AUTUMN GHOSTS

GHOSTS

I see ghosts. Not everywhere
But here and there. I know them
By their peculiarly beseeching
Watch – eyes longing for the
Familiar, the aura pulse of
Warmth in the air around
Children, the crystals of
Laughter around young
Women.

Wednesday morning, the corner
Of my eye caught a ghost
Grasping the chainlinks around
Corte Madera’s tennis courts.
Looking in, longing, watching
The yellow-green blur of
Life flying from racquet to
Racquet. He is a recurring
Ectoplasm, a Senior who can’t
Afford the forty dollar key to
Tennis playground, but always
Hopes to hit a few with players
Whose partners are stuck in
101 traffic, just a few rallies,
A bit of rhythm between the two
Sets of taut strings. Longing for
Connection.

I have been a ghost
And will be again, longing
For connection.

I am a Senior by Actual Count,
Experiencing the tidal suck
Of life from old marrow, the
Invisibility and inconsequential
Station accorded by the young
To creatures from the dark ages
Before Universal Access and
iPhone intrusion in toilet
Stalls and crosstown busses.
We invented youth! Sixties’ hippies,
Trust no one over thirties,
We declared holy the noble
Naïf, unspoiled by ancient letters
Dusty romance, pro patria poems.
We cooked insouciance
With a side dish of Scorn.
Now we antic, pacifist warriors are
Over Thirty and we see ourselves.
It is us, grasping the
Chain links of years, looking,
Longing, into the playground,
Wheedling connection, response,
Rhythm, a few rallies. At length
We recognize how dead we’ve
Become. Marley’s Ghost, did he
Wander familiar streets unseen?
Sit too deep in familiar chairs?
Weep dry tears as the living
Passed unseeing? Did his
Agent never call, his lovers
Forget his scent, his children
Refigure their lives without
Reference to Marley?

We ghosts cobble up our own
Walhalla, where the young, straight
Men of the tribe come to our tents
To seek wisdom and poetry,
Advice on taxes and women,
To hear elders discuss with
Authority the game paths and
Planting cycles, to plan
Intelligently, soberly, with the
Stabilizing feathers near the
Arrow’s nock, giving the tribe
Its wise spin of continuum.

Like all Walhallas, ours is a
Fraud, a coffee klatch of
Old men complaining in
Comfortable lies.
Ghosts stay until
Transparency becomes
Tedious, then fade
Gladly like dew in
Sunshine.



BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself is not fading. He's between books, eating compulsively, exercising infrequently, looking for a consort without fangs, and generally making a nuisance of himself. But there is a slight up-tick in his demeanor, a few new stories, and some hope for his heart, even as the light dims too, too early. This is a dangerous season for the old Depressive. I'll be attentive.

SUMMER

A view of summer from water level. I love these long, warm days.

SUMMER WATER

Summer and water,
Sure as mittens and snow
(Winter forgotten,
Disremembered,
Pushed under
Like tax forms
Far from April).

Wave slaps hull
Like a trucker’s pat to a
Broad-beamed waitress, then
The Four-Knot Hiss in the hull’s
Wake as it shoulders wind,
Leaning gladly into discipline
More compelling than taxes:
Wanting to move, plug into the
Big Machine, scamper, schoon.

Hisssssssss, click click click:
An old-fashioned lawn sprinkler.
Chattering bite of steel-shaved ice
From an ice-house block for
Sno-cones. Ridiculous fairy-tale
Jingles too loud from itinerant
Ice-cream trucks wandering circuits
Of ball-kicking-hot, yelling-thirsty
Playgrounds, jingling their bright
Sweet frozen water on sticks.

Night ringing jubilation
By careless halyards in an
Anchorage of summer loving
Boats disremembering
Their winter months of cold
Under wet tarred canvas
In the pitiless yard.
Forget. Remember only
Summer.


JanAdkins
Novato, CA
25 July 2011

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself remembers too much and does too little. He works through these beautiful days when he should be sharing them with family, friends, loved ones. I should kick him in the ass but I'm too cynical.

A BIT OF VERSE

Aquifer

Long spring rains. The boys had rushed
Along the Open Space fire road
To see, hear the culvert spew mighty
(Or what passes for boy mighty)
And watch the well-known rock gully
Sluice lively, insistent with water
Pushed by the aquifer beneath
Our surrounding hills.
Screeching, hooting to surmount the damp
Roar they lean over the galvanized, fluted
Conduit out of the hills’ damp burden,
Fascinated. Of course, water being
The original magic.
One golly-gawk, and Kobe’s retainer,
Five hundred dollars worth,
Leaves his mouth for the culvert’s,
And becomes the tumbling, sounding,
Gamboling, unfamiliar freshet moving.
O, the funereal step toward home,
O, the awful confession, blaming
Appliance for a suicidal leap, for
Treacherous betrayal, for choosing
Wet burbling chaos over dental order
Sublime.
So now expedition, booted we go,
Chivalrous accoutered with lance-like
Long pool net to plumb the whirl silent
Beneath the loud culvert lip, but most
Of us make a high-boot passage along
The exquisite mosaic of armored
Stream bottom – varied, pied, speckled,
Dappled with earth hue like the freckled
Back of a woman you love, holding her
Hips amorously, just as freshly, loudly
As this rushing aquifer extension
Yearning.
The fugitive appliance will be pink
And white, and gleam with white
Intractable metal, it will be obvious,
And soon, we are sure, we surmise, we
Assume.
And we are booting guilty for our joy
At wading childish instead of expense
Solemn and dental serious, courting
The known, unknown stream we see
All silent summer, now noisy and
Somehow girlish.
The boys are useless, thank God, because
Each little turn leads them away from
Serious to discovery delight, why is this,
Why is that? Is this, they ask over the
Burble, a Rapid?
I think of ten ton standing waves
Misted with danger and ungovernance,
Nearly heart-stopping, rock-fleshing like
Ms. Gorgon’s face, furious danger even
To gaze scars the soul and sobers wise rafters,
Making rills and riffles insignificant but
I answer, Yes,
Unwilling to sit them on the muddy bank
And tell and tell and plead for them to know
That the aquifer of fresh and love and hope
Is pitifully shallow and will, when the awful
Sun dries the grass gold, give out and the
Singing stream will fall dumb and we will
Forget how cool and strong love was on
Our limbs, knowing the rain will not refresh
An aquifer before winter closes the door again.
Yes, I say, a rapid. Small, but rapid. Boot
By boot I go ahead of their magpie delight at
Something, anything, a small rapid wonder
Behind me.
And I am flirting with the evanescent stream
That will be dry rock in weeks, and wishing
Love were still walking with me.

Jan Adkins
Novato, CA
17 April 11

Braxinoso Speaks

I'm even older and more crotchety than himself, so my initial response is to tell him, "You're getting old. Get over it. Stop whining." But telling anyone to get over being old is a dangerous command.

RAINY WEATHER POEM

Lay Day

Gray low skies drop
Weekend rain, warmer
Than workday rain for
Construction trades,
Colder for desk trades.
It clings on the fall
To standing rigging,
Stainless cable tautly
Faithful, then rills
Down and down – what
Miniscule, complex
Currents hum in the
Descent along the
Spirals? – to spill
Across adamantine
Bronze and stainless
Fittings, flood the deck,
And exit scuppers,
Homecoming to the
Bay.

Abraxas fidgets at her
Docklines, nudges her
Pig-snout tough
Bumpers, pulls and
Relaxes forgiving
Nylon fibers, doing
Nothing more than
Enduring. Until
Her skipper arrives,
Unable to stay away
Too long, and clambers
Aboard, unbuttons her
Tenderly, enters.
Untouched rain-beaded
Sailcovers, untouched
Shroud still mourning the
Holy wheel and binnacle.
A lay day.

Nautical term: day
Without necessity to
Nose out through chop,
No gray heroics,
Weather-cancelled.
“It’s not dangerous
To sail,” the Prudent
Mariner insists,
“It’s dangerous to
Sail no matter what.”
So the skipper reminds
Himself that he could
Sail. He could. But
Prudence trumps
Possibility. And he
Lights the bulkhead
Stove to hiss and flame
Merrily behind its
Oven-glass firebox
Port, yellow dancing
Of diesel combustion
At a low order of
Utility but filling
The familiar saloon
With grateful warmth.
For projects, chores,
Repetitive, comforting
Checks, new catalogue
Schemes of stowage,
The dream of even
More miraculous
Software. Radar, GPS,
Sounder, chart display
Unawakened.

No sane, no bright,
Will grant kindness
To objects. Only
Romantics observe
That fidgeting has
Become rocking,
Enduring became
Protection, and
Abraxas could. It
Could. If the warmed
And occupied skipper
Breathed, thought,
Deemed an order.

Jan Adkins
6 March 2011
Novato, CA

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself is grateful to Chris Northcutt for buying a splendid 37' cutter and encouraging him to crew often. It's not the Bay he knows but it's sailing, and Chris is a skillful skipper who questions everything. This questioning fascinates and nourishes an adventure side for Himself. He needs that adventure quotient in his life or he gets stale and cranky.

FLYER

FLYER

Wonders. Wonders arrive daily.
Spectacular offers; by mail,
e-mail. My cellphone vibrates
With exciting text notices:
Free! Free! Freedom
Was never this close,
This easy, this cheap.
Surely news of the
Second Coming was caught
In my spam filter.
Free at last, free at last,
Thank god o’plenty,
Free at last.
Bonus points! I may
Have them without doing
My Boy Scout’s daily
Good Deed (“Sorry,
Madam; I’ve done
For the day. Perhaps
Another, needier Scout
Will pass this way?”)
And the miles given
Absolutely free that
I may soar above the
Clouds! Free Flyer Miles
Angels know naught of,
Because they fly
On the clock.
I may have won a
Timeshare condo in
Iceland or Biarritz
With coupons for
Milk and Honey.
Free.
I may extend my penis
To reach luscious teen
‘Tang or webchat with
Naughty luscious MILFs
Disrobing, disrobed,
Disturbed to distraction by
Needs to satisfy my
Luscious lascivious.
Free.
Founding Fathers
Feel fulfilled, such
Free Dom: Mistress Stiletto
Offers Free humiliation
And chastisement. (Bless
You, Mistress, but I’ve
Done H & C for the day.)
Last Tuesday
I sat in my car,
Agape, appalled, filled with
Gratitude and dread,
Holding an offer from
The Trident Society
(Note to Poseidon: I
Had nothing to do with
That Troy business)
Trumpeting in print
On its tasteful
Envelope, “Free! Inside!
You may have won a free
Cremation!”
I declined to open
This envelope, hoping
This constitutes
My polite and grateful
Decline of the kind
Offer. My fingers
Handled this tasteful
By its edges, Depositing
It gently, warily in the
Recycling bin near
The mailbox as if
It were a Free Offer
From Unabomber,
Knowing even then
That it would return,
Recycling too damn swiftly,
Appearing innocuously
With a coupon for
Adult Incontinence
And a followup text
Message from Death:
“Today Only.”

Braxinoso Speaks:

How he does go on. Ever the "other," he crouches outside the mainstream in the thin parts of the bell curve and watches society glide past, delighting in this or that bit of sparkle, plucking random shininess like a jackdaw, a perennial rube.

A DECEMBER POEM

CROWS ON FROST

A murder of crows in black, in black:
They strut and flap and hop, complain
Upon the frost-tipped grass across
The Lane. A field of stubborn growth
In California winter (mild
Beside the Bay), with spiteful ice
And bitter green, the frothy hue
Of spinach creamed, black peppered
With, of course, the crows, who would
Be proud to be coarse ground or even cracked,
To match their rasping voices which,
To me, are welcome more than
Fruity songs on winter days. Prefer
The wise-ass caws of skeptic crows
To birdsong in a season of short
Days and long cold nights; sarcastic
Quips in muttered sotto voce jibes
Have kept a crew alive through hardship
More than lyric songs. Good bos’uns cultivate
A crow caw voice, and reprobate demeanor
As they croak “I seen it all, and this ain’t bad
As it might be so grab your socks and hit the
Deck you sons of bitches.” Crows continue
Day by day to say, to say, this very speech
To one another, rain or shine: it ain’t as bad
As it might be. Sure, watch them fly sometime:
Though masters of the art they joke,
Cut up, play silly buggers in the air,
To say “This flying gig is not so tough
That we can’t screw around. Without
A joke what’s worth a fart?” And this is sound
Advice on frosty mornings.


Jan Adkins, 23 December 2010, Novato, California

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

Himself has always been fond of crows. They're black, dire, difficult to categorize, hardy and foolish. Of course he has a connection to them. He doesn't write about cute little birdies, probably because he has a tendency to talk tough. Creampuff.

POEM FOR OLD MEN

GETTING OLD is much harder than growing up, and doing both at the same time (witness me) is murder. I was cycling back (uphill) from the village this week and began to compose a poem about the shame of age, the inevitable self-flagellation that goes with reviewing life with any kind of clarity. Bad idea, but insuperable.

HELL ROCKER

GOD PUNISHES old men,
Year by year rebuilding
The boy-skill of fantasy
To mercilessly efficient
Memory,
Indexing all our sins
Of vanity and cowardice
For rapid recall
Retrieval, review,
In collated sequences
Demonstrating our lack
Of grace in learning
Simplicity.
So an unguarded word
Of pique precedes
A tragic avalanche of
Hopeless recollection
Punitively complete
In every torturing
Detail of scent and texture.
(Could the skin beneath
Her ear have been
That soft and
Fragrant?)
In this efficient way
We pay and repay for
Sins exponentially
In proportion to
Repetition.
Alas, God is just,
And God recycles.
Perhaps shame hunches
Old men’s shoulders
More than years.
Sitting quiet on porches
(Avoiding avalanche),
Rocking,
We burn.


June 2010

BRAXINOSO SPEAKS

I've seen to Himself for so many years that I know what will work and what won't. I've never found a workable ploy that can turn him away from the anger he feels for his younger self. Yet we were all young, presumably we all made mistakes, perhaps none of us were as careful or even as ethical as we might have been. The difference is that Himself has a first rate memory, and that he is a damn good editor. He sees the flaws, yearns and burns to correct them with some cosmic blue pencil, yet can't touch the ms. No one's arms are long enough to revise his own story. I persist in my hope of finding some balm for his conscience, and in helping him lay down his guilt as I've helped him with more mundane matters. In for a penny, in for a pound. Himself is not a simple job.