1997, Brooken Beauty, Santa Barbara

1997  Brooken Beauty  Santa Barbara  

• 
  

already in memory

the desert showy skies,

decorating blue in mountain distance, 

ringing crumbling rock

into foreground of sand,

silhouette of Joshua trees

waving towards promise--

land brought forward

by desert flower

cactus bloom

standing, painting, 

in all this space

integrity of every object, 

at one 

with the order of, 

the poem

comet whizzing, into the stars

I twirl with all

• 
  

I’m nearing a place 

I feel as home but escaping my grasp, 

the familiar off ramp, 

then winding 

up into hills of homes tucked in here and there.

Up and around the winding road and a final curve 

and here feeling safe, 

high above the sea looking out 

every one is sleeping, the sleeping town below

the moist cool into darkness drift--

the road ending

and I wake to the busy growing town 

into city

suburban city of busy people 

busy with what ever 

they have gotten busy with, 

of what had seemed such 

a special place, my dream

vines and plants of every variety growing in this 

crowded paradise, 

I hear birds all over but can’t see 

them, people in every nook 

and cranny tucked away

I think of the lone hills, the breeze, 

a rustling grass

• 
  

the sun sopping up the fog

then a breeze makes a clearing 

days merge into the next

I feel like a intruder 

here all dressed in black

I make way to the lagoon a penitent like

outcast, my cross of anxiety

describing beauty, the stations of the journey

like that snake that crossed my path 

I’m still writing of it, 

black and white rings, 

I saw it again at night 

on the ocean cliff

it slithered across the way making its way 

to the grass, waves crashing

sunset walk into the trees

so picturesque

and menacing

I’m caught between

• 
  

Highway 101, as I remember it, 

unclouded, zipping free--

my coffee steaming, 

winding through Saint Julian

Ranch, hills of gold and green, 

fog making frame

for what’s ahead, 

there’s Hank and Michael 

asleep in the car ahead, 

hair in a morning  mess and-- 

Well lets go! 

it’s still only 6:30 a.m., 

off to Jalama, off beyond the gate

onto the sandy road, 

green hill against aqua ocean

blue and swerve of coast 

changing my mood

the chewing bulls, their vacant stare

mouths full nod, we stop 

and make insulting 

comments to the big bruisers, 

the car tilts up and angles 

over road ruts , this is the way 

it should be

what I search for, 

waves peeling off unseen

naked scene, private glory 

to match one’s soul

looping around the point and climbing 

to Conception, through ice plant 

and drifting sand, 

the fog parting and sun 

exposing the rich color of blues, greens

 in endless variation 

of ocean depth,

 foliage’s entangling 

blown to wild frenzy

ocean surge and whales breaching rhythm, 

the smaller point 

way below, the speck of black 

one realizes are seals 

in the extreme space, 

we are now enveloped into flowing 

along with the effortless 

flight of pelicans

in updraft

the wealth of space

and there, over there, 

see dolphins! wriggling into deep 

This is all beyond the capacity to remember

to remember, to tell!

O describe this

amazement

Springboard of spirit! 

red aloe to cerulean sky

and day lit moon rocking

the low horn, seal bark drifting

swept by wind, what is art to this --

adventure, 

worn out by goings over

into abstract shape, 

that different adventure 

in the studio, 

out there,

 I sip 

and could die

the painting, the refusal to die 

packing up wiping 

the turpentine stained hands, 

exhausted, 

fulfilled

the painting tossed 

into the back of the van

• 
  

my black and white 

ruined world 

hurled at you, 

I’m the Witch, the fairy Witch

Raven, hovering 

over the red flower.

Accomplice to the killers, 

of the red bird 

bright headed bird

• 
  

the confused world, my poem 

becomes, 

I verve off 

into, the constant cynicism 

breeding unhealthy power

surge of selfish want 

to stuff the hole, blown out

the missing figure, the flown bird

self lost, gone again.

Then, in effort to preserve that naiveté 

and

humility--

not to disturb the baby bird

flowing to and fro, on the palm frond

now hatching-- 

now flying to the sky!

Take away the outline, the captured figure

for culture and idea, 

release and free to the

beauty of nature, 

It is interesting to see my anger at returning to what has become Suburban life. I did not include much of this as it is mostly rant and does not hold up. I had begun my infatuation of wild place here in Santa Barbara as in Long Island, both having succumbed to the domesticated side. NYC was still an intellectual refuge from this Ambivalence.