Arroyos Seco

The White Owl link

2011-07-10T10:01:00.000-07:00

It's pretty bad when you can't find your own previous post related to the availability of one of your literary works, but I don't see it, so I am re-posting a link here so that those who want to read my only "full-length" creative, non-fiction short story can do so. Here it is:

Open publication - Free publishing - More short story

Chapter 9 of Middle World Chronicles has been published

2011-06-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

I have finally completed Chapter 9 of the Middle World Chronicles.

Hand to Hand

2011-03-19T14:08:00.000-07:00

He held his newly completed flint knife blade up against the clear blue sky of the falling leaves time. The cutting edge looked good. He rubbed the blade between his brown and weathered fingers, feeling the lay of the fluted chipping with satisfaction.

After carefully rolling the blade in a soft deerskin to keep it in hiding until his grandson came of age, the old craftsman got up slowly from the ground…aware of the stiffness that had settled like a light, over-night snow on his bones. He gathered his things and he and the others walked on as they went about their daily rounds and yearly travels and the winds blew and the light and dark comings and goings of the suns and the thousands of seasons passed across the face of the land…the land that cradled a carefully crafted flint blade that was lost in the reddish dust…the dust that had mingled with the bones of the ancient ones in a land of mesquite trees and rattlesnakes…a land resonant with the silence of open spaces and saturated by centuries.

My father’s head came into view across the way. A small dark dot across the dry land that was crossed by the arroyas of forgotten rains. I returned my focus to the ground, to continue the familiar scanning for the occasional arrowheads found partially visible in the red dirt. My pocket already held some good finds. We always enjoyed our private, individual sharing of this quest for the remnants of the past. Each of us finding our own way across the land…seeing each other, off and on, across the landscape was all we needed to feel the special connection. That and the occasionally shared victory.

I looked again and he was waving his arm overhead, so I started over in his direction, scanning as I went, to see what he had found. When I got to him, he showed me a beautiful, flawless flint blade of a knife. The workmanship was superb. I was jealous and Dad was very pleased with himself for having found it.

He carefully laid out his arrowhead collection in a large frame that hung for years over my parents’ mantle. At the center of the arrowheads was the prize knife blade.

After Dad died, I brought them to my home. The frame was too big for my house so I had to re-arrange it all and put it in a smaller frame, but its centerpiece was left the same. It hangs on the wall next to my own collection of arrowheads and the flint knife blade looks over my shoulder as I write this. It probably knows that it will be handed down to my son and from him to his son and so it goes with the remnants of lives lived.

The Yellow Flower

2011-02-14T09:09:00.000-08:00

I was out walking my dog today to take advantage of the unusually balmy Texas winter weather we are having today. Only several days ago we were ice and snowed in and I knew more wintry weather would soon be on the way.

As I was walking across a large empty lot covered by only dry grass and other dry, struggling plant-life my mind was on my decision today that maybe I would go ahead and make another appearance, just in case, at a discussion group that at times has been of interest to me and where I had previously found friends and met interesting people. But I was ambivalent about going again, because the number of the topics and the viewpoints which did not match my own seemed to be increasing in frequency, and I had been re-visiting my choice to continue going to these meetings.

In the midst of the dry field and the midst of this thought I abruptly came to a stop at the sight of the incongruous sight of a yellow flower growing among dead plants in the middle of the winter.

I continued my walk but I was now thinking about the meaning and metaphor of a flower all alone and blossoming in the middle of winter. I mean, what is the point of blossoming? There are no insects to pollinate, certainly no warm breezes for a long time, except for me, there is no one to know or enjoy its display of a cheerful yellow and to appreciate its role as a harbinger of Spring or to wonder at its fool-hearted bravery-- whichever it was.

The resonance and synchronicity of the situation began to sink in before long and I walked back and, after some effort in re-tracing my steps, I managed to find the flower again so I could take a picture of it with my cell phone. I felt I owed it that, this messenger of meaning that came to whisper in my ear that I needed to be myself and maybe even more so in fields that seemed, to me, to be barren.

The Yellow Flower

2011-02-12T09:17:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8 of Middle World Chronicles has been published

2010-12-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir has been published.

Open publication - Free publishing - More religion

Comings and Goings

2010-10-27T14:43:00.000-07:00

The leaves were beginning to
turn and fall
when I got up in the
middle of the night
and seeing the body
of the old man who
stood alone in the bathroom
I was thinking that
I would be around
only so much longer,
and of the unexpected continuity
of things I have made or touched
being passed along
to my kids, then to their kids, then to their kids
came to mind
and that people come and go
and generations come and go
and eras come and go
and countries come and go
and cultures come and go
and planets come and go
and suns come and go
and galaxies come and go
and universes come and go
and Lords of universes come and go
and the Absolute Unmanifest sat in silence
as I returned to my bed
and I snuggled into the comfort of my covers,
enjoying the coolness of the pillow
and resting in my slow and easy breathing
I drifted into sleep,
while I rested in the knowledge that
my essence and the essence of
the Absolute Unmanifest
are the same.

October Morning

2010-10-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

October morning

and the fields are still sleeping-in...
snuggled beneath their misty comfort.

Before the Dawn

2010-09-18T10:13:00.000-07:00

Before the dawn

mysterious clouds racing

a full moon.

Morning Dew

2010-09-14T08:36:00.000-07:00

When the dew of the morning
blesses each and every leaf
then I know
in the field of diamonds
that I also blessed be.

Autumnal Mists

2010-07-18T12:35:00.000-07:00

Candle Light

2010-07-04T07:26:00.000-07:00

My wife and I celebrated our 45th wedding anniversary yesterday. I thought I would post this snippet which was written in 2008, as it seemed totally fitting.

There was a comfortable softness to the long-familiar room as we watched the flames of the candles on our coffee table lighting up just enough…while the shadows, like a supportive audience, gathered around the edges. There were no other lights on in the house.

The stereo was softly playing songs of the 1960’s…songs that took us back to our courting days and all the dancing we used to do. And of course there was that first dance…the one where we met…the one where I kept holding her hand between each dance so that nothing could interfere with my dancing every dance with her…the one that changed our lives forever.

We didn’t need to say anything as we sat there in our living room holding hands and relaxing into our own special place. We listened to the music and watched the candle light and the memories. And as I sat there, I felt the growing need to ask her. I had to ask, yet again, in spite of the years, in spite of the infirmities, in spite of how long it had been. I had to ask, "Would you like to dance?" And she did and we did…the two of us alone in the candle light dancing as one.

Chapter 7 of Middle World Chronicles Published

2010-06-24T14:16:00.000-07:00

Chapter 7 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir has been published on Issuu.com

Hidden Treasures

2010-05-11T14:12:00.000-07:00

I don’t know what trail of associations I was heading down when I looked up and found myself remembering when I would be helping my parents unload their suitcases and such from the trunk of their car on one of their many visits to our home. Inevitably, there, toward the back, not mentioned or brought out, would be Dad’s metal detector…stored there in hopes that somehow he and I just might be able to find a way to head out and get some treasure hunting in. I kept trying to tell him that it was not likely in the over-crowded and over-developed metroplex. But he kept hoping.

Its not like we didn’t have many opportunities in more isolated places to enjoy taking our metal detectors out, each of us wandering off in our own directions, sweeping the ground methodically as our discs skimmed back and forth across the land like the pendulums of old clocks as we waited for the right “ping” sound of our detector’s announcement of hidden potentials below ordinary dirt. We would then bow down to explore with our dulled knives into the depths of the earth to hopefully bring forth the hidden treasures of old coins or other old remnants of lives long gone. A hope seldom borne out but patiently pursued. Then we would periodically come together to dig into our pockets to show each other what we had found, before wandering off again to search in the silent places for the treasures, long hidden and forgotten.

My old metal detector still waits hopefully, stored in an out of the way place in my closet, Dad’s metal detector is stored or lost somewhere else among the things of some other descendent, and Dad’s own remnants lie buried in the earth, corroding like some old coin, while his story rides hidden in the wind that ruffles my hair in the silent places.

The Longhorn

2010-03-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

We were sitting patiently on the bench while we waited for our table to be ready at a steakhouse in West Virginia. The mounted head of the Longhorn stared back at me with his glassy eyes. Things had been going pretty well for him, but then there had been a series of unexpected events and he had been killed efficiently and without compassion. He had been given the dubious honor of hanging helplessly in his stuffed skin to observe day after day the beef eaters consume body parts of his comrades…stuffing themselves in the iconic western décor, far from the open range of the West.

I was also far from my home in Texas as I moved my feet back to provide room for a couple of waddling, way over-stuffed, patrons passing by.

Our table was ready and we were placed in a comfortable corner booth and served by a friendly waitress with a natural country-girl air that conflicted with my opinionated stereotypes. I settled back to my meal of fried chicken as I looked at the Western photos and objects decorating the wall and found myself feeling comfortably at home as I stuffed myself with my anachronistic meal—far from home.

On the Death of My Father

2010-03-05T15:06:00.000-08:00

In solemn procession
we joined the Traveler
when we found his feet
were on the path to the River’s edge.

Out of the mists the boatman loomed.
There was no sound from the ominous oars,
only the soft lapping of time—the wash of the unavoidable.

Standing in silent vigil
around his last tracks in the sand
we watched and waited
as the Traveler and the boatman disappeared without sound
into the mists.

Then like a cleanup crew
at the end of a play,
we discarded the props
and picked up the pieces.

Posted in memory of the death of my father on March 5, 2002. I wrote this poem at that time. The painting is by my mother, Inez Grauke.

Chapter 6 of Middle World Chronicles published

2010-01-20T11:27:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir has been published on Issuu.com.

Exquisite Etching

2010-01-14T11:44:00.000-08:00

Winter morning,

Exquisite etching of the tree…

The moral structure.

Previously published in San Francisco Poetry, Art, and Music.

The Crow

2010-01-14T10:56:00.000-08:00

The crow stands still

on a limb in the fog

wrapped content

in his grey.

Remnants

2010-01-10T14:13:00.000-08:00

As we were ending the last real visit with my mother, I turned on the porch to look back, and my mother gathered her strength, smiled, and waved goodbye to me.

When I returned to see her, about a week later, everything looked pretty much the same except something vital was missing. There was the house with her stamp on all its contents, but it was like she herself had already gone. She had deteriorated so much that as I saw her lying in her bed, it was like seeing someone I did not know. Someone that was wearing mother's pajamas. It was like coming upon a place where a spring thunderstorm had just passed...evidence of the storm everywhere, the water glistening on every blade of grass, dripping from the leaves of trees, and running in rivulets into pools and streams. The atmosphere, charged with the aftermath of lightning, holding the silence of the rolling thunder, which had rolled away beyond all hearing. And all that was left were the remnants.

And in ways like the aftermath of a thunderstorm, as time goes by, the rain and the pain will have soaked into the earth to return eventually as fond memories and wildflowers... pushing up to bask in the sun. Especially the Bluebonnets. The Bluebonnets that she loved so much and that are perpetually reflected in her painting that hangs in my home.

The Standing People

2010-01-07T11:42:00.001-08:00

The Standing People

wrap the quietness

of winter fog

about their bare branches.

Previously published in hoi polloi II, p. 6.

Sundial

2010-01-07T09:43:00.001-08:00

The sundial waits

in the middle of the night

for a shadow.

Previously published in hoi polloi II, p. 6.

The North Wind

2010-01-07T09:36:00.001-08:00

The north wind blows

through empty trees

and your own

lost leaves.

Cold Wind Blowing

2010-01-03T11:08:00.000-08:00

Still-green Christmas tree

in white garbage bag...

cold wind fluttering

o ------- o

A cold winter wind

and the flapping trouser's leg

of an amputee.

"A cold winter wind" previously published in hoi polloi III, p. 114.

New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T06:52:00.000-08:00

On New Year’s Eve
we lit the fire
and turned out the lights
to watch the crackling flames
lick nostalgically
the logs of days gone by,
until they fell into
glowing embers
of formless memories.

Blue Sky on New Year's Eve

2009-12-31T06:47:00.000-08:00

Blue sky

through December clouds…

New Year’s Eve.

The Christmas Tree

2009-12-08T09:01:00.000-08:00

The patient Christmas tree waits...
dismembered parts boxed
in out of the way places.

Ornaments wrapped in the news
of days gone by...
slumbering while children swim and play
on warm Summer days.

Then

Awakened by gentle hands
to the sound of sacred music,
the Overseer of Giving
is crowned with hope
and hung with love.

Faces missing.

Faces new.

The tree in regal silence
wipes the tarnish from faded dreams,

then having brought out the best,
the tree is gently laid to rest...

until again reborn.

Coming Home

2009-12-08T05:41:00.001-08:00

Silent snow and shadows

Christmas time

and coming home.

Slow Dawn

2009-12-08T05:35:00.000-08:00

How silently etched

in black antiquity

the trees await

the pale, slow dawn.

Previously published in Bitterroot: International Poetry Journal, Winter 1987-88, Vol. 27, No. 92.p. 32.

So Quietly in the Night

2009-12-08T05:28:00.000-08:00

Fluffy crystals, ermine white

that fell so quietly in the night

robe all in royal pageantry,

lowly bush, the tree, and me.

Winter Wood

2009-12-06T16:12:00.000-08:00

The smell of winter wood,

Past lives...

Theirs and mine.

Previously published in hoi polloi II, p. 6.

A Christmas Memory

2009-12-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

The year was 1950, and I was seven years old. It was Christmas time and my parents, my sister and I all bundled ourselves into our old Model A Ford, that was parked beside my home in San Angelo, Texas, and we went off to the home of MawMaw and PawPaw. They lived in Dublin, Texas-a small rural town about 13 miles West of Stephenville.

I always looked forward to trips to Dublin, and Christmas was always a magical time of year. Although nothing truly remarkable had as yet ever happened to me at Christmas--that was about to change.

When we arrived on Christmas Eve, we were met in the front yard by my grandparents, and we went in to have a pleasant evening in their house - a house which always had a special, comfortable feeling to me. It was very old and had faced the elements for years and had probably never been painted. The wood on the outside was old, weathered wood. Inside there was no electricity or running water and no phone. There were two bedrooms, a kitchen with an ice chest, and the stove was a gas stove. There was no sink. Of course the bathroom was an outhouse down a path through their garden. I made sure I had taken care of any outhouse needs before the sun went down as the trip out there alone in the dark could be pretty spooky.

I am sure that my two uncles and their families came over as they always did. They also lived in Dublin. There would have been conversation and frequently the playing of Bluegrass music on the fiddle. I don’t remember exactly how it went this evening, but eventually the day wound down.

When it came time to go to bed, I was given the couch in the living room as my place to sleep. I don’t recall any Christmas decorations, but there may have been a few simple ones. They blew out the kerosene lamp and they all went to bed. The car lights of occasionally passing cars filtered through the old, thin lacy curtains. I lay there watching these shadows as they traced their way around the room. I was finally lulled to sleep by the tick tock of the old pendulum clock on the wall.

I was awakened by someone the next morning and opened my eyes to see the most amazing sight. Right in the middle of the living room was this huge bicycle! I couldn’t believe it. Where in the world had that come from? Then wonder of wonders, it got through to me that this was actually my Christmas gift. I had no idea how in the world I was going to ride it, but that did not deter me from being very happy.

After breakfast my dad took me outside with the bicycle, and we went across the road to a caliche street that had an incline. When he put me on the seat of the bicycle, my feet could not reach the petals, so I had get off the seat and shift from one side to the other to take the petals around the full turn. The handle bars were so wide I could barely reach them with my arms out straight.

Of course I had never been on a bike before so when my father would get me to rolling and call out my instructions I went for quite a few major crashes, but I knew that sooner or later I would learn how to ride my bike.

I later learned that the reason I had received such a large bike was that my father, with his income of a carpenter, knew that not only was he limited in what he could get me for Christmas but he also wanted to get me one bike only. The bike I got was a used one from a cousin, and Dad had paid about $3 dollars for it. He had obviously stored the parts in the trunk of the car and put it together Christmas night. He was as happy to get it for me as I was to get it, which was an added plus.

I did learn to ride the bike, and it gave me many good times. I tended to use it primarily like my virtual horse. In addition to using it to "play Indian" I would also go to extremes in learning to do tricks on it as if I were on a horse in the circus. Besides almost never riding it while holding the handle bars, trying to figure out how to ride it backwards (which I never learned), hopping off at full speed, running alongside, then hopping back into the "saddle" without slowing the bike down, my favorite trick was to standup up straight while standing on the flat rack above the back tire. Getting into the standing position and keeping it going for about half a block was fairly easy, but as the bike began to slow down, getting myself back onto the seat and in control with the handle bars was pretty tricky, and I took quite a few tumbles.

As one would expect, I finally rode my bike into the ground. I don’t know where its final resting place is, but I am sure it is still there in some fashion…bits of rusted metal under the earth. Along with it, within the earth, are also my father, my grandparents, and my two uncles. My grandparent’s old house has been torn down, and the new house that my dad and one of the uncles had built for them is also worn down now and occupied by strangers. My home in San Angelo, also built by my father, is run down and almost not recognizable.

But in this season of the winter solstice is the promise of the eternal return, the rebirth of spring, the return of the sun to its full glory. I have two grown children who have each received their bikes, and now five grandchildren who may just have some wheels coming their way when they are old enough.

Retouching

2009-11-19T12:38:00.000-08:00

Now that I have retired, I have a little more time to do some of the things I have been wanting to do. I recently found a way to make digital copies of some of the old 35 mm color slides my mother used to have. These slides were among the things I brought back from her house after she was buried. The old, faded pictures with all their scratches and spots that had to be individually restored.

While I was engrossed in this process of retouching the images I clicked on the next thumbnail, and I discovered, unexpectedly, that it was a photo of my mother retouching negatives. She was leaning over, as she looked through the magnifying glass, sharp pencil in hand, to remove all blemishes and faults from the negatives…to make these studio photos look as good as possible for each individual.

I had watched her do this all through my childhood…as far back as I can remember. The memories crowded around me as I meticulously retouched the photo of my mother retouching

Removing all blemishes…preserving the legacy…re-touching.

Ode to a Dead Fish

2009-10-19T06:00:00.000-07:00

Somewhere across the immense topography of time, in a little inlet lapping peacefully along the shore, you are still swimming. A flash of silver darting among waving plants in the dappled sunlight. You have no name and you took no thought of yourself. Your future was just right around the bend.

Around that bend something happened, maybe to the water, and you floated serenely down to settle into the sands of time. You lay nicely stretched out while you were covered by the blankets of eons for a long winter's sleep.

Then there came a time when the sun shone once again on your bed in the sand. Your bed had grown hard while the world had gone on about its way since you first lay down. Someone scratching around in the rocks had found you and broken you loose from the rest of your familiar sand and had put you up for sale. I don't know how many hands you passed through before I bought you. I gave you as a gift to my father. You see, he was a fisherman...not a great or famous one...he was, like you, just one individual in a sea of many, going about his life, and he loved to fish.

You had a special place in my parent's kitchen where you could look down on their meals and private conversations. Those days are over now. My father is still probably fishing somewhere far away as he and my mother sleep in the blankets of their homeland.

So you came back to be with me where you watch the back of my head as I type this...a flash of a moment for you to observe as you lay there with your slightly surprised look and a grim smile frozen on your face.

My literary works published in Hoi Polloi III

2009-10-14T07:27:00.000-07:00

Hoi Polloi III has been released. This is a very good book that is well worth the purchase price, all proceeds of which go to charity. In the case of this edition, the proceeds go to the North Shore Medical Center--Cancer Walk.

I have a non-fiction short story, 5 poems, and 4 flash non-fiction stories published in this edition. The book can be previewed HERE.

Chapter 5 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir

2009-09-22T07:33:00.000-07:00

Chapter 5 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir has been published on Issuu.com.

Chapter 4 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir

2009-08-01T07:36:00.000-07:00

Chapter 4 of Middle World Chronicles: An Illustrated Spiritual Memoir has been published on Issuu.com

Middle World Chronicles chapters 1-3 now available

2009-07-14T07:37:00.000-07:00

Middle World Chronicles, chapters 1-3 are now available on Issuu .

More poetry published

2009-06-30T07:39:00.000-07:00

Sacramento Poetry, Art, and Music has published 3 more of my poems:

7 Pigeons
Ice Growing
Exquisite Etching

My flash nonfiction--Death of the White Winged Dove has also been published on this site.

Spiritual Memoir is in the works

2009-06-23T07:40:00.000-07:00

I am working on writing my illustrated spiritual memoirs. At this point two books are envisioned: The Middle World Chronicles and Adamah Yezirah. These will be published on a chapter by chapter basis. These will cover from 1987 to the present and will be available for free. I am close to being able to publish chapters 1 and 2 of The Middle World Chronicles. Updates of the status of this project will be provided here.

Hoi Polloi II available at Amazon.com

2009-06-08T07:41:00.000-07:00

Hoi Polloi II-A Literary Journal for the Rest of Us is now available at Amazon.com. I have a short (flash) story, "A Step in Time" and several poems in this book. The poems are:

Chrysallis of Spring
Missed Migrations
The Standing People
The Sundial
Winter Wood

Note that all proceeds from the sale of this book goes to charity.

Watch for Hoi Polloi III to come out. I have a full length short story, "The White Owl" that will be published in that edition.

"The Fisherman" has been published

2009-04-25T07:43:00.000-07:00

A flash nonfiction piece, "The Fisherman," has been published in Sacramento Poetry, Art, and Music. See the "ficciones" area of the home page.

My flash nonfiction and poems published in Hoi Polloi

2009-04-03T07:44:00.000-07:00

I want to encourage all my friends to consider purchasing Hoi Polloi II: A Literary Journal for the Rest of Us. All proceeds benefit the Natonal MS Society. Two flash non-fiction stories of mine:

"A Step in Time"
"Kulijah Was a Friend of Mine"

and 5 of my poems:

"Chrysalis of Spring"
"Missed Migrations"
"The Standing People"
"Winter Wood"
"The Sundial"

are published in this book. All the entries in the book are of high quality, and I fully support Robert McNulty (Ed.) and Dog Days Press in making this venue available and for linking its sales to charitable organizations.

The Beachcomber Published

2009-02-21T07:46:00.000-08:00

My flash nonfiction story, The Beachcomber, has been published as a featured entry under the "Ficciones" section of Sacramento Poetry Art and Music .
It is also illustrated with one of my art pieces I created specifically for this story. The link to my previously published art that has been published by Sacramento Poetry Art and Music can be found at the bottom of the front page under "more art" (2008).

The Beachcomber

2007-10-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

The tip of my forceps moves gently through the small pebbles as I search the remnants of an ancient seashore. I sort the pebbles into different piles and then…there…the small spiral rock. I grasp the tiny fossil in my forceps and looking through my magnifying glass I see that it is the internal mold of a shell, millions of years old…the inner core of the shell.

As I imagine the fossil’s seashore, I recall all the many happy times walking along the shore with my family looking for whatever of interest had washed ashore. The shells from those sun-filled days are now in a jar decorating a shelf in my home. And every time I see the shells I remember the feel of the waves as they crashed uncompromisingly against my legs, the sand slipping away from under my feet as the water returned to the ocean. I remember walking the narrow strip between the infinite ocean and the particularity of the sand…the sound of the waves, the living waves, that rise and fall…the rhythm of their cycles…

And as the spirals of the cycles of my life continue in their rhythm, I wonder if maybe there was something else I have been looking for…perhaps it is the inner core of my life and, perhaps, the need to find again the connection between myself and the infinite.

[this is a post-hoc posting of this snippit which has also been post-dated to the time I should have posted it here but forgot to :( It has since been published, see http://arroyos-seco.blogspot.com/2009_02_01_archive.html]