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.
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