     you keep it to yourself.

I love you     who wouldn’t love you.

I am jealous of nothing at all     everything.

Because I don’t love you     know you     and

even if I would and you probably wouldn’t

anyway.  But I don’t know     I don’t ask.

There’s a mask     I don’t know who’s wearing it.

I like your toes     leaves like fingers do.

A tenderness a passion a thirst     I would hold

them all     I would hold you closer.

Maybe you won’t even see these words.

But maybe in the moments the best of me

really what I want you to know it is not

my love but love’s self I would reveal     you

know and not me but you     I love you that much.

And I don’t even know your name

but I love you that much.

 

Neil Reid © October 2009

Hide and seek

Hide and seek

 

 

This reality is called, no method.

This dream is sleeping now.

 

This hand holds the keys to you,

I’m sure they are.  The other,

something that smokes?

 

This heat contains winter eyes.

Clouds know even the summer

melt just brings them back again.

 

That storm, it was close.

I gathered a seed or two, even

if it was against the rules.

 

This heart, it is yours.  You know,

use it or loose it.  Just a smidge

to your left.  There, that’s it!

 

 

Neil Reid © October 2009