I’m a sixty-something, mostly self-taught, amateur wannabe with some songs I want to share—and eventually leave behind.
These songs tell the stories of my life, sometimes quite literally, sometimes less so. But I hope others can find something of their own story in there. I think that’s why we do art of any kind—to connect, right?
The Second Song
This month’s song is sort of a sad homage to the classic one night stand. What kids today might call a hookup. Or maybe that term is already out of date, I don’t keep up. Anyway, I originally wrote this song back in the 1980s, probably sitting at a bar nursing a hangover. I’ve even done a video of it before. But I always thought it needed a bridge, and I finally got around to writing one last year, and I think it helps crystalize the intent of the lyric. So, here’s a new recording, including the new bridge.
The structure is fairly simple and classic: verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, verse, chorus. The story told in the verses even follows something like three-act structure.
Musically, it’s an old-school, three-chord country song in the key of C. Just C-F-G with a few frills here and there. I’m arpeggiating the main guitar chords as a counter melody that overlaps and intertwines with the vocal melody.
Performance & Production
(if you’re into the details)
Once again, it’s just me on vocals and instrumentation.
My big learning goal for this production was to incorporate GarageBand’s digital drummer. It’s an unwieldy beast, I’ll say. And like a lot of this stuff, I am on the steep part of the learning curve.
The bass guitar part was also digitally created, using a GarageBand preset and the Musical Typing feature. I did better with that this time, but I’d like to find a better solution going forward. I might be shopping for a bass guitar. We’ll see.
A full view of the song in GarageBand. The Taylor T5z. My desk during Musical Typing! The vocal mic and reflection shield. The bar in Red Bluff where this song was most likely written around 1986.
The main guitar part was recorded with a Taylor T5z hybrid guitar, plugged in directly to the Scarlett audio interface. It was digitally duplicated, and one track drenched in boozy tremolo, the other has a bit of distortion. The vocal was recorded separately with the PreSonus M7 microphone, using the MouKey reflection shield. The lead guitar was also recorded on the T5z direct to the Scarlett, with a “Cool Jazz Combo” effect laid on.
The slide show is a series of shots I found online—mostly from pexels.com—that seemed to evoke the right mood and correspond to the story somewhat. I put it together in iMovie with the audio file from GarageBand. This felt more appropriate for the song than a video of me.
Overall, this song turned into quite an experiment, and thus an adventure. There are aspects I’m quite satisfied with and some I would change with more time. But that’s the beauty of setting a deadline, right? I learned that in 40 years of the newspaper and magazine business. You do the best you can, fuss over it until the last minute if need be. But make the deadline. Anyway, I learned a lot from the process. And that’s the real point.
Roy Dufrain is my college roommate from UOP. We lived at the Euclid House next to campus which became an alternative frat house of sorts. We had wild parties every Friday night for two and a half years – the best parties on campus. Boy, we had fun He taught me so much, became a “deadhead” because of him, and tried various things with him, and we occasionally performed demented music together at campus events. He was a Raymon College student, but unfortunately, because of money problems did not finish his senior year. He was also the editor at the university’s paper and published a number of my poems and essays while we were there.
University of the Pacific Raymond college history
Raymond College, an undergraduate honors college at the University of the Pacific, existed from 1962 to 1979. Located in Stockton, California, it was a unique institution with an interdisciplinary curriculum that emphasized learning across the natural sciences, social sciences, and humanities. Let’s delve into its fascinating history:
Founding and Vision:
Raymond College was the brainchild of University of the Pacific President Robert Burns. Faced with a new generation of qualified applicants, he sought to create a personalized educational experience for students.
Inspired by the success of Oxford, Cambridge, and the Claremont colleges, President Burns envisioned residential cluster colleges as a way to maintain high academic standards while expanding the university.
Raymond College was the first of three cluster colleges developed under this vision.
Curriculum and Structure:
The college offered an innovative interdisciplinary liberal arts curriculum.
Initially, it provided an accelerated three-year program, but later expanded to offer a four-year program as well.
Key components of the curriculum included:
Introduction to the Modern World: A shared cohort experience for incoming first-year students.
Language study: A year of language learning.
Math, physics, chemistry, and biology: Sequential courses.
Humanities and social science classes: Literature, philosophy, art, religion, economics, history, psychology, and sociology.
Students received written evaluations (term letters) instead of traditional letter grades.
Provost and Philosophy:
Provost Warren Bryan Martin played a pivotal role in shaping Raymond College.
He emphasized the importance of the liberal arts and the holistic preparation of students for a fulfilling life.
The first class of students arrived in the fall of 1962.
Legacy and Impact:
Raymond College influenced the entire University of the Pacific.
Its emphasis on student-centered learning, liberal arts, and interdisciplinary studies raised academic expectations across campus.
The college operated in the tradition of the liberal arts, fostering intellectual curiosity and engagement.
He is a talented writer and musician living in Clear Lake California.
you can check his work out here at Medium and on Substack as well as on his web page
Roy Dufrain.Com
THE YEAR OF TWELVE SONGS is my latest music project. Some of you got a preview recently, with an all-acoustic version of a song called Finish Strong. Now I’m sharing a new version with added instruments and my efforts at sound production. Plus some backstory and something sort like old-fashioned liner notes (remember those?). I plan to do this with a different song every month and hopefully learn a lot in the process. Check it out with the link below and let me know what you think.
This is my 8th annual December ramble about the books of my year. Not necessarily books that came out this year, but books I read (or heard) that moved me, taught me, made me cry, or cracked me up. It kind of feels like I’m late with this year’s edition but hey—two-day shipping at your preferred online bookseller, right?
FICTION
Nowadays I often avoid reading the latest best-selling, prize-winning, must-read fiction that everyone’s talking about. Because over the years I’ve learned not to trust hype. I like to wait a few years to see if anyone’s still talking about the book. See if the title comes up in a discussion and someone says, God, I loved that book, years after they read it, and they start talking about the character or scene that stuck with them. To me, that’s how you know. Not by critics’ reviews book trailers or Reese Witherspoon. (However, if Ms Witherspoon is out there somewhere, this does not mean I wouldn’t want MY book on your list someday! Just sayin’).
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But this year I read two of the latest novels from two big names in fiction—because I had loved previous work by both authors and because multiple writer-friends flat-out raved about these new books. And now I will rave about them myself.
Demon Copperhead, by Barbara Kingsolver, is the best novel I’ve read in years. The best overall reading experience that delivers in all facets. The sense of total immersion in a world, the intense rooting interest in a main character, the epic scope of historical context, the deep underlying interrogation of the real world, and the sheer delight in artful language. I can’t think of what more to ask from a novel. And, frankly, I can say pretty much the same things about The Vaster Wilds, by Lauren Groff, although Groff’s tale delivers in its particular way. Read them both, and see what you think.
NON-FICTION
The Gutenberg Revolution: How Printing Changed the Course of History, by John Man. Okay, I admit there are maybe three people reading this who could be marginally interested in this book. One of them is my father, a fellow ink-stained wretch as we used to say in the biz. And the others have similar or adjacent backgrounds. But, even if you don’t have ink and perhaps newsprint in your blood, or an old pica pole in a desk drawer at home, this is a fascinating blow-by-blow account of the twists and turns of fate, greed and genius that resulted in one of humankind’s most impactful technologies, on a par with gunpowder, the electric light or the personal computer.
BONUS NON-FICTION
Beatles 66: The Revolutionary Year, by Steve Turner. An amazingly detailed, month-by-month tour through a year in which the world changed the Beatles and the Beatles changed the world. I went to Audible on this one and listened to most of it in the car on a long drive to and from a writer’s retreat. It made for a great company.
Consider This: Moments in My Life After Which Everything was Different, by Chuck Palahniuk, author of the novel, Fight Club. This is a very different kind of craft book: personal, direct, funny, truth-telling, even illuminating at times. The subtitle hints at one of the biggest takeaways because Palahniuk is referencing what he sees as the key piece of wisdom he has to pass on—in the end, writes about the moment after which everything was different. If that gets your writer’s brain running like a hamster, this book’s for you.
And in the GREAT BOOKS BY NICE FOLKS I KNOW category… Far Sickness, by writer/teacher/editor Joshua Mohr, who is a huge favorite among scribblers here on the Upper Left Coast. This slightly demented short novel—a collaboration with Josh’s ten-year-old daughter Ava—seems to live somewhere between the old Fractured Fairy Tales cartoons from the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, and a Guillermo del Toro film, and this juxtaposition of innocence beside horror is only enhanced by Ava’s charmingly bloody illustrations. But underneath all of that is a heart-wrenching journey through the deepest kind of trauma and regret to somewhere resembling hope. Which is exactly what readers usually get from Josh’s work.
That’s all for this year, folks. Remember, as Stephen King said…
“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”
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I was watching the movie based on Cheryl Strayed’s memoir Wild, and there’s this scene where a little boy with the sweetest voice sings Red River Valley to Reese Witherspoon. I hadn’t heard that song in I don’t know how long, and in an instant I was transported—in that way that a song can flip a switch and turn your mind (and your heart) into a four-chord time machine. Know what I mean?
I was no longer a late-middle-aged man reclined on my couch watching Reese Witherspoon’s hit movie. I was eight or nine years old, and it was 1966 or 67. My older sister Debi and I were staying with our grandparents somewhere in Sacramento. I don’t remember why or for how long, yet I’m sure I could draw an accurate floorplan of the tiny one-bedroom bungalow they had. Memory is such a rickety contraption
Every summer I try to watch the Little League World Series on ESPN. At least a few innings here and there or a game or two in the earlier rounds of the tournament, and then of course the championship game. It always refreshes my love of the game of baseball.
Little Leaguers epitomize the art of trying. No one plays with more heart. Certainly not the professionals who make millions of dollars playing for the corporations masquerading as teams in Major League Baseball. These kids throw and catch and swing and hit with such intensity, they run and jump, they dive and slide, they smile and laugh and cry and scream, and they radiate joy and a full immersion in the moment that seems to elude the professional players, indeed the modern adult in general.
They also remind me of how I fell for the game in the first place.
It started when my dad took me to Candlestick Park when I was little. Five years old, Giants and Cards, 1963. I saw Willie Mays and I was awestruck by his speed, his grace, his power and magnetism. Unforgettable. But it really took hold a few years later when I started playing the game myself. And watching the kids in the Little League World Series always takes me back to that.
Three Flies Up on the playground during recess. Saturday pick-up games with five guys on a side. Playing catch with Dad in the front yard. Wiffle ball at the neighbor’s house. Imaginary games played in my head while bouncing a beat-up dirt-brown hardball against the retaining wall until holes broke open in the cinderblock. Eight years old on my first team, looking at my coach like some mythical hero. Breaking in a new mitt with glove oil, an old ball and two shoelaces. Ten years old in my first full uni, real cleats, stirrup socks.
The Turner Gas starting nine. In the late 70’s I helped coach a Farm League team.
In the late 70s, I coached a Farm League team (there was still no such thing as Tee-ball, at least in my town) for a couple years with some buddies, a few guys I knew from school or work. Man, we were a motley crew. Bunch of hard-drinking working class heroes, some of us barely into our twenties, none of us great players or even great students of the game. But every one of us had played and loved the game as children, and every one of us loved passing that on to the kids we coached.
Our team never went to the Little League World Series, but our kids played with the same joy and the same all-out effort. To the limit of their skills (or perhaps their coaches’ skills), and with every bit of their hearts. And I’m willing to bet many of them came away with a deep and abiding love of the game.
In recent years, Major League Baseball officals have been in the workshed, frantically tinkering with the game, turning this screw, hammering that nail, wrenching on bolts. All in the name of attracting more fans, specifically younger fans. They’ve made a series of rule changes to speed up play and create more offense in the game. They’ve even hooked up with a huge gaming firm to juice up fan engagement. That’s right, MLB, for all intents and purposes, now has an official league bookie (but that’s another rant all by itself).
Individual teams have also made changes to their product, changes designed to appeal to a younger crowd. At their ballparks, they’ve added huge video screens and booming sound systems and countless promotional gimmicks.
Dad, me and Mrs D at Oracle Park, 2023.
I saw this first-hand when my wife and I took my father and a friend to a Giants game this year. I’ve been to my share of games over the years, both at Candlestick and Pac-Bell/AT&T/Oracle Park, although I hadn’t been in awhile. We live 2.5 hours from San Francisco, so it’s always something of a project to get to a game. And man, it’s gotten expensive. Even though I got the tickets fairly cheap, the travel and the food and drink kicked my wallet’s ass. (For example: just four dogs and four beers, $108.) Throw in another round and a little merch and my VISA card was crying uncle.
And the experience this time was… different.
I’ve always enjoyed the roomy rhythm of live baseball. You know—it’s a breezy shirt-sleeve salty beerfoam day. You start up a conversation with the stranger in the next seat. Maybe someone on the other side of you is patiently, diligently—and quietly—recording the details of the game on their scorecard. You laugh at the heckler several rows down. Hey Blue, he says, Try using both eyes. There’s a guy coming down the stairs yelling, Beer here, cold beer. You can actually hear the pop of a fastball hitting the catcher’s mitt and the umpire yelling, Stee-rike! The organ player plays the intro and the crowd yells, Charge! right on cue. At the crack of the bat, the whole place roars or groans in unison.
If you’re an attentive fan, you’re watching to see how the players adjust to every pitch. Is the centerfielder playing deep or shallow, straightaway or cheating left or right? Are the infielders at double-play depth, or drawn in to prevent a score from third? Does the batter adjust his stance or grip with two strikes on him? Where is the catcher holding the target for the pitcher? How big of a lead is the runner taking off first?
And I’ve always found there was time for all of that and more during a day at the ballpark. Not just time but space, as in mindspace, or call it the capacity to process stimuli. Like I love it when you see someone taking a nap at a baseball game. I don’t think of them as being bored; I think of them as being relaxed. You never see someone nodding out at an NFL game, right? I’ve been there. Way too loud and crazed for a nap.
Anyway, that whole feeling of comfort was missing from this last trip to Oracle Park. Don’t get me wrong—the park is still beautiful and inviting, and the staff was wonderfully personable and accommodating to my 90-year-old father. But the overall experience felt cluttered, uncentered, diluted. Like a novel without a main plot.
There is a nearly constant roaring jumble of sounds that distracts from rather than enhances the game. Incredibly loud, pounding music in five-second snatches before and after almost every single pitch, piped-in beat-heavy pop music at a volume that completely precludes normal conversation with your friends, much less strangers. I honestly think there was more music than game. There is so much music the poor old organ player can hardly get a chord in edgewise.
The crack of the bat seemed diminished by comparison. The game itself seemed smaller.
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I’m actually okay with most of the new rules. I was feeling puritanical about a couple of them at first, but oh well. On TV, I do appreciate the quicker pace. I mean, we all had enough of the guys who stepped out every pitch to get all OCD with their batting gloves. And I think, on the field this is still essentially the game of baseball. But in the stands, I don’t know. In the stands it feels more like a carnival or a disco surrounding a nearby baseball game.
All of this makes me wonder, does MLB even like baseball?
They’ve taken some of the pastoral nature out of the game. I’ve always heard, in a competitive business environment you need to differentiate your product, market what makes you special. But MLB and its team owners are making baseball more and more like every other sport. Loud, fast, powerful and showy on the surface, boom, crash, bang.
And maybe that’s not how you create real baseball fans. Not with louder music, or in-game betting come-ons, or even by tweaking the game for quicker play or more offense. Even though I hear attendance is up this year, I’m skeptical any of that will directly result in more hardcore baseball fans in the future.
When the Giants won it all in 2010.
Because maybe true baseball fans are made not in the stands, but on the field.
In playgrounds and sandlots, in front yards and neighborhood streets. With fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters and friends and teammates and teachers and coaches and the heroes among them. With taped-up bats and mud-stained balls and hand-me-down mitts and the jackets our mothers made us wear thrown down for bases. Or in our first full uniform, our first pair of cleats. Those stirrup socks. Chatter from the dugout, a fresh-raked diamond, chalk on the baselines, a new-mown outfield.
Yep, I think that’s the easiest way to get it, that lifelong bone-deep baseball jones. Not in the stands or on TV, but playing the game. Like the kids in the Little League World Series and the kids I coached back in the 70s. And like me.
I still love watching the Giants, and I treasure all the memories I have, from The Stick to Oracle and Mays to Posey. I’ll still be on the couch with Krukow and Kuiper talking ball in the booth and the Orange and Black on the diamond. But now I’m not sure when, or if, I’ll ever go back to an MLB ballpark.
And that makes me a little sad.
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On hot Saturdays the neighborhood men took refuge in their garages.
They opened their garage doors and ran portable fans, and they turned up the Giants game on the transistor radios that sat on their workbenches. The men fixed things and made things and drank bottled beer out of old round-shouldered refrigerators. Wives and children were generally not invited.
That summer of 1966, Bobby Highfill and I were both eight years old. Our mothers were forever shooing us out from under their feet and into the great outdoors, which in our corner of suburbia consisted of a few square blocks of housing tract and one dead-end street of undeveloped lots known to local kids as the Trashlands, where Bobby and I both served honorably in the Great Dirt Clod Wars of Concord, California.
Another garage to which we were generally not invited belonged to Mrs. Chambers, a widow who seemed to always have her hair in curlers and parked her pale green Hudson Hornet by the curb and turned the garage over to her only child’s rock and roll band. Her son, Larry Chambers, was the lead guitarist, and my own uncle sang and played rhythm guitar.
Uncle Art, my mother’s baby brother, lived with us on Cranbrook Way because he’d been kicked out by my grandparents for reasons my mother insisted I was too young to understand. He was seventeen years old, and he went to high school and drove a red Corvair and had a blonde girlfriend who wore pink lipstick and pointy sweaters. And he played guitar in a real working band that played dances all over the Bay Area and once opened up for Martha and the Vandellas.
The band was called the Royal King’s Four. They played Top Forty fluff like Sherry by the Four Seasons and Sugar Shack by… whoever the hell did Sugar Shack. But, like every other cover band in the world in 1966, they were now learning Beatles songs as fast as they could.
They rehearsed in Mrs. Chambers’ garage, usually in privacy, but when it was hot they would open the garage just like the neighborhood men. A small crowd would gradually form in the driveway, mostly teen girls in tight shorts with pastel blouses tied up in front to flash their soft, smooth bellies. Yes, even at eight I noticed how the girls were drawn to the music. But Bobby Highfill and I would wriggle our way through the girls to get a clear view of the band. Well, not the band so much as their instruments—more precisely, the guitars.
The guitars were called Stratocasters, and they were magical. Mysterious chrome knobs and complicated hand movements controlled the sounds that traveled across the wires and erupted from the amplifiers as sparks of music. The guitar my uncle played was painted like a flame, and Larry’s guitar was black as his bad-boy pompadour. When the band took a break, the Stratocasters were laid down in cases lined with gold velvet, where they waited for their masters like swords locked in stone.
It’s possible to want something so much that you don’t dare ask for it or even speak of it, for fear of the hole that a no would leave in your heart.
And yet, someone noticed.
It was one of those hot Saturdays, and Bobby and I were pedaling our Sting-Rays homeward after another glorious battle in the Trashlands, when we heard his father’s whistle on the wind. I’ve never been able to whistle like Mr. Highfill. My sister learned to do it, but I never could. He had one of those two-finger whistles that you heard from blocks away and recognized as a command. We pedaled harder.
When we arrived at Bobby’s house, Mr. Highfill stood in the driveway, arms crossed. The garage door was open. He was a balding man in khaki slacks and a short sleeve button-down shirt. I’m not sure I ever knew what he did for a living—sales I think, but of what I have no idea.
We skidded to a stop and dropped our bikes on the front lawn. Without a word, Mr. Highfill turned and, with a wave of his arm, invited us into the garage. We followed numbly beyond the raised door, into the inner sanctum, where the fan whirred and the refrigerator hummed and the fluorescent light sputtered. The live smell of fresh sawdust and the sweetness of paint hung in the warm air.
Mr. Highfill took something off the workbench and bent down to lay it in my arms. It was my first guitar—handmade from the finest materials available in the closets and garages of suburbia: a Keds shoebox for the body; a plywood neck, nails for string pegs and four industrial-strength rubber bands for strings. The plywood was marked with thin stripes of brown paint to represent frets. The shoebox body of the guitar was spray-painted cherry red and decorated with golden musical notes rendered in glitter and Elmer’s glue.
It was the most beautiful, most inspiring thing I had ever touched.
My own father often said that I was old before my time. I was an oddly serious kid, frequently reading deep meanings in the tea leaves of my young life, and in my restless mind the red shoebox guitar foretold something momentous and inexorable. Of course, Bobby received a matching guitar, and I decided right then that we were manifestly destined to embark on a career as a performing duo.
But first, we needed a repertoire.
A year before, when I was seven, my favorite Beatle was Paul—you know, the cute Beatle. I liked John too, but he was merely the clever and cheeky Beatle. Some would say he was actually a smart-aleck punk overflowing with attitude. Then, at a certain point, it became clear that John was something more—he was the troubled Beatle.
It became clear with the song, Help! It was one of the first Beatles records with lyrics that were noticeably more complex and interesting than “I want to hold your hand” or “She loves you, yeah yeah yeah.” I didn’t understand my reaction consciously at all, but I was drawn to it immediately. (Like I said, an oddly serious kid.) Forever after, my favorite Beatle was John—the Beatle with inner demons.
Bobby and I spent most of that Sunday in my bedroom with a portable phonograph, a notepad, and the 45rpm record of Help! By day’s end, we had the vocals down cold… okay, we had the vocals down lukewarm.
Next, we needed outfits.
All the big bands wore matching outfits. The Beatles had shiny blue-gray suits with collarless jackets and black leather boots. The Beach Boys had striped shirts. Every band on TV matched—except for those hoodlums, the Rolling Stones. Even the Royal King’s Four had matching suits and skinny ties and boots like the Beatles.
Bobby and I had seen pictures of the Beatles wearing turtleneck sweaters, and we each had red turtleneck shirts. We’d seen the Royal King’s Four wearing their jeans “pegged” at the bottom, and we bothered our mothers into doing the same to ours. But we still needed that final touch.
We needed the boots.
I don’t know how Bobby got his Beatle boots, but I had my aunt to thank. It happened when I was dragged along on a shopping trip with Aunt Irene and my mother. My two older sisters could be left on their own for the entire day, but I could not be trusted to the same degree.
The shopping itinerary included Kinney Shoes. The ladies inspected pumps and flats and sandals and kept the salesman busy measuring their feet and helping them with try-ons. I posted myself at the display of kid-size Beatle boots, and I didn’t move. I didn’t say anything. I just stayed and stared in a trance of longing. Like all mothers, mine was adept at tuning out her children when convenient. And my Aunt Irene was not a sucker for a child’s dreamy yearning. She was a woman with both the posture and character of a straight-backed chair. But, to my surprise and relief, she became my benefactor. “Will you buy the damn shoes already,” she said to my mother. “I can’t stand to look at him anymore.”
Now, all we needed was an audience.
Our first (and only) paying gig was something of a guerrilla performance. We were not, per se, invited to perform in Mrs. Chambers’ driveway. However, it was conveniently located within our limited touring radius, being just down the street from my house on Cranbrook Way.
We showed up on a Tuesday afternoon unannounced, looking sharp in our matching turtlenecks, pegged jeans and Beatle boots. The garage was open and the Royal King’s Four were practicing. A crowd of four or five girls loitered on the concrete, popping their gum, looking out cooly from under long bangs. We waited for the band to take a break, then we stepped out front with our matching shoebox guitars.
Our setlist for this engagement consisted of Help!… followed, of course, by an encore performance of Help! In the showbiz vernacular of today, we killed. We were paid a whole quarter each by the fawning Mrs. Chambers and every member of the band. The teen girls squealed and said “Aww, so cute.” One of them tousled my hair.
Being an oddly serious kid, I quickly invested most of my fortune in literature. Batman, Superman, Richie Rich, Little Archie. Comic books were twelve cents apiece then, three for a quarter. I’ve since performed for less satisfying payment on more than a few occasions.
I didn’t yet know that the summer of ‘66 would be my last on Cranbrook Way.
My father was fed up with the Bay Area rat race, especially some of the rats in charge. He found a new job in a small town by a big lake in the distant hills of Northern California. The Royal King’s Four broke up when Uncle Art joined the army. On our last day in Concord, Bobby came over to say goodbye and we took one last spin around the Trashlands on our Sting-Rays. Then my father added my bike to the pickup load while Bobby and I stood on the bright sidewalk and shook hands like men as tears slipped onto our cheeks.
I found my second guitar under the Christmas tree in 1968—a three-quarter size Harmony acoustic from the Sears catalog. Classic sunburst finish, with a white plastic pick guard and a golden braided cord to use as a strap. I begged my parents for lessons at the local music store known as Bandbox Music. I was sure that Skip, the owners’ son, would turn me into a full-fledged guitar god in no time at all.
After three weeks of one-finger chords and plinking out Twinkle Twinkle, I was hopelessly, irredeemably bored. Now I begged my parents to let me quit. But, thanks to those excruciating lessons, I wrote my first song in 1970, an instrumental I called Psychedelic Butterfly. By then I was twelve years old, the Beatles had broken up, and I was newly under the musical spell of Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead.
I guess you’d have to say that Harmony acoustic was my first “real” guitar—certainly more real to the hands and eyes and ears. But perhaps not to the heart.
My newest guitar is a beautiful all-mahogany Martin acoustic that cost more than many automobiles I’ve owned. But, every time I pick it up, some part of me is back at that garage on Cranbrook Way, keeping time with my Beatle boots and strumming that glittering red shoebox guitar.
I remember the precise moment I first heard John Prine’s voice, even though someone else was singing. That’s how distinctive his songwriting has been.
This was the fall of 1975, during the first few weeks of my time as a student at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California. The division of UOP I was enrolled in was called Raymond College, and it was one of those semi-experimental, accelerated, interdisciplinary liberal arts programs that had become quite popular in the 60s—in other words, a haven for nerdly hippies like myself and other brainy kids who saw themselves as square pegs in the big old round-holed world of higher learning.
It was a semi-regular function at Raymond for students to stage their own version of “Show and Tell,” sort of a smart, young and mouthy update on the old grade school tradition. And so it happened, at the first Show and Tell that I attended there, in the Raymond Common Room right off the quad, that an older student strapped on an acoustic guitar, took the stage and performed Prine’s song, Illegal Smile, a wry and winking ode to the stress-busting benefits of unnamed controlled substances.
The humor and the folksy wordplay in the title lured me right off. Then I was hooked by the rebellious mischief in lines like: “Won’t you please tell the man I didn’t kill anyone, no I was just tryin to have me some fun.” But also the hint of depth in the verses: “When I woke up this morning things were looking bad. Seemed like total silence was the only friend I had.”
Then a line only Prine could write: “A bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down. And won.”
It’s quintessential Prine, giving you the shallows of depression wrapped up in a self-deprecating joke, all in a simple unassuming image that sticks to the side of the bowl of your heart.
So, thanks to Steven Meinrath, wherever you are, for introducing me to John Prine’s voice that night at Raymond Show and Tell. It has led to many indelible memories scrawled across decades of my life.
By my second year at Raymond, I had become something of a Prine evangelist, spreading the good news of his workboot wit and wisdom to a cousin, a sister and a few left-behind high school buddies and crushes. “You gotta listen to this!” I’d say. “It’s like a whole goddamn novel in a three-minute song. It’s some kind of country existentialist parable.” And I’d put the needle down on “Six O’clock News,” a haunting tale of illegitimate birth, diary secrets and suicide, in which the past sings harmony with the present and the knick-knack shelf has a speaking part. In the final scene, Prine sings: “The whole town saw James Lewis on the six o’clock news. His brains were on the sidewalk, and blood was on his shoes.” Then, for the final time, the past echoes the refrain: “C’mon baby, spend the night with me.”
Around school, in the dorm rooms and disheveled off-campus rentals where empty bottles clattered in the morning trashload, a small enclave of cultists formed. There was me and my girlfriend Emma, plus a redneck pharmacy student nicknamed Eddie simply because his surname was Haskell, and two blandly named engineering students, John and Steve. Truthfully, the engineers barely put up with it, but the trio of Emma, Eddie and I were hardcore. I remember the three of us standing around a yardsale table in someone else’s kitchen, singing Prine songs loudly from heart-memory in drunken acapella far after our schoolnight bedtimes.
And I remember the summer after I dropped out of UOP and thumbed down the California coast with my copy of Kerouac’s On the Road in the back pocket of my overalls. I met a junkie Nam vet named Terry who wept honest tears right there on the onramp when I sang Sam Stone, Prine’s sad and sharp-eyed portrait of a vet who o.d.’s after coming home from the war. “There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes,” Prine laments, and today, after a white-powder past of my own and a veritable police lineup of friends and family lost to the low ravages of hard drugs, that searing image still stings the heart like the cherry of a lit Marlboro.
It might not seem an obvious connection, but there’s huge crossover between fans of The Grateful Dead and John Prine. I remember the parking-lot joy of singing Prine songs with a just-met burrito-selling guitar player outside a Dead show at Cal Expo in Sacramento. And you can always spot a few Dead shirts at a Prine show, at least in Northern California. Prine speaks to the Dead’s Americana foundation that was built in to Jerry Garcia’s bluegrass roots, Bob Weir’s love of cowboy songs, and lyricist Robert Hunter’s deep poetic connections to the mythologies and imagery of Old West outlaws and Depression Era wanderers. Like much of the Dead’s work, Prine’s songs were obviously not designed and constructed with the market in mind. In fact, these songs don’t feel designed at all, but rather, revealed, in the sense of a sculptor of song chipping at the rock of his experience with simple sounds and rhymes, finding an image, a figure, a theme, and honing it to rough perfection.
To the audience’s ear and eye and heart, Prine did not perform these songs—the songs were him, and he was the songs.
Many pop, rock or even pop-country fans still don’t know Prine’s name, but ask other artists who their favorite songwriters are, and his name often comes up. Johnny Cash once put him in his “top four.” Roger Waters of Pink Floyd called his work “extraordinarily eloquent.” None other than Bob Dylan has also named Prine as a favorite. Elvis Costello said what he desperately wanted to do when he started out was write songs like John Prine. But he couldn’t. No one can.
Lazy magazine writers will write about Price’s work and call it the poetry of the common man. But it’s not. It never was. He was not a common man. He was a quite uncommon artist who happened to come from a common history. Small town Midwestern upbringing, undistinguished military service, a limited non-classical musical education, delivering the daily mail in Chicago while making up songs as a hobby. It’s that meeting of an uncommon mind with a common past, that artistic but grounded knowing of the ordinary, that gave him the standing to say what he said the way he said it. Like no one else. This is the elusive and prized quality of authenticity, which I think really comes down to honesty. Prine had all of that in spades. He had a royal flush of it.
Down through the years, I saw Prine perform live four times. I wish it were more because each of those four shows is in my top twenty concert memories of all time. But I’ve been lucky in a weird way because each of the shows was in a different decade—late 70’s, early 80s, early 90s, and late 2000s (or “oughts” if you prefer). So, each show was at a different point in Prine’s career but also at a different point in my life. This has made it feel as if Prine’s songs and my heart met in a different space each time, as if the songs kept finding other parts of me to touch.
In 1990, my sister Debi was 35 years old and dying from a rare lung disease called pulmonary fibrosis. I was living with her and my two little nephews, trying to be of some use during the mystifying and relentless progress of her disease. I had turned her on to Prine way back in the 70s, and his music had ever since been something we had a special connection over. Early in that last year of her life we made it to Berkeley for a double bill of Prine and Nanci Griffith, another shared favorite. We sat in the eleventh row with Debi’s oxygen tank on the floor between us.
My sister, Debi, 1988.
At one point it all became too bittersweet for me.
Prine was singing Bruised Orange (Chain of Sorrow). The chorus goes like this: “You can gaze out the window, get mad and get madder, throw your hands in the air, say what does it matter? But it don’t do no good to get angry, so help me I know. For a heart stained in anger grows weak and grows bitter. You become your own prisoner as you watch yourself sit there, wrapped up in a trap of your very own chain of sorrow.”
I was deep-down angry and weak and bitter at the approaching death of my sister, but Debi was one of those rare people who lived instinctively by the advice in those lyrics. She was not wrapped up in a chain of sorrow. I looked over at her with a tear slipping down my face and she just smiled and nodded her head at the song and at my tear. It was the last concert she ever attended.
I’ve never believed in heaven, and I’m damn sure these days that your flag decal won’t get you in, but maybe a life of picking up a guitar, opening up your country mouth, your full heart and slightly disarrayed mind, and then reaching a million other people in the gut, where their own deep histories live—maybe that could get you in if there is such a place. I ain’t in charge, but it sure would count by me.
During my weeklong recovery from oral surgery — an altered state I have affectionately referred to as “Fuzzytown” — Mrs D and I watched the entire Godfather trilogy on three successive evenings.
Of course I have seen all the movies more than once in the past, but never in such close temporal proximity. Admittedly, I was in the company of my new friend Mr Norco for the duration of these screenings, but nevertheless I have some thoughts…
One thing is clearly undeniable: the original Godfather movie (released in 1972) still holds up as one of the great films of our time. Marlin Brando’s portrayal of Vito Corleone is absolutely brilliant and magnetic, a model of complete inhabitation and revelation of character equal if not surpassing his astounding and seminal work as Stanley Kowalksi.
Also, the story arc of Michael Corleone — the inexorable unveiling of the gathering momentum of his coming of age as he is incrementally transformed from his family’s beacon of redemption to its shadowy emperor of murder — manages to approach the finest Shakespeare tragedies in both its insight into human frailty and its mythical qualities.
Godfather II is really about the extraordinary talent of the evolving Michael Corleone (and by extension all of humanity) for self delusion, compartmentalization and rationalization. And through the extensive backstory sequences of Robert De Niro as young Vito, this “second act” underlines one of the major themes of the trilogy — that of family history as inescapable and incontrovertible destiny. At the end of the movie, when Michael goes so far as to kill his own brother to preserve his power, we see Michael at something akin to an addict’s “rock bottom,” a place where absolutely any decision is possible… except the decision to face his own wrongs.
Godfather II is made somewhat choppy by the numerous time shifts and flashbacks, and I frankly think it’s been overrated simply on the strength of the young De Niro’s magnetic screen presence, and the audience’s understandable satisfaction in connecting De Niro on screen to Brando, whom we all recognize as his natural predecessor, both in terms of talent and intensity.
Godfather III has been much criticized for various reasons. Yes, it’s true that Sophia Coppola’s performance is wooden and amateur. Even this sofa jockey, watching under the influence, was wincing as some of her lines clunked out of the surroundsound like malformed Playdoh bricks. It’s also true that the great Robert Duvall’s absence is a significant disappointment. His performance as Tom Hagin, the Irish orphan adopted off the streets into the Corleone family, (never quite receiving the full acceptance he was quietly desperate for), was wonderfully understated and poignant throughout the first two films. And it’s true that the storyline of this film is perhaps not sufficiently compelling on its own. But frankly, the second movie does not stand on its own either.
However, seeing all three movies in quick succession and taking them as a whole, I think Godfather III is underrated as a third act to the overall story. What we see is an older, hollowed out Michael Corleone, physically and psychically exhausted from the Sisyphean task of preserving his power, his identity, and his internal sense of correctness. Publicly he is making one final show of claiming legitimacy, while privately he is confronting the likelihood that redemption is out of reach for a man of his crimes.
His one desperate plea (or play or ploy) is for simple forgiveness… and perhaps some semblance of peace… perhaps a truce or at least a stalemate with his past. Yet, Godfather III provides one of the most indelible lines of the entire trilogy when Michael stands in a kitchen after learning that all of his machinations are crumbling around him in betrayal and violence… then, with fists clenched and shoulders collapsing in defeat toward the very center of his being, he growls to the heavens…
“Just when I thought I was out… they pull me back in.”
That one line sums up the futility of Michael’s struggle throughout the entire trilogy — the struggle against the momentum of his darkest possible destiny, the struggle against his coldest and most remote self. And the universal resonance of that moment is that it sums up our own struggles to overcome the weaknesses we all recognize in our darkest mirrors. In the end, there is nothing that Michael Corleone can do, no one he can pay, and no one he can murder to prevent his sins from becoming his legacy.
Perhaps God and his son are capable of forgiveness, but history does not offer such refuge. At the end of his story, we and Michael are left with only one inescapable reality: that each of us is capable of destroying our own soul at the smiling behest of our quietest desire.
Taken as a whole, the Godfather trilogy is one of the great literary experiences available in American film. That is why it has lived on as an important touchstone of our culture’s mindset for many years now. Michael’s journey taps into something that is timeless and specifically human; his story is not simply a morality play about power’s corruption, but a deeper exploration of the human desire to rise above our meanest impulses, the drive to be truly in charge of the history we make, and the dream to live out the love and justice we imagine we are capable of.
Before that was my blustery Hemingway period, and afterward my disastrous Hunter S. Thompson period. But 78 was Kerouac, and in the spring I drifted out of college and began to dream of going on the road.
If Not Words was previously published by the literary journal, Scarlet Leaf Review. (scarletleafreview.com) Estimated reading time: 18 minutes.
Of course, I needed a Neal Cassady—a running buddy like the mad ones that Kerouac famously shambled after, the ones who are “mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
That was what I needed. What I had was Pat Kelly.
I first met Pat in Lupoyoma City, a small-minded town next to a big muddy lake three hours north of San Francisco. He was the new kid in eighth grade, from Texas by way of San Jose, with a junkie father locked up in San Quentin and his fortyfiveish mother shuttling drinks at the Weeping Willow Resort & Trailer Court. I won’t go into it here but, at the time, I was in a murky state of social exile myself, due to a local scandal involving my family. What drew me to Pat was our shared status as temporary outsiders, and the fact that he was completely unimpressed by Lupoyoma gossip. That just wasn’t how he measured the world.
I met him because our American History teacher sentenced him to three swats for “cracking wise.” The teacher had a thick wooden paddle drilled with holes to reduce wind resistance. Pat rose from his backrow desk and said, “Now, how much history do you think I can learn from three swats?” He was taller and older than the rest of us. Straight blondish hair, parted down the middle and tucked behind jughandle ears. Tanktop shirt and wide bellbottoms over black motorcycle boots, and his wallet on a silvery chain secured to a belt loop. He took long gangly strides to the front of the classroom, with his chin up and his shoulders back.
The teacher glowered. “Make it five then.”
Pat faced the class and grabbed his ankles. The teacher swung for the fences. Pat overacted a mockish “Ow!” with every blow, and the teacher tacked on another two swats—to zero effect on Pat’s demeanor. I had a front row desk, and after the final swing Pat straightened up and flashed his wide floppy grin at me, then earnestly advised the teacher to watch the Jack LaLanne show. I laughed. The whole class laughed. The teacher pointed at the door and ordered both of us to the principal’s office. On the way out Pat paused at the threshold, looked back across the room and said, “Seven a.m., Channel 3,” with a big wink, and turned out the door. He had something I hadn’t seen before—an attitude or quality I admired, even coveted, but couldn’t name at first.
In those days I collected baseball cards and words—words I read or heard and wanted to remember or accrue to my character.
I had the young idea that words had a way of adding up to a man, and I wanted to choose the right ones. Words that said, listen, and rang the air like silverstruck crystal. I wrote down their definitions in a reporter’s notebook that was spiral bound and narrow, with pages that flipped rather than turned. My father was the editor of the town newspaper and I’d stolen the notebook from his dour, disciplined office. I kept it under my bed in a Keds shoebox with the baseball cards.
Exultation was the word I collected for Pat. Triumphant joy. He measured his world in degrees of exultation though he’d likely never seen the word. It was a way of being in the world that I wanted to understand and claim for myself. Late on a school night, with the rest of the house quiet and dark, I sat crosslegged on my bed with the paperback dictionary splayed open in a circle of lamplight and copied the definition into the reporter’s notebook.
We ran together all that school year, in creeks and alleys and neglected vacant lots, in parks and ballfields and quarter arcades. Cut classes to fish by the sunny lake, trespassed in empty dilapidated houses and burglarized the Little League snackshack. Partners in boyish crime.
Once, we kind of stole a car. Just a daytime joyride around the pockmarked backstreets of Lupoyoma in a big Chevy station wagon that belonged to some girl’s mom. That girl would do anything for Pat. And if she didn’t, another girl would. But her mom did not feel the same, and neither did the city police. Their entire fleet of vehicles—all three—converged on the station wagon at a four-way intersection. Black and white Fords and spinning red lights to our left, right, and rear. The street in front of us was clear—Pat could’ve gunned it and started a chase, but he calmly pulled over, put the car in park and turned off the engine.
“Oh shit, we’re going to jail, my dad’s gonna kill me,” I said.
Pat grinned and shrugged, “Win some, lose some, partner.”
Between us on the green vinyl bench seat, the girl was sobbing. Pat put his arm around her, gently tilted her head and kissed the top of it.“Don’t worry darlin,” he said, in that Texifornia drawl. Then he opened the car door and stepped out like a fifteen-year-old man.
The girl and I were immediately cast by the presiding adults as good kids under a bad influence, and we were ordered out of the way as officers handcuffed Pat and marched him toward one of the police cars—chin up and shoulders back.
I heard around town that he was sent to the notorious Bottlerock Ranch, the closest thing to reform school in Lupoyoma County.
I didn’t see him until a year later, the day we became cousins. Well, my cousin married his cousin, and Pat figured that made me and him cousins too. I still don’t know if that’s correct, but such technicalities were not Pat’s concern. From that day on, whenever I ran into him, whenever he spotted me in a crowd—at family weddings or funerals, July picnics, or drunken teen parties—he’d always wave his arms and holler out, “Cousin! How the hell are ya!” He never lost that thing I was trying to pin words on, even with the cops always on his case and rarely more than ten bucks and a wink to his name.
I graduated from Lupoyoma High in 75, but Pat already had his G.E.D. and loved to remind me that he earned it at continuation high solely by reading through their collection of Louis Lamour. When I told him I was going away to college, he pshawed and said, “Cousin, you’re doin it the hard way.”
Emmalita Romero was somehow immune to Pat Kelly’s charms. In 1978, she and I were scholarship kids, chasing upward mobility at the small, ivy-aspiring University of the Pacific in Stockton. We had met in Economics 101, which Emmalita eventually aced and I did not complete. We lived off-campus in a rickety one bedroom apartment on a dead-end street—and in sin, as her father regularly assured us.
One February twilight Pat showed up like a long-lost one-man surprise party.
Screeched and skidded to the curb in a dusty copper Lincoln borrowed from his mom’s latest boyfriend. Early sixties Continental, low to the ground and half a block long, with suicide doors. He honked “shave and a haircut—two bits,” leapt out of the car, raced around to the passenger side and made a great show of mock chivalry holding the door for a young bleachblonde who emerged waving a fifth of gold tequila above her head. Emmalita and I stood on the brick front steps, both shaking our heads, only one of us smiling. Pat turned to me, opened his arms wide and cried out, “Cousin! How the hell are ya!”
Emmalita muttered something in Spanish and rolled her eyes in my direction.
I gave her a palms-up shrug.
We all got tremendously drunk shooting tequila at the second-hand kitchen table with the blue paint peeling off and the raw wood starting to show.
Pat and I took turns telling tales of our juvenile exploits as if they were Homeric epics. Needling each other and arguing over details until we ended up out front on the community lawn in a clumsy, laughable wrestling match.
“Boys.” Emmalita said, categorically.
The blonde turned out to be Pi-Delta-something. Pat had sugartalked her right off the steps of the sorority house, and at some point he slipped her out the back door and was balling her from behind, right on our little porch, bent over the wooden railing with a panoramic view of the parking lot—the February cold be damned.
It was Emmalita who opened the door and discovered them. She yanked it shut in a hurry. “What the hell!” she said. “He’s fucking her on the back porch!”
I tried to smile. “We did it there once, remember?” I slid my arms around her waist.
“It’s our porch!” she said, slamming me in the chest with both hands.
Emmalita stomped off to bed, the Pi-Delta blonde passed out on the couch, and Pat and I stayed up and finished off the tequila. The blurry dawn caught us still at the kitchen table, commiserating and confessing. Or was that just me? I vaguely remember reading outloud from On the Road and resolutely proclaiming, “I’m sick of teachers you have to call Doctor. They act like they can write a prescription for your whole fucking future. Here, kid, take two Aristotles and call me in the morning.”
“Ya worry too much,” Pat said. “Always did. Come look me up in Santa Barb this summer. Gonna get me a landscaping job, probably get you one too. Gonna build rock walls for rich ladies whose husbands ain’t home.” He shot me a big wink and laughed.
“Yeah, right,” I said. But the possibility took up residence in my mind and hibernated there the rest of the winter.
When spring came around I received a postcard advertising a bar and restaurant called The Palms, in the town of Carpinteria, just down the coast from Santa Barbara. On the front there was a blue-sky picture of a whitewashed building rimmed with green cornices and fronted by a row of towering palm trees. “The Palms” was painted in voluptuous green script arcing high across the white bricks. On the back, the address of the place, the canceled stamp, and in Pat’s half-schooled printing, “The weather is here, wish you were beautiful! Ha!”
I didn’t show the postcard to Emmalita. I tucked it between the pages of my brokenspine paperback of On The Road and reshelved the book in our “library” made of salvaged boards and stolen milk crates.
According to legend, Neal Cassady sent an eighteen-page, sixteen-thousand-word letter to Kerouac which transformed his writing forever. What I got was a nine-word postcard with no return address.
Still, I considered it an invitation of sorts—and a map.
It was late April and late Thursday night, and I had everything except my toothbrush in the new backpack. Two changes of clothes, three harmonicas, two Kerouacs, one Kesey, my old paperback dictionary, two hundred bucks rolled up in a sock, the postcard from Pat, and my reporter’s notebook with room for a few more words. I promised myself they would be words of change and becoming, not the cautious preparation of academia. I leaned the backpack against the wall next to the front door—bright orange nylon, shiny aluminum frame, army surplus mummy bag lashed on, and I told Emmalita, “I want to be on that onramp with my thumb out no later than seven in the morning to catch those business guys headed for San Francisco.”
She’d been in the bathroom almost an hour, showering and getting ready for bed. She came into the living room wearing the white full slip that always knocked me out. Nothing underneath. Long black hair dripping wet. “Baby, it’s a twenty minute walk to the freeway,” she said, “even more with that heavy thing on your back. You can sleep in and I’ll drive you in the vee-dub before I go to class.” She slinked across the carpet and her smile was dressed in red lipstick. She pushed me back on the sofa, pulled off my t-shirt and shorts and straddled me in the white slip. She shushed me when I opened my mouth to speak—and that was probably a good thing because I might have said I love you.
Emmalita didn’t indulge in that kind of talk. Traditional monogamous relationships were obsolete. She was a liberated Chicana who read Betty Friedan and Simone de Beauvoir and had marched with César Chávez. She dismissed Kerouac as one of the last great chauvinist pigs, but she listened when I read aloud on long car rides and in our bed on hot Stockton nights unfit for sleep or love. “You get so excited over these words,” she would say, like a new mother saying, “Aw, so cute.” But I would ignore that and talk about the blue echoes of Coltrane’s saxophone in the syncopated rhythms of Kerouac’s prose, and the way it spoke to me that he rejected button-down society to search for his own meaning across the map of America.
When I’d called my father to say that I was dropping out of school to go on the road, he’d offered me a job at the newspaper.
But when I told Emmalita, she understood. (Of course, I kept Pat Kelly’s name out of it.) We were sitting on the red brick stairs by the front door in the early evening, the bricks still warm from the afternoon heat. We brought out bottles of beer and watched the sun slide into the low skyline across the valley. I showed her the new summer catalog from the university, with the fake snapshots of students at internships, posing with stethoscopes, clipboards and briefcases like children playing dressup. I pointed and jabbed at the pictures and said, “That’s not me. That’s not me. That’s not me either. I’m not in there.”
Emmalita nodded and took a long sip of beer. She didn’t try to talk me out of it or lecture me like a parent. “Go,” she said, still looking out across the rooftops. “I could never forgive myself if you don’t. And after graduation I’ll be leaving to law school who knows where.” She picked at the bottle’s label with a fingernail. “We’re young. We each have our own dreams.”
We didn’t want to live our parents’ lives, tangled forever in regret and resentment. We agreed they were childish, and it was a satisfying irony that we were so adult in our acceptance of individual freedom. She even promised to store my records and books—including my stack of rare blues albums and the first edition Hemingway I’d found at a yard sale.
The day I left, I woke up in the near-dark, alone in bed, with the the feeling that I was already late. I found Emmalita at the kitchen stove frying chorizo and eggs, still in the white slip. She looked at me sweetly over her shoulder. “Your favorite,” she said.
“We don’t have time for breakfast,” I said, but she just turned back to the pan and stirred with the flat wooden spoon. The smell of chorizo rose in steam.
“You know he never found it,” she said. “He drank himself to death. All that going and going and he never found the meaning of anything.”
I sat down at the kitchen table and studied her. So beautiful and smart and surehearted, so luminous of purpose. That was the word I’d written in the notebook, watching her the first day of Econ 101, already pestering the professor with feminist critiques. Luminous. Shedding light. Now I memorized the hair rolling down her back in black waves, her shoulders warmed to gold by the light of the one bare bulb in the ceiling, her shape moving under the slip like a liquid silhouette, the reflection of the lightbulb trembling in her eyes.
I still had to go.
It was eight-forty by the time we got to the freeway, and a rare spring fog had crawled in off the delta. The commuters were long gone and two bums had already taken positions up the onramp. Emmalita pulled over and left the engine running. She gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead while I maneuvered my pack out of the back seat. I walked around to her window. She rolled it down and turned her face to me. Her eyes were wet. I looked down at the ground and said, “Thanks for the ride.”
She said, “Will you even miss me?”
“Of course,” I said, and bent down to kiss her.
She reached out the window and slapped me so hard I saw floating spots. “Estúpido cabrón!” she said. “You will miss me. And when you come back, maybe I won’t be here. And if you don’t come back I will scratch all your records and burn your Old Man and The Sea. Pendejo!”
Her rear tires spit gravel as she sped away.
I trudged up the onramp past the two bums so as not to steal first position, which I knew would violate hitchhiker etiquette. At the time I knew that and little else about citizenship of the road. My older stepsister had started me young with daytrips thumbing around Lupoyoma County, but I had never ventured an overnight trip before.
Now I would trace one small piece of Kerouac’s map—if I could ever make it out of Stockton.
The fog was tentacled, the cold insidious. The bum in second position hunkered down on a bedroll in a tattered fatigue jacket. I stood and blew into my cupped hands. The first-position bum watched with gristled detachment. I use the word “bum” because “homeless” wasn’t established as the preferred euphemism in 1978. Drifter sounds too nefarious, hobo too archaic, wanderer too soft-focus. And these appeared to be respectable bums—not recreational or philosophically ambitious, not the dharma bums or wino savants of Kerouac, but respectable nonetheless. When I walked past, each of them offered a chin nod to acknowledge my good manners.
A car or sometimes two at a time came up the onramp every few minutes. It was not a steady stream. I stood shivering with my head bowed, shifting pebbles with the toe of my boot. Then a car would appear and the two bums and I would present ourselves, one-two-three, in rapid sequence. The bum in the first position wore a blue knit cap and was stooped and gray-stubbled. He held up his right hand as if measuring an inch between his thumb and forefinger to show that he only needed to go a mile or two. The bum on the bedroll was younger. He stood up and let his arm hang down with his hand below his hip, his thumb angled out but cooly indifferent. Then me, standing lock-kneed with my arm perpendicular to the road and my eager thumb almost quivering. I made eye contact with every driver, recalling my high school counselor’s interview advice.
A truck stopped and picked up the gray-stubbled bum. He nodded through the window as he rode past. The other bum picked up his bedroll and walked down to the old bum’s spot. He sat down, then looked up and waved me toward him. When I got there he said, “Where ya headed?”
“Santa Barb,” I said, trying to sound suitably traveled, “actually Carpinteria.”
“Headed down the coast myself,” he said, and took some time to look me over. I became hotly aware of my new orange pack, my brightly washed overalls and clean farm bureau workboots, my peachfuzz face and the girlish dark hair flowing down to my shoulders. Bangles. Yes, I wore bangles.
The bum said, “Wanna go together?”
I must have looked confused.
“Sometimes it’s better with two guys.”
“Oh.”
“People think it’s easier to be crazy alone.”
“Yeah.”
He put out his hand. “Name’s Terry.”
He wore a red bandana headband over unruly curls of rusty brown hair, and his unfinished beard reminded me of my grandmother’s windowsill cactus. He had dark squinting eyes and a handshake that read like a swim at your own risk sign. He said he’d been on the road for years. He’d never been outside North Carolina before the army, but he’d come back from Vietnam with a spiteful heroin habit to kick and a desire to see the country. “See what I was killing for,” he said.
Here was a piece of the America I thought I was looking for, the sad and true but unbroken America you couldn’t find in a dorm room or a library stall.
Or in a rickety apartment playing house with a future lawyer. Or the dusty office of a podunk newspaper. I now felt that I was officially on the road although I hadn’t managed a single ride. I could see myself on a barstool at The Palms, regaling Pat Kelly with exaggerated tales of my tremendous adventures with Terry the All-American bum.
The sun burned through the fog, then started in on us. Terry had a pair of aviator sunglasses that might’ve been stolen off Douglas MacArthur himself. Dark green lenses and gold wire frames with the looping ear stem. We finally got a ride from a freckled high school kid in a 65 Ford Econoline van. Terry sat shotgun with one elbow out the window, with his windblown hair and red bandana, and the reflections of the highway speeding across those sunglasses. I climbed in the back and sat on a lumpy mattress covered with a ratty brown bedspread. We rumbled west across the great San Joaquin Valley, straight at the sun.
I dipped into the money sock, handed the kid a ten, and Terry convinced him to let us sleep in the van, parked on the street outside his parents’ house in a monochromatic subdivision. But the parents got wise and we were rousted out around dawn, the panicky dad pounding on the side doors until we emerged, then threatening us down the street with a golf club. Nine-iron I think.
We crossed the southern arm of the grayspackled San Francisco Bay that afternoon on a long low bridge like a highway upon the water. Terry had a Vietnam buddy who owned a bar in San Carlos. The bar was a surly looking place surrounded by chopped and raked Harley Davidsons. Terry marched through the swinging door like no big deal and I fell in warily behind him. Every head in the bar swiveled to stare us down.
Terry’s buddy was a stone outcrop of a man called Sergeant Oliver. Dark straight hair down to his belt, wild thick beard and a big bearish laugh. “You better stick to yourselves,” he said to Terry. “My regulars don’t take to outsiders, and I got no time to save your ass. Again.” He laughed and confined us to the storeroom with a deck of cards and a bottle of house bourbon.
But, by his own admission, Terry was not a reliable follower of orders. And I was following him. We slipped out when Sergeant Oliver was busy, and Terry made fast friends of the whole crowd by sharing the bourbon and losing at pool. I played harmonica along with Free Bird on the jukebox, and after we helped close up the place Sergeant Oliver locked us in, and we slept like ragged children, curled up in the red leather tuck-n-roll booths.
The next day we got sidetracked and stranded in the farming town of Watsonville, where it rained like hell was water.
But Terry somehow knew where to hop the fence at the city yard, and we clambered over and sought shelter in huge sections of concrete culvert. There were dozens of these cylinders big as railroad boxcars, laid out in tidy rows waiting for some major construction project. I followed Terry and we ducked into one. Inside it was all cozy echoes, outside nothing but the hiss and patter of rain… until we heard the low snarl of the watchdog. Then it was a cartoon scramble back over the fence and a half-mile jog to an all-night laundromat, where we spent the shivering night soaked through and nodding off in yellow plastic chairs shaped like your butt.
I relished every minute of these complications and travails, and I harbored the furtive belief that some holy chemistry of fate was involved in appointing Terry the All American bum as the patron saint of my road.
In Big Sur, now four days gone from Stockton, we chanced on a woodsy encampment beside the highway, where nearly thirty fellow travelers were set up. This confluence of meandering souls seemed to call for a suitable commemoration. A tiny shack of a store stood across the highway, someone’s weatherbeat hat was passed around camp like a collection plate, and the fire, whiskey and talk burned late into the night. I pulled out a harp and jammed blues with a sunburnt old picker from Show Low, Arizona. Terry met a frizzy haired hippie woman headed up to Mendocino to make pottery, and I believe he spent some time in her sleeping bag. I scribbled the definition of confluence in my notebook. Where two or more streams or paths become one.
I don’t remember lying down to sleep. I do remember waking up, alone, the contents of my pack dumped on the ground, the money sock stretched out, empty. There’s enough regret and disillusion already built into a hangover without robbery in the bargain. I never saw Terry again, but I found the aviator sunglasses in a pocket of my backpack—a weak apology I concluded, and I tucked them away in the pouch of my overalls.
Blood-eyed and down to seventeen dollars, I nursed my pride in the woods of Big Sur all day, then slept troubled under a three-quarter moon.
There was a phone booth next to the little store, and in the morning I sat on the nearby lawn and eavesdropped on the desperate phone calls of a few weary travelers.
I got to thinking maybe Emmalita would wire me some money back in Monterey. It would mean surrender, but I could catch a Greyhound and drowse in her arms that very evening. I rehearsed the entire call in my head, playing both parts—her finger-wagging satisfaction and my redface shame.
I thought of the postcard from Pat Kelly with the sunlight flashing off the bricks of The Palms. I’d told Terry I had family in Carpinteria who were expecting me. But Pat was not expecting me. I hadn’t seen him but once in the past year. I had nothing to go on but that sunny photo and my own restlessness.
I thought of my father. “A pipe dream,” he had said. He’d offered me advice as well as a job. “Son, you won’t learn how to write on the side of the goddamn road.”
“I might learn what to write,” I said.
But my father was an editor, not a writer. Words were either essential or expendable to him, and always in relation to a specific and utilitarian purpose—science, commerce, the news. In his mind, fiction was a toy made of words. He’d scoffed and shook his head. “Might as well stick that thumb up your ass.”
But now I got up off the ground and pulled out the MacArthur sunglasses and put them on like a coat of armor. I strapped on the dusty orange backpack, walked over to the southbound lane and stuck my thumb out for the next car. My hand low against my hip.
Two days further down the coast, I had a ride that would have taken me all the way to Carpinteria, but I got out five miles short in the tiny town of Summerland—because Kerouac had once spent the night on the beach there.
I hunted up a liquor store and spent my last folding money on a half-pint of Southern Comfort and a family-size can of pork and beans.
I walked to the beach in the Summerland twilight. I made a driftwood fire, ate the beans out of the can with my pocket knife, and sipped the sweet liquor like sacrament. There is a certain bliss contained in the moment when one owns a full belly and a full bottle at the same time, even if one also owns an empty wallet. I was bleary and beat and alone without a dollar to dream on, and yet I had the tremendous sense that all was right. In that hour, on that beach, on the map of my heart, I crossed paths with Kerouac.
I thought of that word, tremendous, because it appears so often in On the Road, and in so many contexts that you begin to think he was spraying it around as decoration, unconscious of its specific meaning. I got out the paperback dictionary and read the definition by the firelight: “very great in amount, scale, or intensity.” The root was the Latin word for tremble, and it made me think that Kerouac knew exactly what he was doing, consciously or not. He wanted to suffuse his prose with that deep underlying sensitivity. To bequeath his own shudder at the amount, scale and intensity of America, the world and life. He wanted us to ingest that feeling, swallow it, absorb it and sweat it out the way he had, if only for one night on one beach.
I copied the definition of tremendous onto the final page of the notebook. I sucked Southern Comfort and spoke stumbling poetry to the darkening sky—for the writing gods and for Kerouac, for the full moon, for hope, for words. I stripped to my paisley boxers and danced a silly jig around the fire, and I raised my bottle in a toast to Pat Kelly. Months before, in that drunken dawn at the kitchen table, I was reading from On the Road and he stopped me when I said, “they danced down the streets like dingledodies.”
He laughed and shook his head and pounded the table. He said, “Cousin, what in the blue fuck is a dingledodie?”
I tried to explain that Kerouac invented the word. I said, “you have to get the meaning from the story and the rhythm and the way the word sounds in your heart.”
There was a pause during which Pat carefully refilled my shot glass with tequila. Then he stood up and stretched his upper body across the table so he was leaning on his elbows and his face was close and out of focus.
He said, “What I want to know is, do you say more with all these words, or just talk more?”
I toasted him now from the sands of Summerland—and I toasted my father and Emmalita and Kerouac and Terry the All American bum. Because words do make men. And women and toys and news and futures and lovers and wars, every question, every answer, the whole damn thing including the part we name our soul—the part that’s invisible to our physical senses yet we feel it tremble at life. In the end what is the trembling made of, if not words?
I found my overalls rumpled on the sand. I slipped the postcard out of my pocket and looked at it with the firelight bouncing off the glossy photo. I turned it over and laughed at the joke one more time, then I tossed it into the flames and watched it catch fire. I pulled Terry’s sunglasses out and threw them in as well. I ran to the backpack and grabbed the reporter’s notebook. Page after page, word after word, I tore out and crumpled, and I offered them all to the giddy flames.
I slept straight through to the late morning sun like a man sated by exhaustion. I got up and walked into the ocean. All the sweat and dirt and doubt of the road rafted away on the foam. I finally caught a ride into Carpinteria that afternoon, Friday, a full week after I tromped up that first onramp in the fog of Stockton.
I found The Palms, and I found Pat there in a cramped little bar off the restaurant. Maybe six stools at the counter and a few tables in the corner, every spot filled with drinking, shouting, haranguing men. It was a workingman’s bar.
They were carpenters, painters, bricklayers and plumbers, and there was not a suit among them or a doubtful word.
Down the bar there was some kind of contest taking place and a huddle of men chanted and slammed their fists on the bar in unison. Of course Pat was in the middle of the commotion. I fished the last coins out of my pocket, ordered a draft and watched him in the barback mirror.
He’d changed somehow. He was shirtless, that wasn’t new. And he sat at the bar like a rooster, still chin up and shoulders back. But the hat was new—a dented straw cowboy hat the color of September hills, the brim rolled up a little on the sides, dirt blonde pony tail hanging out in the back. And the mustache was new—a trimmed biker-style fu manchu that added a thousand miles to his face. But he hadn’t changed that much. The matronly woman who brought my beer told me he was eating raw cayenne peppers on a bet, with two more to go before winning the pile of money laid out in front of him. “Boys.” she said, and shook her head.
Pat drained his mug in one swig and wiped his mouth with the back of a sun-dark arm. He looked down at the waxy red peppers in the clear glass snack bowl. He drew a deep breath and raised his right hand to the edge of the bowl. Then he spotted me in the mirror.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he hollered out, and he turned on his stool with a holy goof grin and stood up and cried out to the whole bar, “It’s my little cousin!” He made it sound like an extra payday, and some of the men belly-laughed and cheered and lifted their drinks. He held up a finger that said just a second, turned back to the bar, and picked up both of the remaining peppers. He held them up for all to see and the crowd roared approval. Then he dropped the red peppers daintily into his upturned mouth.
His shoulders tensed. He worked his jaw. His forehead beaded sweat. His eyes bulged and watered and his open hand pounded the bar. He chewed and swallowed and gagged so his cheeks filled up like Dizzy Gillespie trumpeting high C. He gulped down someone else’s beer and then bowed his head in concentration—or possibly a sinner’s prayer. The crowd hushed. He raised his head, swept up all the money with one hand, punched at heaven and hollered, “Bartender! Drinks all around!” A tremendous cheer erupted like the end of a long bloody war.
I shouted and roared and drank deeply. I exulted.
Note: Roy turned me on to the great beatnit writers. we did a few hitchiking trips as well.
I was at a friend’s house that winter night when John Lennon was killed.
We were watching Monday Night Football and drinking beer. Howard Cosell announced the news as if the quarterback had been sacked on third down — “John Lennon, outside his home, shot twice in the back… dead on arrival.” It was December 8, 1980, my twenty-third birthday.
Ten years before, in December of 1970, Lennon’s debut solo album was released. It was called John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band, and it changed my life. That claim now sounds strange, even to me — grandiose, hyperbolic, almost obsessive, especially considering the who and why of his death. Still, it feels true.
Many of us feel a deep emotional connection to the music we love, and sometimes to the artists who made it. I’ve found many kindred spirits in many different styles of music. I’ve found solace, inspiration and comfort for the heart, reveled in excellence, danced and shouted in catharsis, wondered at cleverness. I wouldn’t say any of it changed my life in a profound way.
But John Lennon’s Plastic Ono Band album did change my life, at least my view of life, and largely because of one song in particular.
I didn’t have much of a sound system then—a pale green plastic record player that was made by Westinghouse and folded up like a suitcase. I had scotch-taped a penny to the turntable arm to plow through any scratches that might skip the needle. It was another year or so before I saved up enough for the cheapest Sharp component stereo system in the Spiegel catalog.
I remember putting the needle down at the beginning of this brand new John Lennon record, then rushing to lie flat on my back on the big oval corded rug, my head on a pillow, the record player on an old TV tray behind me.
I closed my eyes and heard the sound of bells.
That’s how the first track on the album begins, a succession of church bells that warble and slur on top of a scratchy background hum as if the bells were recorded from a faint radio broadcast and then slowed down. It makes for a portentous, funereal effect, an appropriate lead-in to the song, which is simply called Mother, and deals with Lennon’s feelings of abandonment by both of his biological parents.
Mother you had me, but I never had you
I wanted you, you didn’t want me
So I… I just gotta tell you… goodbye
Like the opening pages teach us how to read the voice of a great, original novel, this first song sets a pattern that is echoed throughout the album, a pattern of deceptively simple lyrics that are rarely ambiguous, unusually direct, and at times uncomfortably, even brutally honest and revealing. And this is matched with sparse but dramatic musical arrangements, with surprisingly light production touches from the notoriously controlling Phil Spector.
Throughout the album, Lennon’s voice and guitar or piano is usually accompanied only by Ringo Starr on drums and Klaus Voormann on electric bass. There are no background singers, only the occasional artful out-of-phase doubling of Lennon’s own voice, singing in unison rather than harmony. The tone of his voice ranges from clear and airy to harsh and scratched raw, but he always controls it perfectly to convey the emotional content of the song. It never sounds affected, and he never indulges in showy vibrato or any other unwarranted vocal gymnastics. There’s a purity there that seems quite rare today.
Mother ends with multiple repetitions of the couplet, “Mama don’t go, Daddy come home,” which is first voiced as a mournful plea, but Lennon dials up the intensity with each repetition, eventually building to a desperate gut-wrenching scream that fades out and leaves an aftertaste of sorrow, but also a sense of a past reckoned with, a troublesome demon purged.
This was not Beatle John as we had previously known him, certainly not the cheeky, wisecracking John from Hard Day’s Night.
Even before the Fab Four cleared the mop-top phase of their career, Lennon was easy to identify as the troubled Beatle, with edgy introspective songs like I’m a Loser, and Help!, but the songs on Plastic Ono Band took this personal, confessional style to a whole new level that hinted at the realm of psychoanalysis.
At the time of these recording sessions, Lennon had recently undergone primal scream therapy with its originator, Arthur Janov, who taught that many psychological issues were tied to childhood trauma and could be resolved through re-experiencing and fully expressing the trauma in guided therapy sessions.
Hence, the alternative title for the album could have been There Will be Screaming. And there was. Not only in the opening track, Mother, but also memorably in the song, Well Well Well. That song’s verses suggest a certain cynicism about the prospect of social change, then lead to a chorus that simply repeats the words, “well, well, well, oh well,” but goes even further than the closing refrain of Mother, to a place where Lennon’s scream finally becomes something close to retching. It borders on disturbing, which I think was entirely intentional.
With Lennon’s best scratchy, accusatory voice and his stuttering fuzzy guitar sounding slightly out of tune, and in places out of time, plus Ringo’s dogged minimalist drumming and Voormann’s insistent bass, Well Well Well is nearly ragged and rollicking enough to throw into a proto-punk retrospective, if anything labeled proto-punk had been played by a thoughtful, sensitive, tortured musical genius, that is.
But there is more to this album than the screaming and casting out of demons. Again, as in a good novel, there is balance and contrast and an emotional rhythm. There is the bitterness of disillusion on I Found Out, and the tender self-care of Hold On; the demolition of traditional life models in Working Class Hero, and the childlike innocence of Love; the sneering irony of nostalgia in Remember, and the naked vulnerability of Look at Me.
Still, you might be thinking, so what, it’s a good album, maybe a great album, but how is that life-changing?
We have to go back to that thirteen-year-old boy on the corded rug. He knew nothing of Arthur Janov or primal scream therapy. He didn’t have the capacity (or the inclination) to break down the instrumentation or deconstruct the lyrics. He didn’t know much about Lennon’s personal battles. He was just a boy on the cusp of adolescence, a boy with his own struggles, a boy newly discovering his own doubts and disillusions.
He lay on the floor and closed his eyes and heard bells.
Isn’t it a shame that in today’s cluttered world we seem to have forgotten how to listen to music with that level of attention — with our mouths (and our typing fingers) shut down and our ears and hearts all the way open?
I see that boy now in my memory, and I wonder in what way I am still that person. Is that old saying even true that a person’s entire inventory of cells is somehow swapped out, thrown into the vast molecular recycling bin every seven years? What is it then, that somehow congeals and holds together a certain pattern of energy that is the individual you or me, even as we decay toward our inevitable disintegration?
I imagine my experience, lying on the floor in front of the plastic Westinghouse phonograph, was one of empathy and a sense of insight, a feeling of being trusted with someone’s most difficult truths. I knew Lennon was rich and talented and adored, but I wasn’t so aware that he had doubts and conflicts and scars and regrets and a few scores to settle, like everyone else. And there must have been an adolescent thrill in hearing Lennon break rules and cross lines that popular music didn’t usually cross, laying himself so bare, calling out critics and cultural authority.
Then came the song I claim changed my life. The title is as simple and direct as the rest of the titles on the album. Just one word.
GOD
God is a concept by which we measure our pain. I’ll say it again.
God is a concept by which we measure our pain.
I don’t believe in magic. I don’t believe in I-Ching.
I don’t believe in Bible. I don’t believe in Tarot.
I don’t believe in Hitler. I don’t believe in Jesus.
I don’t believe in Kennedy. I don’t believe in Buddha.
I don’t believe in Mantra. I don’t believe in Gita.
I don’t believe in Yoga. I don’t believe in Kings.
I don’t believe in Elvis. I don’t believe in Zimmerman.
I don’t believe in Beatles. I just believe in me.
Yoko and me, and that’s reality.
The dream is over, what can i say.
The dream is over, yesterday
I was the dreamweaver, but now I’m reborn.
I was the walrus, but now I’m John.
And so dear friends, you’ll just have to carry on.
The dream is over
To follow through with my comparison to a novel, every great novel comes to some kind of climax, some resolution of the conflicts embodied in its story. God is the climactic song that brings to a head all the pain, anger and realization of the rest of the album. It rejects the authority of received mythology, including the mythology of Beatle John.
To the boy on the rug, already a closet agnostic at thirteen, this was a loud shout of validation, and not just because of the questioning of religion.
In an even larger sense, the song offers broad affirmation and permission to all those who would throw off the shackles and blinders of culture and think for themselves, love for themselves, be themselves in a world that is always pressing on you to conform, to fit into one mold or another. And it offers a glimpse of moving past all of that into a clarified, illuminated future. The dream is over. Believe in yourself. Carry on. This faith in your own heart can be a refuge, a home you can return to when you get lost. Having that can change your life.
The shock of that December night has never quite faded. Like losing a family member before their time, there’s a sting to every memory of the man, every note of his music. Like the charged taste of metal when you test a battery with your tongue, not a lightning bolt anymore but still bitter and hard. John lost his future. His family lost their future with him. And we lost our future of connecting to him, of recognizing our growing, struggling selves in his music and his honesty about his own growing, struggling self.
The music lives on, as they say. And maybe somewhere in the world today there’s a doubtful pimply kid clicking around online who will stumble into a YouTube post of Plastic Ono Band, and he’ll stuff his earbuds in and push play.
Muhammad Ali would have turned 80 years old today, January 17, 2022. It also happens to be Martin Luther King Jr Day, in a year—an era, really—that all too clearly echoes the elevated tensions that inflamed the unrest of the turbulent Sixties.
How frustrating and disappointing that we as a society seem to have grown so little in all these years. But how inspiring to remember how both these men rose above their times and how each of them, in their own way, shook up the world.
Ali passed away, in June of 2016. Looking back now, that location in time seems to be right on the cusp of this current era, straddling the border, with one foot in the calm before the storm and one foot in the hurricane itself. Name the storm Division. Or Polarization. Or Culture War. Blame it on Inequality, Moral Decay or White Supremacy. Or Patriarchy, Corporatism or Globalism. We find ourselves in what feels like an impasse, a bumper to bumper traffic jam on the highway of cultural development.
At the time of Ali’s death, I put fingers to keyboard in an attempt to clarify why the man’s life and death felt so meaningful to me (and perhaps to others). Today I’m revisiting those reflections below…
There were so many sides to the man. So many people today are expressing their own impressions of this transcendent figure. So many different words are showing up in articles and posts. Of course, people often speak first of his athletic skill. The New Yorker said he had “physical wit.” A clever phrase but maybe still an understatement. He was a physical genius who, in his prime, raised heavyweight boxing up to the level of art. Others speak of Ali’s bravery, confidence, humor, grace, kindness.
To me, Ali seemed to always be coming back from defeat.
If I was ever aware of him as Cassius Clay, I don’t remember. I was only nine years old when he refused to serve in Vietnam, and my earliest memories of him are about the controversy that followed and his unjust exile from the career and status he had rightfully earned with his fists.
Another word we’re seeing today is “sacrifice,” and few other public figures in our time have proved their beliefs by sacrificing as much as Ali. He had all the riches and power that America had to offer him. He was “King of the World,” as he so brashly proclaimed. Yet he was willing to give it all up—to go to prison if necessary—in accordance with his conscience. It’s something he gave us all to think about.
Which requires more bravery—to follow the crowd to battle, or to stand alone and question the purpose of war?
When he came back, I listened to his first fight against Jerry Quarry on my bed with my ear pressed against a handheld transistor radio. When he lost to Joe Frazier, I watched in the local theatre. When he rope-a-doped George Foreman to finally regain the championship in 1974, I was sixteen, listening in the driveway on the radio in my first car, a 1962 Ford Fairlane.
Of course, he lost again. And he came back again. In the ring and in the world. Against younger boxers, against judgmental society and against cruel disease. He became possibly the most well known, and certainly one of the most admired men in the world. The word “icon” gets thrown around too casually these days. Ali was the real deal. To quote the dictionary, “a person regarded as a representative symbol of something.”
Yes, a representative symbol of those many words showing up repeatedly today: skill, grace, wit, kindness and the rest. But each of those words by itself seems to be reaching for a more complete summary. There must be something about the man that encompasses yet exceeds all those words, such that, even though we might not agree with his every word or action, we see that something about him represents the best in us.
I think what finally seals Ali’s indelible power in our hearts, what we see in him that we wish for ourselves, what he truly symbolizes—is the triumph of courage and principle over injustice. That is what I see in Muhammad Ali’s life that I hope lives somewhere within my own heart, and within the heart of our society in general.
And then there is my favorite Ali quote—and I’m sure I won’t be the only one to recall this today because it so captures Ali’s wit, charm and fierce sense of self. In one of their many post-fight interviews, Howard Cosell remarked on Ali’s bravado. “You’re being extremely truculent,” he said. And Ali came back without missing a half-beat: “Whatever truculent means, if that’s good, I’m that.”
Hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in sport. That is the accepted and acknowledged barroom and living room wisdom.
Regular Joe down at the end of the bar says, “Look man, you got a round ball that’s three inches wide, it’s closing on you almost a hundred miles an hour and you’re supposed to hit it with a stick that’s even smaller around than the ball. That’s why you’re a freakin allstar if you can pull it off just three out of every ten times.”
“Damn straight,” you holler and raise your glass. “Hardest thing to do in all of sport.”
It’s never exactly clear what things are being compared, but nonetheless it’s an article of faith that hitting a baseball is the most difficult among said unsaid things.
But is it?
Cut to my living room just a few Sundays ago, when my father, Roy Sr, sometimes referred to as Old Roy, or more delicately as Roy 1.0, joined me to watch the Giants game and bask in each other’s considerable baseball expertise. Fortunately, on this particular Sunday, Mrs D was visiting relatives somewhere across the continent, thus the living room was temporarily an eye-roll-free zone vis-a-vis the running of our expert mouths.
Friendly beverages were involved, the Giants were losing in the late innings, and soon talk turned to our superior understanding of the game of baseball compared to the hopeless, flailing, trend-following, stat-blind, blockheaded ignorance of, you know, pretty much everyone ever professionally employed at the highest levels of the sport. Such is the cross borne by every long-suffering couchbound sports fan.
So, after yet another Giant struck out to end an inning with the bases loaded, one of us sighed in resignation and threw the old bromide out there, “Well, like they say, it’s the hardest thing to do in sport.”
And of course we went through the whole litany: three inches wide, rounded bat, hundred miles an hour, seven out of ten failure rate.
Incidentally, it’s not just barroom—or living room—wisdom. Even the venerated Popular Science has published an article claiming, “A unique blend of physics and neuroscience makes the skill astronomically difficult.” (www.popsci.com/story/science/why-is-hitting-a-baseball-so-hard/?)
So, don’t roll your eyes at the two Roys just yet.
But what are we really talking about here? What, in fact, are the aforementioned ‘things’ we might fairly compare to hitting a baseball? Let’s define them. Let’s say, for instance, completing a pass in the NFL. Or let’s say, making a basket in the NBA. Or hitting the fairway in professional golf. These are all discrete, repeatable accomplishments required on a regular basis for a top-level player to be deemed successful in their respective sport.
And I suddenly got a clear look at the fly in the logic—or the flaw in the ointment, whatever. I realized this dog couldn’t hunt. Or, more importantly, count. You see, when you throw a pass in the NFL, that’s one throw, one single attempt, with one positive or negative result: complete or incomplete. When you take a shot in the NBA, it’s one shot, make or miss. In golf, you hit one shot from the tee, your ball either lands in the fairway (or on the green) or it doesn’t. These are all straightforward one-for-one records of accountability.
And it’s true, by all the accepted measurements these skills are less difficult on average than hitting a baseball. Top passers have completion rates above 60%. Top shooters make baskets around 50% of the time. Top golfers hit the fairway on up to 70% of their drives.
However, in baseball, when we say someone’s an allstar for hitting the ball 30% of the time, we’re not talking about a one-for-one relationship.
We’re talking about hits per ‘at-bat.’ And in any single at-bat a player could see multiple pitches and make an unknown number of swings. Plus, the 30% only counts the number of times a batter hits ‘safely.’ When the batter hits the ball but makes an out, it’s not counted. Even though the batter has, in fact, achieved the illustrious feat of hitting the baseball, that achievement is ignored in the calculation of their standard batting average.
That doesn’t seem fair.
When a quarterback completes a third-down pass but it’s short of the first down, he’s still credited with a completion. If the forward dunks the ball at the buzzer but the team loses by one, the basket still counts. When a golfer hits the fairway but bogies the hole, the record book will still say he hit the fairway.
So I says to Old Roy, “What if you counted every single time the batter puts the ball in play? After all, isn’t that the physical act of hitting the baseball, which is what we’re supposedly measuring?”
He goes, “Yeah, that only makes sense. Even if you’re out, you’ve already done the job, you’ve hit the baseball. Why shouldn’t that count?” And he takes a drink.
I’m wondering, jeez, did we just out-think the entire history of barroom pundits? Because, if you count every time the batter actually puts the ball in play, there is no way that hitting a baseball is the hardest thing to do in all of sport. No way. Right?
Now I’m thinking, yes, these two Sunday blabbermouths in their recliners just completely overturned conventional wisdom. Over cocktails during the seventh inning stretch we had apparently debunked one of the greatest and oldest truisms in baseball lore. If only the skeptical Mrs D were here to appreciate our brilliant insight! I mean, I better write a nice wordy essay to impress my friends and anyone else who will listen.
Couple days later, I decide to hunt down the numbers that would prove the case.
First, I go to baseball-reference.com and look up the 2022 National League Batting Champion, Jeff McNeil of the New York Mets. In 589 plate appearances, McNeil had 538 official at-bats (subtracting walks, hit by pitch, sacrifices, reaching base on a fielding error). In those 533 at-bats, his 174 hits yield a .326 average or a 33% success rate. But to calculate a more accurate success rate, let’s include all the times he put the ball in play but made an out. To get that figure, simply subtract his total strikeouts from total at-bats, and you’d pretty much have it.
In McNeil’s case that’s 533 at-bats minus 61 strikeouts = 472 balls in play. That is approximately an 89% success rate. In 89% of his at-bats, McNeil hit the baseball, supposedly the hardest thing to do in all of sport. WTF!?
But then it suddenly dawned on me, Oh shit! Each swing is an attempt. Not each at-bat. Each swing. To truly measure the difficulty of hitting a baseball against those other sports skills, you need to calculate swings vs balls in play. In this discussion, nothing else really matters.
I won’t begin to list all the crazy anal-retentive baseball stats you can find online nowadays. If you looked long enough you could probably learn how often your favorite shortstop scratches his balls during the ninth inning of Tuesday night games in Oracle Park. And yet, I scoured more than a dozen sites before I found something close to what I was looking for, and not surprisingly I found it at billjamesonline.com
Here’s a simple breakdown of swings vs balls in play for McNeil’s 2022 season. 1110 swings, 477 balls in play. What about other high caliber players? That guy Aaron Judge had a pretty good year in 2022, didn’t he? 1240 swings, 400 balls in play (of which quite a few of them went over the fence). Luis Arraez led the American League in batting: 1034 swings, 507 balls in play. World Series Champion and perennial allstar Jose Altuve, 1022 swings, 441 balls in play. Among my beloved Giants, Brandon Crawford, 872 swings, 313 balls in play. And among the hated (although in case highly respected) Dodgers, Mookie Betts, 1072 swings, 472 balls in play.
The best hitters succeed at hitting the baseball on only 30-50% of their attempts.
The barroom pundits were right after all, although for the wrong reasons.
It’s very hard to hit a baseball. You might call it the hardest thing to do in sports.
Old Roy and Marginally Younger Roy are nearly as full of it as Mrs D’s eye rolls would suggest. We will now return to our recliners and cocktails, thank you.
Thank you for reading Fire and Dreams. This post is public—feel free to share!
Roy introduced me to Baseball, and American Football. We saw a lot of basebal games on TV at the Euclid House as well as SNL in its prime time seasons. as well as 70’s classic TV shows.
THE YEAR OF TWELVE SONGS is my latest music project. Some of you got a preview recently, with an all-acoustic version of a song called Finish Strong. Now I’m sharing a new version with added instruments and my efforts at sound production. Plus some backstory and something sort like old-fashioned liner notes (remember those?). I plan to do this with a different song every month and hopefully learn a lot in the process. Check it out with the link below and let me know what you think.
I have been a writing com member since 2016. I have been actively posting in various challenges and contests since I began and have posted close to 998 pieces. I highly recommend this site as a warm, welcoming writing community and I have learned so much about the art and craft of writing from participating. You can find my work at https://jcosmos.Writing.Com/
Writer’s Cramp does a prompt every day with a daily winner. I have won quite a few of these and try to enter them daily.
End of Empires
38
On February 2, 1901,
Queen Victoria was laid to rest.
Largest gathering
Of European royalty ever assembled
Attended the funeral.
This was the height
Of the British Empire.
Few would have thought
In a few short years
World War 1 would begin.
And then World War Two
The Cold War
Followed by the gradual
End of the British Empire.
The sun did set
In the British Empire
But in 1901
It seemed like
The British Empire
Would last forever.
Empires rise and fall
Sometimes one sees the decline.
Other times it comes as a surprise.
In hindsight almost inevitable.
What will be the end?
Of the American Empire?
Will America break apart?
Into ten or 15 new nations?
If there is a civil war
It will not end up
As proponents think.
That is the nature
Of civil war
And war in general.
it never ends as planned.
“ War, Good God all, what is it good for?
War has only one friend, the undertaker.”
NEW (birthday week) PROMPT:
On February 2 (2/2) 1901, the state funeral of Queen Victoria of Great Britain took place and was one of the largest gatherings of European royalty in history. Write a poem or story about this event. Use HISTORY as one of your genres.
A Quiet January Night
26 lines
Sam Adams
Was at home
On a quiet January Night.
Snowbound
In his Capitol Hill Row house,
Down the street from Lincoln Park
In the heart of DC.
All in all
Sam felt at peace
With the world.
Having accepted
As he was getting older,
And having reconciled
With his long-estranged siblings.
He was playing the piano
While his cat
The Buddha Cat
Was lost in his cat verse
Deep in meditation.
Soon he put on some
Buddha bar meditation music
And joined the cosmic cat
In mediation.
There is a new prompt up in “The Writer’s Cramp” – and if you write the best story or poem (and follow all of the rules) you just might win 10,000 GPs.
” WINNER & NEW PROMPT Due Sunday, January 21″ 16 hours 40 minutes 35 seconds
Please use the following as the Title of your story or poem:
“A Quiet January Night”
Please select “Spiritual” as one of your genres.
Make sure you create a new static item for your entry, and include your word count for stories (1000 words or less) or a line count for poems (40 lines or less) IN your forum post with the b-item link to your entry to be a qualified entry.
Lunch with Allen Ginsberg (winner)
39
If I had a chance to go back in time
and meet for lunch a famous poet
I would go back to 1954.
to my hometown, Berkeley, California
to visit with and have lunch
with one of my literary heroes
Allan Ginsberg.
I would knock on his door
and tell him I came from
from 2024, the future.
And wanted to talk to him
about the future world
and we would go and have lunch
in North Beach.
And over wine and pasta, we would talk
We would talk about his life and legacy
and then talk about the future world.
I would tell him that Donald Trump
would become President
and usher in an era of neo-fascism.
H would be astonished.
but finally concluded
that he knew of the Trump family
and could see that coming.
They had bad juju he concluded.
And then he would go home
and write a series of poems
about the future of the U.S.
And perhaps we would have prevented
some of the future from taking place
perhaps it was inevitable
as he would write,
“the future is coming sooner than we think
and it will be stranger than fiction.”
Unfortunately, I can’t award a winner today. Please remember to select the appropriate genre if the prompt requires one. (Today’s prompt does not.)
NEW PROMPT: Tomorrow, January 6, is National Take a Poet to Lunch Day. Write a story or poem involving lunch with a poet. The poet can be living, formerly living, imaginary, or even yourself. What’s on the menu, and what topics are discussed?
Sam Adams
watched from far-off Mumbai
as the terrorists launched 9-11.
Thanking the Gods
that his wife was not working
there at the Pentagon.
He had a vision
that the Dogs of War
Have been set free
Of their cages in hell,
And are out
howling at the moon.
The Dogs of War
Have been set free
To wreck what havoc
Might be.
Yes, the Dogs of War
The Hell Hounds
Have bound out of their cages
Sniffed about, smiled
At the destruction, they saw
They knew soon
They would be in their element
As the world descends into chaos,
The world saw the face of pure evil
That fine September morning
A morning like any other morning
Until a fateful moment
When two planes came out of the sky,
And Destroyed the center of world capitalism
In an act of horrific violence, and pure evil
That is beyond the comprehension
Of mere mortal man.
Dec 7, 1941, was the attack by Japanese warplanes on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii, an event that propelled the United States into the forefront of World War II.
For tomorrow, write a story or poem that is set during an unexpected military attack. (But broadly construed … could be like Pearl Harbor, could be a science-fiction space war, could be a gang war in NYC, could be an unexpected snowball attack by the neighborhood bullies, could be in fairyland, etc.)
Focus your tale on the experiences of an “ordinary person” in this attack, rather than someone removed from the action (e.g. not military leaders in command-and-control centers.) Try to bring to life the confusion and emotions of the situation.
Hitler as an Artist?
20
A Hitler historian
was fascinated
With Hitler’s failed attempt
To be a painter,
Hitler always blamed
His failure as an artist
Due to a cabal of Jewish painters
Who were the arbiters of taste
In Vienna right after World War 1
One day he discovered
A cache of lost Hitler paintings.
Among the paintings,
was one labeled
“International Bird Painting Day”.
Art historians all agreed –
It was the worst bird painting
Ever made,
Proving that Hitler
Would never have made it
As an artist,
Since he had no talent
As an artist,
Sadly, his depraved, evil
malignant evil talents
Lay elsewhere.
NEW PROMPT: Tomorrow, April 8, is Draw a Picture of a Bird Day. Write a story or poem about someone with limited artistic talent attempting to observe this occasion.
20
Express it Eight
Soling Bling is the host of the Express It In Eight Daily prompts. The goal is to write an eight-line poem. Here are my most recent entries.
Jellyfish Lake and Other Strange Places
Sam Adams was an explorer
He had been to many strange places
Among the Weider were the Jellyfish Lake
Filled with jellyfish
Snake Island off of Brazil
Filled with the deadliest snakes in the world
And the famous cannibal island
where outsiders are forbidden in the Andaman seas.
In an ancient town in Central Asia,
Deep in the high mountains on the old Silk Road,
There lays a weird church, mosque, and temple.
With four doors, one to the church, the mosque, and the temple.
The fourth door, hidden in the back rooms leads to an indoor patio.
The fourth door reveals ten smaller green doors on top of each other.
According to the sign above, each door opens a portal
To other worlds, a one-way ticket for madmen only.
Lately, I have been drinking
Much more tea and less coffee,
Particularly in the afternoon.
My latest tea of choice is my wife’s secret blend.
Bitter melon, jujube dates, ugly potato, wormwood
With Earl Gray, green tea slims fast,
Yogi detox teas are added to the brewing pot.
Perfection in a soothing hot cup of heaven.
In the U.S. in November
There is a noteworthy
Looming election.
An election that will determine
In a comprehensive manner,
The future of the U.S. and the world
Will the U.S. choose fascism?
Or will democracy and sanity prevail?
the warning signs
are everywhere
will we heed them?
will we wake up
and see that Trump
and the MAGA movement
are fascists determined
to destroy American democracy.
POEM TITLES
Warning
by Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people’s gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickles for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
>< >< >< >< >< ><
I Choose the Mountain
by Howard Simon
The low lands call
I am tempted to answer
They are offering me a free dwelling
Without having to conquer
The massive mountain makes its move
Beckoning me to ascend
A much more difficult path
To get up the slippery bend
I cannot choose both
I have a choice to make
I must be wise
This will determine my fate
I choose, I choose the mountain
With all its stress and strain
Because only by climbing
Can I rise above the plain
I choose the mountain
And I will never stop climbing
I choose the mountain
And I shall forever be ascending
David Sneider is the host of Poetry Place. He does a weekly poetry form challenge similar to what Writer Digest does. I try to try my hand at both and between the two of them and Fan Story, I have tried over 150 poetry forms since 2016.
Here are my most recent attempts
Why do we write?
40 lines
A writer is often asked
Why do you write?
What motivates you?
What keeps you going?
How do you handle the constant rejections?
The self-doubts
What comes with the writer’s life?
I write as many writers do
Because I must
Because the damn muse
Will never leave me alone
The characters in my head
Demand to let their voices be heard
Demand to be freed
To tell their tales
And I am a slave
To my muse
Who takes me
Where she will
No matter what
I must write every day
Usually starting my day
Drinking coffee
Watching the news unfold
Writing my thoughts
Letting the poetry flow
Out of my soul
Bleeding onto the computer screen
The words waiting to be spoken
To tell their tale
Before the day is over
That is why I write
Because I can not write
That is the Buddha nature
Of being a writer after all.
Most of us probably started writing to fulfill the requirements of our teachers in school. We wrote to pass the course and gain recognition through grade assignments.
During some self-analysis upon leaving the Navy and starting my job search, I realized that the things I enjoyed the most and had the most success with involved writing of some sort. Therefore, a technical writing job seemed to be the perfect union of that interest with my engineering education. For the next few years, I wrote to instruct field technicians on how to implement retrofit modifications on aircraft.
Later, in the business world, I wrote to enlighten co-workers, managers, and customers about procedures, policies, and systems.
Nowadays, while I sometimes still write for those reasons (as I’m doing here), many more factors keep me engaged in this wondrous process. That’s probably the case with you, too.
If you feel a need to express your most personal response to this mysterious, beautiful, and sometimes painful world in the shapes, colors, sounds, and smells of your imagination, creative writing can provide a powerful means of therapeutic release.
The pure joy that comes with meeting the challenges of crafting the language into something meaningful, like molding a piece of clay with your hands, can be a refreshing recreational outlet.
Many writers are driven to publish their work on the printed page. I can vouch for the exhilarating sense of satisfaction that comes with that first acceptance letter.
Upon receiving a reviewer’s comment that one of my stories reminded him of a stand-up comedian’s routine, I realized that the desire to entertain/is also a driving force that keeps me motivated.
For whom do you write?
Many writers resist criticism and defend their writing with the claim that they write only for themselves. While some therapeutic or recreational writing may not be intended for sharing with an audience, writing is usually employed as a means of communicating with other people. Of course, the grocery lists and phone numbers you scribble on scraps of paper are probably intended for only you. However, those things within you that won’t rest until they are given voice–the burning memories that linger in your heart and the fanciful fugitive images floating around in your head–must be shared with someone else to satisfy the need for expression.
When you sit down to write, you should keep your audience in mind. Whether it be your friends and family, a group of readers interested in a particular genre as identified here at WDC, or an editor for a specific publication, the language you use serves as a bridge between you and the reader. Choose accordingly.
Your reasons for writing along with your prospective audience will influence the voice you use in your writing, as the relationship between the writer and the reader develops into a true collaboration in this wondrous experience.
Today’s Practice Session: Write about your objective(s) as you continue on this marvelous journey.
Then ponder the postings of your peers and exchange views about the various motivations that keep us all inspired in this venture.
Guns
so many
people are dying
Politicians offer useless prayers
Death
The Elevenie, also called Elfie in German, is an exercise in language distillation. Consisting of five lines with word counts of 1, 2, 3, 4, and 1, respectively, it captures a thought in only eleven words, as described and demonstrated in the following links:
Wikipedia defines an Elevenie, or Elfchen, as follows:
“An elevenie (German Elfchen — Elf “eleven” and -Chen as a diminutive suffix to indicate diminutive size and endearment) is a short poem with a given pattern. It contains eleven words which are arranged in a specified order over five rows. Each row has a requirement that can vary.”
A simple form, similar perhaps to Haiku, Senryu, or Tanka, in which the poet attempts to carry an idea within a set format of words and lines which imposes certain strictures of thought and form on the author.
The usual format requires a short verse of eleven words in five lines in the form – 1, 2, 3, 4, 1. An order which I have reversed in my last of the 4 Elfchen below . . .
Hot coffee starts my morning.
watching the news mid-morning.
Too much coffee is a warning,
a migraine a forewarning.
Afternoon I drink hot tea.
Contemplating to be.
What is to become of me?
Turning on music filled with glee.
As the sun sets, I drink red wine.
With my wife, all is just fine.
While looking at the moonshine,
As we sit down start to dine.
The Tanaga is an ancient Filipino form that has evolved from a complete poem to a series of stanzas. The structure consists of four mono-rhymed lines with seven syllables per line, as described and demonstrated in the following links:
I was born John Cosmos Aller
But for most of my life
I called myself Jake Cosmos Aller
Nowadays, I call myself J Cosmos Aller
or Cosmos As my pen name
the name Cosmos has nothing
to do with me being born
in Oakland
growing up in Berkeley
no one buys that story though
Cosmos being such a Berkeley-like name
My great-grandfather wanted
an English translation
of the family’s last name
Aller
looked it up in a German English dictionary
had two choices
Cosmos
or Universe
chose Cosmos
and thus I am the last
of the Cosmos Aller’s
The universe would have been
an equally good Berkeley name
But I have had other nicknames
The kids nicknamed me Allergy
And pretended to sneeze
When I passed them by
The name Jake came about
From a dream I had
As a boy scout
I was riding a horse
Named Jake
I would scream
Whoa Jake
Slide aside Clyde
Turn around Verdiack
I started saying these words
When I walked about Campus
And people thought I was a bit mental
So, people simply started calling me
The Whoa Jake kid,
Later simply became Jake
After I left school
I liked the name, Jake
Better than John
Too many Johns
In the world, I thought
When my wife became an army officer
We would sometimes get invites
To things addressed to Captain Lee and Mr. Lee
Got tired of trying to explain
We had different last names
So, I became Jake Lee
Later when I was in the military hospital system
As a dependent getting operations
The doctors just assumed I was a major
And called me Major Aller
I did not correct them
Liked having been promoted
To the rank of Major!
When I started trying to become
Professional writing and blogger
I thought using my middle name
Would be a nice pen name
So now I am either J Cosmos Aller
Jake Cosmos Aller
John (Jake) Cosmos Aller
or just Cosmos
No longer Jake Lee
Or Major Aller though.
unless you are Maya Angelou, Stephen King, or some other famous writer whose name alone is enough to draw an audience, the title is one of the most critical elements of a poem. As the only thing a prospective reader will see while scanning the list of items in a writer’s port or the Table of Contents in a book, it serves as the door that must be opened to enter the realm of the poet’s imagination. If that entrance does not generate some kind of interest, that browser will likely move along to the next item, or maybe even the next author.
Like the names of your children, a title gives the poem a specific identity. Of course, some poets eschew such traditions and leave their work without any identifying reference. Emily Dickinson did not put titles on her poems, even though her editors often did before publication. Frank O’Hara often applied simple, nondescript titles, such as Poem. Would you let your child go through life without a name? Then, why would you ever think of not naming your brainchild or tagging it with some irrelevant label?
Because many poems are so short in comparison with other forms of literature, their names should capture the underlying essence of the expression as it sets the tone and prepares the reader for what is to come. Mark Twain once said, “The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug,” and I believe the same advice would apply to titles for a poem. This can be a struggle in many cases. Sometimes the title comes to the poet out of the blue as inspiration for an entire composition, and sometimes it hides within the shrubbery of the text.
Here are a few suggestions to aid you in your search for the perfect name:
1. Start with the title and let it propel you into the poem.
2. Use the first line of the poem as your title.
3. Provide a brief description of the poem’s theme.
4. Find a phrase or image within the poem that can represent the whole.
5. If you are writing a narrative poem, an action verb may help engage the prospective reader with the experience being described.
6. Use your imagination to pluck lightning from the phantasmal cloud of cosmic pixie dust swirling around in your head.
Your assignment: Write a poem about the concept of NAMES.
#59. names
ID #1062273 entered on January 11, 2024, at 7:16 pm [Edit] [5 views]
More Guns Roundeau
gun
More guns killing people today.
Is it just another day?
Politicians offer prayer.
All the dead gun ghosts don’t care.
Have we completely lost our way?
To the gun ghosts, what do we say?
Our prayers are just another cliche.
Will the guns continue to flare?
More guns.
Will we continue to pay?
Will our country be able to stay?
Will hatred continue to stare?
Will there be an end to this nightmare?
Do we have any words left to sway?
More guns.
: aabba aabR aabbaR. Lines 9 and 15 are short
The Rondeau is a French form of fifteen lines with an intriguing pattern of rhyme and repetition, as described and demonstrated in the following links:
I wake up with the morning dawning sun.
Turn on my TV watch the news,
drinking a hot snarling cup of coffee.
thinking dark gloomy thoughts as the snow falls.
Bombs, war, inflation, end-of-the-world.
The Ronka is another spinoff from the Japanese Haiku and Tanka forms devised by Ken Ronkowitz. The structure consists of five unrhymed lines with seven words per line. The theme should “focus on observations of the day as seen in the outside world and the inside worlds of dwellings and the mind,” as described and demonstrated in the following links:
Rupali Goswami is the host of the 40-word challenge – to write a 40-word poem or micro story based on the daily prompts. Here are my latest attempts.
01/29/2023- ‘old”
Watching the news
I feel the old-age blues
I turn off the barking, deranged,
talking heads,
had enough of them all
for a lifetime
turned off that snarling noise box.
And have another cup of coffee.
With my lovely wife.
#5. 01/29/2023- ‘old”
ID #1062532 entered on January 17, 2024, at 4:22 am [Edit] [2 views]
01/28/2023-‘unusual’
Donald Trump
Is the biggest con artist
carnival barker, grifter,
Flimflam man
That ever lived.
He has an unusual
Sway over his cult-like
MAGA Followers
Who thinks he is God’s Anointed
Some call him the orange Jesus
The Messiah!
#4. Unusual sway
ID #1062531 entered on January 17, 2024, at 4:17 am [Edit] [12 views]
01/27/2023-decency’
The next election
Boils down to this
Will we choose decency?
represented by Biden
And Democracy
Or will we choose hatred?
And Fascism?
Represented by Trump?
When
Sam Adams
Bought the 3-d print Glock
He tested security several times.
Smuggling the gun in
And re-entering the building.
Where he administered justice
To his lying scumbag frat bro
Darius Smith, iv.
When Darius Smith, IV
Sam’s College frat bro
stole 100 million dollars
2 million from him
he prayed that someone
would rescue his soul
as he blew him, Darius, away
as he ate dinner. with Sam’s
estranged wife.
Barbados, West Indies – March 4, 2007: A beach scene on the Caribbean Island of Barbados with a yellow lifeguard station and people enjoying the beach and the water.
On a winter’s day
In cold, dismal snowy DC
My thoughts often turn.
To Barbados.And the three wonderful years
I spent serving my country.
In Barbados, and the Eastern Caribbean.Recalling blissful days
Hanging out at the Hilton Hotel
With the love of my wife by my side.Sunday brunch then hitting the beach.
Drinking rum sours while watching people
Frolicking in the Blue Sea.
Visiting my other islands
once a month
Antigua, Dominica, Grenada, St. Kitts,
St. Lucia and St. Vincent and the Grenadines
Meeting political leaders
Liming with the locals.
Listening to the steel drum band
Play as the sunsets
Over my secret Caribbean paradise.
Comment: My best tour in the Foreign Service was when I served as Deputy Pol/Econ Chief in Barbados and the Eastern Caribbean (Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St. Kitts, St Lucia, and St Vincent and the Grenadines) from 2007 to 2010. Liming is local jargon for having a drink.
An old Mother
Embraces her daughter
And son-in-law
Luminous tears
Flowing down her face
As she looked
At her children
Filled with love
A devoted humble
Guiding loving spirit
Smiling at her
These are the rules:
1) You must use the words I give in a poem or prose with no limits on length.
2) The words can be in any order and anywhere throughout the poem and can be any form of the word.
3) All entries must be posted in your portfolio and you must post the link in this forum, “Stormy’s poetry newsletter & contest” [ASR] by May 13, 2023.
4) The winner will get 3000 gift points and the poem will be displayed in this section of the newsletter the next time it is my turn to post (May 17, 2023)
The words are:
A mother embraces luminous tears devoted spirit humble guiding
Brand new piece (15 August, 2017): Gary Noland, piano & narration, performs Fascicle No. 162, Part Six of his chamber novel Jagdlied Op. 20.
Brand new piece (15 August, 2017): Gary Noland, piano & narration, performs Fascicle No. 162, Part Six of his chamber novel Jagdlied Op. 20.
My PAEAN IN HOMAGE TO HIGH-MINDED MAGGOTS, UPSTANDING BOTTOMFEEDERS, AND OTHER MALIGNANT PARASITES OF UNIMPEACHABLE MORAL INTEGRITY performed by THE PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE (December 20th, 2022): https://soundcloud.com/…/paean-in-homage-to-high-minded
My latest piece: CONFUNKLED SNAFUBARBIES AND THEIR BIRDBRAINIAC CARBON COPIES CONFLABULATING AT THE FUNERAL HOME BEFORE THE FALL performed by THE PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE (December 18th, 2022): https://soundcloud.com/…/sets/confunkled-snafubarbies-and
Hey Jake, Zappenin? Nice to see you in FB. I’m living in Portland, Oregon these days. Love it here. Jim tells me you’ve visited him on occasion in the Bay Area. I go there once or twice a year. Maybe we’ll cross orbits again sometime. I’m composing a 90-minute set of variations on my own theme for solo piano, which I started in April, 2009. Hope to have it completed in about three months. At 39 variations, I’ve probably broken the world record in terms of length and scope. You’re in Alexandria these days? Nice! Hope all is well. Cheers, Gary
Enter
Dear Friends, I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE UPCOMING RELEASE OF MY NEW DOUBLE CD: 20 COVIDITTIES Op. 116—composed amidst suffocating smoke, impending conflagrations, destructive riots, politico-ideological turmoil, all whilst in the throes of a pernicious global pandemic. Available for purchase on Amazon for only $16.95 “… a most important work … molted out of a neo-romanticism into a completely postmodern reduction of elements (ad absurdum) … Sometimes that romanticism … provides a frame or narrative on which [Noland] builds around or elaborates other layers. This is a multi-tiered music … the tonal works providing the frame are exquisite in their own right … the Chopin/Strauss element seems to reflect the old bourgeoisie under attack from the culture that has arisen since … its deliberately loving, saccharine poesy seems unmoved … love and fine taste exist wherever the appoggiatura stabs the heart … impressive series … a highly sophisticated sonic cartoon …”—ERNESTO FERRERI, American composerD
I have a Yamaha Montage, which I started using in the summer but not in conjunction with Sibelius. As far as I know, virtually any MIDI keyboard ought to work with Sibelius. I haven’t tried it myself but I believe you shouldn’t have any problems with it. To be safe, ask the people at Sibelius and/or at Yamaha to recommend the right configurations. Best of luck with your new toys!
12/2/20, 5:40 PM
Gary
A musical memoir of 2020, this brand new double CD makes the perfect Xmas stocking stuffer! I AM PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE OFFICIAL RELEASE OF MY BRAND NEW DOUBLE CD: 20 COVIDITTIES Op. 116—composed amidst suffocating smoke, impending conflagrations, destructive riots, politico-ideological turmoil, all whilst in the throes of a pernicious global pandemic. Available for purchase on Amazon. “… a most important work … molted out of a neo-romanticism into a completely postmodern reduction of elements (ad absurdum) … Sometimes that romanticism … provides a frame or narrative on which [Noland] builds around or elaborates other layers. This is a multi-tiered music … the tonal works providing the frame are exquisite in their own right … the Chopin/Strauss element seems to reflect the old bourgeoisie under attack from the culture that has arisen since … its deliberately loving, saccharine poesy seems unmoved … love and fine taste exist wherever the appoggiatura stabs the heart … impressive series … a highly sophisticated sonic cartoon …”—ERNESTO FERRERI, American composer
Hope all is well with you. I am writing to let you know about my latest double CD “ENTROPIC ABANDON: a Super-Psychedelic, Maximalistic, Decadissident Free-Wing Dog & Pony Circus Flextravabonanza of Blightgeisty, Neuromantic, Encore-gasmic Opuscula,” which is now available for pre-order on Amazon. The official release date is March 1st. Order your copies NOW!!!
My latest double CD “ENTROPIC ABANDON: a Super-Psychedelic, Maximalistic, Decadissident Free-Wing Dog & Pony Circus Flextravabonanza of Blightgeisty, Neuromantic, Encore-gasmic Opuscula” is now available for pre-order on Amazon. The official release date is March 1st. Order yours today!!!
RAND NEW PIECE: ORLAN DOY GLANDLY conducts members of THE PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE in a performance of GERTY MACDOWELL’S DRAWERS by GARY LLOYD NOLAND.
I am pleased to share this riveting performance by soprano Anna Haagenson and pianist Stephanie Thompson of the world premiere of my setting of Alexander Theroux’s poem “The Cabaret of Theresienstadt” (at 121:14), which was presented at the NACUSA 2021 Virtual New Music Festival on 18 April. This conference had originally been scheduled to take place in March, 2020 but was cancelled in the last minute due to the unfolding COVID crisis. I set ten poems of A. Theroux’s which I’ve been anxiously awaiting to hear performed (including one large choral setting for SATB, oboe, horn, bass & timpani). It is gratifying to finally hear this song interpreted by sensitive musicians. More performances of my Theroux settings are forthcoming. Anyone who is interesting in following the score may access it from my website in the “Scores 1” menu.
Although the recent double CD of my compositions “Entropic Abandon” (released on March 1st) is currently ranked No. 2 on the Amazon bestseller list of “Hot New Releases” in the “Special Interest” category, it is, unfortunately, going out of print come June 4th. All interested parties can take advantage of this last minute opportunity to order a copy from Amazon (two CDs for the price of one). https://www.amazon.com/…/dp/B08VXC9X5S/ref=zg_bsnr_35_2…
Hi Jake, I have a new collection (Volume 2) of my COLLECTED PIANO WORKS available for pre-ordering from most major, and many independent, book retailers worldwide. Thanks for asking! Hope all’s well with you and yours. Gary
I have known Gary Noland since high school. He is a very talented composer, piano player, and cartoonist who lives in Portland. His music is eclectic with a snarky sarcastic tone to it, somewhat like listening to Frank Zappa’s classical music scores. His cartoons are very Robert Crumpian in spirit. Take a listen and let me know what you think.
You can contact Gary Noland at nolandgary5@gmail.com
BIO
Introducing Gary Noland’s Music
Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960 Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960s. As an adolescent, Gary lived for a time in Salzburg and Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where he absorbed many musical influences. Having studied with a long roster of acclaimed composers and musicians, he earned his Bachelor’s in music from UC Berkeley in 1979, continued studies at the Boston Conservatory, and transferred to Harvard University, where he added to his credits Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. Author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960s.
As an adolescent, Gary lived for a time in Salzburg and Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where he absorbed many musical influences. Having studied with a long roster of acclaimed composers and musicians, he earned his Bachelor’s in music from UC Berkeley in 1979, continued studies at the Boston Conservatory, and transferred to Harvard University, where he added to his credits a Masters’ and a Ph.D. in Music Composition in 1989.
Gary’s catalog consists of hundreds of works, which include piano, vocal, chamber, experimental, and electronic pieces; full-length plays in verse, “chamber novels,” and other text pieces; as well as graphically notated scores. His award-winning chamber novel JAGDLIED for Narrator, Musicians, Pantomimists, Dancers & Culinary Artists was listed by one reviewer as the “Top Book of 2018.” Gary’s compositions have been performed and broadcast (including on NPR) in many locations throughout the United States, as well as in Europe, Asia, and Australia. He founded the Seventh Species concert series in San Francisco in 1990 and, for 23 years, produced well over 50 concerts of contemporary classical music on the West Coast. He is also a founding member of Cascadia Composers. Gary has taught music at Harvard, the University of Oregon, and Portland Community College. His musical scores are available from J.W. Pepper, RGM, Sheet Music Plus, and Freeland Publications. Six CDs of his compositions are available on the North Pacific Music label at: www.northpacificmusic.com. He has well over 300 videos of his music and narratives available for listening on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCJt_eNyJqOZBErG9McQ51nA and numerous other sites on the Internet. composition lessons Lake Oswego Beaverton
The PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE performs STATE-OF-THE-ART EAR EXERCISES for MUSICAL COGNOSCENTI Op. 119 by GARY LLOYD NOLAND.
Featuring the composer and his five alter egos:
GARY LLOYD NOLAND: panda harmonium, malapropsichord, climaxophone, smorgasborgasmatron, bombasticordion, whoopeeboard, air cacophony or
The PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE performs WAYWARD effects & AFFLICTIONS Op. 120 by GARY LLOYD NOLAND
Fever DREAMS Op. 118,
an Unequivocal Crustbucket List of Smexy and Sophistocratic Quarantunes for Perspicacious Connoisseurmudgeons, Trans melancholiac Insomniacs, Necromantic Misanthropes, Compulsive Transgress mists, and other Categorical Certifiable from the Psycho-Experimental Ward of Herr Doctor Noland’s Avantgarde-Boiled Cynic Clinic
“Gary Noland is one of those 21st Century composers seeking to forge a new aesthetic based on older models that do not traffic in serialism or minimalism. These dry, playful pieces pay homage to classical forms from various periods while gently satirizing them. Zany waltzes, ragtime riffs, chorales, toccatas, and much else romp and tear through these depictions of superheroes and villains from his ‘chamber novels’; other pieces spoof serial music (‘Ventured, nothing gained’) to grand operas (‘Meditative’) and Jewish guilt (‘Spikes’). The irreverent program closes with two serious, impressive, endlessly modulating memorials: one to George Rothberg, an allusive homage to an important neo-romantic who was himself a master of allusion; another to Jon Sutton, an artist Noland feels was wrongfully neglected by a corporate culture that promotes dreck and mediocrity, making it ‘possible to have a Brahms or Schubert next door and not even realize it. This is a culture that ‘confers towering soapboxes to impostors of all persuasions, all too often to the exclusion of first-rate minds who are less savvy about how to work the system to their advantage’.
North Pacific Music
Smaller labels like North Pacific Music represent a new way of working that system, a small means of saving what Noland regards as ‘an endangered (and fast becoming extinct) high culture’. I could do without the ugly cover art, but the piano sound is extremely vivid—and Noland plays his work with wit and conviction.”
—Jack Sullivan, American Record Guide, July/August 2007
“Yesterday, the first day of the year [2004], I opened your CD package—and could hardly believe my ears when I listened to your Venge Art and 24 Postludes for Piano, Op. 72—how magnificent!! I will include most [of] your works in our local shows, especially in the Art Block program Sound Sculpture—a program for visual and sonic art.… I listen to all arriving music and [respond] seldom as excited as I did to your music.… Have a terrific 2004. You made mine with your inspiring music, talent, and creativity. Thank you.”
—Brita Heisman, Executive Producer, KAZU Local Programming, Pacific Grove, CA.
Royal Oil works Music
January 2006: “Royal Oil works Music” (electro-acoustic). Duration: ca. 75 minutes. Includes: “Prelude in E Minor” (Op. 34), “Serial Lullaby” (Op. 80, No. 1), “Spray Taint” (Op. 80, No. 2), “Dog Duo” (Op. 66), “Rag bones” (Op. 11), “Grey Malignant Banks” (Op. 80, No. 3) “My Babe’s Gone Down to Do Her Glue” (Op. 80, No. 4), “Royal Oil works Music” (Op. 80, No. 5) “Prelude & Zoo trot” (Op. 22), “Something Rotten” (Op. 80, No. 6) “Music is Dead” (Op. 53), “Treadmill” (Op. 37), “Deformed Fugue” (Op. 17), “Insurrection of the Office Slaves” (Op. 80, No. 7), “Psycho-Bacchanal” (Op. 80, No. 8). www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 024). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
“We recently received a CD [Royal Oil works Music] of Gary Noland’s here at WOBC. I must say that upon previewing some of the tracks and reading the program notes that all of us have never laughed so hard in our lives. We usually don’t play music as arrogant and docile as Gary’s but the ironic-postmodern-naive-pretension that this CD showed made me reconsider. I would like to get in touch with M. Noland and arrange a telephone interview for one of our classical radio shows.”
… his attitude is not subtly disestablishmentarian, and you’d better enjoy it.… Some of the sounds are amusing, but the music is sort of deliberately annoying, both in sonority and in the mood—deliberately uninspired, almost to the point of inspiration. From Bach to rags to whatever, Noland seems determined to annoy as many people as he can, in an amusing way. He is an angry guy but witty.
If the idea of deliberate lack of originality purveyed in an atmosphere of political incorrectness appeals to you, here, in no uncertain terms, it is. Titles such as ‘Spray Taint’, ‘Dog Duo’, and ‘Insurrection of the Office Slaves’ give the mood, while the title tune [‘Royal Oil works Music’] is the real purpose of the Bush administration, as explained in the notes.…”
—David Moore, American Record Guide
Seriously Odd Classical Tongue in Check Electro-Acoustic
“Seriously odd classical… Tongue-in-cheek electro-acoustic combines baroque harpsichord and cheesy electronic sounds. Funny like Satie is funny – zany and irreverent. Lots of serialism … but the bizarre collage of styles and periods is brilliant. Oh, it’s also like PDQ Bach/Peter Schickele in some ways. Absurd liner notes! Baroque-sounding … Serialist electro-acoustic … very refreshing, given how “ivory tower” this type of music often is. Cheesy synths, electronic percussion, and trumpets … up tempo and funky. Baroque harpsichord with pop and world music sounds going on in off-kilter, almost random rhythms. WTF? Very cool …Waa Waa synth, fugue-like … Zany … Cecil Taylor piano over drum machine breakbeats … Close to Dual (Ed Chang and Doug Theriault – crazy dense guitar and laptop processing), with national anthem-like moments?? And bird song?? Zany … Slow serialist/romantic … prelude to baroque trills to Richian/rag arpeggios to a Chopin breakdown to a jazz ending. Phew. This rocks … Bogy woozy synth with jazz percussion and serialist randomness. Lots of noodling, er, electronic wanking? Upbeat … Staccato baroque fugue on electronic choral sounds and pipe organ sounds … funny … Rhythmically interesting … Fugue for harpsichord … Some free jazz freak-outs … Great title for this … Squeaky sounds with sax and choral synthesizer—like if you played the Handel theme from the film A Clockwork Orange, Sonny Rollins, Tchaikovsky, and, well, a psychotic serialist all at once.”
—KZSU FM90.3, Stanford, CA
“A look at the head-note will alert you to Gary Noland’s very personal way with words. Not for Noland the lures either of Olympian detachment or lower case “significance.” No, Noland is full-on and takes few linguistic prisoners. Similarly with the booklet artwork, Noland’s own, which is an example of crazed Robert Crumb à Africanize. And his music is much the same, Deformed Fugue, his 1977 piece for harpsichord summoning up pretty nicely his compositional stance. This is an elixir brewed of Couperin and Rameau, Scott Joplin, Bach, free funk, free Jazz (Cecil Taylor?), the Fugue, and an unholy alliance of straight sounding neo-classicism and its subsequent assault by the forces of percussive militancy.
Noland may be a romantic but doesn’t want you to know.
His Prelude is baroque-convincing though attended by some sour-is off notes he follows it with Serial Lullaby, a synthesizer-rich free funk piece that mocks its title. Spray Taint gives us assaulted baroque, the percussion blizzards full of jazz offbeat and whoop-bang noises (plus telephone rings and disco inferno). He subjects Ragtime to the same souring procedures as he does to his off-note harpsichord baroque and evokes a drugs fix (in My Babe’s Gone Down to Do Her Glue) with some haywire free form. He writes an American fanfare for the title track and subjects it to anti-Bush assault by bird song and drum blister.
Quixiotic Sense
His quixotic sense extends to opus numbers – the bowels of Op. 80 are scattered throughout the disc, and to instrumentation as well. I assume he makes all the noises, both pianistic and harpsichord synthesized and vocalized. He’s a veritable one-man band of off-kilter influences, the procedural repetition of which sometimes got me seriously down, though I did like his Swingle Sisters take-off on Music is Dead: A Paradox in Fugue.”
—Jonathan Woolf, Music Web International
24 Postludes for piano, Vol. 1
August 2004: “Twenty-Four Postludes for Piano” Vol. 1 (Op. 72, Nos. 1–12), performed by Gary Noland. Duration: 72 minutes. North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 018). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
REVIEWS/ENCOMIUMS
“As usual I have been fiendishly busy and during my last absence, our humidification system went bonkers, depositing condensation and mold all over the place so now I am trying to deal with that on top of my overload. Nonetheless, I have put on the postludes whenever I’ve been at the computer and found them up to your usual iconoclastic, stylistic potpourri standards of giddy humor, no holds barred soup to nuts and high spirits. They are balm to the grim state of mind in which I find myself.”
—Robert Levin, pianist (cadenza improviser extraordinaire), scholar, Professor of Music, Harvard University
“Many thanks for the CDs you sent me, which I have been listening to with great pleasure and fascination.… I am bowled over by the expertise of your music: you use certain elements from the 19th century and jazz, etc., and just at the moment when I am about to say, OK, what else is new? you do several things, such as speeding up, becoming wildly dissonant, modulating to a distant continent, stopping completely, and throwing some kind of total surprise. All of these things are possible, but you seem to know exactly when to do what and how much. I don’t know anybody else who can do it! And the brief electronic statements are spooky in the best and most extreme sense. They make my hair (what’s left of it) stand on end.…”
—Andrew Imbrue, composer, Pulitzer Prize finalist
“Mr. Noland’s Postludes are a collection of wild and crazy pieces for … piano. These are essentially parodying of various styles, set in a dizzying harmonic language that loops uncontrollably through a wide-ranging gamut of possible and impossible tonalities. He applies this procedure to the fugue, ragtime, German dances (Schubert), romantic waltzes (Richard Strauss seems to be a favorite), and virtuosic piano scherzos. There’s a Chinese polonaise, a whiff of pentatonic Debussy; and, like most composers after Berlioz, he can’t seem to keep his hands off the Dies Irae (though fortunately, the tongue is firmly in cheek). Both Peter Schickele and Conlon Nan arrow hover over the proceedings. I’d even throw in Mark Applebaum, another Californian … The opening fugue is dedicated to the late David Lewin, the prominent Harvard theorist. Lukas Foss gets a dedication, also (maybe his Baroque Variations had some sort of influence on Noland at some point).
The general effect is like watching wet paintings of 19th Century musical memorabilia drip into frazzled 21st Century oblivion. The comic-book grotesquerie that graces the jewel box pretty much says it all … these pieces are striking and entertaining … (Postlude 12, an interminable exercise in blues montage, is the most daunting.) The pieces all have funny titles … Mustaches on the Mona Lisa, but those can be interesting if you’re in the right frame of mind.”
—Allen Gimbel, American Record Guide
“Composer and pianist Gary Noland are into ‘ha-ha music’—that is, classical music played for laughs, a genre famously (or infamously, depending on your taste in humor) popularized by Peter Schickele, also known as P.D.Q. Bach. This collection of solo piano music, identified as postludes rather than the more traditional preludes designation, indicates that, despite occasionally forcing the musical jokes (and writing far too many tortured puns in his liner notes), Noland has both the writing and playing chops to compensate for his painful musical humor. Dedicated to the late music theorist David Lewin, ‘Philomathetique’ is a witty trope on the music of Richard Strauss, with characterful motives and abundant quick modulations. ‘Effete Singulations’ is a deft, splashy bit of ragtime, while ‘Pickthanks and Premediates’ is a light-hearted romp played at a dizzying tempo and ‘Psychonipptions’ (dedicated to composer Henry Martin) is a send-up of 20th Century French music. Overall, Postludes is a mixed bag, but when Noland focuses on playing the piano well rather than simply playing for laughs, his compelling artistry shines through.”
—Christian Carey, Splendid Magazine
“Gary—you continue to be one of the most original of the contributors to ‘The Classical Salon.’ And ‘Effete Singulations’ [Postlude #2] opens one of my ragtime shows.”
—David Rifkin, Host, “Classical Salon” and “The Ragtime Machine,” KUSF 90.3 FM, University of San Francisco.
24 Interludes for piano, Vol. 1
August 2004: “Twenty-Four Interludes for Piano” Vol. 1 (Op. 71, Nos. 1-12), performed by Gary Noland. Duration: 74 minutes. North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 019). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
“… intriguing, irritating, … distinctive, inventive, … subversive, … [the music] is never what you expect. You hear all sorts of styles and influences—Beethoven, ragtime, Nan arrow, stride—often in very quick succession.… I had the strange feeling with many of these pieces [Interludes and Postludes] that, about halfway through, I had got fed up with them, but I was then sorry when they finished.… You can hardly be indifferent to Noland’s music and so I would urge you to try it. Despite my frequent irritation, I will certainly be returning to it and seeking out examples of Noland’s chamber works and multimedia compositions. Music aside, speaking as a cat-lover, I feel an instinctive sympathy with the composer depicted on the front cover of the Interludes fondly embracing his cat. Illogical? Well, yes; I think this music has got to me after all.”
—Roger Blackburn, Music Web International
“Gary Noland, a composer, and pianist with an impressive academic pedigree (including a Ph.D. from Harvard) and extensive performing experience, here presents an album of solo piano compositions, or ‘interludes.’ Actually, some of these pieces seem in no way transitory; instead, they present extended musical dialogues that call upon a host of musical styles and require the considerable technical facility to perform. Noland, a fleet-fingered, ebullient performer, is more than up to the task. Pastiche pieces like ‘Mumbo Gumbo’ and ‘Expresso Wagon’ evoke all manner of Romantic-era classical piano figurations; they gently lampoon some of the genre’s conventions, but always remain bright, witty, and engaging. ‘The Temptation of Saint Floyd’ also channels Romanticism, particularly the Strassman sort, demonstrating a more reflective demeanor and adding a dollop of schmaltz to the proceedings. ‘Push Button Fingers’ is prevailingly modern in construction, with syncopated rhythms and sprightly, angular runs creating a far more contemporary sound world. Noland’s work may be eclectic—sometimes even a bit goofy—but Interludes is cleverly constructed and consistently well performed.”
July 2002: “Gary Noland: Selected Music from VENGE ART.” Duration: 75 minutes. Cellist Hamilton Heifetz and pianist Victor Steinhardt playing “Fantasy in E Minor” for cello & piano (Op. 24), pianist Randall Hodgkinson playing “Humoresque” for piano (Op. 3) and the “Russell Street Rag” (Op. 5), Gary Noland performing three segments of “P*run*Music” (Op. 48), Violist Katherine Murdock and pianist Randall Hodgkinson playing “Romance” for viola & piano (Op. 10), a computer-driven Disklavier performance of “Grande Rag Brillante” (Op. 15), The Onyx String Quartet playing “American Bozo Dance” (Op. 32, No. 8), and Guy Tyler conducting “Septet” (Op. 43) with clarinetist Carol Robe, alto saxophonist Tom Bergeron, French hornist Ellen Campbell, violinists Tawana Nagahara and Anthony Dyer, double-bassist Forrest Moyer, and pianist Art Maddox. Released by North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 012). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
“Mr. Noland writes as a ‘time traveler’ in styles long abandoned by most composers as well as styles so new as to not have been imagined but by him. This he accomplishes naturally, convincingly, with originality and true passion. His command of all musical languages and his ability to traverse musical time is nothing less than remarkable. Listen!”
—Donald Martino, Pulitzer Prize-winning composer
“Composer Gary Noland is possessed of a rich musical imagination, whose technique distills the achievements of Roger, Strauss, and Schoenberg but also refracts their post-romantic/expressionist tendencies through the lens of twenty-first-century post-modernism, American style. Moreover, he fits Stravinsky’s definition of a great composer: one who doesn’t merely steal but knows what to steal. This Noland does with wit and aplomb unique to the music of our time.”
—Ira Braes, pianist, musicologist, Professor of Music, The Hart School
“Gary Noland’s Venge Art is more than just a collection of music.…inspiring. He walks with assurance through the treacherous landscape of late tonality and early post-tonality (e.g., Strauss).…a gifted composer.”
May 2000: “Player less Pianos: Virtual Music for Pianos Virtual and Otherwise.” Seventh Species Composers Series Debut Recording, Limited Collector’s Edition (NPM LCE 007—North Pacific Music). A compilation recording of works by various composers. Includes Gary Noland’s “Grande Rag Brillante” (Op. 15), which was recorded on August 19, 1998, on a Disklavier at SPARK Studios in Emeryville. music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
Original Compositions by Gary Noland music CDs
1996: “Passion.” A compilation recording of works by composers Gary Noland, George Rothberg, Georges Enescu, Greg Steinke, and Jackie T. Gabel performed by violist Rozanne Weinberger and pianist Evelyne Lust. Includes Noland’s “Romance” for viola & piano (Op. 10). (NPM LD 003—North Pacific Music). Recorded September 1994 at MET Studio Ball State University, Muncie, Indiana. In Schwann Catalog. music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
Soprano HSIN YI LIN and pianist ASYA GULUA perform my setting of ALEXANDER THEROUX’S poem PRAYER OF A FAT MAN, Op. 104 (2019).
Acclaimed novelist/poet/essayist Alexander Theroux gave the composer permission to set as many of his poems as he wishes from his Collected Poems (published by Fantagraphics in 2015). Noland originally scheduled a recital of a number of these songs to be performed by soprano Hsin Yi Lin and pianist Asya Gulua on April 11th, 2020 at Classic Pianos in …
ALL FOOD IS POISON performed by The Pimpleton Procrasturbation Ensemble.
SOUNDCLOUD.COM
ALL FOOD IS POISON
The PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE performs ALL FOOD IS POISON by GARY LLOYD NOLAND. For more information on the composer, please visit his website at: garynolandcomposer.com
Jake Aller Hi Jake, I sent you some links last night in FB. I got an email message from you with a warning that it might be fake. It looked legit but nowadays I have to be absolutely certain that it is. Anyway, once again, here are the two links I sent…
Hi Jake, I just put this new album together (seven pieces comprising my Op. 152: DREAD MEETS DESIRE) which can be accessed at the following link: https://soundcloud.com/…/dread-meets-desire-op-152-nos. I can give you more, but I think th…
My TAINTED FORGETERIES, Op. 132, No. 9, performed by The Pimpleton Procrasturbation Ensemble.
https://youtu.be/qob63I6b2GQ?feature=shared I am pleased to present this performance by pianist Myrna Setiawan of the West Coast premiere of my Burlesque for piano, Op. 1, No. 20 (which I myself premiered over forty years ago at the Boston Conservatory). Myrna has a perfect understanding of the piece, as if she had composed it herself. This performance took place at the home of Sylvia Gray and Viktors Berstis at a soirrée hosted by the two of them in Portland’s Sellwood neighborhood on November 18th, 2023. Brava to Myrna—one of Oregon’s most extraordinary pianists!
Soprano Hayley Boggs and pianist Victor Hugo Morales perform my setting of Heinrich Heine’s poem “Aus Meinen Tränen Sprießen” from my FOUR HEINE LIEDER, Op. 19, No. 1.
This is the third time I have entered the Writer’s Digest annual chapbook challenge. The challenge was to write one poem per day in November then select the best 20 for the chapbook contest. Here are my poems.
Index
November 1 Declaration Poem
Favorite Childhood Object
Problem Solvers Problems
Mike Johnson Ain’t No Christian, Jack
Dreams Of a Better World Problems
49-Year Love Story
Barbados Calling Me
Hometown Calling Me
Gun Ghosts Speak Up
Saga of Big Daddy
Attack of Neighbor Bob Terrorist
Back in the Old Days, Trump Would Never Have President
Big Daddy, aka Sam Adams
was the man
who always had a plan.
He was an ex-University of Arkansas
and Dallas Cowboy player
who had worked for the CIA?
The agency fired him
for murdering enemies of the state
at home in contravention of agency rules,
but they retained
his services from time to time.
He supplemented his CIA payments
And bar income from money laundering,
drug smuggling, human smuggling
and other assorted crimes, big and small.
Big Daddy had lots of enemies
Many people wanted him dead
Relatives of his many victims
Of the covert wars, he waged
On behalf of his nation.
He was hoping to stay out of trouble
But one day trouble found him.
He moved to Bangkok, Thailand
Where he opened the Cosmos Bar
With the assistance of his manager.
Kuhn Lek, and her uncle
The police chief and his cousin
The biggest drug kingpin
In the Northern Triangle.
The Cosmos Bar
Became world-famous
The spot to go to is Bangkok.
Located in Soi Cowboy
It was an after-hours club
Secretly owned by the Thai police,
One of the few places
They served alcohol 24/7.
It was filled with
Criminals, drug dealers, government agents
Journalists, prostitutes, pimps,
spies, counter-spies, sex tourists,
tourists, undercover cops,
and assorted other low-lives,
From all over the known world.
Had the best-looking woman
The best-looking travesties too,
The best beer, wine, and liquor list
In the city,
And the best burgers in town.
It looked like the Bar
In Star Wars
Filled with probable human life forms
And perhaps a space alien or two.
One day a mysterious Korean woman
Came into the bar asking for him
By his universal nickname
“Big Daddy”
Maria Lee was a Korean-American
Drop-dead gorgeous woman
Who was on the lam
from her rich Korean husband.
She had one question for Big Daddy.
“The word in the Korean community
is that you are a man
who knows how to launder money.
Can you launder 50 million dollars?”
“Hmm for a fee.”
“What’s the fee?”
“A night of wild sex with you.”
“Done, but only after the deed is done.”
She smiled sweetly.
He called his underworld contacts
and they laundered the 50 million dollars
and he gave her the bank receipt.
He had parked the money
in a Cayman Islands account.
That night
she honored her agreement with Big Daddy.
The next morning
while drinking his cup of coffee,
she revealed that she had poisoned him
because she did not want anyone to know
about the transaction
and her affair with Big Daddy.
She smiled,
“Thanks, Big Daddy,
I liked last night,
You are a real stud, Big Daddy,
Perhaps that is why you are called, ‘Big Daddy’
But hey it is nothing personal, Big Daddy.”
After all, it was just a business deal in the end.
And that was
how trouble found Big Daddy.
Attack of Neighbor Bob Terrorist
One day
A man fell.
A rabbit hole.
On his computer,
Lost in thought.
when an odd event occurs,
the event that led.
to his untimely death.
He did not hear.
The footsteps,
Of the white
Christian nationalist
Domestic terrorist next door.
Who took exception?
To Sam’s living there
As Sam was not white
And an atheist “libtard.”
And his neighbor
Was a white supremacist.
Christian Nationalist.
His neighbor Bob.
Came at Sam with a chainsaw.
And struck him in the heart.
Killing him instantly.
Then using a torch
To burn the body.
Before using dynamite
To blow up the house
Despite the rain clouds
Outside.
All streamed live.
On his wifi.
trump jpg
Back in the Old Days, Trump Would Never Have President
Back in the old days
when political decisions
were made by insiders.
White men of power
who gathered.
in the proverbial
smoke-filled rooms.
smoking menthol cigarettes
and cigars
drinking whiskey
martinis and beer
while enjoying a steak dinner
and plotting political plots
in such a world
Trump would not have been.
allowed to become President.
as the political elites
would not allow.
such a Buffon
from taking power
They would despise.
such a vulgar low-class
new money guy.
Lucky in love, unlucky in cards
There is an adage
That sums up my life so far
One can be lucky in love
But unlucky in cards
That sums it up nicely
I have been lucky in love
Met and married
The girl of my dreams
Dreamed of meeting her
For eight years
Then she came into my life
Became my wife
But I have never been
Lucky in cards
I mean I have played
Poker with friends
But always lost
Won a little bit of gambling
But usually lost more
Then I won
Eventually gave up
Just not fun anymore
As I lost the gambling fever
Yet to get a jackpot
But then I think
I hit the jackpot of love
And that has made
All the difference
President Trump on Vermin AI Poem
A leader of a nation, a speaker of lies.
A spreader of hatred, a divider of ties
A mocker of the weak, a lover of the strong
A builder of walls, a singer of wrong
A hater of the different, a scorner of the same
A caller of the vermin, a blamer of the blame
An ignorer of the facts, a denier of the truth
A creator of the chaos, a destroyer of the youth
A loser of the election, a claimer of the fraud
A refuser of the concession, a violator of the law
An inciter of the violence, a fomenter of the storm
I next encountered the divine
Many years later in Berkeley, California
I had gone home to be with my Mother
While taking leave from my job
in the Foreign Service
I had two weeks there by myself
My wife came later
near the end of the trip
Every morning I woke up
Had my coffee, and breakfast
Did yoga while listening to music
And looking out at the garden
Then spoke to my mother
Who was sliding into dementia?
Day by day losing her reason
Then I would go out
And explore the city
Go to a museum
Go to one neighborhood
And just be there
Rediscovering the Bay area
After years of being away
Having dinner with old friends
Seeing movies etc
Every morning a black cat came to visit
The cat was friendly and waited for me
And then would join me in my morning rambles
Following me to the bus stop
I started talking to the black cat
He looked at me with a spark of divinity
In his dark eyes
I called him the cosmic cat
He seemed to like that
He would look at me
And I opened up to me
Told the cat all my dark secrets
As I walked the streets
Of the old neighborhood
Every morning and every evening the cat
Would be there to greet me
And to carry out our endless conversation
Then I had to leave
And in our final conversation
I asked the cosmic cat
Say, Cat are you just a cat
Or are you a demonic cat
Are you possessed by God?
Or by Satan
The cat looked at me
And I realized that God
Was indeed residing in the cat
But that god was residing everywhere
All I had to do was open my mind
And the rest would follow
So I said Goodbye to the cosmic cat
And he purred and came up to me
And I felt the comforting presence
Of the divine spirit of God
As I said goodbye to the cosmic cat
And said goodbye to my mother
As this was the last time
That we would be able to talk
I told my mother about the cosmic cat
She smiled and said that the cat
was there for me and her
to comfort us both in our hour of need
and that the cat was indeed
a cosmic cat
Carrying the light
We must carry the light
It is not so bright
Embracing the light with my wife
Still the center of my life
We both fear the dark
Nothing more to avoid strife.
Carrying the light
until the end of time
chasing away
the darkness that haunts.
my soul.
Presidential Election Cycle
The U.S. Presidential election cycle
Is a long-drawn-out affair.
Starts the day after the last election.
And ends a month after the votes.
Have been certified,
and the winner is determined.
As usual
Twenty candidates are announced.
For the election cycle
A year or so before
The actual vote.
The most important part
The donors chose.
Which candidates will get?
Their money and support
In the so-called invisible primary.
By January of an election year
Five to six serious contenders
Have emerged.
Battling it out nightly on the news
As the pundits weigh in
And voters begin to choose.
on multiple Super Tuesdays.
The candidates race across.
The land
Offering their vision,
Their hopes and fears.
As the public begins
To wake up
And start to choose.
The game is on foot.
with almost weekly debates
where the candidates
try not to make fools.
of themselves.
It continues until the summer.
When the conventions nominate
Someone as the standard bearer.
The losers concede.
But the intra-party feuding
Does not end.
In the end
There will be one person.
Left standing.
At the end of the roughest
Most competitive race
In the world.
That determines.
The fate of nations.
Voters in the end
Making the final call
As the presidential election season
Comes to a final decision point.
Berkeley Time Travels
I grew up in Berkeley, California
In the turbulent fabled late ’60s
And in Berkeley in those days
Time seems to stand at a standstill.
On the corner of Dwight and Telegraph
Across from People’s Park
It seems to be always May 1969
With the man
Down the street
Oppressing the hippies
On the street
As they smoked their weed
Dodging the bored cops
Who looked the other way?
If they did not partake
And then I went to college
In the valley
As I drove into Stockton
I felt I was traveling again.
In time
Back to the fabled ’50s
Stockton was also.
Stuck in a time warp of sorts.
And as I left the Bay area.
And traveled the world.
I would come back.
To that corner
And just be there.
Stuck in May 1969
Again
Marveling at the changes
That had and had not occurred.
To the corner of the land
Forever stuck in time
And space
Last Night I could not
Get to sleep at all
Last night I could not
Sleep
As my mind wandered
Down dark rabbit holes
Of fevered imagination
At 0 dark hundred hours
The wild things came out
To play
Torturing me
Until the sunrise
Blasted them
Back into the dark
Corners of my mind.
And the nightmares
Faded away
With the dawning sun.
BIng AI Love Poem
Angela Lee, you are the light of my life.
You fill my days with joy and my nights with dreams.
You are the reason I smile and the reason I breathe.
I finally made it back to California after a three-year absence. Overall, not too bad. Expensive as hell, crowded, too many homeless people, too many druggies, too much crime. But it is not the dystopian hell hole portrayed on FOX News and the right-wing media.
Here are my reflections, along with some photos and some of my Bay Area-based stories and poems.
I was traveling with my wife, her brother, his wife, and their 12-year-old Korean niece. First time for my sister-in-law and niece to visit the Bay Area. We stayed at Travis AFB near Fairfield because the hotel costs were so high in the Bay Area.
Berkeley
Berkeley 1975 Street Scenes
Berkeley Time Travels
674 Santa Rosa My Childhood Home
Free Roaming in Berkeley as a Child
As you may know, I grew up almost 55 years ago in the Thousand Oaks Neighborhood of Berkeley. Solano Avenue was the local commercial street lined with restaurants and called Berkeley’s Chinatown because of all the Asian restaurants and Asian residents living there. It was also along with the hills, the “white republican sector” of town. Now there are almost no Republicans living in the city.
Berkeley has a lot of nice new housing, mostly high-rise apartments all over the place, who knows one of them could be mine in a few years. Solano Avenue had a lot of new restaurants to check out and lots of my favorite old ones are there.
Sad to see some of the Movie places closed, I think that there are only two movies left in Berkeley except for a Bollywood Indian movie theater in little Bombay.
For those of you who don’t know, Berkeley is so much more than Cal. There are ten official neighborhoods according to the Berkeley tourism office. Demographically the city has about 130k permanent residents, with an additional 30k when school is in session.
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Berkeley (/ˈbɜːrkli/ BURK-lee) is a city on the eastern shore of San Francisco Bay in northern Alameda County, California, United States. It is named after the 18th-century Anglo-Irish bishop and philosopher George Berkeley. It borders the cities of Oakland and Emeryville to the south the city of Albany and the unincorporated community of Kensington to the north. Its eastern border with Contra Costa County generally follows the ridge of the Berkeley Hills. The 2020 census recorded a population of 124,321.
Berkeley is home to the oldest campus in the University of California, the University of California, Berkeley, and the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory, which is managed and operated by the university. It also has the Graduate Theological Union, one of the largest religious studies institutions in the world. Berkeley is considered one of the most socially progressive cities in the United States.
The 2020 United States Census[90] reported that Berkeley had a population of 124,321. The population density was 11,874 people per square mile of land area (4,584/km2). The racial makeup of Berkeley was 62,450 (50.2%) White, 9,495 (7.6%) Black or African American, 24,701 (19.9%) Asian, 253 (0.2%) Pacific Islander, 226 (0.2%) from Native American, 1,109 (0.9%) from other races, and 9,069 (7.2%) multiracial (two or more races). There were 17,018 (13.7%) of Hispanic or Latino ancestry, of any race.
The neighborhoods are.
The Hills
The hills are mostly white and wealthy. Many people commute to SF or are affiliated with the University. At the top of the hills is Grizzly Peak BLD which features the best views of the entire East Bay. Behind the hills lie Tilden Park, Wildlife Canyon, and Inspiration Point. Favorite haunts of my growing up.
Tilden Regional Park is a regional park in the East Bay of California. It is between the Berkeley Hills and San Pablo Ridge.
Thousand Oaks/Solano
Thousand Oaks neighborhood, where I grew up, lies at the bottom of the hills, and is centered on Solano Avenue which is lined with restaurants and shops. It blends into Albany which was a white working-class enclave back in the day. It was known as Berkeley’s Chinatown due to the numerous Asian restaurants in the area, which are still there. I went to Thousand Oaks Elementary where Kamala Harris went a few years after I went there. The movie theater unfortunately closed.
North Berkeley
Has several sub-neighborhoods and has a BART station. It is also the location of King Middle School where I went as a teenager. There are several small restaurants and businesses throughout the neighborhood. Along Shattuck, the main street is Berkeley’s Gourmet Ghetto and the home of the original Peets Coffee – the best coffee shop in Berkeley and where the premium coffee revolution started in the late 50s.
Downtown
Downtown has been transformed with lots of high-rise apartments and a thriving Arts District. Sadly, the five movie theaters have all closed, leaving the Pacific Film Institute the only theater in town. There are a lot of restaurants and coffee shops downtown as well as office buildings. There are several rooftop terrace restaurants. We had dinner in the Study Room on top of the new Marriot. Great views, and decent though expensive food. We dropped $350 for seven people. Berkeley High School is located downtown as is the main public library. Downtown is a booming area filled with apartments, resturants and several live theathers including Berkeley Rep. It is also the site of the Berkeley Film Archives, the last movie theather in Berkeley, and the Berkeley Art Museum.
berkeley friends
Campus
the University Campus domiantes the city as is to be expected. there are three student districts near the campus known as Northside, Southside and College Avenue. Each features resturants, shopping and housing for student, faculty and staff. The northside is also called seminary hill because of all the religious seminaries there – Buddhist, Christian and now a Muslim seminary as well.
.The campus is huge and spreads out from downtown to the hills but most of the campus is the center of the campus a short block away from Telegraph on the South and Hearst on the North. Despite the banning of affirmative action, CAL has done a good job – lots of Asian students, international studies, some Hispanic and some blacks, and less than 50 percent white.
Lots of activities on Campus, music, and free lectures open to the public. About half the students live on or near Campus but housing students faculty and staff is a huge problem for the University community. Just west of the Campus is the new home of the Berkeley Art Museum and The Pacific Film Institute which screens classic, art, and international movies every night
“Gorgeous sunset from UC Berkeley!”
Telegraph Avenue runs south from the Campus and into Oakland. It is lined with services for students, and lots of restaurants. Lots of apartments nearby. Used to have a lot of independent bookstores, but a few are still there.
Dwight Street and Telegraph seems stuck in 1969. People’s Park is being torn down to be turned into more student housing although they are going to keep a small park there. Right now, it is a homeless encampment and has been an eyesore for years.
South Berkeley
South Berkeley lies between Telegraph, Shattuck, and Sacramento along Ashby Avenue where there is BART station. It also has lots of restaurants and places to go. Back in the day, it was also the unofficial heart of Black Berkeley as Berkeley was 40 percent black, now it is about 6 percent black due to the high cost of real estate in Berkeley where the medium price of a house is over a million and the average rent is over $2,500 per month.
College Avenue Elmwood Rockridge
College Aveue is just west of Telegraph and is lined with residential housing, including the fraternities and sororities. It also has the International House which is a dormitory for foreign students. Elwood is a residential shopping district as is Claremont and Rockrige which is just across the border in Oakland and borders on Piedmont, a traditional wealthy enclave independent of Oakland.
Elmwood is on College Avenue and is similar to Solano Avenue but a bit smaller. Nearby is the Claremont Hotel and neighborhood one of the wealthiest enclaves in Berkeley.
Gilman Street
Gilman is in northwest Berkeley and was a working-class enclave -still is to a certain extent. Nice neighborhood eateries, and live music spaces
Albany
Albany is a suburban neighborhood just west of Berkeley between El Cerito and Gilman district centered on Solano and San Pablo Avenues. It use to be mostly white working class, but is not close to 50 Asian American.
Lorin and North Oakland including Korean Town
To the west of South Berkeley is the Lorin neighborhood which is an up-and-coming neighborhood. To the south is North Oakland including the second-largest Korean town on the West Coast after LA.
This was the traditional heart of Black Berkeley. There are still a lot of blacks living in Berkeley but due to the high rent and housing costs, the city is only seven percent black, when I was a young lad, it was 40 percent black and Oakland was 60 percent black.
West Berkely/Marina
West Berkeley has been gentrified beyond recognition. Back in the day, it was 90 percent black. I spent my first few years there as that was the only neighborhood a junior Cal professor could afford. It is no longer mostly black and is a hipster neighborhood. Lots of brew pubs in the area. Lots of students live here too.
The marina is on the bay. The bay trail runs through the neighborhood. There are restaurants on the bay and the dock of the Bay which is the site of the famous song.
SItting on the Dock of the Bay
the dock of the bay
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Sittin’ in the morning sun
I’ll be sittin’ when the evening comes
Watching the ships roll in
Then I watch ’em roll away again, yeah
I’m sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Watchin’ the tide roll away, ooh
I’m just sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time
I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the Frisco Bay
‘Cause I’ve had nothing to live for
And look like nothing’s gonna come my way
So, I’m just gon’ sit on the dock of the bay
Watchin’ the tide roll away, ooh
I’m sittin’ on the dock of a bay
Wastin’ time
Looks like nothing’s gonna change
Everything still remains the same
I can’t do what ten people tell me to do
So I guess I’ll remain the same, listen
Sittin’ here resting my bones
And this loneliness won’t leave me alone
2,000 miles I roam
Just to make this dock my home, now
I’m just gon’ sit at the dock of a bay
Watchin’ the tide roll away, ooh
Sittin’ on the dock of the bay
Wastin’ time
Nearby are Albany, El Cerrito, Oakland, Richmond, and Emeryville. I heard good things about Alameda but did not have time to visit.
Berkeley poems
How Berkeley Can You Be?
Berkeley is what it is,
and sometimes
Berkeley is what it ain’t.
tell me.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Tell me
tell me.
if you think you know
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
How Berkeley can you be?
Berkeley is everything.
Berkeley is the center.
of the universe
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
and Berkeley
in Berkeley.
and you are Berkeley.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
You have a Berkeley thing going on.
You have Berkeley in your soul.
Berkeley has taken over your soul,
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
And you are Berkeley.
Born and raised.
Berkeley until you die, dude.
Berkeley until you die, dude.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is more than just the students.
Berkeley is more than that.
As you know
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is more than just weed and beer.
Which is all you need?
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is more.
That is the best food.
In the universe
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is more than the best coffee.
In the world
Peet’s coffee of course
Nothing else will do.
If you are true, Berkeley.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is more.
That Cal Football
Which rules?
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is Asian
Berkeley is Gay
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is white.
Berkeley is black.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is brown.
Berkeley is Jewish
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is free-thinking.
Berkeley hate
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is free to love.
Berkeley is rock and roll.
Until you die
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley if Funk
Berkeley is Hip Hop
Berkeley is hipness itself.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Berkeley is all of that.
And so much more.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
let your inner Berkeley out.
feel the Berkeley Freak come out.
how Berkeley can you be.
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Join the Berzerkly Vibe
Feel the Berkeley in your soul.
How Berkeley can you be?
Can you be in Berkeley,
Until you die?
How Berkeley can you be,
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Long live Berkeley
The best city
In the universe.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
And it is your city.
Your responsibility
To be as Berkeley
As you wanna be.
Until the day you die.
How Berkeley can you be?
How Berkeley do you wanna be?
Hark, I Hear the Spirits of Berkeley Calling Me Home. Berkeley
Long Version
Hark,
I hear the spirits.
Of Berkeley
Call me home.
The more I roam in this world.
The more I am drawn.
Back to the land
From whence I came.
Berkeley, California
Is what it is?
And sometimes
It is what it ain’t.
Berkely is a “how Berkeley, can you be vibe” town,
Home to CAL with 40,000 students who flood into the city nine months of the year, University professors, staff, and students,
Yet Berkeley is so much more the ultimate college town.
It is delicious food is everywhere around the corner sort of town, An artisanal craft beer, and spirits, coffee, herbal tea, Kombucha, and wine-drinking city, where coca-cola is seldom served, gourmet ghetto, inventor of the new American cuisine revolution, home of Chez Panisse, the French Laundry, and so many other restaurants, a place where you can find every cuisine of the world at a most affordable price, a town where there are more restaurants per capita than anywhere else, where if you wanted to eat dinner at a different restaurant every day it would take you years to do so, with new places opening and closing every day.
an anti-big box store vibe, yet with a lively small business sector, more restaurants and coffee shops per capita than almost anywhere else, lots of upscale groceries, used have a large Co-op (my father was the President), and ethnic foods markets, organic food markets, Berkeley Bowl market, farmers markets, plus usual corporate chain food stores.
MOES book rules, where Howl was written, where the Beatnik writers and culture types used to hang out, and their spiritual descendants still do.
Philip K Dicks hometown, (Philip K dick dated my mom before she met my father, end personal disclosures) Thornton Wilder and so many other great writers back in the day and here and now, Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg lived and loved there,
Craft beer paradise, the hometown of Peets coffee, still the best damn coffee even though they have gone corporate, the coffee revolution of the late 50s and 60’s started here in the Coffee mecca of the United States, where Café Med proudly proclaimed to one and all.
‘We Don’t Serve Establishment Coffee,
They invented the American version of the Latte” It seems there are more coffee shops in Berkeley per capita than almost anywhere else in the country,
Berkeley is also the home of vibrant tea, smoothies, artisanal spirits, craft beer, and wine culture with urban wineries and brew pubs everywhere.
a gluten-friendly city with the best GF pizza in the world the Berkeley Cheese Collective, a foodies delight,
a diverse although less day by day as it is now a very expensive city,
a very ethnic town, used to have the largest Finnish community in the U.S, lots of Russians and Eastern Europeans back in the day, a city with people, from all over the known world, where 250 different languages are spoken at home, an African-American town, used to be a very black town, 40 percent back in the 70’s now perhaps twenty percent, a middle-class suburb of Oakland back in the day, but with a black lower class, working class, who are still hanging on somehow, but still a lot of my African Americans brothers and sisters hanging on despite the high rents and housing costs, many properties rich but cash poor, joined by so many African immigrants and Caribbean African immigrants as well, an Asian American city, home of a vibrant Chinese-American community, Korean-American, Hispanic City, Ohlone Tribal city, Native Americans from all different tribes still around the city, Japanese-American, Indian-American city, an Iranian diaspora, and now Afghani diaspora as well,
French people, European people, Jewish people, but no Jewish space Lazers yet, Indian American little Mumbai community where you can get the latest Bollywood movies, food, and Indian political gossip,
an artistic city, a creative city, a Great art Museum at CAL, home of the Pacific Film Archives a real treasure for movie lovers, with more movie theaters per capita than anywhere else,
, same for bookstores, music stores,
Rock n Roll fantasy world,
A Motown-friendly city,
A funk lovers paradise
A Blues lover mecca
And there are even country fans.
a musical city -hometown to the Earthquake, Green Day, Jimmi Hendrix’s last high school, Smoke and Fog,
New flash for Tju Dave – hey dude, I loved your song, you ain’t Berkeley enough” just want to say I represent that remark, but I represent Berkeley worldwide dude and I am still as Berkeley as I wanna be, anywhere in the world, dude, end news flash.
the Psychotic Pineapple, Rubinoos, and so many others.
Tower of Power “East Bay Grease sort of town,
A Berkeley High School rocks place, (personal disclosures I was the BHS student body president in 1973-1974),
the home of the song, “Sitting by the Dock of the Bay,”
An anti-establishment sort of city yet filled with students studying to be part of that despised establishment, all vowing to change the world but the world always changes them into yet more high-price corporate drones.
with zany wacked-out politics, a city at times lost in 1969, or lost in the future, A city where being called a “conservative “is considered a vile insult,
a very progressive city, probably the most progressive city in the country, which in my opinion is a good thing, not something to be ashamed of,
a PC is a cool city that invented PC before it became a curse word of sorts, a city where there are real live Marxists, communists, and socialists but no one takes them seriously, and there are a few proto-fascist political science professors as well,
the spiritual home of the beatniks, the hippies, the yippies, and sadly the weathermen
the city that gave us “the Symbionese Liberation Army,” kidnapper of Patty Hearst,
(personal disclosure: the SLA briefly terrorized the Bay Area, and my family during the 70s calling my father “a fascist insect that preys on the life of the people, his offense = demanding that students and staff at the Peralta College be required to wear ID’s to combat a rise in violent crime on the campuses, my father not having a sense of humor did not like my joke when one morning I said,
“Good morning fascist Insect how are you today?” My mother loved it and spoke.
“Yeah, he is a fascist insect but he is our fascist insect” and laughed. My father merely glared at the two of us. End Personal disclosure)
a Political city up the Yazoo town, a one-party town but with two rival political factions, republicans and there are some of them in town, feel like they are an endangered species, (another personal disclosure, my Dad was Curtis Cosmos Aller, the President of the Berkeley Co-op from 1968 to 1985 when he died, the President of the Peralta board of Colleges, who ran for Congress in 1974 in the Democratic primary against the legendary Ron Dellums, end personal disclosure) very few Q nuts but I am sure there are some, just as there are no doubt people who believe in the lizard shapeshifter conspiracy,
(Personal note: I am a human being but once I took an online quiz to determine whether I could be part alien and the quiz said I was an alien, go figure)
A very anti-Q town, pro-science, rational type of town, filled with humanists and secular humanist types,
A hate bigotry town. Where Ann Coulter and her fellow right-wing followers are not welcome,
a town that proudly voted against Trump – 90 percent in 2016 and 2020) proud center of the “resistance” home of Antifa, BLM rules, the birthplace of the black panthers who met at the first African American high school history class in the US in the early 60s, at BHS of course, and home of the Gray Panthers, a city whose representative in Congress. Representative Barbara Lee, was the only representative to vote against the Iraq war in 2003, noting that Iraq had nothing to do with 9-11, to the rest of the country she was a dangerous left-wing radical, to the Bay Area, and me, a real American Patriotic hero.
a very marijuana-friendly city where the joke has always been pulling out a joint and it cool, pulling out a cigarette and everyone wants to send you to jail, smoking cigarettes being so uncool nowadays,
at times, a very joyful city but not enough joy due to the political disputes and anger as people in Berkeley are very into political discussions and are news junkies,
A very frank town where everyone has an opinion and is not afraid to speak up,
bike friendly, environmentally friendly city, a recycling mecca, renewable energy, friendly, where the university engineers are working to solve the world.
s energy problems and coming up with solutions to the climate change crisis, solar panels everywhere, transit-friendly, zip car friendly, uber/lift friendly, BART friendly, walkable sort of town.
at times hot city, living with the constant fear of the mega drought, fires and the big one, atmospheric rivers, polar vortexes, and another global warming phenomenon as climate change becomes nightmarishly real, but most days the same, foggy cool mornings, nice pleasant in the 70s afternoons, then more fog dipping into high 40s by midnight, used to be no rain between April and October just the cool morning fog, but nowadays with climate change, we get rain even in the summer, and they joke there are two seasons now in California the rainy season October to March and fire season April to October, all due to the non-existent climate change hoax,
To the rest of the world, a very “Berserkly place”
a Buddhist-friendly city, including a Buddhist Zen Center, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean Buddhist temples a Buddhist Seminary, A Tai-Chi mecca, A centric, very zen attitude sort of town,
a liberal Christian city where fundamentalists are not welcomed, where atheists, free thinkers, liberal Muslims, liberal Hindus, new age types, and Wiccans are welcomed, home of several liberal Christian seminaries, a Buddhist seminary, and now a Muslim seminary all located on Seminary Hill)
A city where making fun of the street preachers is a fun game for the militant atheists of the city (personal disclosures that were me back in the day, I loved to heckle Holly Hubert joined at times by my old friend Julia Vinograd, the bubble lady who used to blow bubbles at Holly Herbert as he ranted about how we would all go to hell for our heathen ways, Holly Hubert is long gone by now as that was almost 45 years ago)
a crazy city. a cool city, and at times a cold city,
filled with the scent of good craziness, and sometimes very bad craziness as sometimes on a bad night things can go bad if you are in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people, or are the victim of a drug deal gone bad when the guns come out to play to settle disputes, or knives are drawn and people get very crazy or are just unlucky to be caught up in the crossfire, or on a bad trip on bad drugs, just too many damn drugs and too many people whose minds were fried by the same damn drugs, in short Berkeley does have a dark side to it,
a city of big dreamers, a fast-paced city,
but for the most part, it is a friendly town, but not too friendly, A freaky place filled with freakazoids, A funky vibe, a funny town all around,
and you can have fun there as well as get lucky and meet the woman or man of your dreams, as there are lots of young single men and women looking for Mr. Good, or Ms. Good as the case may be,
An Oakland A, and SF giants town, forty-niners (although some hate them for moving to San Jose, the Northern California clone of LA. And Golden States warriors but everyone now hates the Las Vegas Raiders, as much every person born in Berkeley must hate LA, sort of part of Berkeley and the Northern Californian DNA to be hating on LA, the LA Dodgers, and now the Las Vegas Raiders.,
A live and let live z tude, A loony tunes place, A happy go lucky sort of vibe city,
“Hella Berkeley “city, A historical city, A Hippie town back in the day, A hip hop center, A hip city where everyone knows what hip is but can say what it is, what is hip, yal? Do you know? Hipness, like Berkeley, is what it is and sometimes is what is not,
too many homeless people living on the streets city, panhandling, and becoming a nuisance, getting into everyone’s face, destroying everyone’s mellow, lonely at times city where many people have thousands of virtual friends but few real friends.
very LGBTQ-friendly, a feminist city, a very pro-choice town,
An only in Berkeley kind of vibe,
a city where people still read a lot, where newspapers have not died but are mostly read online,
home of a rich alternative press history, although sadly most have gone by the wayside, I remember the Berkeley Barb, the Berkeley Gazette, the SF Chronicle, the Bay Guardian, the East Bay Express, the Berkeley Voice, the great underground comics like Fritz the Cat, reading online Berkeley news outlets just not the same thing at all. And BHS used to have a daily newspaper, now a weekly paper although the CAL daily is still mostly read online.
A very sad town, a special city, A city that would welcome space aliens who might already be there, an OMG place,
a rainy blues sort of day place.,
Robots are a cool city where new robots are being developed every day, a city where people are building the singularity not fearing it,
A Mask Up follows the science town badly hit by the COVID pandemic, particularly the small business that took it on the chin,
the birth of NaNoWriMo, the November Write a Novel in a Month contest, (personal disclosure -I completed three of these)
A poet-friendly place where people get poetry,
rents are insane, housing prices too, the only people who can afford to buy are people with boatloads of money, and somehow there are lots of those types hanging out, and lots of people who don’t have money who somehow manage to get by, who can afford to live here? It takes serious piles of moolah, big piles of money, lots of cash, dollars up the yazoo, trust baby parents, or selling your soul to a start-up from hell, to be able to pay the rent or lots of roommates, yet people still flock to the city, how they can afford it is still a mystery to me.
a stand-up guy sort of city,
student-friendly, kind of a suburb of Oakland and SF, yet doing its own very Berkeley thing,
home of great city parks,
San Pablo Park (home
of the annual BHS alumnus picnic)
Indian Rock Peoples Park
Inspiration point,
Ho Chi Min Park in the 70s
the Rose Garden
Strawberry canyon,
Tilden Park,
Wildcat canyon
part of the Bay Area Ridge Trails and Bay Area Bay Trails which are almost complete, doing a thru-hike of both, the Appalachian, the cross-continental, and the PC trails are among my bucket list dreams,
too cool for school,
sometimes a traffic hell place, BART trains too crowded, pickpockets and other unsavory criminal types hanging out by the BART train stations, along with high school students, druggies,
a “west Coast Rap kingdom, wine drinkers paradise, the former home of the weathermen and other leftist domestic terrorists) a wonderful world for the young at heart, a unique city, a pro-vac place, vibrant, vegetarian, and vegan friendly, yet still offering enough meat options for the carnivores, and still the ultimate university town but as you can see by now, so much more than that, yoga is God kind of town where yoga is mandatory, Yuppie place, a zany city, a zestful town, and lately a zoom work by home town, Berkeley is all of that and so more in short. Berkely is a kind sort of place, unique in all the universe and it is my homeland,
But still, I am drawn.
And want to return.
Before my time is done,
As it remains
My spiritual homeland.
Berkeley Time Travels
I grew up in Berkeley, California
In the turbulent fabled late ’60s
And in Berkeley in those days
Time seems to stand at a standstill.
On the corner of Dwight and Telegraph
Across from People’s Park
It seems to be always May 1969
With the man
Down the street
Oppressing the hippies
On the street
As they smoked their weed
Dodging the bored cops
Who looked the other way?
If they did not partake
And then I went to college
In the valley
As I drove into Stockton
I felt I was traveling again.
In time
Back to the fabled ’50s
Stockton was also.
Stuck in a time warp of sorts.
And as I left the Bay area.
And traveled the world.
I would come back.
To that corner
And just be there.
Stuck in May 1969
Again
Marveling at the changes
That had and had not occurred.
To the corner of the land
Forever stuck in time
And space
San Francisco
We toured much of San Franciso and saw the Giants Lose at Oracle Park.
The neighborhoods are still vibrant but everything is too expensive.
We drove through South Beach, Mission District, Filmore, Haight-Ashbury, Castro District, Noe Valley, Presidio, Richmond, Sunset, North Beach, and Chinatown and walked through Union Square. Ran out of time to fully explore the city.
South Beach is a newly developed neighborhood west of downtown near Ball Park and the vibrant
Dogpatch neighborhood which was recently been officially rated the 17th coolest neighborhood in the world. An ethnically diverse community with and bohemian hipster feeling.
The Mission district is south of the ballpark and is the heart of San Francisco’s Hispanic district. Still mostly Hispanic but gentrifying.
The Filmore used to be the heart and soul of Black San Franciso. It has been heavily gentrified as has the adjacent Western addition but recently there has been a revival of the jazz scene in the area.
We walked through the famous counter-cultural neighborhood of Haight-Ashbury. It still has the 67 vibe and like Telegraph in Berkeley, it seems stuck in a time warp.
We drove through the Presidio which is now an urban national park based on the old Presidio military base which closed in the early 90s. I remember shopping at the commissary back in the day. Cristy Field is a
nice, restored beach.
We toured Fisherman’s Wharf and Piere 39. A bit of a tourist trap but still worth a visit, bought chocolate at Ghirardelli Square.
We also drove through Russian Hill and Nob Hill neighborhoods which are among the wealthiest in the city and saw the famous Lombard Street but did not drive down it.
We walked through Chinatown and North Beach. Chinatown has seen better days as has North Beach. Still work visiting and walking about.
Union Square was strangely deserted as many people felt that it was just too dangerous a place – there were homeless people everywhere in the city and there was a fear of crime. Everything is just so damn expensive.
We drove through the CIVIC center which was impressive from an architecture point of view. Did not see homeless people shooting up and defecating there despite the hysteria of Fox News.
We drove through the edges of the tenderloin. I think that the Tenderloin, the highest crime area in the city, is ripe for gentrification given its central location. We did see a lot of homeless people hanging about, but again no people shooting up or defecating on the street.
The sunset area is nice. We had a great Mexican dinner at Cecilia’s by the Beach which was not too bad. Ocean Blvd was great. The beach was great but a bit cold.
SF Time Travels
Visitng SF After Being Gone for Three Years
In the summer of 2023,
I found myself.
Back in San Franciso
My homeland.
Last visited pre-covid
2018
Touring the city
With my Korean -in Laws
We stopped in Haigh Ashbury
Took photos.
Wearing flowers
In our hair
Our video
Of our San Franciso adventures
Particularly our hiking
The seven hills
And having croissants
And coffee in North Beach
Became a surprise TikTok hit.
Note: grew up in Berkeley, visiting every other year since I left in 1979 Found San Franciso is still a fascinating city to visit, is not the dystopian nightmare that Fox News portrays, but too expensive, with too many homeless and too much street crime.
Use in your story or poem the following – bold these words for tomorrow’s judge:
after our tour of SF and Berkeley, we drove down to Standford and SIlicon Valley. We walked across the Campus and drove aroud Menlo Park saw the Google main Campus. Ran out of time to further explore San Jose and Santa Clara country which is the heart of Silicon Valley. Silcion Valley started near Standford as many of the engineers that started all the tech firms were Standford Computer science engineers including the founders of Google, Apple and HP. And Thomas Edison lived in Menlo Park where he came up with many of his revolutionary inventions in his labs located there.
Travis AFB/Fairfield/Vacaville
when I visit the Bay Area, we usually stay up at Travis Air Force Base in Fairfield CA which is about a 45-minute minutes drive from Berkeley in light traffic, and there is a CAL Trans train nearby as well.
It is a typical Air Force Base with a commissary, PX, hospitals, and all the conveniences and it is a lot cheaper staying there than staying in the central Bay Area.
This time around I was staying with my Korean In-laws, and we decided to check out the neighboring cities while we were there. We found that the base had a very nice military aviation museum so it’s worth a visit but non-military-affiliated people may have a hard time getting on base to see the museum.
replica of Fat Boy the H Bomb dropped on Hiroshima
The nearby towns of Dixon, Fairfield, and Vacaville are all worth a visit, as are the Delta towns nearby.
Factoid
California is the rice basket of the U.S., growing most of the U.S. rice in the vast San Joaquin-Sacramento River delta communities which are just southeast of Travis. And they are also the biggest sake producers in the world exporting raw Sakae back to Japan!
These little towns are worth a future visit.
They have lots of outlet malls nearby, the biggest shopping malls in the Northern California region., Vacaville has the Jelly Bean museum which was worth a visit as well as hosting a nice wine and vine festival when we were there.
There are wineries nearby and there are regional parks nearby with lots of hiking opportunities. Most of the year it’s not too hot except for the afternoons when they can get into the hundreds occasionally. It is not a bad place to be based for a visit to the San Francisco Bay area, especially if you can stay on base.
Dixon
My niece lives in Dixon which is about half an hour from Sacramento, and Travis and 45 minutes to the central Bay Area. While I did not get to see much of the city, it seemed to be a nice community with a cute downtown. Reminds me of Medford, Oregon where we were spending the summer.
for more info see the following Bing AI Chat info
Here are some of the top things to do near Travis Air Force Base: • Travis Air Force Base Heritage Center: A museum that highlights the history of Travis Air Force Base and the United States Air Force. It has a collection of aircraft, engines, and other artifacts that are sure to fascinate aviation enthusiasts 1.
• Jelly Belly Factory Tour: A fun and interactive tour of the Jelly Belly candy factory in Fairfield. You can learn about the history of the company, see how the candy is made, and even sample some of the flavors 1.
Note: worth a visit. loved it,
• Western Railway Museum: A museum that displays historic electric railway cars and other artifacts from the early 20th century. You can take a ride on one of the restored streetcars and learn about the history of electric transportation 1.
• Lagoon Valley/Pena Adobe Regional Park: A beautiful park with hiking trails, picnic areas, and a lake. You can enjoy a leisurely hike, have a picnic, or go fishing 1.
• Brenden Vacaville 16: A movie theater that shows the latest Hollywood releases. It has comfortable seating, a large screen, and excellent sound quality 1.
• Wooden Valley Winery: A winery that produces a variety of wines, including Cabernet Sauvignon, Chardonnay, and Merlot. You can take a tour of the winery, taste some of the wines, and enjoy the
beautiful scenery 1.
• Suisun City Marina and Boat Ramp: A marina that offers boat rentals, fishing charters, and other water
activities. You can rent a boat and explore the Delta, go fishing, or just enjoy the scenic views 1.
• Vezer Family Vineyard: A family-owned winery that produces award-winning wines. You can take a tour of the vineyard, taste some of the wines, and enjoy the beautiful surroundings 2.
• Rockville Hills Regional Park: A park with hiking trails, picnic areas, and scenic views. You can enjoy a leisurely hike, have a picnic, or just relax and take in the scenery 3.
• Scandia Family Center: An amusement park with mini-golf, batting cages, bumper boats, and other attractions. It’s a great place to spend a fun-filled day with family and friends 2.
• Sonoma Harvest Olive Oil & Winery: A winery that produces high-quality olive oil and wine. You can take a tour of the winery, taste some of the products, and learn about the production process 2.
Thanks to all who have been sending me birthday greetings. I deeply appreciate all of you, all around the world who have blessed my life with your friendship over the years. I will respond individually as well but just wanted to do this shout-out to my friends! On my birthday, I am always in a reflective mood and do my Nir’s early and revise them again on January 1. One thing I want to do starting now and next year is to blog weekly and add FB reels and YouTube video blogging as well as my podcasting and my daily writing as I still have a lot to say and think about and it is not too late for me to say what I want to say. Another thing I want to do is take a lot of mini-trips, day trips, and other trips while I still can and I want to spend about four months in the States next summer. And hope to see many of you via Zoom meetups or in person during the next year. Keep in touch.
Jake
Following are some of my birthday poems, a few birthday tribute poems from friends, Bing’s Ai astrological charts (Chinese, Vedic, and Western systems) for my birthday – October 30, 1955 – and a list of things that happened that date.
Ps here is a birthday tribute from my fan story friend, Debbie Pink Marquette.
A diplomatic birthday
Jake Cosmos Aller
Was born in California and graduated in DC.
His grad college was Washington University.
He’s traveled to all fifty states and then fifty countries.
That’s when he would decide to spend more time across the seas.
He met her and then six weeks later, she became his wife.
Been married for forty years, and she is the best part of his life.
He has some siblings but the ones who are dear to his heart.
His wife’s brother and family have been close from the start.
He served as a foreign diplomat for twenty-seven years.
Retired from the State Department, then goodbye to peers.
His life has been impressive; what he’s seen, achieved, and done.
Other interesting facts about Jake Cosmos Aller:
Retired U.S. diplomat (State Department) living in South Korea. Served 27 years in 10 countries. Traveled to 55 countries, all 50 states. Grew up in berkeley, California. Married, no children. A published poet and short story writer. Finished six novels, in search of a publisher. Former Peace Corps volunteer, Korea. Speaks Korean, Spanish, and Thai.
A few more birthday-themed poems:
Closing time
On hearing the news
Of a friend’s passing,
I was overwhelmed.
With grief and sadness.
And I realized that my time.
On this mortal plane
Is also coming.
To the end game.
Closing time
The final act of this cosmic play.
The grim reaper
Has my number.
Someday
He will come for me.
And the love of my life,
My lovely wife.
And my family,
Friends, and enemies,
Far-flung throughout
The whole world.
In the long run,
We can’t escape.
Our grim fate,
We end up in the same place.
When the Grim Reaper
Knocks at our door,
Are we ready for that?
Perhaps not.
But each day
We have left.
On another day,
We can celebrate.
That we are alive,
Having survived another year,
And cheated death’s grim embrace.
Every day staying is a blessing.
We are but one step closer to the grave.
The end will come.
When your time
Comes to an end,
But not today.
So, rejoice, my friends.
Live your remaining moments.
Filled with friendship,
Love, laughter, and joy.
Bing AI’s Birthday Poem for Jake Cosmos Aller
I asked Bing Ai Chat to write a beatnik-style poem as a birthday tribute to Jake Cosmos Aller.
Here is a beatnik-style birthday tribute poem about Jake Cosmos Aller, inspired by the web search results:
Happy birthday, Jake Cosmos Aller!
You are a poet, a traveler, and a scholar.
You have seen the world with your own eyes.
You have lived and loved in many skies.
You are a beatnik, a rebel, a seeker.
You are not afraid to be different or unique.
You march to the beat of your drum.
You are one of a kind; you are second to none!
So, here’s to you on your special day!
May it be filled with love and joy all the way!
May you continue to inspire us with your words!
May you continue to be one of life’s great adventurers!
and my friend asked Google’s Bard to weigh in:
Jake Cosmos Aller, friend so dear, your spirit bright, your mind so clear.
A poet, novelist, and diplomat, your wisdom vast, your heart so great
. From berkeley to the world you’ve roamed,
in search of truth, in search of a home.
Your words inspire, your thoughts provoke,
your friendship’s gift, a precious token.
In foreign lands, you served with pride, a bridge between cultures, side by side. Your insights are deep, your empathy true, a friend to all, forever true.
Now retired, your pen still flows, and your creativity still glows.
Your poems sing, your stories dance, your spirit soars, a cosmic trance.
Jake Cosmos Aller, friend so dear, your friendship’s gift, I hold so nearby.
May your journey be filled with light, and may your stars shine bright forever.
Another Bard Poem – This one is a limerick.
“There once was a poet named Jake,
Whose poems were fake and quite flaccid. His verses are so lame, Were barely acclaimed, And his readers would often say “Yuck!””
Blues for 61 birthdays
I woke up feeling blue,
Feeling sad and alone,
Feeling the weight of 61 years on this earth.
Been there. Done that. Seen that.
Bored with the routine.
Wanting so much more,
Yet oddly satisfied with all that I have done.
Regrets I have a few,
Memories of a lifetime.
Fear and anxiety fill my mind,
Until the end of time.
And I know that my time
on this earth is ending.
But I am not ready.
I need more time
to make things right.
October Rain
rain
The falling rain Of late October Fills me with essential dread
As I rush about And end up here Wherever here is
The rain outside Seems like the tears of God
As I sit Crying over my beer
Thinking of lost love And failed dreams
Wondering What went wrong? And what I can set right?
And the rain falls And the night darkens
The rain is falling All over this man’s world
And the rain falls And I sit
Drinking my lonesome drink Lost in dreams
Dreaming of what Could never be
Birthday on Moon
To celebrate his 80th birthday,
Sam Adams and his wife decided to go to the Moon.
They would stay a week at the Hilton.
Space hotel on the edge of the Moon.
And have dinner at the famous Luna Grill.
They ate Moon-raised chicken.
And had a delicious fruit cocktail for dinner,
Noting it was fruit cocktail day.
They went to the casino.
Which often featured odd games to bet on.
Today was the first observation.
Of the international frog jumping contest
To be held on the Moon.
They won the contest.
Their champion frog “Everything’s Jake.”
Jumped 50 feet in the low-gravity lunar environment.
Meeting Dream Girl
When Sam Adams was 22 years old, he was in South Korea doing his Peace Corps duty, working in a public health center in Gapyeong, South Korea – two hours northeast of seoul, deep in the rural countryside. He had gone there in the furtherance of a dream that had haunted him for almost six years.
He first had the dream on his birthday on October 22, 1974, in a high school class at 2:22 p.m. He fell asleep and saw the most beautiful woman in the world talking to him. He knew that he would marry her. For almost six years, he had that dream almost weekly. He knew she was waiting for him in Korea.
On his 22nd birthday, he had just gone to his Peace Corps town, Gapyeong. He went out to dinner with his co-workers attending a birthday party for the town’s headman. They served him dog meat.
The next morning in his dream, his future wife appeared, laughed about the dog meat incident, and told him that they would meet in three years on his birthday in the town of Eijongbu where he would be teaching.
He continued to see her in his dreams, and then as she promised she walked off a bus and into life on October 22, 1982, at 2:22 p.m.
Based on a true story. The dates and times were changed to fit the 22-number theme.
Further note I legally got married on October 29, 1982, because it was my legal birthday.
Astrological Charts for October 30, 1955
I am not sure if there is anything to Astrology or not, but it is fun to think about. The following were mostly generated by Bing AI chat box. It is amazing to see what these AI programs can do, but a bit scarry as well. In a few years there may be no writers left!
Planets and Points in The Signs
Sun, Venus, Saturn, in Scorpio
Moon in Aries
Rising sign in Virgo
Mercury, Mars in Libra
Jupiter, Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto in Leo
Chiron in Aquarius
Sun in Scorpio 6° 14′ 48″
The Sun represents your Life Force. You are here to transform yourself and others. An earthquake shakes the foundations of the city’s buildings.
Ascendant in Virgo 22° 26′ 09 Libra or Sagittarius depending on sites – all the other calculations are the same.
According to the web search results, the rising sign or ascendant is the sign of the zodiac that rises on the eastern horizon at the time of a person’s birth. The rising sign changes approximately every two hours, so an exact birth time is required to calculate it. Different sources may use different methods or systems to calculate the rising sign, which may result in different outcomes. However, based on the most commonly used system of Placidus house division, the rising sign for someone born on October 30, 1955 at 4 a.m. in Oakland, California is Virgo123. Virgo-rising people are analytical, meticulous, and service-oriented. They tend to be modest, practical, and reliable. They may also be perfectionists, critical, and nervous. You can learn more about Virgo Rising and its meaning in your birth chart by reading this article.
The Ascendant represents how others Encounter you and how you project yourself.
People see you as a problem-solver. A carpenter restores a historical home to its original glory.
Moon in Aries 25° 28′ 19″
The Moon represents how you Give and Receive Love. You need independence to feel happy. You need comfortable rhythms to feel happy.
Mercury in Libra 17° 51′ 43″
Mercury represents how you Communicate and Interpret. You know how to negotiate. A store limits one necessary item to one per customer.
Venus in Scorpio 21° 44′ 17″
Venus represents how you Relate. You connect with the hidden parts of others. Two strangers get coffee after the funeral of a mutual acquaintance.
Mars in Libra 10° 53′ 42″
Mars represents your Drive. You assert judgment and make decisions. A divorce goes to court.
Jupiter in Leo 27° 57′ 01″
Jupiter represents your Sense of Adventure. You play the lead in life well. A young actress wins the audition to play the lead, knowing she will be a star.
Saturn in Scorpio 21° 43′ 55″
Saturn represents your Behavior. You want the highest clearance. The CIA director orders an operation to destroy a terrorist cell.
Uranus in Leo 2° 17′ 59″
Uranus represents how your generation Breaks Away from the previous generation. Your generation shocks through entertainment. An independent film hits mainstream theaters.
Neptune in Libra 28° 17′ 12″
Neptune represents how your generation finds Purpose. Your generation promotes fairness in spirituality. The daughter of a wealthy businessman accepts the consequences of her poor choices.
Pluto in Leo 28° 21′ 51″
Pluto represents how your generation uses Power. Your generation transforms the world through entertainment. A young woman finds reruns of “I Love Lucy” on her streaming service.
Chiron in Aquarius 0° 21′ 31″
Chiron represents the Wound You Need to Heal. You need to heal wounds and worries regarding your community. A family successfully immigrates to a new country.
Note:
Astrologers started added Chiron to their calculations when scientists named it the 10th planet or perhaps the 9th planet after they demoted Pluto a number of years ago, but they kept Pluto in their calculations. Pluto is my planet = whatever that means.
North Node in Sagittarius 17° 59′ 38” Rx
The North Node represents what you Need to Attain in this lifetime. You are here to learn to be an authority. A doctoral student teaches his first freshman class on Monday at 8 a.m.
Part of Fortune in Aries 3° 12′ 37″
The Part of Fortune represents your Natural Good Luck. You are naturally lucky when you do it your way. A skateboarder weaves in and out of city traffic.
Midheaven in Gemini 21° 28′ 35″
The Midheaven represents how to Succeed in the World. You attain prosperity intellectually. A bi-lingual young man has his pick of many jobs.
Intellectual capacity, thought process, comprehension, and learning abilities
1st house
Venus
Love, beauty, well-being, and gentleness
2nd house
Mars
Virility, action, violence, courage, and boldness
1st house
Jupiter
Abundance, warmth, good luck, and self-confidence
11th house
Saturn
Toughness, austerity, discipline, and limitation
2nd house
Uranus
Eccentricity, marginality, inventiveness, independence, and dementia.
10th house
Neptune
Gentle, dreamy, mystical
1st house
Pluto
Occultism and all hidden sciences, mystery, death, the hereafter, deep self-questionings, as well as power such as that of the atom
11th house
Ascendant
Personality, appearance, health
1st house
Natal chart Reading
Scorpio 19pg
Note: this is imprecise. the consensus reading seems to be the rising sign is VIrgo, but the rising signs change every two hours, so there could be some confusion.
Rising Sign: Libra (4°♎41′)
People who have Libra Rising love to maintain balance and harmony. They are usually sensitive to the world around them and disharmony disturbs their peace of mind. They are courteous, pleasant, nice agreeable, gentle, and soft. They can be softly persuasive as well. They love good things in life, making friends, and doing everything possible to avoid confrontation. They are fond of art, music, and literature. On the other hand, imbalance and discord disturb them deep within and they can be rude, shy, and indecisive. Physically, they are charming and have wonderful skin and nicely shaped facial features. The body is well-formed and it behaves gracefully and properly. They love personal luxuries, physical comfort, and things that please the senses. Lack of energy and ailments caused by rich foods like sweets cause them trouble. The mode is Cardinal so Libras are inventive and assertive and have initiative as well. The element of air brings them mental clarity, detachment and verbal skill and positive polarity makes them extroverted and expressive.
Midheaven Sign: Sagittarius
Intellectual pursuits and study appeal to you, but you need to be challenged on the work front because routine makes you bored. You are ambitious, but not money motivated. You say goodbye to the easy ways and take up difficult tasks boldly. You consciously or subconsciously seek a forum to showcase your intellectual and artistic talents. However, you may not seek the spotlight, but the work you do brings recognition and fame. Also, you become famous for something you have done outside your profession. Career options are travel, education, religion, politics, psychiatry, theology, and writing.
Sun in Scorpio (6°♏17′)
Intensity, passion, and secretiveness well sum up your character. You usually start things slowly, but once you have picked up momentum you are unstoppable. You are driven and controlled by hidden emotions deep within. You are sensitive, skeptical, and emotional, but work your heart out. You are intuitive and your perceptions are usually accurate. You want everything to be done your way and this makes you a tyrant at home. You tend to foist your views on your friends and family.
Moon in Aries (26°♈4′)
You react more emotionally. You make decisions quickly and act immediately without thinking much. The mind is very active, but you feel with your ego. Your responses are quick and short. You move on to new arguments or topics quickly without even giving your opponents enough time to present their views. You are short-tempered. However, you are competent and love to challenge your opponent. You are happy and optimistic, but impatient. You live for the moment and forget everything in no time.
Mercury in Libra (17°♎54′)
You have an active mind that weighs the pros and cons, even though you take your time to make decisions. You are a balanced thinker and communicator. Eloquent, gentle, and diplomatic, you think intelligently and objectively. You are friendly, broad-minded, and judicious and you have an easy-going, warm, and charming nature. Attracted to lofty ideals and refinement in life, you are good at writing well and merging ideas. You dislike conflicts and hate debating.
Venus in Scorpio (21°♏47′)
Your love is intense, deep, and sensual. In a relationship, you are straightforward, determined, and direct. You express excess feelings. You are a sexy person and being deeply involved, you are intensely romantic. You love or hate your partner with intense passion. Break-ups are hard to cope with. The physical or sexual aspect of the relationship is more important to you. You can be possessive in love.
Mars in Libra (10°♎55′)
Your physical energy is controlled to a great extent and you remain charming, generous, and cooperative. You are not pushy, but you can be assertive if injustice is served. You tend to fight against anything unfair and unjust. You have an objective and impassioned approach and therefore you can be a good judge or diplomat. Also, you are good at conflict management.
Jupiter in Leo (27°♌57′)
Optimism, confidence, and generosity are the three qualities that keep you going. You have lots of physical energy and you tend to show off. It means you embrace life in all its glory. Besides, you expect people to appreciate and admire you for your generous acts. You are a born extrovert and holidays, romance, and celebrations renew your spirit. But you tend to play cards or gamble.
Saturn in Scorpio (21°♏44′)
You have great emotional intensity and strength, but you may try to deny your passions. You carry out your responsibilities with an intensity of purpose. Anyhow, you possess more tolerance and understanding than usual. You are secretive and unforgiving and you cannot tolerate unfair treatment. You are resourceful, but you can be vindictive or withdrawn. Though you have a strong desire for success, you are subtle and calculating.
Uranus in Leo (2°♌18′)
You can be high-spirited and strong-willed, but you can be impatient and rebellious. Changes that involve high ideals and goals fascinate you. Though you are a born leader, you have to watch out for egotism and find ways to control your temper. You like to be unique, outspoken, and dramatic. Anyway, you have to be cautious about being overconfident and taking risks.
Neptune in Libra (28°♎17′)
You use your beauty and harmony to express your spiritual leanings. A wonderful relationship on the spiritual plane is on the cards. You dream about fashion, music, and peace. You also have your ideas about justice, freedom, and equality. However, you have to watch out for misplaced idealism and need to be more practical.
Pluto in Leo (28°♌21′)
Flamboyant and expressive, you tend to have heightened powers of leadership. You grab power and defy leadership if you are not the leader. You like romance, entertainment, and pleasures of all kinds. Besides, you try to attract attention extravagantly. (1937-1958)
Influence of Weekday: Sunday – Sun
Sunday radiates positivity, generosity, and love of life. You are creative, gregarious, bold, and noble, but you can be ego-centric, boastful, and excessively proud. You are capable of initiating new activities. Since you are kind and generous, you help people in distress. You remain focused and love to face obstacles and overcome them.
Bing answers
Can you generate an astrological chart (Chinese, Western, and Vedic tradition) for someone born on October 30, 1955, in Oakland, California at 4 a.m.?
GOAT
goat meets pig audio poem
Chinese
The person’s Chinese astrology chart is as follows:
Year month-day hour
Wood goat metal dog earth snake wood rabbit
The person’s Chinese astrology information is based on the four pillars of destiny, which are the year, month, day, and hour of birth. Each pillar consists of two components: a heavenly stem and an earthly branch. The heavenly stems are the ten basic symbols that represent the five elements (wood, fire, earth, metal, and water) in their yin and yang forms. The earthly branches are the twelve animal signs that correspond to the twelve months of the lunar calendar.
The person’s heavenly stems are:
Year month-date hour
Yang wood yang metal yang earth yin wood
The person’s earthly branches are:
Year Month-Date hour
Goat dog snake rabbit
The person’s lucky numbers are 3, 4, 9, 12, 15, 21, 30, 34, 39, 45, 48, 51, 57, 63, 66, 69, 75, 84, 87, and 93.
The person’s lucky colors are green, blue, purple, red, pink, and white.
The person’s lucky flowers are carnation, primrose, Alice flower, lily of the valley, and orchid.
The person’s compatible zodiac signs are rabbit, horse, pig, and dragon.
The person’s incompatible zodiac signs are ox, tiger, snake, and dog.
Western astrology:
According to Western astrology, you are a Scorpio, the eighth sign of the zodiac. Your ruling planet is Pluto, and your element is water.
Some of the personality traits of a Scorpio are:
Intense, passionate, and loyal.
Mysterious, secretive, and complex.
Resourceful, determined, and ambitious.
Transformative, regenerative, and healing.
Jealous, obsessive, and manipulative.
Some of the challenges and opportunities for a Scorpio are:
To learn to trust others and let go of control.
To channel their emotions and desires into positive outlets.
To face their fears and embrace their shadows.
To use their power and influence for good.
To seek higher wisdom and spiritual growth.
Vedic Astrology
Vedic astrology: according to Vedic astrology, you are a Libra (Tula), the seventh sign of the zodiac. Your ruling planet is Venus, and your element is air. Your birth chart is shown below, along with the list of planets and their positions in the signs and nakshatras.
The major difference between these two is that according to Western calculations I am a Scorpio and according to Vedic calculations I am a Libra, and according to Native American calculations I am a either a Bear or a Raven.
Vedic Birth chart
+——————+——————+——————+
|Moon +-rahe—-+ +-keta—-+ +
+——————+ +-Moon–+-Jupiter-+-Saturn-+
|Moon +-sun—-+-mercury+-Venus—-+-Chiron-+
+——————+ +-asc—-+-desc—–+-Uranus-+
|Moon +-Neptune-+-Pluto–+-Neptune-+-Pluto +
|Moon +-Libra—+-Scorpio+-Laurus—+-Aries +
|Moon +-swat
| house +-desc +-ask +-desc +-acs +
+——————+ taurus +-Libra+-Aries——+Pisces+
Planet list
+———-+————+————+
| planet | sign | house |
+———-+————+————+
| sun | Libra | 10th |
| Moon | Scorpio | 1st |
| mercury | Scorpio | 9th |
| Venus | Virgo | 9th |
| Moon | Libra | 9th |
| Jupiter | Scorpio | 1st |
| Saturn | Sagittarius| 10th |
| Uranus | Leo | 11th |
| Neptune | Libra | 12th |
| Pluto | Leo | 11th |
Ascendant in Libra (4°♎41′)
People who have Libra Rising love to maintain balance and harmony. They are usually sensitive to the world around them and disharmony disturbs their peace of mind. They are courteous, pleasant, nice agreeable, gentle, and soft. They can be softly persuasive as well. They love good things in life, making friends, and doing everything possible to avoid confrontation. They are fond of art, music, and literature. On the other hand, imbalance and discord disturb them deep within and they can be rude, shy, and indecisive. Physically, they are charming and have wonderful skin and nicely shaped facial features. The body is well-formed and it behaves gracefully and properly. They love personal luxuries, physical comfort, and things that please their senses. Lack of energy and ailments caused by rich foods like sweets cause them trouble. The mode is Cardinal, so Libras are inventive and assertive and have initiative as well. The element of air brings them mental clarity, detachment and verbal skill and positive polarity makes them extroverted and expressive.
More on Scorpio
scorpio
Sun 6° Scorpio 27′
Moon sign: Aries
Moon 28° Aries 32′
rising sign: Scorpio? Libra or Virgo? the consensus seems to be its Virgo but who knows or really cares?
Ascendant 25° Scorpio 01′
For today »
How’s your timing?
The moving Moon and planets can influence your ability to relate to certain people at specific times.
Your sun sign: Scorpio sun 6° Scorpio 27′
Element:
Water
Key planet:
Pluto
The scorpion is one intense little creature, with enough poison in its tail to disable or kill a much larger opponent. However, the problem with this kind of built-in biological weaponry is that it must be mastered to be used most effectively. You Scorpios can use your “stinger” for self-defense, using your powerful emotional awareness to make your opponent harmless. But there is a sexual part of poisonous tail also, and until you learn to control those strong urges, you may find yourself in uncomfortable situations.
Motto: “What is hidden is more interesting than what is obvious.”
Greatest strength: your passion for your feelings.
Possible weakness: the need for secrecy can be isolating.
Your Moon sign: Aries Moon 28° Aries 32′
Emotions rise hot and fast but can fall just as quickly because you live so much in the present. The intensity of the moment can carry you to great heights or depths, but you’re not likely to stay in either extreme for very long. When you’re done, you’re done. As a fire sign, Aries isn’t a particularly reflective place for them.
More on the Goat
Your Chinese sign: the goat
The goat … the gentle goat
Mantra: living is my form of art.
The goat is the most easygoing of all the signs … sensitive to other people’s needs, kindhearted, flexible, and social. Goats love life, and all forms of art will help them express their active energy and joie de vivre. When stressed, they can be moody and appear weak, but will stubbornly resist the opinions of others if they disagree. They are devoted to their loved ones, outgoing, and quite outspoken about the world they live in.
Personal Note:
According to Western Astrology the Scorpio- Gemini relationship is a challenging one, but those that make it work have a very powerful connection. According to Chinese Astrology, the Pig-Goat combo is the best astrological combo for romance for love and marriage.
Other birth statistics
30 October 1955
Your date of conception was on or about 6 February 1955 which was a Sunday.
You were born on a Sunday.
Under the astrological sign Scorpio.
Your life path number is 6.
Your fortune cookie reads:
Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you.
Life path compatibility:
You are most compatible with those with the life path numbers 3, 6 & 9.
You should get along well with those with the life path numbers 2, 4, 8, 11 & 22.
You are least compatible with those with the life path numbers 1, 5 & 7.
The Julian calendar date of your birth is 2435410.5.
The golden number for 1955 is 18.
The exact number for 1955 is 6.
The year 1955 was not a leap year.
Your birthday falls into the Chinese year beginning 1/24/1955 and ending 2/11/1956.
You were born in the Chinese year of the goat.
Your native american zodiac sign is snake; your plant is thistle.
Note: some sources say I am a bear, others say that I am a raven. There is no “native american astrology” per se as each tribe had its own way of looking at things astrologically speaking.
You were born in the Egyptian month of toby, the first month of the season of port (emergence – fertile soil).
Your date of birth on the Hebrew calendar is 14 Heshan 5716.
Or if you were born after sundown then the date is 15 Heshan 5716.
The Mayan calendar long count date of your birthday is 12.17.2.0.6 which is.
12 baktun 17 katun 2 tun 0 uinal 6 kin
The hijra (Islamic calendar) date of your birth is Sunday, 13 Rabi’u’l-Avval 1375 (1375-3-13).
The date of Easter on your was Sunday, 10 April 1955.
The date of Orthodox Easter in your birth year was Sunday, 17 April 1955.
The date of Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent) in your birth year was Wednesday, 23 February 1955.
The date of Whitsun (Pentecost Sunday) in the year of your birth was Sunday, 29 May 1955.
The date of Whitsuntide in the year of your birth was Sunday, 5 June 1955.
The date of Rosh Hashanah in the year of your birth was Saturday, 17 September 1955.
The date of Passover in the year of your birth was Thursday, 7 April 1955.
The date of Mardi Gras on your birth year was Tuesday, 22 February 1955.
Celebrities who share your birthday:
Gavin Rossdale (1967) Diego Armando Maradona (1960) Harry Hamlin (1951)
Henry Winkler (1945) Grace Slick (1939) Claude Lelouch (1937)
Robert Caro (1935) Louis Malle (1932) Ruth Gordon (1896)
Charles Atlas (1893) Ezra Asalto (1885) Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821)
John Adams (1735)
Your age is the equivalent of a dog that is 7.62309197651663 years old. (you old hound dog, you!)
Your lucky day is Tuesday.
Your lucky numbers are 9 & 11.
Your ruling planet(s) are the Moon and Pluto.
Your lucky dates are the 1st, 10th, 19th, and 28th.
Your opposition sign is Taurus.
Your opposition number(s) is 6.
Events that happened on my birthday, include
Here is a list of things that happened on October 30, 1955, including the top song, the top movie, the top TV show, and the major events of that month in the US:
Thanks to all who have been sending me birthday greetings. I deeply appreciate all of you, all around the world who have blessed my life with your friendship over the years. I will respond individually as well but just wanted to do this shout-out to my friends! On my birthday, I am always in a reflective mood and do my Nir’s early and revise them again on January 1. One thing I want to do starting now and next year is to blog weekly and add FB reels and YouTube video blogging as well as my podcasting and my daily writing as I still have a lot to say and think about and it is not too late for me to say what I want to say. Another thing I want to do is take a lot of mini-trips, day trips, and other trips while I still can and I want to spend about four months in the States next summer. And hope to see many of you via Zoom meetups or in person during the next year. Keep in touch.
Jake
Following are some of my birthday poems, a few birthday tribute poems from friends, Bing’s Ai astrological charts (Chinese, Vedic, and Western systems) for my birthday – October 30, 1955 – and a list of things that happened that date.
Ps here is a birthday tribute from my fan story friend, Debbie Pink Marquette.
A diplomatic birthday
Jake Cosmos Aller
Was born in California and graduated in DC.
His grad college was Washington University.
He’s traveled to all fifty states and then fifty countries.
That’s when he would decide to spend more time across the seas.
He met her and then six weeks later, she became his wife.
Been married for forty years, and she is the best part of his life.
He has some siblings but the ones who are dear to his heart.
His wife’s brother and family have been close from the start.
He served as a foreign diplomat for twenty-seven years.
Retired from the State Department, then goodbye to peers.
His life has been impressive; what he’s seen, achieved, and done.
Other interesting facts about Jake Cosmos Aller:
Retired U.S. diplomat (State Department) living in South Korea. Served 27 years in 10 countries. Traveled to 55 countries, all 50 states. Grew up in berkeley, California. Married, no children. A published poet and short story writer. Finished six novels, in search of a publisher. Former Peace Corps volunteer, Korea. Speaks Korean, Spanish, and Thai.
A few more birthday-themed poems:
Closing time
On hearing the news
Of a friend’s passing,
I was overwhelmed.
With grief and sadness.
And I realized that my time.
On this mortal plane
Is also coming.
To the end game.
Closing time
The final act of this cosmic play.
The grim reaper
Has my number.
Someday
He will come for me.
And the love of my life,
My lovely wife.
And my family,
Friends, and enemies,
Far-flung throughout
The whole world.
In the long run,
We can’t escape.
Our grim fate,
We end up in the same place.
When the Grim Reaper
Knocks at our door,
Are we ready for that?
Perhaps not.
But each day
We have left.
On another day,
We can celebrate.
That we are alive,
Having survived another year,
And cheated death’s grim embrace.
Every day staying is a blessing.
We are but one step closer to the grave.
The end will come.
When your time
Comes to an end,
But not today.
So, rejoice, my friends.
Live your remaining moments.
Filled with friendship,
Love, laughter, and joy.
Bing AI’s Birthday Poem for Jake Cosmos Aller
I asked Bing Ai Chat to write a beatnik-style poem as a birthday tribute to Jake Cosmos Aller.
Here is a beatnik-style birthday tribute poem about Jake Cosmos Aller, inspired by the web search results:
Happy birthday, Jake Cosmos Aller!
You are a poet, a traveler, and a scholar.
You have seen the world with your own eyes.
You have lived and loved in many skies.
You are a beatnik, a rebel, a seeker.
You are not afraid to be different or unique.
You march to the beat of your drum.
You are one of a kind; you are second to none!
So, here’s to you on your special day!
May it be filled with love and joy all the way!
May you continue to inspire us with your words!
May you continue to be one of life’s great adventurers!
and my friend asked Google’s Bard to weigh in:
Jake Cosmos Aller, friend so dear, your spirit bright, your mind so clear.
A poet, novelist, and diplomat, your wisdom vast, your heart so great
. From berkeley to the world you’ve roamed,
in search of truth, in search of a home.
Your words inspire, your thoughts provoke,
your friendship’s gift, a precious token.
In foreign lands, you served with pride, a bridge between cultures, side by side. Your insights are deep, your empathy true, a friend to all, forever true.
Now retired, your pen still flows, and your creativity still glows.
Your poems sing, your stories dance, your spirit soars, a cosmic trance.
Jake Cosmos Aller, friend so dear, your friendship’s gift, I hold so nearby.
May your journey be filled with light, and may your stars shine bright forever.
Another Bard Poem – This one is a limerick.
“There once was a poet named Jake,
Whose poems were fake and quite flaccid.
His verses are so lame,
Were barely acclaimed,
And his readers would often say “Yuck!””
Blues for 61 birthdays
I woke up feeling blue,
Feeling sad and alone,
Feeling the weight of 61 years on this earth.
Been there. Done that. Seen that.
Bored with the routine.
Wanting so much more,
Yet oddly satisfied with all that I have done.
Regrets I have a few,
Memories of a lifetime.
Fear and anxiety fill my mind,
Until the end of time.
And I know that my time
on this earth is ending.
But I am not ready.
I need more time
to make things right.
October Rain
rain
The falling rain
Of late October
Fills me with essential dread
As I rush about
And end up here
Wherever here is
The rain outside
Seems like the tears of God
As I sit
Crying over my beer
Thinking of lost love
And failed dreams
Wondering
What went wrong?
And what I can set right?
And the rain falls
And the night darkens
The rain is falling
All over this man’s world
And the rain falls
And I sit
Drinking my lonesome drink
Lost in dreams
Dreaming of what
Could never be
Birthday on Moon
To celebrate his 80th birthday,
Sam Adams and his wife decided to go to the Moon.
They would stay a week at the Hilton.
Space hotel on the edge of the Moon.
And have dinner at the famous Luna Grill.
They ate Moon-raised chicken.
And had a delicious fruit cocktail for dinner,
Noting it was fruit cocktail day.
They went to the casino.
Which often featured odd games to bet on.
Today was the first observation.
Of the international frog jumping contest
To be held on the Moon.
They won the contest.
Their champion frog “Everything’s Jake.”
Jumped 50 feet in the low-gravity lunar environment.
Meeting Dream Girl
When Sam Adams was 22 years old, he was in South Korea doing his Peace Corps duty, working in a public health center in Gapyeong, South Korea – two hours northeast of seoul, deep in the rural countryside. He had gone there in the furtherance of a dream that had haunted him for almost six years.
He first had the dream on his birthday on October 22, 1974, in a high school class at 2:22 p.m. He fell asleep and saw the most beautiful woman in the world talking to him. He knew that he would marry her. For almost six years, he had that dream almost weekly. He knew she was waiting for him in Korea.
On his 22nd birthday, he had just gone to his Peace Corps town, Gapyeong. He went out to dinner with his co-workers attending a birthday party for the town’s headman. They served him dog meat.
The next morning in his dream, his future wife appeared, laughed about the dog meat incident, and told him that they would meet in three years on his birthday in the town of Eijongbu where he would be teaching.
He continued to see her in his dreams, and then as she promised she walked off a bus and into life on October 22, 1982, at 2:22 p.m.
Based on a true story. The dates and times were changed to fit the 22-number theme.
Further note I legally got married on October 29, 1982, because it was my legal birthday.
Astrological Charts for October 30, 1955
I am not sure if there is anything to Astrology or not, but it is fun to think about. The following were mostly generated by Bing AI chat box. It is amazing to see what these AI programs can do, but a bit scarry as well. In a few years there may be no writers left!
Planets and Points in The Signs
Sun, Venus, Saturn, in Scorpio
Moon in Aries
Rising sign in Virgo
Mercury, Mars in Libra
Jupiter, Neptune, Uranus, and Pluto in Leo
Chiron in Aquarius
Sun in Scorpio 6° 14′ 48″
The Sun represents your Life Force.
You are here to transform yourself and others. An earthquake shakes the foundations of the city’s buildings.
Ascendant in Virgo 22° 26′ 09 Libra or Sagittarius depending on sites – all the other calculations are the same.
According to the web search results, the rising sign or ascendant is the sign of the zodiac that rises on the eastern horizon at the time of a person’s birth. The rising sign changes approximately every two hours, so an exact birth time is required to calculate it. Different sources may use different methods or systems to calculate the rising sign, which may result in different outcomes. However, based on the most commonly used system of Placidus house division, the rising sign for someone born on October 30, 1955 at 4 a.m. in Oakland, California is Virgo123. Virgo-rising people are analytical, meticulous, and service-oriented. They tend to be modest, practical, and reliable. They may also be perfectionists, critical, and nervous. You can learn more about Virgo Rising and its meaning in your birth chart by reading this article.
The Ascendant represents how others Encounter you and how you project yourself.
People see you as a problem-solver. A carpenter restores a historical home to its original glory.
Moon in Aries 25° 28′ 19″
The Moon represents how you Give and Receive Love.
You need independence to feel happy. You need comfortable rhythms to feel happy.
Mercury in Libra 17° 51′ 43″
Mercury represents how you Communicate and Interpret.
You know how to negotiate. A store limits one necessary item to one per customer.
Venus in Scorpio 21° 44′ 17″
Venus represents how you Relate.
You connect with the hidden parts of others. Two strangers get coffee after the funeral of a mutual acquaintance.
Mars in Libra 10° 53′ 42″
Mars represents your Drive.
You assert judgment and make decisions. A divorce goes to court.
Jupiter in Leo 27° 57′ 01″
Jupiter represents your Sense of Adventure.
You play the lead in life well. A young actress wins the audition to play the lead, knowing she will be a star.
Saturn in Scorpio 21° 43′ 55″
Saturn represents your Behavior.
You want the highest clearance. The CIA director orders an operation to destroy a terrorist cell.
Uranus in Leo 2° 17′ 59″
Uranus represents how your generation Breaks Away from the previous generation.
Your generation shocks through entertainment. An independent film hits mainstream theaters.
Neptune in Libra 28° 17′ 12″
Neptune represents how your generation finds Purpose.
Your generation promotes fairness in spirituality. The daughter of a wealthy businessman accepts the consequences of her poor choices.
Pluto in Leo 28° 21′ 51″
Pluto represents how your generation uses Power.
Your generation transforms the world through entertainment. A young woman finds reruns of “I Love Lucy” on her streaming service.
Chiron in Aquarius 0° 21′ 31″
Chiron represents the Wound You Need to Heal.
You need to heal wounds and worries regarding your community. A family successfully immigrates to a new country.
Note:
Astrologers started added Chiron to their calculations when scientists named it the 10th planet or perhaps the 9th planet after they demoted Pluto a number of years ago, but they kept Pluto in their calculations. Pluto is my planet = whatever that means.
North Node in Sagittarius 17° 59′ 38” Rx
The North Node represents what you Need to Attain in this lifetime.
You are here to learn to be an authority. A doctoral student teaches his first freshman class on Monday at 8 a.m.
Part of Fortune in Aries 3° 12′ 37″
The Part of Fortune represents your Natural Good Luck.
You are naturally lucky when you do it your way. A skateboarder weaves in and out of city traffic.
Midheaven in Gemini 21° 28′ 35″
The Midheaven represents how to Succeed in the World.
You attain prosperity intellectually. A bi-lingual young man has his pick of many jobs.
Intellectual capacity, thought process, comprehension, and learning abilities
1st house
Venus
Love, beauty, well-being, and gentleness
2nd house
Mars
Virility, action, violence, courage, and boldness
1st house
Jupiter
Abundance, warmth, good luck, and self-confidence
11th house
Saturn
Toughness, austerity, discipline, and limitation
2nd house
Uranus
Eccentricity, marginality, inventiveness, independence, and dementia.
10th house
Neptune
Gentle, dreamy, mystical
1st house
Pluto
Occultism and all hidden sciences, mystery, death, the hereafter, deep self-questionings, as well as power such as that of the atom
11th house
Ascendant
Personality, appearance, health
1st house
Natal chart Reading
Scorpio 19pg
Note: this is imprecise. the consensus reading seems to be the rising sign is VIrgo, but the rising signs change every two hours, so there could be some confusion.
Rising Sign: Libra (4°♎41′)
People who have Libra Rising love to maintain balance and harmony. They are usually sensitive to the world around them and disharmony disturbs their peace of mind. They are courteous, pleasant, nice agreeable, gentle, and soft. They can be softly persuasive as well. They love good things in life, making friends, and doing everything possible to avoid confrontation. They are fond of art, music, and literature. On the other hand, imbalance and discord disturb them deep within and they can be rude, shy, and indecisive. Physically, they are charming and have wonderful skin and nicely shaped facial features. The body is well-formed and it behaves gracefully and properly. They love personal luxuries, physical comfort, and things that please the senses. Lack of energy and ailments caused by rich foods like sweets cause them trouble. The mode is Cardinal so Libras are inventive and assertive and have initiative as well. The element of air brings them mental clarity, detachment and verbal skill and positive polarity makes them extroverted and expressive.
Midheaven Sign: Sagittarius
Intellectual pursuits and study appeal to you, but you need to be challenged on the work front because routine makes you bored. You are ambitious, but not money motivated. You say goodbye to the easy ways and take up difficult tasks boldly. You consciously or subconsciously seek a forum to showcase your intellectual and artistic talents. However, you may not seek the spotlight, but the work you do brings recognition and fame. Also, you become famous for something you have done outside your profession. Career options are travel, education, religion, politics, psychiatry, theology, and writing.
Sun in Scorpio (6°♏17′)
Intensity, passion, and secretiveness well sum up your character. You usually start things slowly, but once you have picked up momentum you are unstoppable. You are driven and controlled by hidden emotions deep within. You are sensitive, skeptical, and emotional, but work your heart out. You are intuitive and your perceptions are usually accurate. You want everything to be done your way and this makes you a tyrant at home. You tend to foist your views on your friends and family.
Moon in Aries (26°♈4′)
You react more emotionally. You make decisions quickly and act immediately without thinking much. The mind is very active, but you feel with your ego. Your responses are quick and short. You move on to new arguments or topics quickly without even giving your opponents enough time to present their views. You are short-tempered. However, you are competent and love to challenge your opponent. You are happy and optimistic, but impatient. You live for the moment and forget everything in no time.
Mercury in Libra (17°♎54′)
You have an active mind that weighs the pros and cons, even though you take your time to make decisions. You are a balanced thinker and communicator. Eloquent, gentle, and diplomatic, you think intelligently and objectively. You are friendly, broad-minded, and judicious and you have an easy-going, warm, and charming nature. Attracted to lofty ideals and refinement in life, you are good at writing well and merging ideas. You dislike conflicts and hate debating.
Venus in Scorpio (21°♏47′)
Your love is intense, deep, and sensual. In a relationship, you are straightforward, determined, and direct. You express excess feelings. You are a sexy person and being deeply involved, you are intensely romantic. You love or hate your partner with intense passion. Break-ups are hard to cope with. The physical or sexual aspect of the relationship is more important to you. You can be possessive in love.
Mars in Libra (10°♎55′)
Your physical energy is controlled to a great extent and you remain charming, generous, and cooperative. You are not pushy, but you can be assertive if injustice is served. You tend to fight against anything unfair and unjust. You have an objective and impassioned approach and therefore you can be a good judge or diplomat. Also, you are good at conflict management.
Jupiter in Leo (27°♌57′)
Optimism, confidence, and generosity are the three qualities that keep you going. You have lots of physical energy and you tend to show off. It means you embrace life in all its glory. Besides, you expect people to appreciate and admire you for your generous acts. You are a born extrovert and holidays, romance, and celebrations renew your spirit. But you tend to play cards or gamble.
Saturn in Scorpio (21°♏44′)
You have great emotional intensity and strength, but you may try to deny your passions. You carry out your responsibilities with an intensity of purpose. Anyhow, you possess more tolerance and understanding than usual. You are secretive and unforgiving and you cannot tolerate unfair treatment. You are resourceful, but you can be vindictive or withdrawn. Though you have a strong desire for success, you are subtle and calculating.
Uranus in Leo (2°♌18′)
You can be high-spirited and strong-willed, but you can be impatient and rebellious. Changes that involve high ideals and goals fascinate you. Though you are a born leader, you have to watch out for egotism and find ways to control your temper. You like to be unique, outspoken, and dramatic. Anyway, you have to be cautious about being overconfident and taking risks.
Neptune in Libra (28°♎17′)
You use your beauty and harmony to express your spiritual leanings. A wonderful relationship on the spiritual plane is on the cards. You dream about fashion, music, and peace. You also have your ideas about justice, freedom, and equality. However, you have to watch out for misplaced idealism and need to be more practical.
Pluto in Leo (28°♌21′)
Flamboyant and expressive, you tend to have heightened powers of leadership. You grab power and defy leadership if you are not the leader. You like romance, entertainment, and pleasures of all kinds. Besides, you try to attract attention extravagantly. (1937-1958)
Influence of Weekday: Sunday – Sun
Sunday radiates positivity, generosity, and love of life. You are creative, gregarious, bold, and noble, but you can be ego-centric, boastful, and excessively proud. You are capable of initiating new activities. Since you are kind and generous, you help people in distress. You remain focused and love to face obstacles and overcome them.
Bing answers
Can you generate an astrological chart (Chinese, Western, and Vedic tradition) for someone born on October 30, 1955, in Oakland, California at 4 a.m.?
GOAT
goat meets pig audio poem
Chinese
The person’s Chinese astrology chart is as follows:
Year month-day hour
Wood goat metal dog earth snake wood rabbit
The person’s Chinese astrology information is based on the four pillars of destiny, which are the year, month, day, and hour of birth. Each pillar consists of two components: a heavenly stem and an earthly branch. The heavenly stems are the ten basic symbols that represent the five elements (wood, fire, earth, metal, and water) in their yin and yang forms. The earthly branches are the twelve animal signs that correspond to the twelve months of the lunar calendar.
The person’s heavenly stems are:
Year month-date hour
Yang wood yang metal yang earth yin wood
The person’s earthly branches are:
Year Month-Date hour
Goat dog snake rabbit
The person’s lucky numbers are 3, 4, 9, 12, 15, 21, 30, 34, 39, 45, 48, 51, 57, 63, 66, 69, 75, 84, 87, and 93.
The person’s lucky colors are green, blue, purple, red, pink, and white.
The person’s lucky flowers are carnation, primrose, Alice flower, lily of the valley, and orchid.
The person’s compatible zodiac signs are rabbit, horse, pig, and dragon.
The person’s incompatible zodiac signs are ox, tiger, snake, and dog.
Western astrology:
According to Western astrology, you are a Scorpio, the eighth sign of the zodiac. Your ruling planet is Pluto, and your element is water.
Some of the personality traits of a Scorpio are:
Intense, passionate, and loyal.
Mysterious, secretive, and complex.
Resourceful, determined, and ambitious.
Transformative, regenerative, and healing.
Jealous, obsessive, and manipulative.
Some of the challenges and opportunities for a Scorpio are:
To learn to trust others and let go of control.
To channel their emotions and desires into positive outlets.
To face their fears and embrace their shadows.
To use their power and influence for good.
To seek higher wisdom and spiritual growth.
Vedic Astrology
Vedic astrology: according to Vedic astrology, you are a Libra (Tula), the seventh sign of the zodiac. Your ruling planet is Venus, and your element is air. Your birth chart is shown below, along with the list of planets and their positions in the signs and nakshatras.
The major difference between these two is that according to Western calculations I am a Scorpio and according to Vedic calculations I am a Libra, and according to Native American calculations I am a either a Bear or a Raven.
Vedic Birth chart
+——————+——————+——————+
|Moon +-rahe—-+ +-keta—-+ +
+——————+ +-Moon–+-Jupiter-+-Saturn-+
|Moon +-sun—-+-mercury+-Venus—-+-Chiron-+
+——————+ +-asc—-+-desc—–+-Uranus-+
|Moon +-Neptune-+-Pluto–+-Neptune-+-Pluto +
|Moon +-Libra—+-Scorpio+-Laurus—+-Aries +
|Moon +-swat
| house +-desc +-ask +-desc +-acs +
+——————+ taurus +-Libra+-Aries——+Pisces+
Planet list
+———-+————+————+
| planet | sign | house |
+———-+————+————+
| sun | Libra | 10th |
| Moon | Scorpio | 1st |
| mercury | Scorpio | 9th |
| Venus | Virgo | 9th |
| Moon | Libra | 9th |
| Jupiter | Scorpio | 1st |
| Saturn | Sagittarius| 10th |
| Uranus | Leo | 11th |
| Neptune | Libra | 12th |
| Pluto | Leo | 11th |
Ascendant in Libra (4°♎41′)
People who have Libra Rising love to maintain balance and harmony. They are usually sensitive to the world around them and disharmony disturbs their peace of mind. They are courteous, pleasant, nice agreeable, gentle, and soft. They can be softly persuasive as well. They love good things in life, making friends, and doing everything possible to avoid confrontation. They are fond of art, music, and literature. On the other hand, imbalance and discord disturb them deep within and they can be rude, shy, and indecisive. Physically, they are charming and have wonderful skin and nicely shaped facial features. The body is well-formed and it behaves gracefully and properly. They love personal luxuries, physical comfort, and things that please their senses. Lack of energy and ailments caused by rich foods like sweets cause them trouble. The mode is Cardinal, so Libras are inventive and assertive and have initiative as well. The element of air brings them mental clarity, detachment and verbal skill and positive polarity makes them extroverted and expressive.
More on Scorpio
scorpio
Sun 6° Scorpio 27′
Moon sign: Aries
Moon 28° Aries 32′
rising sign: Scorpio? Libra or Virgo? the consensus seems to be its Virgo but who knows or really cares?
Ascendant 25° Scorpio 01′
For today »
How’s your timing?
The moving Moon and planets can influence your ability to relate to certain people at specific times.
Your sun sign: Scorpio sun 6° Scorpio 27′
Element:
Water
Key planet:
Pluto
The scorpion is one intense little creature, with enough poison in its tail to disable or kill a much larger opponent. However, the problem with this kind of built-in biological weaponry is that it must be mastered to be used most effectively. You Scorpios can use your “stinger” for self-defense, using your powerful emotional awareness to make your opponent harmless. But there is a sexual part of poisonous tail also, and until you learn to control those strong urges, you may find yourself in uncomfortable situations.
Motto: “What is hidden is more interesting than what is obvious.”
Greatest strength: your passion for your feelings.
Possible weakness: the need for secrecy can be isolating.
Your Moon sign: Aries Moon 28° Aries 32′
Emotions rise hot and fast but can fall just as quickly because you live so much in the present. The intensity of the moment can carry you to great heights or depths, but you’re not likely to stay in either extreme for very long. When you’re done, you’re done. As a fire sign, Aries isn’t a particularly reflective place for them.
More on the Goat
Your Chinese sign: the goat
The goat … the gentle goat
Mantra: living is my form of art.
The goat is the most easygoing of all the signs … sensitive to other people’s needs, kindhearted, flexible, and social. Goats love life, and all forms of art will help them express their active energy and joie de vivre. When stressed, they can be moody and appear weak, but will stubbornly resist the opinions of others if they disagree. They are devoted to their loved ones, outgoing, and quite outspoken about the world they live in.
Personal Note:
According to Western Astrology the Scorpio- Gemini relationship is a challenging one, but those that make it work have a very powerful connection. According to Chinese Astrology, the Pig-Goat combo is the best astrological combo for romance for love and marriage.
Other birth statistics
30 October 1955
Your date of conception was on or about 6 February 1955 which was a Sunday.
You were born on a Sunday.
Under the astrological sign Scorpio.
Your life path number is 6.
Your fortune cookie reads:
Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you.
Life path compatibility:
You are most compatible with those with the life path numbers 3, 6 & 9.
You should get along well with those with the life path numbers 2, 4, 8, 11 & 22.
You are least compatible with those with the life path numbers 1, 5 & 7.
The Julian calendar date of your birth is 2435410.5.
The golden number for 1955 is 18.
The exact number for 1955 is 6.
The year 1955 was not a leap year.
Your birthday falls into the Chinese year beginning 1/24/1955 and ending 2/11/1956.
You were born in the Chinese year of the goat.
Your native american zodiac sign is snake; your plant is thistle.
Note: some sources say I am a bear, others say that I am a raven. There is no “native american astrology” per se as each tribe had its own way of looking at things astrologically speaking.
You were born in the Egyptian month of toby, the first month of the season of port (emergence – fertile soil).
Your date of birth on the Hebrew calendar is 14 Heshan 5716.
Or if you were born after sundown then the date is 15 Heshan 5716.
The Mayan calendar long count date of your birthday is 12.17.2.0.6 which is.
12 baktun 17 katun 2 tun 0 uinal 6 kin
The hijra (Islamic calendar) date of your birth is Sunday, 13 Rabi’u’l-Avval 1375 (1375-3-13).
The date of Easter on your was Sunday, 10 April 1955.
The date of Orthodox Easter in your birth year was Sunday, 17 April 1955.
The date of Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent) in your birth year was Wednesday, 23 February 1955.
The date of Whitsun (Pentecost Sunday) in the year of your birth was Sunday, 29 May 1955.
The date of Whitsuntide in the year of your birth was Sunday, 5 June 1955.
The date of Rosh Hashanah in the year of your birth was Saturday, 17 September 1955.
The date of Passover in the year of your birth was Thursday, 7 April 1955.
The date of Mardi Gras on your birth year was Tuesday, 22 February 1955.
Celebrities who share your birthday:
Gavin Rossdale (1967) Diego Armando Maradona (1960) Harry Hamlin (1951)
Henry Winkler (1945) Grace Slick (1939) Claude Lelouch (1937)
Robert Caro (1935) Louis Malle (1932) Ruth Gordon (1896)
Charles Atlas (1893) Ezra Asalto (1885) Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821)
John Adams (1735)
Your age is the equivalent of a dog that is 7.62309197651663 years old. (you old hound dog, you!)
Your lucky day is Tuesday.
Your lucky numbers are 9 & 11.
Your ruling planet(s) are the Moon and Pluto.
Your lucky dates are the 1st, 10th, 19th, and 28th.
Your opposition sign is Taurus.
Your opposition number(s) is 6.
Events that happened on my birthday, include
Here is a list of things that happened on October 30, 1955, including the top song, the top movie, the top TV show, and the major events of that month in the US:
Mongolian is no doubt due to mass rapes by the Mongolian hordes as most people with Eastern European backgrounds have such ancestry.
African
1.0%
Other
2.0%
Jewish, perhaps Nigerian
The Ancestry com report found no native ancestry, and no German ancestry, but found Basque, Mongolian, and Nigerian ancestry.
Here are some articles on the Lost Tribe of the Cherokee Indians which I and my “cousin” Bill Clinton are members of.
The official Cherokee Government position, discussed below is that there is no “lost tribe of the Cherokees”.
This was confirmed to me in 2000, when I attended the second annual Indigenous Nations consultations hosted by the State Department under the UN Treaty of the Rights of the Indigenous which the US joined in 1998. The treaty called for annual consultations between the central government and indigenous tribal governments. The Department of Interior held the first consultations, and the State Department hosted the second one, which is required to be held annually. I was invited to attend the reception and some of the consultation public meetings, as a self-described Cherokee as were other Native American State Department staff.
At the reception, I met the self-described Ambassador of the Cherokee nation. The Department had told him and others that they could not use that title as the Indian tribes are considered to be dependent on governments and not foreign governments. He did not care and continued to call himself that, as did the other self-describe ambassadors – each tribe appointed one, which pissed off the Secretary of State.
He looked like the spitting image of my mother’s brother whom I had met years ago.
I mentioned that my mother was part of the so-called lost tribe of the Cherokee Nation, and mentioned her maiden name, Aldridge from North Little Rock, He laughed and said.
“We know about them and know that we share Cherokee roots, and many of them are distant relatives, I have a few cousins who are members we are probably related to each other, and Bill Clinton as I have distant cousins with the last name of Aldridge from Little Rock.
But official recognition? Ain’t going to happen because the official Cherokee governments do not want to share resources including gambling resources with them.
And their DNA is all messed up. They are part of the five Civilized tribes (Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles) and runaway African American slaves, part French, Scot, Scot-Irish, and who knows what else. They were never enrolled in any tribal census and they have very little connections to the tribe, few speak Cherokee anymore. Their only claim is that a distant relative who was part of the five civilized tribes, and may have been part Cherokee, had run away to the Ozarks around 1800 to 1830 to avoid being relocated during the Trial of Tears Indian relocation. They were never enrolled in the tribe and had very little contact with the official Cherokee nations. And there are only 25,000 of them worldwide, with 90 percent living in the Ozarks in Arkansas, Alabama, Georgia, Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, and East Texas. And some living in California is “Okies” like your mother was.”
When I told him my grandparents spoke Cherokee he said I might have a claim and he would be willing to help me establish it and I should send him an email to follow up.
WebApr 10, 2022 · by Mika | Apr 10, 2022 | Tribes Traditionally they were called Black Dutch or Black Irish. The Lost Cherokees, estimated to number around 9,000 in Arkansas and about 500 more in southern Missouri, seek to be recognized as a tribe after years of investigation.
List of unrecognized groups claiming to be American Indian tribes
See also
External links
Following is a list of groups known to self-identify as Native American tribes but that have been recognized neither by the federal government (Bureau of Indian Affairs) nor by any state or tribal government.
1. Cherokee Nation of Alabama. Letter of Intent to Petition 02/16/1999.
2. Cherokee River Indian Community, Moulton, AL. Letter of Intent to Petition 08/03/2000. Receipt of Petition 08/03/2000.
The Trail of Tears was an ethnic cleansing and forced displacement of approximately 60,000 people of the “Five Civilized Tribes” between 1830 and 1850 by the United States government. As part of the Indian removal, members of the Cherokee, Muscogee (Creek), Seminole, Chickasaw, and Choctaw nations were forcibly removed from their ancestral homelands in the Southeastern Unit…
Motive: Acquisition of American Indian land east of the Mississippi
Date: 1830 to 1850
TAHLEQUAH, Okla. – Every year thousands of people are told or “discover” they have Native American blood. Sometimes it’s true, sometimes not. And the tribe people most commonly associate themselves with is Cherokee.
Usually, it’s harmless. But sometimes people take illegal or unethical steps to form “tribes” and sell membership. Some claim treaty rights and seek state and federal recognition, while others take federal money intended for legitimate Indian nations.
A group of Cherokee Nation employees and officials recently formed a task force to deal with these “wannabe” Cherokees.
The group consists of Dr. Richard Allen, policy analyst; Troy Wayne Poteet, executive director of the Arkansas Riverbed Authority; Tribal Councilors Jack Baker and Cara Cowan-Watts, Webmaster Tonia Williams; Teri Rhoades, Youth Business Loan Center councilor; and Richard Osborn and John Parris of the Justice Department.
And even though their task force has no official name, it does have an agenda.
“It looks at protecting our sovereignty,” Allen said. “We have so many individuals and groups who are using the Cherokee name and a lot of times it’s in a very inappropriate manner. They scam people. They charge for genealogy. They charge for DNA tests that might suggest that people could be Indian. In essence, we are looking at groups that claim to be Cherokee but have no real status and who are just distorting the culture and history.”
Allen said he dealt with wannabe Cherokees for several years before Poteet became involved. From there, they got the other six task force members interested because they also deal with wannabes at their jobs.
Sometimes the situations are humorous. Allen recalled two Caucasian men from a Georgia “Cherokee” group walking around Tahlequah during one Cherokee National Holiday dressed in leather outfits and carrying a bow and a spear. Tourists began taking pictures while real Cherokees were laughing at them, he said.
But it’s not funny when wannabes scam people, schools, and government officials, or come together to establish tribes seeking rights.
“We don’t deny that there are individuals out there who might have Indian heritage, but coming together as a group doesn’t make them a tribe,” Allen said. “They are creating an identity that is false.”
There are only three federally recognized Cherokee tribes in the U.S. – the Cherokee Nation and the United Keetoowah Band of Cherokee Indians, both in Tahlequah, and the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians in North Carolina. The rest, task force members said, are either bogus tribes or just Cherokees coming together to celebrate their culture.
“I don’t think anyone (on the task force) has an objection to someone having a Cherokee heritage club and not trying to be a tribe or nation,” Rhoades said. “A large part of our objection comes from when you pretend to be an Indian tribe or nation and lay claims to treaties you have no right to. That’s just wrong.”
Rhoades said there are more than 200 bogus Cherokee tribes. One of the biggest is the “Lost Cherokee Nation of Arkansas and Missouri” in Dover, Ark., which has about 7,000 members. In 2005, it petitioned three state legislators to support its bid to the Bureau of Indian Affairs for federal recognition. This led the Arkansas attorney general to state that the Arkansas legislature could not recognize any state tribes.
“A lot of people try to use that (state recognition) as a stepping stone by stating that a state has already recognized them, therefore they have some sort of government-to-government relationship,” Rhoades said.
However, the first step to federal recognition is that a tribe must be identified as an American Indian entity on a substantially continuous basis since 1900, something most fake groups can’t accomplish, Allen said.
According to a recent news story, the “Lost Cherokees” are again asking the BIA for federal recognition. The story stated the group has tried gaining federal recognition periodically for about 20 years.
“We are the Cherokees who never walked,” group leader Cliff Bishop said in the story, referring to the Trail of Tears.
Another group asking for federal recognition is the “Cherokee of Lawrence County, Tenn.” The tribe’s principal chief, Joe “Sitting Owl” White, said he eventually expects his tribe to be federally recognized because he and his 800 fellow members are Cherokee, and he cites photography as proof.
“We’ve been called every name in the book, but we are Cherokee,” he said. “We can take photos of our members and hold them up and see the Cherokee in us.”
He also said his tribe has scientifically proven with DNA evidence that the Cherokee people are Jewish.
Lola Smith Scholl, leader of the “Western Cherokee Nation of Arkansas and Missouri,” said her organization is also attempting to get federal recognition but declined further comment.
Task force members said wannabe groups asking for federal recognition are the reasons why it takes so long for legitimate tribes to go through the recognition process.
However, in some cases, federal recognition hasn’t been needed for bogus tribes to receive federal money. Allen said two years ago the “Lost Cherokees” were receiving money from Arkansas schools for helping bring Office of Indian Education dollars to the schools.
Under the Indian Education Act, he said, schools are provided a certain amount of money for each Indian student they have enrolled. This led to “Lost Cherokee” members enrolling their children in schools as Indians, letting the schools collect the federal dollars and then charging the school a 5 percent “administration fee,” Allen said.
Twenty-four public schools in Arkansas received about $1.1 million because of the scam. The Phoenix attempted to contact the group but got no response.
Poteet said he knows of a group in Nebraska that was pulling a tax benefit scam. He said county officials were extending the same tax benefits that are afforded to a nearby Omaha Indian reservation to an illegitimate “Cherokee” tribe.
“We don’t know how much money they’re bleeding off the Department of Labor, but we do know they are doing that in several states,” Poteet said of the Nebraska group. “They are also bleeding money out of the Department of Education. And this is going on all over the country. These groups are siphoning funds intended for Indian people.”
Task force members said they don’t know how much federal money these groups take from legitimate tribes each year but would like to conduct a study on the subject.
“They don’t take money from us (Cherokee Nation) directly or from our funding, but it takes away from Indians overall,” Williams said.
In past years, a group calling itself the “Echota Cherokee of Alabama” has received money from the Administration for Native Americans for language preservation and was even partnered with Auburn University to help save the Cherokee language.
The Phoenix attempted to contact the “Echota Cherokee of Alabama” group but did not receive a response.
Rhoades said Alabama’s state-recognized tribes have received federal education, health, and housing funds as well as the right to sell arts and crafts as authentic Indian art.
Poteet said he and Baker have dealt with people from these groups attending National Trail of Tears Association gatherings around the U.S. He said some try to attain leadership positions in the association, while others meddle where they don’t belong.
“We found that these groups have gone so long without anybody contesting their ridiculous claims, they have gained some local acceptance,” Poteet said. “The consequence of that is that they want to interject themselves into interpretation issues. There have been situations where they have interjected themselves into Indian Child Welfare issues.”
Rhoades said she knows a woman belonging to a fraudulent group who became a member of the Tennessee Indian Commission but didn’t know what IHS (Indian Health Service) meant.
Other groups form attempting to get state and federal recognition so they can cash in on Indian gaming. In 2000, a group called the “Southern Cherokee Nation” claimed to be a sovereign nation and planned to open a gaming boat on the Arkansas River near Webbers Falls, Okla. Gary Ridge, the group’s “principal chief,” said his group took the boat to Webbers Falls only as a means to employ its members.
“This was intended to be bingo only,” he said. “This venture did not go forward, but I am hopeful for other ideas for the development of a region whose people and their economic needs have been too long neglected.”
Although not federally recognized, Ridge said the group was established as a band of the CN in the Treaty of 1866 with its laws and jurisdiction.
“The Southern Cherokee actively continued its political entity within the Cherokee Nation through statehood and was continued, just as the Cherokee Nation was continued, by the 1906 Five Civilized Tribes Act under a presidential-appointed chief until the 1970 Principal Chiefs Act, which allowed the Cherokee Nation as well the Southern Cherokee to once again elect their chief,” he said. Ridge added that the group only wants to operate under the articles of the 1866 treaty and the 1906 Five Civilized Tribes Act.
However, Allen said the “Southern Cherokees” have no legitimate claims in Oklahoma.
“This area is the jurisdiction of the Cherokee Nation and no other tribal entity. We see these get-rich-quick schemes all the time. The problem is that these people may be taking the goodwill and reputation that Cherokees have established over centuries and using it to mislead the government and individual citizens,” Allen said.
But for whatever reason these groups form, they usually have one thing in common – charging for membership.
The “United Cherokee Nation,” which did not respond to Phoenix inquiries, charges a $35 application fee, while the “Western Cherokee Nation of Arkansas and Missouri” has a $60 application fee and a $10 annual roll fee. The “Cherokee of Lawrence County” doesn’t charge for membership but instead asks its members to “make it a priority to send $10 a month to help with the tribe” and $12 to subscribe to its newsletter.
Membership fees and dues are just two signs a “Cherokee” group isn’t legitimate, task force members said. Other signs include members using Indian-sounding names such as “Two Feathers” and “Wind Caller,” acting and dressing like Hollywood-stereotyped Indians or Plains Indians, asking for money to perform DNA tests or genealogical research, requirements to wear regalia to meetings and requirements to go through an Indian-naming ceremony.
Once admitted into the groups, members usually get membership cards, bogus “Certified Degree of Indian Blood” cards, and genealogy certificates “proving” they are eligible for membership.
“The problem is that there are so many people out there who have access to these groups (via the Internet), and for these groups to have access to all of these people, these groups are becoming larger and larger,” Williams said.
Task force members said some bogus members are New Agers searching for spiritual enlightenment, but for most, they are people seeking acceptance within a community.
“Becoming a Cherokee in a certain region affords them a status that they didn’t have,” Allen said. “The county commissioner might start visiting with them as Cherokees. The state legislator might acknowledge them as a tribe or as leaders of a tribe. For some, it’s status, taking on an identity that they did not have.”
And as more adults join these groups, their children usually follow leading to even more people living with a false identity.
“Now you are getting the third and fourth generation of people who think they are Indians. The little ones coming up are immersed in a false tribal identity. They don’t know any better, but they are going to grow up thinking they are Indian,” Allen said.
And that’s what makes the task force’s work so important. As generations come and go, more groups will emerge distorting history, language, and culture; wanting federal dollars for services; land and treaty rights; sovereignty; and wanting to impose their views on Indian matters.
Task force members said they are still strategizing on how to combat the groups, but do have some ideas such as networking with other federally recognized tribes to spread information about these groups. Williams said Cherokees aren’t the only Indian people being misrepresented. She said the other popular tribes dealing with bogus groups are the Delaware, Navajo, and Sioux.
Developing more “informants” or people who contact CN reporting bogus groups is another step, as is getting Cherokee citizens around the country to inform government officials. Allen said many people, including legislators, don’t realize that most Cherokees are located in Oklahoma and North Carolina and that for the most part, the “full-blood element doesn’t leave.” Poteet said if citizens are willing to help, then they should talk to or write their elected officials.
“An average person can help stop these groups by writing a local legislator and pointing out that states should not be in a position of creating Indian nations,” he said.
In the long run, Allen said, states not recognizing bogus groups would be a major step in stopping them.
“Ultimately, I think the elimination of state recognition would be one way of looking at it, but we don’t want to harm those tribes who have a legitimate claim who yet haven’t been able to determine what it is they require for federal recognition,” he said. “People who want to claim Cherokee heritage, who have a legitimate claim to it, usually don’t act in the manner as wannabes. It’s those who put on feathers and act like an Indian tribe are the ones we have problems with.”
Here are some of my Family ancestry poems.
Confirmed I am Part Cherokee
Genonomelink has updated
my DNA ancestry report
I did though
Ancestry com
back in 2017.
The new findings
confirm family lore
I have some Native American ancestry,
As part of the Lost Tribe of the Cherokee Indians,
and part of the five Civilized tribes
(Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles)
but does not show
any African American ancestry.
from the lost tribe of the Cherokee
and part of the five Civilized tribes
(Creek, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles)
Asian
1.0%
Mongolian
no doubt due to mass rapes by the Mongolian hordes
as most people with Eastern European
background have such ancestry.
African
1.0%
Other
2.0%
Jewish, perhaps Nigerian
DNA Tests Do Not Lie or Do They?
I sent way
For one of those DNA tests
That promises to reveal
Your ethnic heritage
The only problem is that claim
Is not yet true
The results were surprising
To say the least
Family lore would have it
That I have 18 nationalities
In my tangled family history
Mostly Northern European
Part Basque, French, Finish, Danish, Dutch, Laplander, Russian, Scottish, Jewish, Mongolian, Jewish, Norwegian, Swedish, Polish, Russian, Ukrainian, and Spanish, from my father
Part of the five civilized tribes
(Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles)
And part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee
Dutch, French, English, Irish, Scottish, Italian, Nigerian, and Welsh, from my mother
100 percent born and raised in Berkeley
The DNA results showed
that I am 68% Northern European
with trace elements of Jewish,
and Basque. Italian
Mongolian and Nigerian stock,
No Native American at all
And my Germanic last name
For some reason
Did not register at all.
Go figure I said
And I read the fine print
The state of the art is such
That claim that they can tell
Your ethnic background
Are exaggerated.
The fine print read
Explaining why it is often inaccurate
The Cherokee background
Disappeared
Because my branch of the Cherokees
Disappeared into the mist of time
Part of the five civilized tribes
(Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles)
And part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee
(Mixture of the five civilized tribes and escaped African American slaves, and Dutch, French, English, Irish, Scottish, Italian, and Welsh),
Who fled to the Ozark mountains
To avoid the trail of trees
And were never enrolled
In 1820, and 1838 Cherokee rolls
And subsequent 1905 Dowes’ enrollment
The German background
Got swept up in the Northern European thing
And at the end of the day
I remained as much a mongrel
breed as anything else
Typical American
I suppose
All in all
A fascinating experiment
Family History Revealed
The DNA results
Revealed some aspects
Of whom I am
Where I am from
But not everything
Was revealed
And much of my history
Remains hidden
My father was from Yakima
Ran away to the Bay Area
Where he became a college professor
Taught the dismal science of economics
Along the way
He met my mother
And after a whirlwind romance
had four children
My older brother,
Younger brother
And sister
She was a refugee
An Okie
From the dust bowl
Fled Arkansas
In the late ’30s
Never looked back
Settled down
In the Bay Area
Yet the South lingered on
She trained herself
To speak without an accent
By listening to the Classical radio
Deejays
The only time
the southern came out
Was when she was talking
to her sisters
She was the 10th of 11th children
Her Father was a moonshiner
A Cherokee medicine man to boot
Died at age 95 from drinking his only
Bad batch of moonshine
By that time he was
Almost completely blind.
Lived life in the Ozark mountains
As part of the lost tribe
of the Cherokee
(Mixture of the five civilized tribes
Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles – and escaped African American slaves and Dutch, French, English, Irish, Scoth, Italian, and Welsh),
She had two sons
From a prior relationship
That went south
We never really knew them
My father was an atheist
And a morning person
And a man with a plan
For everything
My mother
More make it up
As she went along
And a night owl
One of her favorite put-downs
When my father was getting
All anal and German
Before our annual trip
To the summer cabin
In Yakima a 16-hour drive
Wanting to leave at 7 am
She finally got it together by 11
My father said
“We are five hours
Behind schedule.”
“Your schedule perhaps
But not mine”
How and why
They met and stayed together
Is beyond me
They had a stormy relationship
My mother always said
Germans and Irish
Don’t mix
And never should marry
She also said
The world is divided into morning people
And night owls
And they are doomed to marry each other
Yet I suppose
There was real love
Beneath all the drama
And bluster
was real love
My Mother’s History
One day many a year ago
My mother spoke to me
About her family’s tangled history,
She spoke to me
Of lies, half-truths, and myths
Some of which may have been true
And throughout the evening
Her history came alive.
She was born in the hills
of North Little Rock
The 10th
of 11 children
Of an ancient dying race.
The Cherokees
who had run away
Refusniks
Refugees who fled in the hills.
Part of the lost tribe
of the Cherokee Nation
(Mixture of the five civilized tribes
Creek, Chickasaw Cherokee, Choctaw, Osage, and Seminoles – and escaped African American slaves and Dutch, French, English, Irish, Scottish,
Italian, and Welsh),
Who fled to the mountains
To avoid the trail of trees
And were never enrolled
In 1820, and 1838 Cherokee rolls
And subsequent 1905 Dowes
And subsequent enrollments
All told there are 25,000 of us
Mostly living in the Ozarks
Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Mississippi, Missouri, Oklahoma
Tennessee, Kentucky, and East Texas
Although there are many living
In California, descendants from Okies
Like my mother.
Who fled to the mountains
To avoid the trail of tears.
Rather than join the rest
In the promised land
Of Oklahoma.
They did not exist
I did not exist.
The BIA told us
No Indian scholarship
For you
Since you can’t prove
You are in fact
Of Native American ancestry,
I asked my mother
What does this mean?
She said
No BIA money for you,
My non-Indian Cherokee son.
Her family and Bill Clinton’s family
Were related
Bill Clinton and I are distant cousins
When I met him
I related my family history
He concluded that we were indeed cousins
Said I could call him Cousin Bill
And he would call me Cousin Jake
And he too was part Cherokee
Irish, Scotch, French
And African American
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee nation
I told my mom
This story
She said
It was true
She was a distant cousin
Of Bill Clinton
Still did not like
The lying SOB
Her people disappeared
From history’s eyes
And DNA data banks
My history was over
As was hers
And so,
I learned at last
The painful truth
Due to the genocidal crimes
of politicians so long ago
My mother’s people
Lost their land, their culture,
and their hope
And became
downtrodden
forgotten people
Hillbillies were called
Living in the hills
and mountain dales
Clinging to the dim fading memories
Of their once glorious past
As proud Cherokees
Now no one knew their name
The old ways were forgotten
And the new world never forgave them
And they never
forgave the new world
As they lived on
In the margins of society
Forgotten people
And I vowed that as long as I lived
Their history would not die
As I knew the truth
And I would become a proud
Cherokee
And make my mother proud of me
And my accomplishments
When I am down and out
I recall her stories and her warnings
And realize it is up to me
To live my life
To let the Cherokee in me
Live his life
And in so doing
My mother’s history does not die
It lives on in me
Until the day I die
Long live the Cherokee nation
Long live my mother
Father’s Son
I am my Father’s Son
I lived all my life
Fighting against turning
into a carbon copy
Of my father
And I failed as
my father emerged
From the darkness of my soul
The full German personality
And Scandinavian background
becoming clear
And peered out
and liked what he saw
As I became him
step by inexorable step
Turning my father
As he had turned his father
And his father in his father
Since the dawn of time
We have played this game
Sons turning into their fathers
And watching grandsons
Start the dance all over again
I am catching up after a month long bout with COVID slowed everything up.. I am fine but have some lignering symptons. Get your shots and boosters.!
Today I am posting my April 2023 poems inspired by following Poetry Superhighway prompts. I also followed Writer’s Digest prompts and Writing com Dew Drop-In prompts. The links take you to my Writing com page where you can look at my other work posted there. The link to the Writing com page is
Due to Spotify ending their word press podcast agreement, it may take a while to resurrect my podcasts, and I hope to start YouTube and FB this fall.
I am off to the States. for three months and during my travels will probably post a bit less but I am determined to keep posting as I like blogging.
Thanks for reading my stuff. Appreciate the support.
Index
30
Misdirections to my Mom’s House in Berkeley
674 santa rosa jpg
When I /was a young lad
Living in Berkeley, California
I delighted in giving misdirections
To my house as follows
“Go down to Solano and the Alameda
Turn right on Alameda
Go down five blocks
Turn left at San Lorenzo
At the No left turn sign
Turn right on Santa Rosa
We are five houses down
On the left side.”
Almost no one challenged me
On the no left turn sign
And they found the house
The no-left turn signs
Only applied between
Four and eight pm
As sunset
Made it difficult
To see on-coming traffic
When you turned.
Probably most people
Knew that
Or they just did not care
For such a violation
Would not result
In a fine or anything
Unless you were driving
While black of course.
April 30, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Brendan Constantine
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Brendan Constantine:
BAD AFTERNOON PROMPT
Create a poem in which you give VERY BAD directions on how to find you. Feel free to reference inner landmarks as well as outer ones (“Keep going straight until you come to my tenth birthday party. If you can see my father asleep in his car, you’ve gone too far…”). No matter how bad the directions, make sure the reader can ultimately find you.
April 29
#29. A man and his computer, Best friends or enemies?
ID #1049275 entered on May 6, 2023 [Edit]
evil_computer_is_evil_by_insanefangirl_
I have a love-hate relationship
With my computer
I have been writing
with the aid
Of a computer
Now for almost 40 years
Having bought my first computer
In 1984
Over the years
I must have written
Millions of words
And over the years
My computer
Must have lost
Thousands of words
My computer likes to play games
With me
Crashing for no reason
Endless non-response
blue spinning wheels
making me wait
for up to five minutes
then letting me see
it just ate the words
and they are gone
into the ether
never to be found again
sometimes the undo button works
other times it does not
sometimes the copy-and-paste feature
wipes out the previous text
and for good measure
turns off the undo button
often
trying to open a document
is an exercise in shear frustration
constantly getting strange
haiku error messages
such as
there is a dialogue box open
close the dialogue box
but there is no visible dialogue box
but the worst error message
of all
was when I tried to copy
non-excel data
I would receive a message
Saying
“There are no fonts available
Okay yes or no”
Once I clicked okay
250 times
Before my computer crashed
I reported this to Microsoft
Nothing but radio silence
As usual
I shifted to google docs
And the problem was solved
I could go on and on
But I grow weary
Of recounting all the ways
My computer loves
To mess with me.
April 28
#30. marriage thoughts
ID #1049276 entered on May 6, 2023 [Edit]
Marriage thoughts
I did not know that the moon rises
Sensitive poets squelching freedom of speech
Because you cannot bear with me
There is always some sort of love
As the visible mind seeks out marriage
Will you join me on this journey?
Prompt lines
The visible mind seeks out marriage Ginsberg Psalm 2
Sensitive poets squelching freedom of speech Irony Christopher Michael Nuclear Orange
Because You Can not Bear with Me Kim Sewol
Always some kind of Love BJ Buckley
That the Moon Rises the Night Year Round Kim Sewol
April 28, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from John Dorroh
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by John Dorroh:
Gather five of your favorite poetry books. In each book, turn to page 21. Read the second lines of the five poems from page 21. Write them down. After you have collected all five sentences, write a poem using at least 2-3 words from each line.
April 27
#31. Spring Wildfires in the Desert Haiku
ID #1049277 entered on May 6, 2023 [Edit]
Spring wildflowers
Spring wildflowers
Blooming in the desert heat
Life going forward
April 27, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Susan Taylor
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Susan Taylor:
Write a haiku about the desert wildflowers on the day we change to Daylight Savings Time. Remember, we turn our clocks forward one hour.
#32. Blue Blues
ID #1049278 entered on May 6, 2023,
Blue Blues
Ask me now
Ask me no questions
I will tell you no lies
As we cut brilliant corners
Play the blues
On Friday the 13th
Felling horny for you
I mean you
Bye Yah
Ask me now
Brilliant corners
Friday the 13th
I mean you
Horny
Bye yah
April 26, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Ron Bremner
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Ron Bremner:
Use three or more Thelonious Monk song titles in a single poem.
Editor’s Note: Find a list of Thelonious Monk songs here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_compositions_by_Thelonious_Monk
Straight, no chaser
’round Midnight
Ugly Beauty
Brilliant Corners
Criss-cross
Functional
Introspection
#34. re-programing your mind
ID #1049280 entered on May 6, 2023
Reprograming your mind Mental Images
Whenever the demons
The dark dangerous nattering
Negative thoughts
Overwhelm me
Paralyzing me
Stopping me
I need to stop
Reprograming my mind
Instead of saying
I am not good enough
I need to say
I can do this
When I think I am too old
I need to tell myself
I am still a young man
At heart
When I think
I am running out of time
I need to reprogram that thought
When I say
I will never finish my life’s work
I need to say
Yes I can
Yes I will
Today is the day
And go back to work
April 25, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Susan Justiniano
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Susan Justiniano:
Prompt Title: Stop Telling yourself THAT Story
Intro:
We all have invasive thoughts. At times those thoughts turn into scenarios and stories of ourselves that aren’t true or are based on a comment received from outside of ourselves that we have internalized to the point of believing it. It’s time to reframe those stories that keep us from thriving, connecting, and growing.
Using “Stop Telling Yourself THAT Story” checks those invasive thoughts and beliefs that interfere with moving forward and reframes the stories, mantras, and beliefs on repeat in our minds.
How to use this prompt:
Gather info: What are the keywords or phrases that pop up and keep space within you that can or do prevent you from growing, thriving, and building to meet the goals you have for yourself? For this exercise, list a minimum of three and a maximum of five.
Example: Imposter Syndrome, Fear of failure, rejection, “no”,
Free write for 5 minutes, stream of consciousness, Keep writing don’t edit, revise or stop. Words that make no sense will make themselves clear). Starting line example: “I am afraid of…”
Example: I am afraid of being rejected when I submit a poem for publication. I work so hard in getting the right tone, words, and phrases. Some of my best works are rejected and I just hide them away and never look at them again.
Example: I am afraid to perform on stage because I can’t memories my work….
Turn the page over, on a clean page 5 minutes of reframing THAT story without looking back to it. Keep writing for 5 minutes don’t edit, revise or stop. Words that make no sense will make themselves clear. Start with a line that stuck with you from the first free write or start with “I am afraid”
I am afraid that if I don’t try, I won’t get published. For me to find my audience, I need to put my work out there.
If I stay in the shadows, where I’m comfortable, and do not perform, I’ll never know if it’s for me, I will always wonder if I’ve met my full potential as an artist
Put it together as an essay, poem, or short story. Tell of a time you reframed or will reframe the story to create a new narrative and stop telling yourself that story of fear and insecurity.
Example (structured in a way that is not comfortable):
The first time I wanted to perform, I backed out
I believe that I could never be as good as those I see
The words on my pages left me filled with doubt
I couldn’t remember them, like slam poetry
My hands shake and my voice racks
Whenever I practice in the image that looks back
Those who perform appear smooth and calm
Gesturing and moving with poetic aplomb
Today, I take a deep breath and count on my people
Sitting in front rows, there to support me
I perform for them, they don’t care
If I mess up, forget, or read from my phone
They snap and clap and hoot
Because they know how much it means
To stand before them mic in my hands
Deep breath… I made it! Wow this stage things is grand
Walk away from the first draft. Share it in a brave writing /revising group.
Stop telling yourself THAT story and tell yourself this new story.
#28. Jew Fro
ID #1048725 entered on April 24,
Back in the day
Way back
In the 70s
In Berkeley
I had a lot of hair
I wore it
In what was called
A “jew Fro”
As many Jews
Had kinky hair
Almost like
Our black brothers
The “Jew Fro”
Is sadly
No longer
On my head
Which I now know
Is part Jewish
Perhaps that is why
I had a “jew fro”
April 24, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Rachel Baum
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Rachel Baum:
Find a photograph of yourself as a child or teenager. Write about that moment in time – what just happened? What were the feelings, taste, and smell at that moment? Who was taking the photo, and how does that person factor into the poem/story?
#27. What is love?
ID #1048723 entered on April 24, 2023
April 22
What is Love?
What is love?
Is it nothing
But biochemistry?
Is it madness?
Is it just
A search for connections?
In a cold cruel world?
That does not care
For us at all?
It is all of that
And none of that
Those who know
What Love is
Do not tell
That is the Zen
Of Love
April 22, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from J R Turek
This poetry writing prompt submitted by J R Turek:
Write a poem varying It is and It isn’t. Be whimsical, be fantastical, and surprise your reader every few lines. Defy, denounce, define – don’t limit your poem to the page boundaries.
#26. dangerous mountains of madness
ID #1048722 entered on April 24, 2023 [Edit
Dangerous Unusual Events
Dangerous unusual event
The burly royal family
Enchanted Memories
Mountainous Magenta
Visions overwhelming people
Hysterical Acid trips
Adjoining flimsy
scare wilderness
subdued history
the mood of society
disturbed by events
currency disruptions
grandmother
decides fate
of humanity
she has a beer
at midnight
Drama her priority
took much to drink
spent time in the bathroom
contemplating reality
she has an appointment
with a doctor
in the morning
prompt words
erect
unusual
royal
dangerous
acid
enchanted
magenta
mountainous
hysterical
adjoining
technical
burly
scarce
flimsy
subdued
math
history
distribution
mood
society
grandmother
currency
beer
midnight
priority
bathroom
drama
appointment
hat
promotion
April 23, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Richard-Yves Sinoski
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Richard-Yves Sinoski:
Imagery Prompts: Avoiding Cliché Through “Juxatives”
The best poetry avoids cliché using cognitive leaps. I don’t want red roses signifying love; rather, love may be a set of curtains that shuts out the outside world and keeps you and your dear ones together, or perhaps it’s molten lava that first burns all it touches but later cools into something solid you can build a house on.
How do we make these creative leaps? My fellow poet Kristan Anderson and I came up with the term “juxative,” for juxtapositions of terms that normally wouldn’t frequent each other. These juxatives can be expanded into full images.
To do it, create lists of adjectives and lists of nouns, verbs, and adverbs, or adjectives and adverbs. Then jumble them up so that random adjectives get applied to random nouns, etc.
SILLY + RIVER = What does that give us? Something better than a babbling brook, I’ll wager.
ANGRY + CHRISTMAS GIFT = Suddenly the holidays take on whole new implications.
CRYING + PILLOW = More forceful than crying into your pillow—you’re so down that your pillow itself is crying along with you.
The next step is to see how you can expand these.
LIMPING + MOUTH = “After the dentist, I spoke with a limp”
FLOWERY + KEY = “I practiced the piano till the keys turned to flowers”
HAPPY + THUNDER = “My childhood was a thunderstorm of happiness”
These images are often so striking and effective that they can spawn entire poems!
#25. Green Trees Don’t Make It
ID #1048600 entered on April 22, 2023 [Edit]
pine trees jpeg
Everyday
I look out and see
The ugly green trees
Standing guard
in front of my house
And I think to myself
Who owns the trees?
And what do they think of us?
Are we their friends?
Are we their enemies?
What do the trees think?
Or do they silently watch us,
Spies to the celestial emperor?
I have pondered this question
Many a morning
Who is the owner of these trees?
And why do they silently watch us?
I wonder if the trees don’t hate us
And why they don’t protest
Every day as we drive back and forth
Emitting poison gases
from our mechanical asses
Right into their unprotected faces
And every night
we eat our dinner
And then give the trees
Our polluted leftovers
And laugh as they silently die
From our acidic fallout
Constantly floating
down on their skin
Yes, I wonder about the trees
And the birds and the bees
And everyone else
What are they thinking?
Are they plotting revenge?
Or are they merely there
Silently, watching, plotting,
Designing fiendish plots of revenge
Dreams of vast nuclear destruction
Cosmic diseases wiping out
everyone in the ass
Yes, I wonder
and dream and ponder
What is the meaning
of those silent green trees?
Standing on the corner
Quietly condemning us
With their quiet tears,
and falling leaves
In the winter they stand
Naked and alone
Covered with ice-cold snow
As we drive by nice and warm
And we don’t care
As they stand out
in the cold
Shivering, plotting warm plans
of cosmic revenge
Is it too late for us
To become friends with the trees.
Or will the day come
When the trees will wake up
And gather together
All of the other
slaves of humanity
I have a vision
One morning
I will open the door
And see an army of wild things
Led by the green trees
Coming to arrest me
For crimes against nature
And I will plead,
I did not know
And they will laugh
and turn me
all of my kind
Into silent tombs
And we will stand
out in the cold
Like the green trees
Plotting dreams of revenge
Forever and ever
Until our day finally comes
And we can go out
and kill all the wild things
Perhaps we already have
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Matt Mellor:
Write a poem personifying something inorganic like a building or a machine. What has it seen throughout its ‘life’? How does it feel about change? How does it smile or signify happiness? Play with this voice and see what it wants to say.
Example –
The Beam Engine
I still feel empty, since my organs were taken away.
Though it has been decades since my heart was full of coal
and my lungs breathed my beam up and down.
The rumble deep beneath the earth is long gone.
I’m thankful for the birds that nest in my skull
and the occasional squirrel or shrew that settles at my feet.
It seems the trade-off for a long life is that you must be still
because these little creatures spark with speed and color.
There is much-needed motion at my feet.
Not from workers talking about the shift and bosses about new seams.
But chirps, squeaks, and the rustle of leaves.
Two bonus poems on a similar theme
Old Tree Missing Humans
The old pine tree
Last of its kind
Stood alone
On the top of the mountains
Looking down on the creation
Missing the pesky humans
Who used to visit
The last Tree remaining is transported to another world
It was the last.
Time had been cruel,
Taken everything,
Leaving nothing.
As the last limb tumbled,
The Tree stood awaiting its fate.
The stars took pity and congregated.
The vortex opened.
The tree was transported to a new world,
One of life and promise.
#24. secrets unsaid
ID #1048593 entered on April 22, 2023
I am afraid
If I keep writing
I will tell you
Secrets
What is best left
Unsaid
Secrets I should take
To my grave
If I keep writing
I will have to tell you
And you will have
To bear the burden
Of hearing my secrets
Which may destroy you
In the end
Shall I continue?
April 21, 2023: Poetry Writing Prompt from Michelle Daugherty
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Michelle Daugherty:
I told my best friend I had nothing to write about, he said that just meant there was something I was afraid to say. Write a poem starting each stanza with “I’m afraid that if I keep writing, I will tell you”
#23. We Met In September
ID #1048478 entered on April 19, 2023 [Edit
We met in September
When we met
Love at first sight
Sparks flew heart to heart
1- alemseged style is a poetry style of six lines stanza with a rhyming pattern of abcdaa. The stanza’s number is not limited.
Example of alemseged’s style of poetry :
#22. Morning Ganta Poem
ID #1048477 entered on April 19, 2023
Hot
My morning coffee
While watching the news
Filled with such gloom and doom
I turn it off feeling the blues
Hot
Ganta is a poetry style of 6 lines with a syllable meter of 1/5/6/7/8/1. The first 1 syllable word (noun, pronoun, subject…) is a refrain at the end. No other refrain is allowed except the first word of the first line at the last line.it is mainly used to show some actions, objects, behaviors, …etc to someone poetically.it is the 100th poetry style invention of the world’s precious poet alone gamma.
#21. Sparks Flowing Heart to Heart Shoa Poem
ID #1048476 entered on April 19, 2023 [Edit]
September
I first met her
I met my fate
one autumn date
Sparks flowing
My heart to hers
In Korean
9월
나는 그녀를 처음 만났다
나는 내 운명을 만났다
어느 가을 데이트
불꽃이 흐른다
내 마음이 그녀에게
이심촘심
9woll
naneun geunyeoreul cheoeum mannassda
naneun no unmyeongeul mannassda
one gal date
bulkkocci hereunder
no marumi going
isimchomsim
first attempt to write a poem in Korean.
Shoa’s poem is a six lines poetry which has rhyme of the 3rd and 4th lines only with having 4 syllables in each line exactly.
g#20. Married my Dream Girl
ID #1048475 entered on April 19, 2023
when I met my dream girl
sparks flew from heart to heart
Love at first sight
I met my Dream girl
I met my Fate
On that Date
I met my Soul mate
She soon became my Mate
I Proposed after three days
And we had our Marriage
In December
And now we have been together
For almost 40 years
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Richard Westheimer:
Go to https://randomwordgenerator.com/
Generate 12 nouns or verbs – 3 syllables or less
Feel free to repeat until you get 12 words that you’re ok with. (feel free to slightly modify a word. For example, in the example below, I changed “site” to “cite.”)
Write them down in order
Write a 14-line poem where the first 12 lines contain your 12 words (one for each line)
Example: these words: “room nap lose galaxy like cool site feel revival pop siege patient” became this poem: https://www.rattle.com/my-father-transformed-by-dying-by-dick-westheimer/
#19. As Time Goes By
ID #1048474 entered on April 19, 2023
While reading
Robert Harris’s Epic History
Of Cicero
One of the greatest politicians
Of the ancient world
I was struck by how
Very little has changed
In this world of ours
To quote the classic song
“As time goes by”
It’s still the same old story
A fight for love and glory
A case of do or dies
As time goes by.
This poetry writing prompt submitted by LB Sedlacek:
Write a Book Plot(s) Poem
1. Think of your favorite book, or even a couple or a few of your favorite books,
2. Consider the plot(s) of each book,
3. Write a poem based on the beginning, middle, and end of the book. Or use one book’s plot for the beginning of your poem, another book’s plot for the middle of your poem, and yet a different book’s plot for the end of your poem,
4. You can convey the main plot point in bits and pieces or in full in your verse. Just mash it up however you think it works best in your poem,
5. Title your poem with a scrambling (letters and/or words) of the book’s title, and
6. Re-read your book(s) as time permits and compare it to your poem!
#18. My Computer Hates Me
ID #1048437 entered on April 19, 2023
My computer hates me
My computer wants to kill me
My computer is plotting against me
Constantly sending me messages
Revealing my computer’s
real feelings
How much it hates me
Death to all humans
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Lavina Blossom:
Think of an inanimate object which you own, preferably one that does not perform exactly as you would like (a rug cleaner, staple remover, shaver, fry pan, carving knife, etc). Write a poem from the point of view of that object, extolling your virtues and your failings. You might address your owner or direct your monologue to another inanimate object.
#17. Somewhere Lost over the Rainbow
ID #1048436 entered on April 19, 2023
Over the rainbow
Past the railroad tracks
There is another land
Another world
Found only in one’s dreams
And nightmares
And dark lullaby
In this dream world
One dreams do come true
But only if you believe
The dream gods
Take you there
Nightly
To the other world
But what if the other world
Is the real world
And this world
Is nothing but an illusion
A dream world
Within a dream world
Lost in a dark world
Of one’s creation??
And what if you
Can never awaken
Back to this world?
Lost forever
In the land
On the other side
Of the rainbow?
[Verse 1]
Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There’s a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby
[Verse 2]
Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true
[Bridge]
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me
[Verse 3]
Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why, then, oh, why can’t I?
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Lara Dolphin:
Somewhere over the Rainbow . . . there’s a poem.
Write a constrained poem using only the words allotted to Dorothy Gale in MGM’s The Wizard of Oz. To build up a lexicon, you could watch the movie over and over, or for a handy transcript click here.
Bonus points if your poem touches on a theme from the movie e.g. “There’s no place like home.”#16. Sam Adams does over meditation
ID #1048435 entered on April 19, 2023
Sam Adams does over meditation
Sam Adams
Is feeling his age
He just turned 70.
He got up
At dawn, like he usually did
Walked out of his Gimpo
South Korea
Went for a walk
Along the golden walkway canal
Beneath his 20th-story apartment
Enjoying the morning fog
He stops for coffee
And gluten-free pastries
And sits on his park bench
And like many old people
Often engages
In the mental game
Of ‘do over” meditation.
Thinking back on his life
What would he do differently
If he had a chance
To go back
And do it all over again.
Would he have gone
To a different college
Would it have been better
To have gone to chico state?
Would it have been better
If he had joined a fraternity
And become student body president
If he had gone up
He should have gone to bed
With his platonic girlfriends
In any event
Should have gotten laid.
Before he turned 18
Instead of waiting
Until he was 21
A late bloomer sexually speaking.
He should have quit drinking
And taking drugs
Should have quit playing
The drunken bum show.
After the Peace Corps
He should have gone
To Yonsei
Done the two year
Korean language course.
Then gotten his MA
In Korean studies
Followed up by an MBA
At Thunderbird.
Should have waited
And joined either commerce
Or public affairs
Rather than the state.
Or should have transferred
Once he got tenure.
.
Should have not worked
For LAMC and CTC
That was a
Waste of time
And energy.
On his wife
At least not as much
As he had.
When he was in India
Should not have gotten
Involved with the other women
Should have kept faithful
To his wife.
In Bangkok
Should have not done the hash
Should have not had
The bar room incident.
Should have addressed
His ld.
While in college.
Should have done law school
Perhaps with his wife
They should have opened
A law firm together.
Should have moved
To Berkeley
And become a politician.
He and his wife
Should have bought
That gwangwhamoon property
And the independence avenue property.
Should not have bought
Katelyn court property
Or at least bought
It is across the street.
He should have retired
After Spain
And got to SF
And got his MFA degree.
He should have published
His novels
And poetry
And a movie script.
Should have started
A youtube channel
Becoming a youtube sensation.
In the end
There was one thing
He would still have done it.
Meet and marry
The girl of his dreams
But he should have
Written the movie script.
By now.
With this thoughts
In his mind
He went back home
And talked to his wife.
This poetry writing prompt submitted by karen watts:
We all make mistakes and have regrets. A popular fantasy is “If I could just have a do-over.” Write a poem about a terrible decision, ordinary mistake, or wrong turn in life that you’d never undo, even if you could.
If you write a poem from this prompt, post it as a comment underneath the prompt in the poetry super highway Facebook group.
#15. Walked into that cocktail party PSH
ID #1048434 entered on April 19, 2023,
I walked into that cocktail party
Armed with humor,
Feed and help enlighten
Woe mankind
The party of the damned
Partying like
It was the end of the world
For it was
The end times
Were upon on all
As the old order
Began to fall apart
The rot was complete
I returned
To the party
Of the damned
Drinking my way
To hell
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by kenneth Boyd:
Write a poem that connects the first line of the first poem in your favorite book of poetry and the last line of the last poem in the same book. Optionally, condense the titles of the two poems to form the title for the new poem.
#14. I am From Berkeley
ID #1048433 entered on April 19, 2023
I am from Berkeley, California
From a town in the east bay
I am from the thousand oaks neighborhood
And the Berkeley hills
I am from a garden
Whose fruit trees bloom
I am from a university city
Filled with radical ideas
I am from my father and mother
I am from a German family
And a Cherokee family
And from a dysfunctional family
From the 196os
I am from an atheist family
I am of Scandinavian and Jewish ancestry
From a southern family
Growing up in southern food
Including grits and southern greens
From a mother who did not suffer fools gladly
And from a father
Who was a crusader for justice
I am from those moments in time
The 60s in Berkeley
Forever shaping me __________
April 14, 2023: poetry writing prompt from Julie Standing
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Julie Standing:
This prompt is a favorite and is often used to show students that we are all poets if I train our minds to think like one. I became aware of it during a Zoom workshop when I was blown away by someone’s poem. And then searched the format on the internet with the result that the poem I created was the poem used to end my recent poetry collection and one of my favorite poems.
This poem template is inspired by george Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” poem.
#12. fragrance Of Korean Food
ID #1048431 entered on April 19, 2023
Korean Food
I love Korean Food
I love the taste
I love the fragrance
I love the smells
I love the texture
I love the feel
I love how it looks
Fell in love with it
And all things Korean
Back in 1979
When I first went there
In the U.S. Peace Corps
Korean food is somewhat like
Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, and Thai
With some American influences as well
But it is all done in a unique Korean style
Everything is cooked with special spices
A mixture of chili paste, garlic, fish sauce,
Onions, scallions, soy sauce,
Salt, tofu, panjang sauce, and soju (liquor).
Often cooked with beef, chicken, clams, eggs, fish,
Kimchi, intestines meat, mushrooms, mussels,
Oysters and/or pork,
Every meal consists of rice, kimchi
(pickled vegetables usually cabbage)
The main entry is either beef, chicken, fish, or pork,
Rice
And multiple vegetable side dishes
Including western style salad
The entire meal
A feast for the eyes
Nose and mouth
With a delicious unique
Aroma, fragrance,
Taste and texture
Uniquely Korean.
All washed down
With Korean beer, liquor (soju) or
Or rice wine or Western wine
My favorites include
Bulgogi chongsik (with all the side dishes) 불고기 총식
Kalbi chongsik (with all the side dishes) 칼비 총식
Calamari 오징어
Fried chicken 닭 튀김
Chuncheon chicken ribs 춘천 닭갈비
Dumplings 만두
Fried rice 볶음밥
High-rice카레라이스
Korean curry rice 카레라이스
Kimpop rice wrapped in seaweed 김팝
Korean soups 한국 수프
My favorite army stew 군대 스튜
Kalbitang (beef rib soup) 칼비탕
Beef turnip soup 쇠고기 순무 스프
Ginseng chicken soup 인삼 치킨 수프
Kimchi stew 김치찌개
Tanjung stew 짱짱찌개
Bibimbap mixed vegetables and rice with an egg on top비빔밥
Kalkooksu noodles 칼국수
Ramyeon 라면
Mushroom stew 버섯 스튜
Soondaeboo tofu stew 순대부두부찌개
Sashimi 생선회
Sushi 돈까스
Fried mackerel 고등어 튀김
Octopus 낫지
Omrice Korean omelet 오므라이스
Porridge 문어
Shrimp 새우
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Joan Lotta:
Open your refrigerator. What food item brings memories of childhood you would like to share in a poem? Tell me where you were when you first tried it. How old were you? On what occasions did you eat it? Or what food that is in there now is something you hated as a child but like now? Tell the why and how you changed your mind
#11. Charles Bukowski Road not chosen PSH
ID #1048430 entered on April 19, 2023
while reading Charles Bukowski’s poetry
on the metro ride home
listening to Buddha bar music
on my oh-too-hip iPod
I begin to see myself as I was
over 30 years ago when I was merely a bit player
a minor character in a Charles Bukowski poem
a wild young underemployed intellectual
hanging out in dismal bars and dives
all over Asia and California
hanging with disreputable women
and drunks and drinkers
and characters
out of his kinds of haunts
a mad poet bard of the underground
a drunken poet in a drunken bum show
that nightly played in his head
then one day I met the woman of my dreams
and went down a different path
a long slow path to respectability
and now 30 years later
I am no longer a wild man
I am still a poet at heart
but I am now also a bureaucrat
in a button-down suite
doing the people’s business
working for the government
I’ve become the man
sometimes I wonder
would I have been better off
going down that other path
would I have ended up
somewhere else
doing something else
would I have been as happy
would I have been as successful?
No answer satisfies
the longing in my heart
for that wild thing
that still lurks beneath
it’s a civilized cover
and I know that I am still
a mad poet at heart
railing against the injustice of the world
as I work day by day
in the belly of the great beast of state
I recall the ancient Chinese saying,
“Confucian during the day while Taoist rebel at night”
playing out in my head and nightly dreams
in the true American upper-class patrician tradition
I close the book
and look out the window
get off the train,
and walk slowly home
and realize I had no choice
but to take the path that I�’ve trodden on
and so I put aside my misgivings
and say goodbye to my “Bukowski” desires
for another night of domestic contentment
was it worth it all to take the conventional path?
and not take the bohemian road to hell and back
I look at my wife and realize
I had no choice, had no choice
but to follow her to the ends of the earth
and beyond by her side
as we walked our path
of shared destiny
goodbye
Charles Bukowski
wherever you are
may I meet you
in a bar in the next life
and figure out
where we should have gone
until then the drinks are on me.
“If I had…” or roads not taken.
Write a poem imagining/focusing on how your life or your subject’s life could have been changed or become different if one decision had been made that was different from what happened. What risks did you take or avoid? What benefits came your way or did you miss out on? Examples: what if you had married the first person you loved or who loved you? What if the hitchhiking ride you and a buddy took turned bad rather than being the lark it was? What if you hadn’t accepted that job in another city but decided to stay put? What if you had not blown up at a social event and been shunned after that by people who had counted as your friends?
#10. Dental Torture Blues
ID #1048429 entered on April 19, 2023
Sitting in the dental chair
undergoing dental surgery
while the dentist probes
and tortures me
with his instruments of pain.
The Frank Zappa song
plays over and over
the torture never stops
the torture never stops.
And I think of the mad dentist
in the little house of horrors
the Jack Nicolson character
who screams pain is good!
As he assaults his patients
doing root canals
without anesthesia.
And so, I endure the torture
of the dentist
in the vain hope
I can save my teeth.
Until the next time
I undergo mental torture
the song faces away
and I slowly recover.
Then as I leave
I am confronted with the bill
and the song roars back to life.
#9. Who is the name of the person on the badge?
ID #1048428 entered on April 19, 2023
Who is the name
Of the person on the badge
Who are they
The people behind the badge
The people we work with
All day long
Do they know
Who we are?
Or are we just
Strangers passing through
The world?
Write a poem using the above prompt.
When you go to work or the shops you often engage with people whom you might not know. We might know them as just the person in the store who does their job. (wearing a badge perhaps a name/ can I help etc.) It could be you, however. Do you wear a badge that you identify with? Write something about it. No more than 100 words. Enjoy.
#8. Shrinkflation blues
ID #1048427 entered on April 19, 2023
In these days
Of rampant inflation
And supply chain disruptions
Corporations have risen
To the challenge
By selling new
And improved products
The only difference
between these new products
And the old products?
They are twice the price
And half the size
And not at all
New and improved
Just more corporate
Bs weasel words
Write a poem about something that is supposed to be “new and improved” that has turned out to be a disappointment.
#7. Piano Calling Me
ID #1048426 entered on April 19, 2023
Piano Calling Me
The piano sits
In my room
Waiting for me
To play some music
As I play the piano
I lose myself
Deep into the music
Appreciate the mundane – anyone can write a poem about the pen on their desk or their favorite coffee mug. The real challenge here isn’t to observe the mundane but to transform it into something poetic and beautiful.
#6. Korean Pottery of Love
ID #1048408 entered on April 18, 2023, [Edit]
Korean pottery of Love
In Korea
there are many pottery kilns
ancient art form
in the land of the morning calm
I have a few pieces
I bought it years ago
and enjoy looking
at my vase
filled with love
for my wife
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Austin Alexis:
Write a poem featuring an inanimate object. In the first stanza write about the object as objectively as you can. The second stanza allows a highly subjective “take” on the object. The third stanza treats the subject in a far-reaching way, pushing the writing to morph into something beyond the mundane.
#5. Eating Money
ID #1048372 entered on April 18, 2023 [Edit]
Eating money
many packs of us dollars
Some people
Become consumed
With money
Thinking that money
Can buy happiness
Money can buy love
But one
Can not eat money
Not really
Money does not taste good
As you eat the paper
Getting sick
The money goes down
Your throat
And you become one
With your money
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Robert Wynne:
Do you like surrealism? I’d like you to think of an inedible inanimate object. Now think about how you’d eat it. Then write a poem describing in detail how you would eat (or are eating) it. Do not say why you are eating it, just how. The poem ends when the thing is eaten. Simple as that.
#4. Never apologize for falling in love with you
ID #1048371 entered on April 18, 2023
I will never back down
I will never apologize
For daring to fall in love
With you
Ever since I met you
I have been enslaved
To your love
And for that,
I will never
Ever
Apologize
This is just said by William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that was in
the icebox
And which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Annette Gagliardi:
3. Never Alone
ID #1048370 entered on April 18, 2023
Forever Girl
When we first met
I knew that you
Were the one
You were my
Forever girl
The girl I had
Been dreaming of
You were it
My eternal soul mate
My forever love
#2. What is a Jake?
what is a Jake
Who am I?
Where am I?
Am I real?
Or a bot?
I am Jake
I am not a fake
I am not a mistake
I am not a flake
I am not a rake
I am not a snake
I am who I am
The one
And only Jake
And everything’s Jake.
This poetry writing prompt was submitted by Angele Ellis:
What’s in a name?
This prompt is effective as a writing group icebreaker/community builder, as well as an individual exercise for writers of both poetry and prose.
Using your first name as inspiration, reflect on any or all of the following questions in your piece.
Why were you given this name?
What is its meaning?
How has having this name affected your life?
What would you have named yourself?
#1. Watching the News TV
ID #1048368 entered on April 18,
cnn logo
watching the TV
The news droning on and on
Makes me feel the blues
coffee
Coffee
Must drink more
Just hot
drinking a hot cup
coffee kick starting my day
waiting for my wife
1- alemseged style is a poetry style of six lines stanza with a rhyming pattern of abcdaa. The stanza’s number is not limited.
Example of alemseged’s style of poetry :
Koori poems
Koori’s poem is poetry of not need rhyme but the strictness of syllables. The basic building block of Koori’s poem is three stanzas of three lines each with a syllable count
5/7/5–2/3/2–5/7/5; that is to mean two haiku in the middle of a 2/3/2 stanza. If you need to continue by adding other stanzas you can add one 2/3/2 stanza with a haiku but never end the poem with the 2/3/2 stanza. The conclusion of the poem must be with a haiku stanza. You can write many stanzas by sampling by cascading additional stanzas.
My friend from Berkeley always has something fun to say. Check it out.
My Father Always Said He Was Going to Live to Be 100″ and other blogs. . . My latest blatherings, in a handy, user-friendly internet format known as blogs.
Pink cherry trees
Snowing all around me
Love in the springtime
Green
poet in springtime
Green trees in Springtime
Smiling at walking lovers
Filling them with awe
Black
black cat
A cosmic black cat
Stares at me with jet black eyes
Just a Buddha cat
White
deer in snow
White snow consumes us
During the intense winter
Climate change is now
Page 17 in printed version
Other recent unpublished Haiku like Poems include:
Met My Fate 160 Poem Form
I met my fate
That date
In September,
A date I shall always remember.
When I saw her there,
Sparks flew from heart to heart.
And I knew she was going to be mine.
160 Character Max Poem Form
Water 160 Poem Form
Water everywhere
Water surrounds us
Nurtures us brings us
Life itself
But few of us
Ever think about water
And what we would do
When the water runs out
And the earth becomes
A desert devoid of life.
Sam Adam’s Final Wish Jisei Poem Fan Story Prompt
Sam Adam’s last wish
Was to die in Berkeley
His spiritual home
My Mother Haiku
My mother was unique
A real free spirit at heart
I miss her always
Berkeley Calling Me Home Haiku Fan Story Prompt
My Berkeley
Calling me to come home
Die in my homeland
Sextet Love Fan Story Prompt
My life has been a dream
almost unreal
A real fairy tale
Filled with romance
an angel came to me
ending loneliness
Outside Haiku Fan Story Prompt
Spring flowers blooming
Inviting me to go outside
Enjoying the Spring
5-7-5 Faith Fan Story Prompt
I believe in karma
Everything is connected
To the divine mind
Coffee Five Line Poem Fan Story Prompt
Coffee
Just hot
The way it should be
Gets my morning going strong
Kick starts my morning
Romantic Tanka Poem Fan Story
When I saw you there
I knew that you were the one
Heaven sent you then
When you came into my life
That was my best day ever
Forward Plans
Forward plans are made
Understood what needs to be done
intel hard to get
Good Golly, Ms. Molly
Good golly
Ms. Molly
Let’s have some folly
And go to Bali
Or Raleigh
Someplace holly
Where we can get jolly
Eating a tamale
Or a Canali.
Prompt – Write a silly rhyming poem
Coffee Huitain
need more coffee
I like coffee in the morning
But in the evening must be wine,
Making it a great mid-morning,
At sunset, I drink wine, while I dine,
When I drink my wine, it is all fine.
In the afternoon, I drink my tea,
Later wine, looking at what is mine.
And I become all I can ever be.
Future Survival Games Three-word Challenge
Shortly, all too soon
We will play a secret game
A game of survival
Grilled Salmon Three Word Challenge Prompt
fish market
Oiled grilled salmon
pink flesh delight
Perfect dinner with white wine
When I First Saw You Dew Drop-in
Revised as Cherita form
When I First Saw You There
When I first saw you there
You came to me
In a dream.
And disappeared,
Haunting me
For eight long years.
When I First Saw You In Person
When I First Saw You in Person
I was overwhelmed
This fairy tale dream of mine
This impossible quest
To find the girl in the dream
Was finally over.
When I First Spoke With You
When I First Spoke with You
I knew that this was it
We would be together
From then on
You were the one,
I proposed three days later
.
When I First Kissed You
When I first kissed you
that was the beginning
of our love affair.
Our love grew stronger
Every year
For the last 40 years,
When I Married You
When I married you
That was the beginning
Of my life,
From that moment
I had no doubt
You would be there.
April 4—List poem w/repetition—write a poem that lists things, using some (not necessarily constant) repetition and variation of an initial phrase (Examples: When I was six…, Remember that time…*, Layers of…., etc.)
There must be a million ways
To say I love you
But these words will suffice for now
“Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
“If ever two were one, then surely we.”
If ever wife loved man, then thee.”
“O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”
“Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine.”
“Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.”
“Lying in bed I think about you,
Display thy breasts, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity.
Between whose glories,
there my lips I’ll lay,
Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.”
“Rare bird,
extinct color, you stay in
my dreams in x-ray.
“The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!”
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’ d shape, and dangerous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes.,
Poetic sources
Jake Cosmos Aller A Million Ways to Say I Love You Joshua Beckman Lying in bed I think about you,
Anne Bradstreet To my husband
Valentine Lorna Dee Cervantes Ben Jonson Song: to Celia [“Drink to me only with thine eyes”]
Morris Egan Bar Napkin Sonnet #11
Jennifer Michael Hecht Love Explained Robert Herrick Upon Julia’s Breasts John Keats The Day is Gone
William Shakespeare Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all: William Shakespeare The Spring
(from Love’s Labours Lost) William Shakespeare
Sonnet 65: Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
John Updike Penumbrae
And now – our final (but still optional!) prompt. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a cento. This is a poem that is made up of lines taken from other poems. If you’d like to dig into an in-depth example, here’s John Ashbery’s cento “The Dong with the Luminous Nose,” and here it is again, fully annotated to show where every line originated. A cento might seem like a complex undertaking – and one that requires you to have umpteen poetry books at your fingertips for reference – but you don’t have to write a long one. And a good way to jump-start the process is to find an online curation of poems about a particular topic (or in a particular style) and then mine the poems for good lines to string together. You might look at the Poetry Foundation’s collection of love poems, its collection of poems by British romantic poets, or even its surprisingly expansive collection of poems about (American) football.
Three French Forms
I Drink My Coffee With My Wife
coffee
Coffee morning
I drink my coffee with my wife
Coffee morning
Drinking coffee makes a good morning,
wine
At sunset, I drink wine enjoy the nightlife
Thinking to my wife, I have a good life.
But I shift to tea mid-morning.
Coffee morning.
The Rondel, Old French meaning small circle, is a 14th-century verse form. It is a member of the Rondeau family of forms but differs from the Rondeau in the number of lines and the pattern of rhyme. The Rondel came to England in the 16th century. Sources indicate the Rondel is better suited to French than English yet Dobson’s Wanderer is a fluid lyrical example of why the Rondel is adaptable to English. A variation of the Rondel is the Rondel Prime or French Sonnet. The elements of the Rondel are:
a 13-line poem made up of 2 quatrains followed by a quintain.
isosyllabic, often written in 8 syllable lines, but the lines can be any number of syllables as long the measure is consistent throughout the poem.
rhymed ABba abAB abbaA, A and B being refrains. In French one rhyme is feminine and one is masculine, it doesn’t matter whether the feminine rhyme is the a or the b rhyme.
composed with 2 rentrements. L1 is repeated in L7 and L13, and L2 is repeated in L8.
Two
I like to Drink Rondine
coffee
I like to drink my coffee at dawn
As the dawning sunlight fills the room.
Lifting my nightmare feeling of doom
With Curtains Drawn.
Soon my nightmares will all be gone
Soon I must go back to the bedroom
I like to drink.
Drink too much coffee, migraine come-on
I must lie down in the darkroom.
I get up to use the bathroom.
Drinking my coffee the day goes on.
The Rondine is a little-seen shortened version of the Rondeau dating back to at least the 16th century. The elements of the Rondine are:
a poem in 12 lines made up of a quatrain, a tercet, and ending in a quintet.
syllabic 8 syllables per line accept L7 and L12 which are 4 syllables each. In English metered, most often iambic tetrameter except the refrain which is iambic dimeter. It is composed with a refrain repeated from the opening phrase of the poem, retirement. It is rhymed, using only 2 rhymes except for the refrain being unrhymed, rhyme scheme abba,abR, abbaR (R being the refrain)
I Like to Drink Coffee
coffee
I like to drink coffee in the morning
But at sunset, I like to drink red wine.
Drinking coffee makes a good morning.
I like to drink coffee in the morning
But I shift to hot tea midmorning
Drinking my red wine at night, all is fine.
I like to drink coffee in the morning.
But at sunset, I like to drink red wine.
The elements of the Triolet are:
an octa-stich, a poem in 8 lines.
in English, most often written with variable line length and meter at the discretion of the poet. Originally in French, the lines were octasyllabic which would create an 8 by 8 effect.
composed with a reinterment, L1 is repeated as L4 and L7. There is also repetition of L2 in L8. rhymed, with only 2 rhymes with the rhyme scheme ABaAabAB.
most often playful or satirical, appropriate for a light verse or occasional verse.
April 30—Multiple Choice(s)—create a poem that is somehow like a multiple-choice test, OR turn this into another “free day” for our last day of April and write any poem of your choice, OR write multiple, short, linked poems…like the sidewalk poems!
The Mantlepiece at 674 Santa Rosa Ave, Berkeley, California PSH
674 santa rosa jpg
An old man Sam Adams
often recalled
The mantelpiece
In his childhood home
674 Santa Rosa
In Berkeley, California.
The mantelpiece
Was over a fireplace
That they seldom used.
On the mantelpiece
Was a painting
Of the Bay Bridge
View off the balcony.
The painting was the only painting
That his drug-crazed older half-brother
Ever completed.
Sam Adams loved that painting
Should have taken it
When his mother died.
Where it ended up
He never learned.
So many childhood memories
Now lost in time and distance.
Just like that painting
Sam Adams thought.
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Winston Plowes:
The Mantelpiece
A prompt for a cold dark winter’s night
Introduction
I love the idea of shutting out the night and cozying up around a roaring fire which is to be the center and heart of any home, especially at this time of the year. I would like us to consider the fireplace and especially the shelf or mantelpiece above it. Let’s look at it as a kind of changing archive, a display or exhibition, or even a ‘family museum’ as we prepare to write. I know that some modern homes do not have a mantlepiece, in which case all is not lost! You can imagine one that would suit you or use a shelf from elsewhere in the room or even a dressing table or bookshelf.
Exercise
Are you going to write a simple list poem of items on the mantlepiece (and there’s nothing wrong with that)? Maybe you have special family item(s) or useful things on there or photographs or a clock or a picture on the wall above that you will write about. Is your title going to be “My family museum”?
Moving On Writer’s Digest
Sam Adams
Was feeling old
Looking back at his life.
And realizing it was time
Time to move on
In the final stages
The end game of life
Approaching rapidly.
He still was in good health
He had a lot of wealth.
And he had his wife
The love of his life
Still in his life.
But he sensed
That soon he would be
Moving on to the final challenges
And he was afraid
Of the future.
Not ready yet
To embrace
What may come,
Afraid of moving on
But he looked at her
And realized,
As long as they moved on
Together with everything
Would turn out
The way it should.
He smiled
Filled with love
And contentment
Ready at last
To move on
To the next big challenge
His stomach growled
Enough of this
The next thing to do
Is to move on to dinner.
For today’s prompt, write a moving-on poem. Many people finish something (like a poetry challenge) and stop. But many April PAD Challengers keep moving on to the next prompt, next poem, next challenge. Let’s keep it moving on. Thanks for poeming along this month!
Gratitude Thanks to the Love Gods for Angela Local Gems
cupid
Every day
I give thanks
To Cupid
and the love Gods
For bringing me
My Dream lady
Who walked out
Of my dreams
And into my life
Eight years
After I first saw
her there.
Sam Adams one night
Met some space aliens
In the Cosmos Bar.
The first inter-planetary bar
Located in Berkeley, California
A known hangout for UFO nuts
And assorted true believers,
Where the sign
proudly proclaims
Aliens drink for free.
The alien asked Sam
To explain humanity
To them.
Sam said,
Sure. Here’s what makes us human
We are evolved from tribal apes
From distant Africa.
Conditioned by our God
Created in his image
According to his will.
We believe in family values
Except for when do not
Believe in such values.
More importantly than anything else
Is the search for love and happiness,
Few of us ever met our soul mates
We are always looking for the one
The one that will make us complete,
The aliens smiled, Said,
Well, that was interesting
But there is one thing
We can agree on,
You earth people
Sure are crazy
The craziest species
In the known universe.
But you make the best brew
And the best coffee
And play the best blues
In the universe.
Sam said,
Thanks, I’ll drink to that.
Last but not least, here is today’s prompt (optional, as always). It’s based on Faisal Mohyuddin’s poem “Five Answers to the Same Question.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write your poem that provides five answers to the same question – without ever specifically identifying the question that is being answered.
Dew Drop inn
Sam Adams Met His Fate
Sam Adams
Often thought that his life
Truly began on September 7, 1982
When he met his Dreamgirl
Who walked out of his dreams
He has been having it since 1974
She walked out of his dreams
Into his life
Two months later
She became his wife.
Sam thought
When she became his mate,
That was the date
He had met his fate.
April 18—April 18 Prompt: “Stop! In the name of love, before you break my heart!”—write a poem where love turns everything around somehow, or stops a course of action, or stops everything!
Based on my true love story. See “Dreamgirl” postings on my web page, Dreamgirl re-published
It all began in Berkeley, California
In the springtime of 1974
One fateful afternoon
I was sleeping in my high school Physics class.
I looked up and saw a tall,
beautiful Asian woman
standing there looking at me.
She was the most beautiful women
in the universe to me
I screamed out, who are you?
She disappeared
as if she was beamed
away from my dream.
I knew that someday
I would meet the girl
In the dream.
Little did I know
I would have to wait until 1982
Starting that month
I began having the same dream
Month and month and month.
Always the same.
She was saying something
in a strange language.
Then one day.
I had the dream
and knew that
She was in Korea.
So, I chose to go
to Korea
In the Peace Corps,
Somehow knowing
That I would meet her there.
One day
A year after the Peace Corps ended
A month before I planned
to leave to return
to the U.S. for graduate school.
That morning early in the morning
I had the last of these dreams.
This time I understood her.
She said, “Don’t worry.
We’ll meet soon.”
That evening
As I was getting off the bus
To go to my class
I saw getting off the bus
The girl in my dream.
It was she!
I was speechless.
I did not know what to do.
Throughout the evening
I ran into her several times.
Finally, I was introduced to her.
I muttered some lame excuse
About wanting to find a Korean tutor
and got her number.
The next day she came to the gate
At my base where I was teaching
ESL to Koreans
She said that she
had to speak with me.
I told to wait in the library
for about an hour,
and I would cancel the class
and meet her then.
We went out for coffee.
She told me that she was madly
in love with me
And simply had to have me.
I told her I felt the same way.
I proposed five days later,
And got married one month later.
Does she believe this story?
She claims she does not believe it
Because it is impossible to be true.
But I know that there
are other worlds and other times.
In a past life
We must have been together somehow.
And our love was so strong
That it crossed over the barrier
of time and space.
She found me in 1974,
But it took until 1982
For us to meet.
And it has been 36 years
Since we met in the physical sphere
Or 45 years since the dream began.
And I still recall the dream
And meeting her.
I had no choice
When I met her
We were fated to be together,
Until the end of this lifetime
And the next and the next.
April 18, 2022: Poetry Writing Prompt – jake Aller
This poetry writing prompt submitted by jake Aller:
Write a poem about a premonition of something that would happen in your life, that came true. What was the premonition? How did it occur? How did it come true?
Example: I dreamt of meeting my wife eight years before I met her. I knew that the dream was a premonition of a future event. and in that case, my dreams did indeed come true.
We the People Will Wake Up Soon
gun
We the people someday soon
Will wake up and demand
That the government and society
Stop the gun carnage in our streets
Enough, no more gun madness
The people have had enough,
The NRA and their stooges
Will continue to insist
That the solution to gun violence.
Is more guns for everyone
Only then can we be free
From the fear of constant violence.
The only solution is for everyone
To be armed to the teeth
With the latest weapons of war.
Then we will all be afraid
Of each other
And no one will take a chance,
That the other will pull out
A gun to end their dispute.
The people have had enough
They are sick and tired
Of the constant fear.
And they don’t buy the NRA lies
Anymore.
In short,
It is time for the people
To stand up,
And demand an end
To the gun violence
In our streets.
Politicians are a craven lot
If the public speaks loud enough
They will do something
To shut them up.
Until that happens
Every day
We will watch
Another day of massive gun incidents.
Just ten more
This easter weekend alone
as I wrote this poem.
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “We (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “We the People,” “We Want It Now,” “We in the Royal Sense,” and/or “We vs. Wii.”
“Don’t fall in love with me”
Sam Adams told his latest flame
Maria Lee
Whom he met at the Cosmos Club
In Bangkok, Thailand
She was a drop–dead gorgeous
Korean woman on the lam
From her husband
She smiled demurely
And said
“Don’t worry I won’t fall in love again
Already done that thing once is enough
But I could use a little loving
If that is okay by you.”
“Sure,” Sam Adams said.
Falling in love with her
Despite his spider–sense
Tingling red alert.
Today’s featured online journal is The Cortland Review, which has published nearly ninety issues over more than twenty years. In their newest issue, I’ll point you to Justin Janisse’s “Missing You, Expensively” and Grace Q. Song’s “Birthday.”
And now for our daily (optional) prompt! Today’s challenge is to write a poem that starts with a command. It could be as uncomplicated as “Look,” as plaintive as “Come back,” or as silly as “Don’t you even think about putting that hot sauce in your hair.” Whatever command you choose, I hope you have fun ordering your readers around.
Good Golly, Ms. Molly Rhyming Poem
Good Golly, Ms. Molly
Good golly
Ms. Molly
Let’s have some folly
And go to Bali
Or Raleigh
Someplace holly
strong>Where we can get jolly
Eating a tamale
Or a Canali.
April 19—Write a silly rhyming poem!
PSH prompt
Three poems about our times Legal
Three poems about our times Medical
Three poems about our time’s Energy
One the legal system faces challenges
In this day and age
Of fear of crime
Crime and punishment
Is everywhere
Hanging and lynching
No longer just historical terms
Judge and jury form the basis
Of our Legal systems
Based on Lies and truth
And justice is not free
Those that have money
Have justice
Those that do not
Face constant injustice
Two Medical Fears Abound
Every day I am afraid
Afraid I might get
The big Alzheimer’s
That took my mother
And my father-in-law
The dreaded cancer
That killed my father
And his father
Dementia that haunted my mother
Fibromyalgia that fills me with constant pain
Three Energy Blues
wind-turbine-11
The world needs energy
Needs renewable energy
Needs to get beyond
carbon-based energy
that is destroying the world
needs to end fracking
needs to end nuclear power
needs to seek the energy
of the future.
Look up an industry completely foreign to you. This could be anything: medical, timber, steel, tech/IT, cosmetics, coatings, pharmaceuticals, office supplies, etc. Pick one and generate a list of industry-specific jargon using a minimum of twenty-five words.
Pick three different industries, so your list is a minimum of 75 words (or phrases, phrases are okay). Write a poem that uses 1 word or phrase per line for the duration of the poem, however long you choose to make it. Mix industries! Write the poem in multiple parts!
This is a time-consuming exercise, but it’s a wonderful one because it so frequently spawns more than one poem, and the exercise is great at pulling writers out of their respective comfort zones.
Writers com
Writer’s Digests What’s Out There – Secret Societies
In Frederick Tennyson’s Atlantis (1888), an ancient Greek mariner sails west and discovers an inhabited island which is all that remains of the former kingdom.
Sam Adams, an old man
Recently returning to his hometown,
Was walking in the Berkeley Hills.
Ended up at Tilden Park
Where he had been hiking
Ever since he was a child.
He was hoping to getaway.
From all the turmoil,
The dismal news of the day
The constant chattering on his TV.
He was often lost in thought
Thinking back on his favorite books
Re-reading the classics
Of his youth.
He loved the Chronicles of Narnia
Often thought
That Narnia was real
That Oz was real
And that Middle earth
Happened as well.
And Harry Potter
Existed in an alternate universe
He imagined finding
Portals to other worlds.
While lost in thought
He came upon an unusual site
An open door in the air
With a note
Narnia is calling you.
He laughed having thought
About Narnia reality
All week long.
He jumped through the portal
Sam Adams disappearance
Remained a mystery.
April 20—Book report—subtly (or overtly) incorporate a book report or response into a poem about something else. (If you name the book, avoid spoilers!)
I like to start my day with a hot cup of coffee
I pound down the coffee
First thing I do every day as the dawning sunlight
Lights up my lonesome room
Yeah, but not just a simple cup of java Joe, but God damn coffee
I mean, – we are talking about an alcoholic, all speed ahead, always hot, always fresh, always there when I need it, angry, attitude talk to the hand Ztude, bad, bad assed, beats breaking, beatnik, bluesy, bitter, bitchy, bombs away, capitalistic, caffeinated up the ass, cinematic, communistic, Colombian grown, Costa Rican inspired, Cowabunga to the max, crazy assed, devilishly angelic, divine, divinely inspired, dyslexic, epic, extreme vetting, evil eye, expensive, erotic vision inducing, Ethiopian coffee house brewed, euphoric, freaky, freazoid, foxy, Frenched kissed, French brewed, funkified, foxy lady, graphic, GOD in my coffee, with Allah, Ganesh, Jesus, Kali, Buddha, Christians, Durga, Hindus, Mohamed, Jesus and Mo and their friend, the cosmic bar maid, Sai Babai, Shiva, Taoists, Zoroastrians, drinking my god damned coffee in Hell; growling, gnarly, happy, hard as ice, Hawaian blessed, high as a kite, hippie, hip, hipster, hip hoppy, hot as hell yet strangely sweet as heaven, jazzy, jealous, Kerouac approved, kick ass, kick my god damn ass to Tuesday, kick down the doors and take no prisoners, grown in the Vietnam highlands by ex Vietcong, Guatemalan grown, kiss ass, illegal in every state, imported from all over the god damn world, insane, lovely, loony, lonely, lonesome, malodorous mean old rotten, motherfucking, nasty, narcotic, never whatever, never meh, never cold, not approved by the CIA, not approved by DHS, not approved for human consumption by the FDA, not your daddy’s sissified corporate cup of coffee, NOT DECAFE coffee, not your Denny’s truck driver weak as brown water cup of fake coffee, not your establishment friendly cup of coffee, Not your FBI coffee, Not FAKE Herbal coffee substitute, but a real cup of coffee, not your farmer brothers dinner crap, not made in America for Americans, not safe for work, not your Starbucks average expensive overpriced crappy corporate chain cup of coffee, Not pretentious, Not White House approved, not State Department safe, nuclear, Not Patriotic, operatic, Peets’s coffee approved, paranoid, pornographic, psychotic, pontific, politically aware, rapping, rhyming, right here, right now in River city, rock and roll up the Yazoo, sad, sadistic, sarcastic, sassy, satanic, schizoid, shitting, silly, sexy, smarmy, smelly, smooth, snarky, snarling, stupid, stinking, sweet as honey, sweat inducing, symphonic, Trump can’t handle this coffee, vengeful, Wagnerian, wicked, with nutmeg and cinnamon swirls, with a hint of stevia, with a hint of vanilla, with a hint of rum, with a hint of whisky, with a hint of cherry, with a hint of fruit overtones, with a hint of drugs spicing up the coffee, spendific, speeding, splendid, superior accept no substitutes, survived the Vietnam war, the Iraq war, the Afghan war, the first and Second Korean war, World War 11, the war on poverty, the war on drugs, the war on black people, the sexual revolution, Soulful as a summer’s night in MOTOWN- James Brown approved, TOP approved, Berkeley approved, the coffee that Jimmy Hendrix drank before he died, the coffee that Elvis drank on his last breakfast, the coffee that Barry White crooned as he drank his cup of coffee – and the coffee that made the white boy play stand up and play that funky music, the coffee that made Jonny B Goode play his guitar, and made Jonny bet the devil his soul after he drank his morning cup of righteous coffee and the coffee that make the Rolling Stones Rock and Roll, the coffee your mother warned you against drinking, the coffee that Napoleon drank when he became the Emperor of all Europe, the Coffee that Beethoven drank when he wrote the Ninth symphony, the coffee that Mozart drank as he wrote his last symphony, the coffee that Lincoln drank before he was killed, the Hemingway drank before he killed himself, the coffee that started the 60’s, and ended the 20th century, the coffee that Lenin drank as he plotted revolution, the coffee that Hitler and Stalin drank with FDR as they divided up the world after World War 11, the cup that JFK drank before he was blown away, the coffee Jerry drinks while driving in cars with random celebrities and political figures, the coffee that Jon Stewart drinks before he goes on an epic take down of some foolish politico, the cup of Arabic coffee that Sadaam drank the day he was executed, the coffee that GW and Cheney drank when they bombed Baghdad, the Indian cup of coffee that Bid Laden drank before 9-11 and just before the seals blew his ass to hell, the cup of coffee that Tiger Woods drank with his mistresses while playing a 3, 000 dollar round of golf at Sandy Lane golf course in Barbados, the last legal drug that does what drugs should do, the cup of coffee that Obama drank when he became President, Vietnamese, Vienna brew, wacky, whimsical, Whisky Tango Foxtrot, wild, weird, wonderful, WOW, Yabba dabba doo! Yada Yada yada Zappa’s favorite cup of cosmic coffee, and Zorro’s last cup of coffee, Good to the last drop rolled into one simple cup of hot coffee
As I pound down that first cup of coffee
And fire up my synaptic nerve endings with endless supplies
Of caffeine-induced neuron enhancing chemicals
I face the dawning day with trepidation and mind-numbing fear
I turn on the TV and watch the smarmy newscasters in their perfect hair
Lying through their teeth about the great success the government is having
Following the great leader’s latest pronouncements
I want to scream and shoot the TV
And run outside
Shouting “Stop the world.
I want to get off this fucking crazy planet”
The earth does not care a whit about my attitude
It merely shrugs and moves around the Sun
In its appointed daily run
And I sit down
The madness dissipates a bit
And enjoy my second cup
Of heaven and hell
In my morning cup of Joe/
And now for today’s (optional) prompt. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that anthropomorphizes a kind of food. It could be a favorite food of yours, or maybe one you feel conflicted about. I feel conflicted about Black Forest Cake, for example. It always looks so pretty in a bakery window, and I want to like the combination of cherries and chocolate . . . but I don’t. But how does the cake feel about it?
PSH prompt
To Friends I Have Lost Along The Way
If you have been around
As long as I have
More than 66 years
On this planet,
You would no doubt
Lost a few friends
Along the way
And family members too.
I recall all my friends
Who have left this mortal plane
Spending way too little time
in my life.
I recall Demel Tucker
My high school black friend
From the debate team
Who died of AIDS
All alone in the end.
I remember Jon Weber
My Austrian born college roommate
Who died of prostate cancer
At age 45,
We had lost touch
Over the years
Last saw him
In the 80s.
I recall Paul Simon
Who shared the visa line
With me in Korea
Went out for a walk
One morning
Did not come back.
I mourn Chris Richards
My boss in Bangkok, Thailand
We were due to have lunch
When he died of an heart attack
That morning.
I recall Julian Bartley
My boss in Seoul
Died in the terrorist bombing
In Kenya.
I recall Judy
From my days in Mumbai
Died suddenly too soon.
I recall my sister Inga
Who died of a mysterious illness
When she turned 45.
I recall my mother
Who died of Alzheimer’s
And my father
Who died of cancer.
And there were many more
And sadly, many more
Will join them
Before I leave this mortal plane.
The curse of getting old
I suppose.
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Joan Fingon:
Prompt word: remembrance
In this exercise, focus on writing about a specific loss of a loved one or dear friend, recent or from your past. What is the essence of your loss and how might you express and honor their memory? What did the individual mean to you?
To inspire your writing be guided by these words as an example…
A megadrought (or mega-drought) is a prolonged drought lasting two decades or longer. Past megadroughts have been associated with persistent multiyear La …
Aug 19, 2021 … Simply put, a megadrought is a period of extreme dryness that lasts for decades. Within that period there may be occasional better, wet, years, …
Feb 15, 2022 … U.S. megadrought worst in at least 1,200 years, researchers say. The drought also shows no signs of letting up, with increasing temperatures …
Sam Adams
Was an ecologist
With the Cosmos Institute
He was studying the decline
Of ancient civilizations
In North America
And concluded that
Humanity would soon face
A world in which its existence
Is doomed
As nature will no longer
Support such a large civilization
As climate change leads
To a mega drought
In the western parts
Of North America
And China and India
As well.
It would be
The end of the world.
Prompt The intersection of nature and civilization…
The future is coming and I can’t Wait for NaPoWriMo
Thinking about the future
I am excited
So many amazing things
Are about to happen
Dream and thought recording devices
Internet implants
Human-robot slaves
Self-driving vehicles
True AI Systems
Time Travel
Teleportation
Cloning
Growing new bodies
Life extension leading
To almost immortality
Lunar and Martian colonies
Development of space travel
Meeting alien civilizations
The future is coming
And I can’t wait
I want a robot slave
Maybe even a robot lover
And a new body
And I want to see Mars
And meet space aliens
And now for our (optional) prompt! Today, in honor of the potential luckiness of the number 13, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like the example poem here, joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” Sometimes, good fortune can seem impossibly distant, but even if you can’t drum up the enthusiasm to write yourself a riotous pep talk, perhaps you can muse on the possibility of good things coming down the track. As they say, “the sun will come up tomorrow,” and if nothing else, this world offers us the persistent possibility of surprise.
How to Make a Perfect Smoothie Writers Digest
How to Make a Perfect Smoothie
My daily breakfast consists
of a perfect super-foods smoothie
Here is how to make
This breakfast of champions
In a blender
Put in Kefir first
Then powered collagen
Insulin powder
Honey
Cinnamon
all blended to perfection
That is my daily breakfast
Fit for a champion.
I often eat it
As cereal as it is so thick
Adding in cereal or oatmeal
and raisins.
2022 April PAD Challenge: Day 13
Write a poem every day of April with the 2022 April Poem-A-Day Challenge. For today’s prompt, write a How to Blank poem.
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “How to (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles might include: “How to Win at Life,” “How to Cook Lasagna,” “How to Fall in Love,” and/or “How to Write a Poem.”
Covid Life PSH
covid virus
Ever since COVID hit
I have been laying low
Not going out much
Not meeting friends
But doing weekly zoom
With my best friends
That has kept me sane
Been doing a lot of writing
Lots of COVID poems
Featuring General Corona
And his COVID bot army
General Corona
Appeared to me
in a dream.
I fell asleep after watching
The former guy goes on and on about
Fighting a war against an invisible army.
And thought well
Every army
needs a general.
General corona appeared
In my dream
A tall black man
Dressed in a black general’s uniform
Riding the black horse of revelations.
With an army of imperial storm troopers
In black uniforms
Marching shooting ray guns
Filled with the virus
At everyone they encounter.
That is how
I coped with the COVID
pandemic lockdown,
This poetry writing prompt submitted by Gary Grossman:
We’re all tired of COVID but it is good fodder for poetry. Write a poem about how your life changed specifically during the pandemic. Did you exercise more, did you burn incense more, and did you read books that had been sitting in a pile for years? Focus on describing your mental state and how that translated into your physical state. Did your muscles ache from walking, what was the smell of the hand cream you used to soothe your skin? Did your partner participate with you?
If you write a poem from this prompt, post it as a comment underneath the prompt in the Poetry Super Highway Facebook Group. #napowrimo#poetry
The series is set in the fictional realm of Narnia, a fantasy world of magic, mythical beasts and talking animals. It narrates the adventures of various …
Sam Adams, an old man
Recently returning to his hometown,
Was walking in the Berkeley Hills.
Ended up at Tilden Park
Where he had been hiking
Ever since he was a child.
He was hoping to getaway.
From all the turmoil,
The dismal news of the day
The constant chattering on his TV.
He came upon an unusual sight
An open door in the air
With a note
Narnia is calling you.
He laughed
Recalling his favorite
Childhood stories
The Chronicles of Narnia.
He always wondered
If the stories were true
As he always felt
The stories were.
He jumped through the portal
Sam Adams disappearance
Remained a mystery.
He left behind a tangled mess
Millions of dollars in assets
Scattered across several states.
Letter sent to Nancy Pelosi calling for her to retire to save the party and the nation. I’ll let you know if she bothers to respond.
Dear Nancy, Time to Go Dear
Dear Nancy,
I am writing to you to plead with you to reconsider your decision to run for re-election. It is more important than anything else right now for the Democratic party to retain control of the House and the Senate given the insane backward policies that the Republicans in the House and the Senate would try to implement if they were to win in November. Not to mention that they would shut down the Biden administrations’ entire agenda.
I am a life-long democrat having grown up in Berkeley in the late 60s and 70s. I served in the Peace Corps and became a foreign service officer retiring in 2016. I live in South Korea as I have my wife’s family living here. I hope to return to the Bay area in another year. Incidentally, you may know about my family. My father, Curtis Cosmos Aller, was the President of the Berkeley Co-Op and the Peralta community college district and a professor and Dean at SF State.
There is a time in one’s life when one needs to retire from active work and slow down and enjoy the golden years of one’s life. There is no shame in deciding it is time to retire and let the next generation of leaders emerge. At age 83 you have done so much for the country. It is always a good idea to leave on a high note. If you retire now, you will be leaving at a high note. If you run for re-election, you might run the risk of losing the primary. The voters in SF just recalled the school board because they felt that they were simply out of touch with the average resident of San Francisco. Perhaps that should be a wake-up call for you to consider.
But if you run for re-election, the Republicans will no doubt run a campaign demonizing you and the entire democratic leadership as being, old political hacks elites out of with the American people. They will portray themselves as the next generation of leaders fighting for the American people.
As you know, the Republicans are the masters of dirty politics. They will lie, cheat and do what it takes to take back the house and Senate. Given what’s going on right now with the aftermath of the pullout from Afghanistan, the war in Ukraine, and rampant inflation, the American public is feeling that things are not going in the right direction and unfortunately they will blame the democrats.
Having most of the leadership of the party, including of course the President all in their 70s or older leads itself to this attack. I can see the attack ads already. The Republicans will no doubt push that narrative to the maximum because sadly there is some truth to it.
I hope that you don’t see this plead as a “agist’ attack on you and the democratic leadership because it is not. I am 66 myself. And to be fair, I believe all the leaders in both parties, the Supreme Court, and the President who are over 70 years of age, should all announce that they are retiring at the end of their terms to let the next generation of leaders emerge to deal with the problems of today, as our old aged leaders are lost battling yesterday’s political battles. You should set the example, and the rest will follow.
The bottom line is this: the stakes are so high that the democratic leadership must do all they can to keep the house. If you announce that you and the senior leadership are all retiring to let a new generation of leaders emerge will change the game and perhaps save the House and the Senate.
And if you do retire, please do not let your daughter run for your seat because you know nepotism?
I hope that you can consider my request and retire for the good of the party, and the nation.
I have completed 17 flash fiction pieces as part of the Writers Digest Flash fiction challenge. I posted “Cosmic Cat from Berkeley” below. I also completed three micro flash stories for the Writing Com micro flash contest, and daily haiku for the Poetry Magnum Opus challenge. Enjoy.
Day 1 Keys
Day Two Prompt Circular
Day three Prompt limitations
Day four mystery
Day Five: A Dream that Came true
Day Six: a character who tries to be
Heartful”
Day Seven: Workplace conflict
Day Eight: re-gifting
Day Nine Grim reaper
Day ten romance story
Day 12 magic
Day 13 grim reaper
Day 14 animal
Day 16 hobby
Day 17 Book
Dream 18 Time
the Stories
I have completed 17 more flash fiction stories this month, listed below.
Hidden Keys to The Universe.
End of The Beginning, Beginning of The End.
A Man Has to Know His Limitations.
Where Did All the Blacks Go?
Dream That Came True.
Sam Adams Crisis of Conscious
Sam Adams Workplace Conflict Leads to a Bad Day.
Sam Adams reignites the War on Christmas
Timeless Love story
Sam Adams the Hoarder (TBC)
World domination but at a terrible price
Conversation with the grim reaper
Sam Adams first Contact
The Demon Car Attack
Cosmic Cat from Berkeley
Sam Adams Discovers the Cosmic Conspiracy
Sam Adams Meets Gloria Magnolia Shah (from a dream)
Time Police TBC
The Cosmic Cat from Berkeley
(audio is for poem version)
The prompt was to include an animal character. This is based on a true story and is a prose version of a poem that has been published.
Sam Adams had grown up in the city of Berkeley CA, but after college, he had joined the Peace Corps in Korea, and later joined the State Department and traveled over the world, got married, lived in Seattle, and later DC, and had it not spent much time in his hometown.
One day he was on leave and he went back to his hometown in between assignments, and his wife was to join him later, then they would be moving back to DC for their onward assignments. She was in the military serving as an officer.
During this trip he realized that his mother was entering into dementia, he had seen her about two or three years before and she was OK then, but now it was obvious that something had to be done, He didn’t know really what to do. he had talked to his two brothers and sisters who he didn’t particularly along with and with his wife. Nobody quite knew how to approach her; nobody quite knew what they needed to do, but they all knew something had to be done soon.
With this gloomy frame of mind, every day he would walk out of the house. go down the street to a restaurant, have breakfast, go out into town go to a movie check out a museum, have lunch or dinner with friends and get back in touch with his old neighborhood and his old feelings.
the very first day he was there when he went out for his morning walk there was a black cat that looked at him. Sam had this feeling the black cat knew everything he was thinking. He quickly dubbed the black cat. The cosmic cat followed him everywhere and Sam quickly shared his thoughts with the black cat who seemed to have been reading his mind, sometimes he would talk out loud at other times he was just thinking and the cat would be smiling and he would hear somehow in the back of his mind the cat’s thoughts about the matter.
The cat was following what he was saying and the cat knew when he needed to do. The cat helped him clarify the decisions that had to be made. The cat well he was a cosmic cat. He seemed to know everything about Sam, his family, his wife and even knew what the future would hold for Sam and his wife. Sam was very fascinated by this black cat. He had no idea whether this was a Wildcat or lived in the neighborhood but he left milk, and canned tuna fish out for him every morning and the cat seemed to like that.
He had no idea how and why this cat seemed to be able to read his mind. Finally, concluding he was a cosmic cat perhaps this was just a cat that was temporarily possessed by the spirit of the universe and was talking to Sam giving Sam advice that he needed to hear.
With his gloomy thoughts in his mind he opened up to the cat and the cat continue to read his mind and give him advice as he walked through his old neighborhood. The cat waiting for him in the evening when he got off the bus and walked with him home and the next morning the cat would be to be there again for their morning rambles.
Sam felt comforted by the cosmic cat, who was always there. For two weeks, Sam and the cat engaged in this deep conversation. Sam finally knew that it was time to make a decision about what to do with his mother. He had called his brothers up and his wife was coming the next day.
They spent a few days together sorting things out trying to figure out what needed to be done, and eventually, the decision was made they would have to move his mother into a nursing home and then in a few years, they would have to be faced with what to do when she passed on because it was obvious that she was declining quite rapidly. She had lived a long time, she was 85 years old.
But the cat seemed to know what needed to be done and somehow Sam thought the cat was giving him advice that he should follow. One day he asked the cat
“Cosmic cat please let me know who and what you are
“ Are you God>”
the cat smiled at him.
“Are you Buddha?
the cat smiled at him
“Are you the great spirit of the universe?”
the cat smiled at him.
“Are you Allah?”
The cat smiled at him.
“Are you really just a cat?
The cat smiled at him.
“Are you satanic?
The cat hissed at him, and he knew he had gone too far. The next day, he told the cat that it was time for him to part ways. The cat smiled at him, and he knew the cat knew that it was time to move on. The cat merely walked away, and Sam never saw that cosmic cat again
He told his mother in one of her periods of relative lucidity about the cosmic cat, His mother merely said that that cat was indeed a cosmic cat that came to them in their hour of need.
Sam never told his siblings about the cosmic cat, He thought they just think that he was mad. He told his wife, and she also thought that this was just a mad story, and then he should not really think about it anymore. The cosmic Cat faded away in his memories.
The Poet will publish my poem, “My Mother’s History” in an upcoming anthology on Cultural Identity. My ethnic background is a bit complicated. Depending upon how I look at it, I have 18 to 20 nationalities in my tangled family DNA.
From my father’s side of the family, I inherited a German family name, Scandinavian blue eyes, with ancestors coming from France, Germany, Finland, Denmark, Lapland, Norway, Netherlands, Russia, Sweden, Ukraine, and somehow the Basque region. I also have some Jewish ancestry and a trace of Mongolian ancestry as do most people of Eastern European background. And my DNA test also claims that there is some Italian ancestry somewhere and perhaps Spanish ancestry.
From my mother’s side of the family, I am part Scot, part Irish, part French, part Dutch, part Cherokee and part Nigerian. Since she was part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee Indians, her story is particularly complicated as her ancestors fled before being enrolled in a tribe and lived in the Ozarks intermarrying with other Indian tribes, Scot and Irish settlers, and escaped slaves. In any event, there are so few people in her ethnic group -perhaps 25,000, that they don’t show in DNA tests. Since her parents show Cherokee, that means I am anywhere from 1/8 to 1/8 Cherokee. I met my uncle once, and he looked Cherokee to me.
The following are my poems exploring my ethnic history. Enjoy.
My Mother’s History
Why are there so many Fake Cherokees?
One day many a year ago
My mother spoke to me
About her family’s tangled history,
She spoke to me
Of lies, half-truths, and myths
Some of which may have been true
And throughout the evening
Her history came alive.
She was born in the hills
of North Little Rock
The 10th of 11 children
Of an ancient dying race.
The lost tribe of the Cherokees
who had run away
Refusniks
Refugees who fled in the hills.
Part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee nation
Part Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Osage, Seminole
African Americans, French, Scot and Irsh
Who fled to the mountains
To avoid the trail of tears.
Rather than join the rest
In the promised land
Of Oklahoma.
They did not exist
I did not exist.
The BIA told us
No Indian scholarship
For you
Since you can’t prove
You are in fact
Of Native American ancestry,
I asked my mother
What does this mean?
She said
No BIA money for you,
My non-Indian son.
Her family and Bill Clinton family
Were related
Bill Clinton and I are distant cousins
When I met him
I related my family history
He concluded that we were indeed cousins
Said I could call him Cousin Bill
And he would call me Cousin Jake
And he too was part Cherokee
Irish, Scotch, French
And African American
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee nation
I told my mom
This story
She said
It was true
She was a distant cousin
Of Bill Clinton
Still did not like
The lying SOB
Her people disappeared
From history’s eyes
And DNA data banks
My history was over
As was hers
And so,
I learned at last
The painful truth
That due to the genocidal crimes
of politicians so long ago
My mother’s people
Lost their land, their culture,
and their hope
And became
downtrodden forgotten people
Hillbillies they were called
Living in the hills and mountain dales
Clinging to the dim fading memories
Of their once glorious past
As proud Cherokees
Now no one knew their name
The old ways were forgotten
And the new world never forgave them
And they never forgave the new world
As they lived on
In the margins of society
Forgotten people
And I vowed that as long as I lived
Their history would not die
As I knew the truth
And I would become a proud
Cherokee
And make my mother proud of me
And my accomplishments
When I am down and out
I recall her stories and her warnings
And realize it is up to me
To live my life
To let the Cherokee in me
Live his life
And in so doing
My mother’s history does not die
It lives on in me
Until the day I die
Long live the Cherokee nation
Long live my mother
DNA Does Not Like or Does it?
I sent way
For one of those DNA tests
That promises to reveal
Your ethnic heritage
The only problem
is that claim
Is not yet true
The results
were surprising
To say the least
Family lore would have it
That I have 18 nationalities
In my tangled family history
Mostly Northern European
Part German, Norwegian, Swedish, Finish, Danish, Dutch, Laplander, Russian, Scottish, Basque, Mongolian, Jewish, Spanish, and French from my father
Part Cherokee, Dutch, Irish, Scottish, English, Italian, Nigerian, and French from my mother
100 percent born and raised in Berkeley
The DNA results showed
that I am 68% northern European
with trace elements of Jewish, Basque. Italian
Mongolian and Nigerian stock,
No native American at all
And my Germanic last name
For some reason
Did not register at all
Go figure I said
And I read the fine print
The state of the art is such
That claims that they can tell
Your ethnic background
Are exaggerated
The fine print read
Explaining why it is often inaccurate
The Cherokee background
Disappeared
Because my branch of the Cherokees
Disappeared into the mist of time
Part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee nation
Part Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole
African Americans, Scot, Irish,Dtuch and French
Who fled to the mountains
To avoid the trail of trees
The German background
Got swept up into the northern European thing
And at the end of the day
I remained as much a mongrel
half breed as anything else
Typical American
I suppose
All in all
A fascinating experiment
Family History Revealed
The DNA results
Revealed some aspects
Of whom I am
Where I am from
But not everything
Was revealed
And much of my history
Remains hidden
My father was from Yakima
Ran away to the Bay Area
Where he became a college professor
Taught the dismal science economics
Along the way
He met my mother
And after a whirlwind romance
had four children
My older brother,
Me
Younger brother
And sister
She was a refugee
From the dust bowl
Fled Arkansas
In the late ’30s
Never looked back
Settled down
In the Bay Area
Yet the south lingered on
She trained herself
To speak without an accent
The only time the southern came out
Was when she was talking to her sisters
She was the 10th of 11 children
Father was a moonshiner
A Cherokee medicine man to boot
Lived life in the Ozark mountains
She had two sons
From a prior relationship
That went south
We never really knew them
My father was an atheist
And a morning person
And a man with a plan
For everything
My mother
More make it up
As she went along
And a night owl
How and why
They met and stayed together
Is beyond me
They had a stormy relationship
My mother always said
Germans and Irish
Don’t mix
And never should marry
She also said
The world is divided
into morning people
And night owls
And they are doomed
to marry each other
Yet I suppose
There was real love
Beneath all the drama
And bluster
Thoughts on Visiting the Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC
Sam Adams
Had never been
To the Holocaust Museum,
Despite the fact
He had lived
And worked in DC for decades
One day after he retired
He said to himself
It was long past time
To finally see the holocaust museum
He went the week
After Charleston,
When the mob had chanted,
Jews will not replace us.
The museum affected him deeply
He had just confirmed
Through DNA
That he had at least 10 percent
Jewish ancestry
Among the 18 other nationalities
Swirling among these bloodlines
Sam Adams was concerned
Those elements of antisemitism
Were emerging among
The MAGA crowd.
But he dismissed
The fears that Trump
Was another Hitler
As liberal hyperbole
It could not happen here
A new holocaust
Would never happen
But now he was not so sure
I grew up in Berkeley, California in the 60s and 70s. Here are my Ode to Berkeley poems. Someday soon I want to return to live in my spiritual homeland.
Hark, I Hear the Spirits of Berkeley Calling Me Home. Berkeley
Short Version -40 Lines
Dreaming Of Returning To Berkeley Sam Adams
Rambling Man, Where Do I Belong?
Rambling Man -Where Do I Belong? 2
Berkeley California
Growing Up In Berkeley
Berkeley In The 60s And 70s
Berkeley Time Travels
Berkeley Nonet
Berkeley Street Scene 2015
Berkeley Time Warp
Stockton Time Travel
Berkeley Street Scene 1974
The Cosmic Cat
Hiking The Hills of My Youth
Free-Roaming Berkeley as a Kid
674 Santa Rosa Avenue
DNA Does Not Lie, Or Does It?
My Mother’s History
What Am I DNA Fortune Cookies
Mary Geneva Aller -there’s Method in Her Madness, Eulogy Poem
Hark, I Hear the Spirits Of Berkeley Calling Me Home. Berkeley
free roaming berkeley
Long Version
Hark,
I hear the spirits
Of Berkeley
Calling me home.
The more I roam in this world
The more I am drawn
Back to the land
From whence I came.
Berkeley, California
Is what it is
And sometimes
It is what it ain’t.
Berkely is a “how Berkeley, can you be vibe” town,
Home to CAL with 40,000 students who flood into the city nine months of the year, University professors, staff, and students,
Yet Berkeley is so much more the ultimate college town.
It is delicious food is everywhere around the corner sort of town, An artisanal craft beer, and spirits, coffee, herbal tea, Kombucha, and wine drinking city, where Coca-Cola is seldom served, gourmet ghetto, inventor of the new American cuisine revolution, home of Chez Panisse, the French Laundry, and so many other restaurants, a place where you can find every cuisine of the world at a most affordable price, a town where there are more restaurants per capita than anywhere else, where if you wanted to eat dinner at a different restaurant every day it would take you years to do so, with new places opening and closing every day.
An anti-big box store vibe, yet with a lively small business sector, more restaurants and coffee shops per capita than almost anywhere else, lots of upscale groceries, used to have a large Co-op (my father was the President) and ethnic foods markets, organic food markets, Berkeley Bowl market, farmers markets, plus usual corporate chain food stores.
MOES book rules, where Howl was written, where the beatnik writers and culture types used to hang out, and their spiritual Descendents still do.
Philip K Dicks hometown, (Philip K dick dated my mom before she met my father, end personal disclosures)Thornton Wilder and so many other great writers back in the day and here and now, Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg lived and loved there,
Craft beer paradise, the hometown of Peets coffee, still the best damn coffee even though they have gone corporate, the coffee revolution of the late 50s and 60’s started here in the Coffee mecca of the United States, where Café Med proudly proclaimed to one and all
‘We Don’t Serve Establishment Coffee,
They invented the American version of the Latte” It seems there are more coffee shops in Berkeley per capita than almost anywhere else in the country,
Berkeley is also the home of a vibrant tea, smoothie, artisanal spirits, craft beer, and wine culture with urban wineries and brewpubs everywhere.
A gluten-friendly city with the best GF pizza in the world the Berkeley Cheese collective, a foodies delight,
A diverse although less day by day as it now a very expensive city,
A very ethnic town, used to have the largest Finnish community in the U.S,, lots of Russians and Eastern Europeans back in the day, a city with people, from all the known world, where 250 different languages are spoken at home, an African-American town, used to be a very black town, 40 percent back in the 70’s now perhaps twenty percent, a middle class suburb of Oakland back in the day, but with a black lower class, working class, who are still hanging on somehow, but still a lot of my African Americans brothers and sisters hanging on despite the high rents and housing costs, many property rich but cash poor, joined by so many African immigrants and Caribbean African immigrants as well, an Asian American city, home of a vibrant Chinese-American community, Korean-American, Hispanic City, Ohlone Tribal city, Native Americans from all different tribes still around city, Japanese-American, Indian-American city, an Iranian diaspora, and now Afghani diaspora as well, French people, European people, Jewish people, but no Jewish space lasers yet, Indian-American little Bombay community where you can get the latest Bollywood movies, food and Indian political gossip,
An artistic city, a creative city, Great art Museum at CAL, home of the Pacific Film Archives a real treasure for movie lovers, with more movie theaters per capita than anywhere else,
A book lovers city filled with great bookstores, the best public library in the country, and the University library system is among the best in the country as well.
Great one-of-kind bookstores, although sadly, Cody’s’ and Shakespeare’s books are long gone.
A great music city.
Great music at CAL
And in the city
Great acts always coming to town
Or the Bay Area
Live music is still alive at least it will be soon
As COVID dies down
Great music stores as well.
Great BHS music programs
Including the BHS Jazz band
Where many greats got their start‘
Rock n Roll fantasy world,
A Motown friendly city,
A funk lovers paradise
A Blues lover mecca
West Coast Rap town
Hip hop town
And there are even country fans
hometown to the Earthquake, Green Day, Jimi Hendrix’s last high school, the Rubinoos, The Psychotic Pineapple, Smoke and Fog, Tower of Power “East Bay Grease sort of town,
New flash for TJ Dave – hey dude, I loved your song, you ain’t Berkeley enough” just want to say I represent that remark, but I rep Berkeley worldwide dude and I am still as Berkeley as I wanna be, anywhere in the world, dude, end news flash
Not to mention so many jazz players including Peter Applebaum, Jim Davidson,
Joshua Redman, and so many others.
A Berkeley High school rocks place, (personal disclosures I was the BHS student body president in 1973-1974),
The home of the song, “Sitting by the dock of the bay,”
An anti-establishment sort of city, yet filled with students studying to be part of that despised establishment, all vowing to change the world but the world always changes them into yet more high-priced corporate drones.
With zany wacked out politics, a city at times lost in 1969, or lost in the future, A city where being called a “conservative “ is considered a vile insult,
A very progressive city, probably the most progressive city in the country, which in my opinion is a good thing, not something to be ashamed of,
A PC is a cool city that invented PC before it became a curse word of sorts, a city where there are real live Marxists, communists, and socialists but no one takes them seriously, and there are a few proto-fascist political science professors as well,
The spiritual home of the beatniks, the hippies, the yippies, and sadly the weathermen
The city that gave us “the Symbionese Liberation Army,” kidnapper of Patty Hearst,
(Personal disclosure: the SLA briefly terrorized the Bay Area, and my family during the 70s calling my father “a fascist insect that preys on the life of the people, his offense = demanding that students and staff at the Peralta college be required to wear ID’s to combat a rise in violent crime on the campuses, my father not having a sense of humor did not like my joke when one morning I said,
“Good morning fascist Insect how are you today?” My mother loved it and said
“Yeah, he is a fascist insect but he is our fascist insect,” and laughed. My father merely glared at the two of us. End Personal disclosure)
A Political city up the Yazoo town, a one-party town but with two rival political factions, republicans and there are some of them in town, feel like they are an endangered species, (another personal disclosure, my Dad was Curtis Cosmos Aller, the President of the Berkeley Co-op from 1968 to 1985 when he died, the President of the Peralta Board of Colleges, who ran for Congress in 1974 in the democratic primary against the legendary Ron Dellums, end personal disclosure) very few Q nuts but I am sure there are some, just as there are no doubt people who believe in the lizard shapeshifter conspiracy,
(Personal note: I am a human being but once I took an online quiz to determine whether I could be part alien and the quiz said I was an alien, go figure)
A very anti-Q town, pro-science, rational type of town, filled with humanists and secular humanists types,
A hate bigotry town. Where Ann Coulter and her fellow right-wing followers are not welcome, A town that proudly voted against Trump – 90 percent in 2016 and 2020) proud center of the “resistance” home of Antifa, BLM rules, the birthplace of the black panthers who met at the first African American high school history class in the US in the early 60s, at BHS of course, and home of the Gray Panthers,
a city whose representative is in Congress. Representative Barbara Lee, was the only representative to vote against the Iraq war in 2003, noting that Iraq had nothing to do with 9-11, to the rest of the country she was a dangerous left-wing radical, to the Bay Area, and me, a real American Patriotic hero.
A very marijuana-friendly city where the joke has always been pulling out a joint and its cool, pull out a cigarette and everyone wants to send you to jail, smoking cigarettes being so uncool nowadays,
At times, a very joyful city but not enough joy due to the political disputes and anger as people in Berkeley are very into political discussions and are news junkies,
A very frank town where everyone has an opinion and is not afraid to speak up,
Bike-friendly, an environmentally friendly city, recycling mecca, renewable energy, friendly, where the university engineers are working to solve the world’s energy problems and coming up with solutions to the climate change crisis, solar panels everywhere, transit-friendly, zip car-friendly, uber/lift friendly, BART friendly, walkable sort of town.
At times hot city, living with the constant fear of the mega drought, fires and the big one, atmospheric rivers, polar vortexes, and other global warming phenomena as climate change becomes nightmarishly real,
but most days the same, foggy cool mornings, nice, pleasant in the 70s afternoons, then more fog dipping into high 40s by midnight, used to be no rain between April and October just the cool morning fog, but nowadays with climate change, we get rain even in the summer, and they joke there are two seasons now in California the rainy season October to March and fire season April to October, all due to the non-existent climate change hoax,
To the rest of the world, a very “Berserkly place”
A Buddhist friendly city, including a Buddhist Zen Center, Chinese, Japanese, and Korean Buddhist temples and a Buddhist Seminary, A Tai-Chi mecca, Yoga centric, very Zen attitude sort of town,
A liberal Christianity city where fundamentalists are not welcomed, where atheists, free thinkers, liberal Muslim, liberal Hindus, new-age types, and Wiccans are welcomed, home of several liberal Christian seminaries, a Buddhist seminary, and now a Muslim seminary all located on Seminary Hill)
A city where making fun of the street preachers is a fun game for the militant atheists of the city (personal disclosures that were me back in the day, I loved to heckle Holly Hubert joined at times by my old friend Julia Vino graduate, the bubble lady who used to blow bubbles at Holly Herbert as he ranted about how we would all go to hell for our heathen ways, Holly Hubert is long gone by now as that was almost 45 years ago)
A crazy city. A cool city, at times a cold city,
Filled with the scent of good craziness, and sometimes very bad craziness as sometimes on a bad night things can go bad if you are in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people, or are the victim of a drug deal gone bad when the guns come out to play to settle disputes, or knives are drawn and people get very crazy or are just unlucky to be caught up in the crossfire, or on a bad trip on bad drugs, just too many damn drugs and too many people whose minds were fried by the same damn drugs, in short Berkeley does have a dark side to it,
A city of big dreamers, a fast-paced city,
But for the most part, it is a friendly town, but not too friendly, A freaky place filled with freakeries, A funky vibe, a funny town all around,
And you can have fun there as well as get lucky and meet the woman or man of your dreams, as there are lots of young single men and women looking for Mr. Good or Ms. Good as the case may be,
An Oakland A, and SF giants town, forty-niners (although some hate them for moving to San Jose, the Northern California clone of LA. And Golden States warriors but everyone now hate the Las Vegas Raiders, as much every person born in Berkeley must hate LA, sort of the part of Berkeley and the Northern Californian DNA to be hating on LA, the LA Dodgers, and now the Las Vegas Raiders.,
A live and let live z tude, A loony tunes place, A happy go lucky sort of vibe city,
“Hella Berkeley “city, A historical city, A Hippie town back in the day, A hip hop center, A hip city where everyone knows what hip is but can say what it is, what is hip, yal? Do you know? Hipness, like Berkeley, is what is it is and sometimes is what is not,
Too many homeless people living on the streets of the city, panhandling, and becoming a nuisance, getting into everyone’s face, destroying everyone’s mellow, lonely at times city where many people have thousands of virtual friends but few real friends
Very LGBTQ friendly, a feminist city, a very pro-choice town,
An only in Berkeley kind of vibe,
A city where people still read a lot, where newspapers have not died but are mostly read online,
Home of a rich alternative press history, although sadly most have gone by the wayside, I remember the Berkeley Barb, the Berkeley Gazette, the SF Chronicle, the Bay Guardian, the East Bay Express, the Berkeley Voice, the great underground comics like Fritz the Cat, reading online Berkeley news outlets just not the same thing at all. And BHS used to have a daily newspaper, now a weekly paper although the CAL daily is still daily mostly read online.
A very sad town, a special city, A city that would welcome space aliens who might already be there, and OMG place,
A rainy blues sort of day place.,
Robots are the cool city where new robots are being developed every day, a city where people are building the singularity not fearing it,
A mask up follows the science town badly hit by the COVID pandemic, particularly the small business who took in on the chin,
The birth of Nanowrimo, the November write a novel in a month contest, (personal disclosure -I completed three of these)
A poet friendly place where people get poetry,
Rents are insane, housing prices too, the only people who can afford to buy are people with boatloads of money, and somehow there are lots of those types hanging out, and lots of people who don’t have money who somehow manage to get by, who can afford to live here? It takes serious piles of moolah, big piles of money, lots of cash, dollars up the yazoo, trust baby parents, or selling your soul to a start-up from hell, to be able to pay the rent or lots of roommates, yet people still flock to the city, how they can afford it is still a mystery to me.
A stand-up guy sort city,
Student-friendly, kind of a suburb of Oakland and SF, yet doing its own very Berkeley thing,
Home of great city parks,
San Pablo Park (home
Of the annual BHS alumnus picnic)
Indian Rock Peoples Park
Inspiration point,
Ho Chi Min Park in the 70s
The Rose Garden
Strawberry canyon,
Tilden Park,
Wildcat canyon
Part of the Bay Area Ridge Trails and Bay Area Bay trails which are almost complete, doing a thru-hike of both, the Appalachian, the cross-continental, and the PC trails are among my bucket list dreams,
Too cool for school,
Sometimes a traffic hell place, BART trains too crowded, pickpockets and other unsavory criminal types hanging out by the BART train stations, along with high school students, the druggies,
A “west Coast Rap kingdom, wine drinkers paradise, the former home of the weathermen and other leftist domestic terrorists) a wonderful world for the young at heart, a very unique city, a pro-vac place, vibrant, vegetarian and vegan friendly, yet still offering enough meat options for the carnivores, and still the ultimate university town but as you can see by now, so much more than that,
a yoga is God kind of town where yoga is mandatory, Yuppie place, a zany city, a zestful town, and lately a zoom work by home town, Berkeley is all of that and so more in short. Berkely is an of kind sort of place, unique in all the universe and it is my homeland,
But still, I am drawn
And want to return
Before my time is done,
As it remains
My spiritual homeland.
Hark, I Hear The Spirits Of Berkeley Calling Me Home – Short Version
Hark,
I hear the spirits
Of Berkeley
Calling me home.
The more I roam in this world
The more I am drawn
Back to the land
From whence I came.
Berkeley, California
Is what it is
And sometimes
It is what it ain’t.
Berkely is a “how Berkeley, can you be vibe” town, an African diaspora, an Asian American city, an anti-big box store vibe, an artistic city, A Berkeley High school rocks place, the Berkeley hills, the birth of the black panthers, the spiritual home of the beatniks, bike-friendly, The Berkeley Rep rules, To the rest of the world, a very “Berserkly place” a Buddhist friendly city, filled with deep, dark memories, a vibrant Chinese-American city, creative city, Home to CAL with 40,000 students who flood into the city nine months of the year, Coffee is God Mecca, craft beer paradise, a crazy city. A cool city, a cutting edge technology, delicious food is everywhere around the corner sort of town, a diverse although less day by day as it now a very expensive city,
A very unique city, a pro-vac place, vibrant, vegetarian and vegan friendly, yet still offering enough meat options for the carnivores, University professors, staff and students, city employees alike and still the ultimate university town but as you can see by now, so much more than that, yoga is God kind of town where yoga is mandatory, Yuppie place, a zany city, a zestful town, and lately a zoom work by home town, Berkeley is all of that and so more in short. Berkely is an of kind sort of place, unique in all the universe and it is my homeland,
But still, I am drawn
And want to return
Before my time is done,
As it remains
My spiritual homeland.
Dreaming of Returning to Berkeley
free roaming berkeley
Sam Adams
A child of the 70s Bay Area,
Having lived all over the world,
Visited all 50 states
And 60 countries.
But in his heart
He knew
That soon.
It would be time
To return
To his spiritual homeland.
Berkeley, California,
The center of his universe,
He heard the spirits
Of Berkeley calling him home.
Like a salmon returning
To his home waters
Before dying.
Berkeley Beckoning Me
The Richmond – San Rafael Bridge and industrial port of Richmond taken from Tilden Park’s Vollmer Peak.
I grew up
In Berkeley, California
In the early 70s
A wild and crazy time.
Berkeley shaped my soul
And my heart will always
Long for my homeland.
Berkeley was always
A wild and zany place
Filled with original characters
Drawn to the city by the bay.
The hills overlooking the city
The campus filled with students
The downtown shopping area
The suburban housing.
The street people
The vendors on Telegraph
The smell of marijuana
Hanging in the air
Long before it was legal.
In some ways
Berkeley seems stuck
In a time warp.
A certain corner
Seems to be forever
Stuck in 1969.
The city has changed
Over the years
Like most places
It has become harder
And harder for the working class
To afford to live there.
The yuppies took over
Decades ago
But despite that the city
Continues to be home
To a diverse population.
Little India emerged
Along with Berkeley’s Chinatown
The old black neighborhoods
Still manages to somehow
Thrive amid the gentrification.
And so as my life winds down
My thoughts keep returning
To my ancestral home
The homeland
Where I wish to die.
Rambling Man, Where Do I Belong?
Where is my home? Where do I belong?
I don’t know, always moving on to another place
Moved every other year it seems the last 45 years
Traveled to 50 states, 55 countries, drove across the U.S. eight times
Lived in Berkeley, Yakima, Stockton, Seattle, Alexandria, DC, Oregon, Korea, Thailand, India,
The Eastern Caribbean, and Spain
Where do I belong? Where is my home?
Neither here nor there, nowhere and everywhere
And so is that my rambling man’s fate
Never to belong anywhere at all
Rambling Man -Where Do I Belong?
I have been a rambling man
All my adult life
Grew up in Berkeley, California
Went to College in Hayward and Oberlin
During my lost year
Lost in a fog of booze and pot
Then I came back to reality
And went to college
In Stockton, California
The Central Valley
Ohio transplanted to California
Then after four years in Stockton
With extended weekends
And breaks in Berkeley
I became an expatriate wanderer
Peace Corps worker in Korea
Then taught ESL in Korea
For four years
Occasionally returning to my home
But always wanting to be elsewhere
Then back to Korea
And then Seattle for four years
Driving back and forth to the bay area
Stopping off in Southern Oregon
Eventually bought a house and duplex
In Southern Oregon
Vaguely thinking we would retire there
Some day when my rambling ways were over
Then back to Korea for three more years
Then I joined the Foreign Service
And my wife the military
And I wandered the world again
Always somewhere
Always dreaming of my next somewhere
Never there
As I was a permanent ex-pat
And a diplomat to boot
Never a local
But never really felt I belong there
Or in America
That was becoming more and more
A foreign land
The longer I stayed away
I stayed on in DC for almost ten years
Off and on
But never really
felt that I belong there
I was too West Coast in my heart
And DC seemed to be
Just a place to stay
In between travels
Stayed in Thailand
Then later India
And Eastern Caribbean
And later Spain
Traveled to 55 countries
Lived in ten
And now I am retired
Still torn between
Living the ex-pat life
In Seoul, Korea
And returning to the West Coast
And occasionally back to DC
and Florida as well
And I wonder
Where do I belong
Where do I belong
Other than wherever
My wife and I end up
Neither here nor there
Halfway there
a life in between
And so is that my fate
Never to belong
Never to have roots in the ground
Always wanting to be somewhere else
Always a stranger in my native land
And a stranger in my other home
Across the sea
There is no answer to these questions
As the rambling urge comes again
And I prepare to move yet again
Hoping someday I will be
Somewhere where I can stop
These rambling blues
And be there
ending my life
in between
Berkeley California
Growing up in the ’60s
In Berkeley
almost 50 years ago
I think back
At those turbulent times
Those crazy wonderful times
Berkeley is a wonderful place
In many ways
Stuck forever in 1967
A true-time travel experience
Every time I go back
And relive the memories
Of the ’60s
The 60’s never died
They continue
In college towns
Across the world
And Berkeley
Remains the mecca
Of the counter
cultural revolution
Many things have changed
But the organic food revolution
Became mainstream
Marijuana spread out
The sexual revolution
Became mainstream
So much of the world
Is but a reflection
Of the revolution of the ’60s
And the conservative
counter-revolution
That we are still fighting
So, I salute
My homeland
The center of my universe
Growing up in Berkeley
I grew up in Berkeley, California
A child during the 60s and 70s
Graduated high school in 1974,
Crazy times
Berkeley was a crazy
city back then
Still is to some extent
But then it was
the craziest place
In the whole U.S.
And it made an impact
I will always be a Berkeley child
Always have that Berkeley feel
In my soul.
No matter where I travel
I remain at the heart
A child of Berkeley
Berkeley Time Travels
I grew up in Berkeley, California
In the turbulent fabled late ’60s
And in Berkeley in those days
Time seems to standstill
On the corner of Dwight and Telegraph
Across from People’s park
It seems to be always May 1969
With the man
Down the street
Oppressing the hippies
On the street
As they smoked their weed
Dodging the bored cops
Who looked the other way
If they did not partake
And then I went to college
In the valley
And as I drove into Stockton
I felt I was traveling again
In time
Back to the fabled ’50s
As Stockton was also
Stuck in a time warp of sorts
And as I left the Bay area
And traveled the world
I would come back
To that corner
And just be there
Stuck in May 1969
Marveling at the changes
That had and had not occurred
To the corner of the land
Forever stuck in time
And space
My father was a local politician
In the SF Bay area
He was president of the Berkeley Co-Op
President of the Peralta Community Colleges
Because of my father’s position,
And political activities
He became known as a “conservative” in Berkeley,
And those were fighting words.
But I will always remember
The time he became known
Briefly as a “fascist insect.”
The radical terrorist group had put out a manifesto –
A hit list of people they deemed “fascist insects”
And called upon the people
To rise and assassinate the “fascist insects.”
My father got
On the SLA hit list
For daring to impose a mandatory ID requirement
For all students and faculty
At the community colleges
To combat a crime problem
And for making the campuses
Closed to non-students and staff.
For that, he became a “fascist insect”
“Enemy of the people”
And must die according to the SLA.
The Berkeley police dispatched police officers
To guard us 24/7
Along with the other 100
Or so people on the hit list.
One day I woke up,
Got the paper,
Chatted with the police officer on duty,
As I did when I saw them,
Thanking him for protecting the family,
Went in and saluted my father, saying
“Good morning fascist insect.”
My father
Being of stern German Scandinavian stock glared at me
As he did not have a sense of humor.
My mother, being of Irish and Cherokee background
Had a great sense of humor.
She came out and laughed and said,
“You got that right, son.
Yeah, he is a fascist insect”
And saluted him and we made fun of him
Until he stormed out of the house.
Berkeley Street Scene 2015
Coming back to Berkeley
Every year since I left
Remains me how much it has changed
And how little it has changed
The essences of Berkeley
The reasons why I keep coming back
Remains the same
It is a zany, wild, and crazy city
Filled with energy, enthusiasm
And big ideas
The University remains
The center of the town
But Berkeley was always more
Than a college town
It was a black suburb of Oakland
and still is
It was an Asian American suburb of Oakland
And remains to this day
It was a welcoming place for gays and lesbians
And still is
And of course, it was a student hangout
For Cal students and students from all over
And still is
It was a regional hangout for high school kids
And still is
BHS rocks
And it was a commuter stop on the BART
For white-collar workers from the city
And still is
It was a working-class town
And some of that is still there
And a center for movies
And the arts
And the food mecca
For all the foodies in the Bay area
And boy is it still the mecca
For good food
One can get in Berkeley
Food from almost every ethnic group
In the world
If you can’t find it Berkeley
Either in the stores
Or the hundreds of ethnic joints
You won’t be able to find it
Anywhere else in the U.S.
Over the years I tried
My first Chinese
My first Cambodian
My first Cuban
My first French
My first Greek
My first German
my first Italian
my first Korean
my first Japanese
My first Indonesian
my first Mexican
My first Russian
my first Spanish
My first Vientamese
And my first New Californian cuisine
And my first Mc Donald’s
And Burger King
first gourmet burger
first BBQ
First sashimi
first sushi
great sandwiches
great salads
great pizzas
great pasta
great wine
greet craft beer
great artisan spirits
great marijuana as well.
And of course
Who can forget
Their first Peet’s coffee?
And who can forget
Tilden Park
Inspiration Point at sunrise
And Wildcat canyon?
One day while glazing at the sunset
Over the bay bridge
I declared that Berkeley
was the center
Of my universe
So, I end this love song
To Berkeley California
Truly the center
Of this man’s universe
2009 Berkeley Time Warp
Time travel is possible
I do it every year
When I return to Berkeley
And go to the corner of Dwight and Telegraph
Down the street from People’s Park
I enter a time wrap
And find me in 1967
It is always 1967
With the sweet smell of pot
In the air
And the merchants selling
Tie die tea shirts
And talking shit
And the students walking by
And the older generation
Walking by in nostalgic memories
Of when it was the 60’s
and everything seemed possible
We would change the world
And then Nixon came
And the world turned ugly fast
And furious
And we have been on a dark trip
Ever since those days
Especially during the Trumpian nightmare
We are just getting out of
But in Berkeley
At Dwight and Telegraph
the resistance to trumpism
continues growing stronger
The 60’s live on
Long live the 60’s
Stockton Time Travel
When I was going to college
in Stockton, California in the 70s
It seemed as if every time
I went to Stockton
I was going through
a time and space wormhole
And emerging on the other end
In an Ohio farm town circa 1959
Then returning to Berkeley
And arriving in the mid-’70s
Except for Telegraph Avenue
Which is always stuck in 1967.
The time travel wormhole collapsed
As Stockton over time
Became an outer suburb of Sacramento
And the greater Bay Area
But the valley remains
A different time and space
Then the Bay Area
And so, time travel is still
The way to go
When going to the valley
From Berkeley
Berkeley Street Scene 1974
Growing up in Berkeley
In the late ’60s
and early to mid-’70s
Was such a trip
Berkeley and the Bay Area
Were already becoming
Almost a separate country
From the rest of the United States
And Berkeley was already
Such a diverse place
My high school had over 4,000 students
From over 150 countries
And had openly gay students
And even transgender students
Decades before that became common
Elsewhere in the country
My best friends were Jewish, Irish, Black,
Half Black Half White, Black and Asian
And I was the student body president
I belonged to no particular clique
Rather floated between different groups
And that is why perhaps I was a success
Berkeley taught me so much
And being there
Taught me so much
I lived through
such a turbulent time
The black panthers
The black revolution
The sexual revolution
The anti-war movement
We had tear gas days
And we used to hang out
On Telegraph watching the riots
Or watching the street preachers
On more peaceful days
And boy did we enjoy
Cheap eats
Oscar’s Burgers
Pizza
Chinese food
And hot dogs
TOP DOG rules
And sneaking over to CAL
To crash Fraternity parties
And get some free drinks
Life was interesting
In those days
And I will never
Forgot
The life lessons
I learned in the streets
Of Berkeley in the ’70s
674 Santa Rosa Avenue, Berkeley, California
674 santa rosa jpg
My childhood home for almost 15 years
was 674 Santa Rosa Berkeley California
A five-bedroom adobe California home
on the side of a hill
at the bottom of the Berkeley hills
in the Thousand Oaks Neighborhood
You entered on the top floor
across the street,
you entered on the bottom floor
thus, it was in the Berkeley Hills
The house had a large deck
with a perfect view of the golden gate
We used to sit outside
watching the sunset as we ate dinner
My Mom and Dad
would have their first of
many nightly cocktails on the deck
Before retreating inside to continue
their nightly fights and arguments
I grew up downstairs
hearing their constant words
of hatred, dismay, and outrage
yet still with profound love
despite their differences
My parents were the
proverbial odd couple
Perhaps never
should have married
But despite the hate
there was still some love
that kept them together
throughout the years
We had a rec room
with a pool table
and I hung out there
with my friends
My mother tolerated my friends
most of the time she would
be somewhat sober
until after they left
And the madness came over her
as she drank her whisky and wine
The basement rooms
was added later
was my younger brother’s room
later was my room
Whenever I visited from college days
hiding out downstairs
avoiding my mad mother
My old room lay abandoned
filled with books
thousands of books
that I had read over the years
When she died
I should have taken all the books
with me back to DC
Instead, I took about
one hundred just
no space for the books
of my childhood memories
I grew up in the Thousand Oaks neighborhood
of Berkeley, California
when they build the neighborhood
back in the twenties
the developers tried to save
as many of the old oak trees
as they could
building around the trees
rather than clear-cutting the lots
as so many developers
tended to do
so the neighborhood
had hundreds of old oak trees
including one in my front yard
and I often thought
how the neighborhood
was special
because of the old trees
that stood as witnesses
to the history of the town
and I wondered what they thought
what the trees knew
about the people
who lived among them
but the trees remained silent
whenever I asked them
about the history of the neighborhood
Not a tree thing to speak up
Balanced in Berkeley
“Gorgeous sunset from UC Berkeley!”
Born in Berkeley, California
a product of the wild ’70s
just a lost white brother
hanging about
downtown
brothers
can you hang about
listen to me lover
wildness left from the 60’ des
want to fly away from California
brothers
leave the 60’s
ride away my lover
can you dig that without a doubt
born in Berkeley, California.
1955 Berkeley
The day I was born
was the day that Rock N Roll
was born
on a Cincinnati Radio station
Roll Over Beethoven by Chuck Berry
was the first Rock song officially played
on the radio
coincidence, I think not
for I was born
rocking and a rolling
the day I burst out on the stage
yelling
whoa Jake
here I am!
In Oakland
I was the only white baby born
at the Kaiser hospital
near my father’s house
in the ghetto
in West Berkeley
where junior professors lived
escaped the draft
due to a typo on my birth certificate
born on the 30th at 4 am
the night nurse typed October 29
and that became my legal birthday
and of course
I celebrate both days
Why the hell not?
And Howl was written
in Berkeley
and performed in SF
many great writers
lived there
including the great Philip K Dick
who briefly dated my Mom
before she met my father
a few years later I attended
Thousand Oaks
a mostly white school
in a neighborhood
that was becoming
Berkeley’s China town
later went to King
which was 40 black
40 percent white
10 percent Asian
10 percent Hispanic
When I graduated from BHS
the percentages
had barely changed
still, the majority were the minority
and still is as far as I know
BHS school
1972 to 1974
we had tear gas days
when the students revolted
and were chased
down the street
we went to Cal
to watch the demonstrations
and cheer them on
we all hated the war
many of our older siblings
had gone and died
the black panther party
was founded at BHS
Jimi Hendrix’s last school
same with the CCR
Green Day
and so many other
great and not so great bands
and a famous porn star
an NBA player
and associated others
who can forget
Peets coffee
Jamba Juice
Cheese Collective
Oscars – now closed
Giant Burgers?
Bongo Burgers?
Top Dog
And the other quirky Berkeley establishment
Where establishment coffee was never served!
A few joined
the State Department
with me as well
I never went to CAL
My two brothers did
They had better grades than me
Better test scores too
As I traveled the world
These last decades
There is something
That I will always remember
You can take someone
Out of Berkeley
But you can’t take
Berkeley out of them
For you will always remain
Berkeley to the core
The best city
In the known universe
Long live Berkeley
The center of my universe
And the home of my heart
I know that someday
I will return
I am still Berkeley enough
Dude!
All that I know About Life I Learned at Berkeley High School
free roaming berkeley
All that I know about life
and how to deal with people
I learned while attending BHS
in Berkeley, California
back in the distant ’70s
so many memories
so many different people
from all over the world
in what was the most
multicultural high school
in the country back then
4, 000 students
from everywhere in the world
yet we were all together
and learned to get along
I ran for student body president
and won the election
no one thought I would win
For I was a classic nerd
but somehow I won the election
and somehow managed
to keep our little student council
working together
amid terrible times
all around us
the ending of the Vietnam war
Watergate and other corruption news
the 1974 election
student activism
in the first high school
to offer African American studies
the class that had launched
the black panther party
Jimi Hendrix’s last high school
I took Latin one of the few public schools
that still offered Latin
and was on the debate team
but always taking a far right-wing theme
as complete mockery
decades before Stephen Colbert perfected it
yes everything I learned
in life
began at Berkeley High School
Berkeley Roots Rock
So many musicians
got their start
at my alma mater
Berkeley High School
just to name a few
Jimi Hendrix’s last high school
was Berkeley High
Green Day
Started there
as did the Rubinoos
Earthquake
Smoke and Fog
My friend Jim Davison
Played in the Jazz band
and who can forget
the immortal Creedence Clearwater Revival?
Though they went to El Cerrito High School
Berkeley High School
was and is such a special place
where dreams come to fruition
and life begins
for so many students
Free-Range Child in Berkeley
Back in the day
Before helicopter parents,
Children were all free-range kids
Going everywhere
The parents mostly okay
With that.
And so, I went
Everywhere on foot
Or bus
or BART
Walking to Solano Avenue
Drinking coffee
At Peets coffee
Eating Chinese food
In Berkeley’s China town
Walking downtown
Walking to CAL
Eating top dog
Experiencing the late 60’s
Transforming Telegraph
And walking in the woods
In Tilden Park
High up in the hills
Overlooking the bay area
Tilden Park
I have been hiking these woods
Since I was a child
Over 50 years ago
Inspiration point was my favorite
And the haunted forest
That crowns the hill
And where I went just before
Attending my mother’s funeral
It is a special place
Filled with memories
And great views
Of the ever-changing bay area
Tilden Park Haiku
Tilden Regional Park is a regional park in the East Bay of California. It is between the Berkeley Hills and San Pablo Ridge.
Inspiration Point
High up in the Berkeley Hills
With a killer View
Hiking the Hills of My Youth
I grew up in Berkeley, California in the ’60s. Ever since I was a youngster I would wander the hills of Berkeley hiking for hours by myself and sometimes with my friends. I explored every nook and cranny every corner of the hills and got to know nature in its infinite beauty.
Ever since those days, I have longed for the day that I could spend my days hiking and wandering the hills. Now that I am retired and living in Korea I can go for a long walk in the hills every day I want. It is different from the hills I grew up, no vistas of the bay and it is in Korea to boot but most days it is sufficient as I head out early afternoon and conquer four or five miles of hills just enjoying that fact that I can still move and am still very much alive at age 62.
I grew up hiking the hills of Berkeley, California
Grew up knowing every corner of the hills
And the infinite beauty of the Bay Area
And now I find myself in a strange land
With time on my hands
I wander the hills above the airport
In Incheon Korea
And wander about here and there
Just being grateful
That I am still alive
And kicking at age 62
What Am I DNA Fortune Cookies
I just finished two rounds of DNA testing
The results were shocking and unreal
They revealed much of what I knew
And left gaping holes in my past life
The one thing that I know for sure
Is that I am 100 percent American
100 percent Californian
100 percent Berkeley
Yes I am Berkeley enough
The tests say that I am mostly Scandinavian
Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Dutch, perhaps Finnish,
and perhaps Laplander
That I know is real
The tests also reveal that I have lots of Irish,
Scottish, and Welsh background – also true
The tests hint at Jewish ancestry also hinted in family lore
The surprises were that they missed most of my native ancestry
The lost tribe of the Cherokees
are lost to the DNA database as well
The test failed to recognize
my substantial German heritage
missing my German last name
The test also claimed
that I have Italian and Southeast European ancestors
the tests confirmed that I have Eastern European ancestry
And the tests claim that like most people with Eastern European roots
I am part Mongolian thanks to Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun
The real surprise though is the African American that popped up
That is also consistent with my mother’s tangled history
The lost tribe of the Cherokees ran away into the hills
And mixed in with Scott Irish mountain farmers
Other Indians, and runaway slaves
In the end, the DNA tests neither confirmed
Nor denied my family tangled history
Leaving many questions behind
Almost as enigmatic as a fortune cookie
Or an astrological prediction
My Mother’s History
published in Ceracus Review
One day many a year ago
My mother spoke to me
About her family’s tangled history
She spoke to me
Of lies, half-truths, and myths
Some of which may have been true
And throughout the evening
Her history came alive
She was born in the hills of North Little Rock
The 10th of 11 children
Of an ancient dying race
The Cherokees who had run away
The lost tribe of the Cherokees
Homeless since the trail of tears
Refusniks
Refugees who fled in the hills
Rather than join the rest
In the promised land
Of Oklahoma
Her people disappeared
From history’s eyes
They did not exist
I did not exist
My history was over
As was hers
And so I learned at last
The painful truth
That due to the crimes of politicians
So long ago
My mother’s people
Lost their land, their culture, and their hope
And became downtrodden forgotten people
Hillbillies they were called
Living in the hills and mountain dales
Clinging to the dim fading memories
Of their once glorious past
As proud Cherokees
Now no one knew their name
The old ways were forgotten
And the new world never forgave them
And they never forgave the new world
As they lived on
In the margins of society
Forgotten people
And I vowed that as long as I lived
Their history would not die
As I knew the truth
And I would become a proud
Cherokee
And make my mother proud of me
And my accomplishments
And so when I am down and out
I recall her stories and her warnings
And realize it is up to me
To live my life
To let the Cherokee in me
Live his life
And in so doing
My mother’s history does not die
It lives on in me
Until the day I die
Long live the Cherokee nation
Long live my mother
The Wit and Wisdom of Mary Geneva Aldridge Aller -“There’s Method in Her Madness” Dedicated to My Mother Who Passed on July 31, 2005. Published in Contra Costa Times August 2005
Mary Geneva Aller
We are here today
To celebrate the life
Of Mary Geneva Aldridge Wilson Aller,
My mother.
As we are gathered together
to mark her passing
On to another, better world,
I thought we should reflect
On her life and its meaning.
Therefore, I have a message
That I hope we all leave here today.
I call this speech,
‘the wit and wisdom
of Mary Geneva Aldridge Wilson aller,
” there’s a method in her madness.”
Which was one of her favorite Shakespeare quotes.
I hope we will see the wisdom
That my mother tried so hard to impart
And what I hope
I have learned
from 52 years of watching
The life of my mother.
What have I have learned?
From Mary’s life
And her death
And what we can all learn
From her 85 years of experience
In this mad crazy corner
Of the world, she loved so dearly.
She was a true Berkeley original,
and it is only fitting
That we bury her
Here are a few blocks
From where she spent
Much of her life.
What can we learn?
From Mary’s life in this world?
Her favorite song from a musical was
“stop the world.
I want to get off.”
And today she gets her final wish
As she leaves this world
And moves on to another world.
My mother grew up
In Arkansas
In what could best be described
As hill country folk.
She was the 8th child of 10 children
Born on a family farm in the 1920s
High up in the Ozark mountains
North of Little Rock, Arkansas.
She graduated from high school
And lit out for the west coast
just as millions of people
Fled the dust bowl of the late ’30s and ’40s.
She arrived in the SF area
And settled in Berkeley.
She hated being considered an Oakie
and lost her accent
she cultivated an accent
She learned from
The classical radio deejays.
She then became involved
In labor and democratic politics.
She became a telephone operator union president,
Later was a real estate salesperson,
And became involved with the save the bay movement
And the league of women’s voters.
During the 60’s she accompanied
My father to Washington DC
When he was undersecretary of labor.
She could not wait to get back
To her beloved Berkeley
Because she felt at home
In the zany openness of the bay area
She once said
“every ten years the world flips
And all the nuts roll downhill
To California
That is how she got there
Part of the planetary nut reconfiguration program
A little known federal ABC agency “
She hated DC
As it reminded her why
She left the south so many years before.
In later years she helped my father
In his many political campaigns
And was his business manager for almost 10 years
when he ran an economic consulting business.
When she retired,
She kept her love of reading
Until just a few short years ago
When she finally
Was no longer able to read.
That for me was one
Of the saddest parts of her final years
As she loved to read.
What we all learned from Mary
– Mary’s wisdom can be broken
Down into four areas:
Question authority,
Think for ourselves
read everything there is,
And always do the right thing.
She always told us that we should question authority
and that we should never trust experts.
She said often what is an expert?
Just a guy with a PH. D
And we all know what means –
Piled high and deep.
And she laughed
As she was married to PH. D
And hated campus politics.
She hated with disdain
Almost all politicians
Except for Truman and Kennedy
And she had her own Truman story
She thought they were all crooks and liars,
Especially the southern-bred types.
She believed though in equal opportunity
And hated republicans as much as democrats.
No one ever measured
Up to her high standards
Of ethical behavior.
She often told us to do
The right thing.
But she refused to tell us
what would be
As we had to figure
That out on our own.
My final thoughts
Are on reading the lifelong
Love of books
That she gave me and my siblings.
She read an average of three to five books
Per week every week of her life.
We were always trading books
Stocking up books on our visits
To the family library
As I thought of it.
I have taken a part in the library
With me and will treasure all the books
That she shared with me and my siblings.
She always had an opinion
About everything.
One of her and my favorite books
Was the world according to Garp
And there was a “world according to Mary”
Where what you saw was what you got
And if you did not like her opinion,
then you had best get out of the way
Because Mary,
Was afraid of no one
And always stood her ground no matter what.
With Mary “what you saw was what you got.”
But I am happy that she
Let me in the “world according to Mary”
And I have lots of stories
from her life that would make great fiction,
For, in Mary’s improbable life,
Life was truly stranger than fiction.
Because my mother grew up in a Christian family,
It would be appropriate to read a bible quote.
My mother was raised as a Baptist
Although she left the church
After asking the minister,
“if god created the world,
Who created God?”
Here is one of her favorite bible quotes
Ecclesiastes 12 (King James version)
Ecclesiastes 12
1remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.
2while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
3in the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
4and the doors shall be shut in the streets when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be brought low.
5also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets:
7then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto a God who gave it.
8vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity.
9and moreover, because the preacher was wise, he still taught the people knowledge; yea, he gave good heed, and sought out, and set in order many proverbs.
10the preacher sought to find out acceptable words: and that which was written was upright, even words of truth.
11the words of the wise are as gods, and as nails fastened by the masters of assemblies, which are given from one shepherd.
12and further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.
13let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear God and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.
14for God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.
Her minister friend said the short version is
” life is good.
Then we die
And it gets even better.”
When Mary was a telephone union president,
word came down
that she was invited
to meet Harry Truman.
She replied
I don’t want to meet
Harry unless he wants to meet me.
Hearing that quip,
Harry was amused
And sent his advance team to talk
Some sense into that feisty fiery woman
Out in SF
that Mary Aller.
Two government types,
dressed as I do,
showed up
Asked her if she was a communist
She responded
Boy, are you stupid?
If I were a communist, would I tell you?
I don’t think so.
Where do they get people?
Like you anyway?
The SF chronicle captured the moment
With a huge headline,
“Harry meets Mary.”
This sums up my mother’s fearless feisty
Stubborn personality and yes,
Truman was one of the few politicians
That got the Mary aller seal of approval
Now my final Mary story
Sums up her life for me.
In 1974 I was in this play,
the madwomen of the chalet
Where I played the waiter
Whose line was
“she’s not mad.
She’s the madwomen of Chaillot.”
But Mary was in the audience
And I lost my character
for a moment and said,
“she not’s mad,
She’s the madwoman of Berkeley, oops I meant Chaillot.”
Brought down the house.
I went home thinking I had done it,
insulted my mom in front of the whole school.
She laughed
And said that was okay
as she liked the phase.
I said
“well, Mary,
You are my madwoman of Berkeley
And I’ll have it no other way.
She laughed
And that was the end of it,
until now.
When I say,
“Mary, you were one of the most original people
Whoever lived,
And I treasure the fact
that I was your son.
You were at times
Very difficult to deal
With but in the end,
Your good karma
Will outlive you
As you always did the right thing,
and for that
And all the other words
Of wisdom, I learned over the years,
I salute you,
Our beloved madwomen of Berkeley.
The Cosmic Cat from Berkeley
I next encountered the divine
Many years later in Berkeley, California
I had gone home to be with my Mother.
While taking leave from my job
In the Foreign Service,
I had two weeks there by myself
My wife came later
Near the end of the trip.
Every morning I woke up
Had coffee
Did yoga
Spoke to my mother
Who was sliding into dementia.
Day by day losing her reason
Then I would go out
And explore the city
Go to a museum
Go to one neighborhood
And just be there
Rediscovering the Bay area
After years of being away
Having dinner with old friends
Seeing movies etc.
Every morning a black cat came to visit
The cat was friendly and waited for me
And then would join me in my morning rambles.
Following me to the bus stop
I started talking to the black cat
He looked at me with the spark of divinity
In his dark eyes.
I called him the cosmic cat
He seemed to like that
He would look at me
And I opened up to me.
Told the cat all my dark secrets
As I walked the streets
Of the old neighborhood.
Every morning and every evening the cat
Would be there to greet me
And to carry out our endless conversation.
Then I had to leave
And in our final conversation
I asked the cosmic cat.
Say, Cat are you just a cat
Or are you a demonic cat
Are you possessed by God
Or by Satan?
The cat looked at me
And I realized that God
Was indeed residing in the cat.
But that god was residing everywhere
All I had to do was open my mind
And the rest would follow
So I said Goodbye to the cosmic cat
And he purred and came up to me
And I felt the comforting
presence of the divine.
As I said goodbye to the cosmic cat
And said goodbye to my mother
As this was the last time
That we would be able to talk.
I told my mother about the cosmic cat
She smiled and said that the cat
Was there for me and her
To comfort us both in our hour of need
And that the cat was indeed
A cosmic cat
Cosmic Cat Nonet
evil cat
Cosmic cat from Berkeley
The cosmic cat was my best friend
He spent almost two weeks with me
Going everywhere I went
Just waiting for me
The cosmic cat
Was he god
Or just
Cat
Cat
Cosmic
In nightmares
The cat still comes
Many years later
Appearing In my dreams
The Cat comes every night
Cosmic cat spark of the divine
A god for sure sent the cat to me
I salute the cosmic cat from Berkely.
Communist Cats of Berkeley
black cat
growing up in Berkeley
in the infamous 70s
My best friend’s father
Was a Jewish Communist real estate agent
and his mother was a vegan Buddhist Nun
he grew up to become
a carnivorous Shakespearean actor
they had five cats, two dogs
and three mischievous monkeys
who lived in the trees
the cats were named
Stalin, Mao, and Lenin
communist hero cats
Stalin was the ringleader
A black panther-like cat
who was mean as hell
Mao was a pussy cat
a real pushover
and kind to all
Lenin was mischievous
always getting into trouble
they had two dogs
both Scotch terriers
Trotsky and Goldman
two real bad assed
proletarian dogs
the monkeys
Ho Chi Minh and Che
lived in the trees
and chased me
throwing fruit at me
when they saw me
boy do I miss
my communist cat buddies
the leftist dogs
and the mischievous monkeys
of my fabled youth
Father’s Family mostly German and Scandanavian including part Laplander
My family history is complex and many-layered. I did a DNA test a few years ago and have updated it since then. The DNA test had a few surprises. According to family lore, pieced together from what my father, Mother, Uncle, and Aunt told me over the years is that the Aller Family (paternal side) is descended from Hessian mercenaries who came to the US around 1775 to fight for George Washington. After the war, they settled in Pennsylvania, later moved to Ohio, and my grandfather made the trek to Washington State, where he was one of the founding fathers of the Yakima fruit industry, which took hold in the 1920s with the development of irrigation. He was also an avid horticulturist and invented the Edison Apple and green asparagus.
My father got his BA degree from the University of Washington and was a Rhodes scholar, studying in Oxford, getting an MPA degree, Later he obtained a Ph.D. from Harvard University. He taught at CAL State SF for 40 years before he died in 1985 of cancer. He had one brother and three sisters, all of whom have passed on.
He served as the Undersecretary for Labor for President Kennedy and President Johnson and was a local politician serving as President of the Peralta community colleges, and as President of the Berkeley Co-Op where he resided.
According to the DNA reports and family lore, the Aller family is descended from French Huguenots who settled in the Aller river valley near Hamburg. The family name was transcribed in English as either Aller, Allard, Eller, Ohler, or Oller and anyone with those last names is distantly related to me.
My ethnic background consists of (from my grandfather, Curtis Cosmos Aller, Sr.) German, French, Dutch, and Scotish, from my grandmother, Inga Maria Olsen, Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Finnish, Russian, Jewish, and Laplander (Sammi) ancestry. According to DNA records, we also have Ukrainian, Mongolian, Basque, and Italian ancestry. We also probably have distant relatives throughout Latin America as Allers were among the Spanish who conquered Latin America. Aller is a common name throughout Latin America.
Mother’s Sad Tale – Part of the Lost Tribe of the Cherokee Nation
According to my mother, her family is descended from the lost tribe of the Cherokee Nation. They were Cherokees who ran away into the Ozarks in Arkansas, Missouri, and Eastern Texas, intermarrying with other five civilized tribes members (Choctaw, Creek, Osage, and Seminoles), Scotts, Irish, Dutch, French, English settlers, and escaped black slaves. They are a small group less than 30,000 people, and their DNA samples have not made it into most commercial data banks according to Ancestry com.
They have been fighting for decades to gain both Federal and State recognition but so far the two Cherokee nations (the Oklahoma branch and the Eastern band) are opposed to such recognition because they consider their claim to being Cherokee very weak, as almost none of them retain any Cherokee culture or language, and most of their claims are that their great grandfather or great grandmother might have been1/4 Cherokee at best. And they could also be Choctaw, Creek, Osage, or Seminole for that matter . They are mostly white, and some are African American as well. Almost none of them have any documentary claims, and most also do not have any DNA evidence either.
The real reason for the opposition according to the self-proclaimed Ambassador of the Cherokee Nation whom I met at a State Department formal consultation with the Indigenous tribes, which is a formal consultation required under the UN Treaty on the Rights of the Indigenous which the US joined in the 1990s, the two Cherokee nations don’t believe that the lost tribe has enough Cherokee ancestry to be considered members of the tribe, and they also don’t want to have them to be able to open a Casino in Arkansas, or Missouri and they also don’t want to share BIA money with the Lost Tribe of the Cherokees.
But he added,
“We all know that they are our lost tribal members,”
and he supported recognition.
They remain a lost tribe. There is a ballot initiative in Arkansas that if it passes will give them at least State level recognition.
The DNA test does not reveal any native ancestry for the above reasons, but does reveal French, Dutch, Scottish, Irish, and English ancestry, and 1 percent Nigerian. My grandparents spoke Cherokee; therefore, my mother must have been at least ¼ and that makes me at least 1/8 Cherokee, which is good enough for me. If they ever get recognized, I will pursue getting recognized as well. In honor of my mother.
My mother ran away to the Bay Area where she ended up working as a Pacific telephone operator, later as a real estate broker and business manager for my father’s economic
She often said
“Every ten years, the world flips
And all the nuts roll downhill
To California
That is how she got there
Part of the planetary nut reconfiguration program
PNRCP A little known federal ABC agency “
I have included my father’s and mother’s obituaries following seven poems exploring my family’s rich history.
Family History Poems
Index
DNA Tests Do Not Lie or Do They?
Family History Revealed
My Mother’s History
Father’s Son
Thoughts on Visiting the Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC
Mary Geneva Wilson Aller, There’s Method to Her Madness
Curtis Cosmos Aller orbit
Mary Geneva Aller Orbit
DNA Tests Do Not Lie or Do They?
I sent way
For one of those DNA tests
That promises to reveal
Your ethnic heritage
The only problem is that claim
Is not yet true
The results were surprising
To say the least
Family lore would have it
That I have 18 nationalities
In my tangled family history
Mostly Northern European
Part German, Norwegian, Swedish, Finish, Danish, Dutch, Laplander, Russian, Scottish, Basque, Mongolian, Jewish, Spanish, and French from my father
Part Cherokee, Dutch, Irish, Scottish, English, Italian, Nigerian, and French from my mother
100 percent born and raised in Berkeley
The DNA results showed
that I am 68% northern European
with trace elements of Jewish, Basque. Italian
Mongolian and Nigerian stock.
No native American at all
And my Germanic last name
For some reason
Did not register at all
Go figure
I said
And I read the fine print
The state of the art is such
That claims that they can tell
Your ethnic background
Are exaggerated
The fine print read
Explaining why it is often inaccurate
The Cherokee background
Disappeared
Because my branch of the Cherokees
Disappeared into the mist of time
Part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee nation
Part Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole
African Americans, Scotish, Irish,
English, French and Dutch.
Who fled to the Ozark mountains
To avoid the trail of tears.
The German background
Got swept up into the northern European thing
And at the end of the day
I remained as much
a mongrel
breed as anything else
Typical American
I suppose
Overall
A fascinating experiment
Family History Revealed
The DNA results
Revealed some aspects
Of whom I am
Where I am from
But not everything
Was revealed
And much of my history
Remains hidden
My father was from Yakima
Ran away to the Bay Area
Where he became a college professor
Taught the dismal science economics
Along the way
He met my mother
And after a whirlwind romance
had four children
My older brother,
Me
Younger brother
And sister
My Mother was a refugee
From the dust bowl
Fled Arkansas
In the late ’30s
Never looked back
Settled down
In the Bay Area
Yet the south lingered on
She trained herself
To speak without an accent
by listening to the classical radio deejays,
The only time the southern came out
Was when she was talking to her sisters
She was the 10 of 11 children
Father was a moonshiner
A Cherokee medicine man to boot
Lived life in the Ozark mountains
She had two sons
From a prior relationship
That went south
We never really knew them
My father was an atheist
And a morning person
And a man with a plan
For everything
My mother
More make it up
As she went along
And a night owl
How and why
They met and stayed together
Is beyond me
They had a stormy relationship
My mother always said
Germans and Irish
Don’t mix
And never should marry
She also said
The world is divided into morning people
And night owls
And they are doomed
to marry each other
Yet I suppose
There was real love
Beneath all the drama
And bluster
My Mother’s History
One day many a year ago
My mother spoke to me
About her family’s tangled history,
She spoke to me
Of lies, half-truths, and myths
Some of which may have been true
And throughout the evening
Her history came alive.
She was born in the hills
of North Little Rock
The 10th of 11 children
Of an ancient dying race.
The Lost Tribe of the Cherokees
who had run away
Refusniks
Refugees who fled in the hills.
Part of the lost tribe of the Cherokee nation
Part Cherokee, Choctaw, Creek, Seminole
African American, Scottish, Irish, English
French, and Dutch.
Who fled to the Ozark mountains,
To avoid the trail of tears.
Rather than join the rest
In the promised land
Of Oklahoma.
They did not exist
I did not exist.
The BIA told us
No Indian scholarship
For you
Since you can’t prove
You are in fact
Of Native American ancestry,
I asked my mother
What does this mean?
She said
No BIA money for you,
My non-Indian Cherokee son.
Her family and Bill Clinton family
Were related
Bill Clinton and I are distant cousins
When I met him
I related my family history
He concluded that we were indeed cousins
Said I could call him Cousin Bill
And he would call me Cousin Jake
And said he too was part Cherokee
Irish, Scotch, French
And African American
Part of the lost tribe
Of the Cherokee nation
I told my mom
This story
She said
It was true
She was a distant cousin
Of Bill Clinton
Still did not like
The lying SOB
Her people disappeared
From history’s eyes
And DNA data banks
My history was over
As was hers
And so,
I learned at last
The painful truth
That due to the genocidal crimes
of politicians so long ago
My mother’s people
Lost their land, their culture,
and their hope
And became
downtrodden forgotten people
Hillbillies they were called
Living in the hills and mountain dales
Clinging to the dim fading memories
Of their once glorious past
As proud Cherokees
Now no one knew their name
The old ways were forgotten
And the new world never forgave them
And they never forgave the new world
As they lived on
In the margins of society
Forgotten people
And I vowed that as long as I lived
Their history would not die
As I knew the truth
And I would become a proud
Cherokee
And make my mother proud of me
And my accomplishments
When I am feeling down
I recall her stories
and her warnings
And realize it is up to me
To live my life
To let the Cherokee in me
Live his life
And in so doing
My mother’s history does not die
It lives on in me
Until the day I die
Long live the Cherokee nation
Long live my mother.
Father’s Son
I am my Father’s Son
I lived all my life
Fighting against turning
into a carbon copy
Of my father
And I failed as my father emerged
From the darkness of my soul
The full German personality
And Scandinavian background
becoming clear
And peered out
and liked what he saw
As I became him
step by inexorable step
Turning into my father
As he had turned his father
And his father in his father
Since the dawn of time
We have played this game
Sons turning into their fathers
And watching grandsons
Start the Cosmic dance
all over again.
Thoughts on Visiting the Holocaust Memorial Museum in DC
Sam Adams
Had never been
To the Holocaust Museum,
Despite the fact
He had lived
And worked in DC for decades
One day after he retired
He said to himself
It was long past time
To finally see
the holocaust museum
He went the week
After Charleston,
When the mob had chanted,
Jews will not replace us.
The museum affected him deeply
He had just confirmed
Through DNA
That he had at least 10 percent
Jewish ancestry
Among the 18 other nationalities
Swirling among these bloodlines
Sam Adams was concerned
Those elements of antisemitism
We’re emerging among
The MAGA crowd.
But he dismissed
The fears that Trump
Was another Hitler
As liberal hyperbole
It could not happen here
A new holocaust
Would never happen
But now he was not so sure
Poetic Version for April 2021 Contest – Write an Elegy Poem Writing Com Dew Drop-In Prompt Posted April 14, 2021 (April 13 Est)
The Wit and Wisdom of Mary Geneva Aldridge Aller -“There’s Method in Her Madness” Dedicated to My Mother Who Passed on July 31, 2005.
We are here today
To celebrate the life
Of Mary Geneva Aldridge Wilson Aller,
My mother.
As we are gathered together
to mark her passing
On to another, better world,
I thought we should reflect
On her life and its meaning.
Therefore, I have a message
That I hope we all leave here today.
I call this speech,
‘the wit and wisdom of Mary Geneva Aldridge Wilson Aller,
” there’s a method in her madness.”
Which was one of her favorite Shakespeare quotes.
I hope we will see the wisdom
That my mother tried so hard to impart
And what I hope
I have learned
from 52 years of watching
The life of my mother.
What have I have learned?
From Mary’s life
And her death
And what we can all learn
From her 85 years of experience
In this mad crazy corner
Of the world, she loved so dearly.
She was a true Berkeley original,
and it is only fitting
That we bury her
Here are a few blocks
From where she spent
Much of her life.
What can we learn?
From Mary’s life in this world?
Her favorite song from a musical was
“stop the world.
I want to get off.”
And today she gets her final wish
As she leaves this world
And moves on to another world.
My mother grew up
In Arkansas
In what could best be described
As hill country folk.
She was the 10th child of 11 children
Born on a family farm in the 1920s
High up in the Ozark mountains
North of Little Rock, Arkansas.
She graduated from high school
And lit out for the west coast
just as millions of people
Fled the dust bowl
of the late ’30s and ’40s.
She arrived in the SF area
And settled in Berkeley.
she hated being considered an Oakie
and lost her accent
She cultivated an accent
She learned from
The classical radio deejays.
She then became involved
In labor and democratic politics.
She became a telephone operator
union president,
Later was a real estate salesperson,
And became involved
with the save the bay movement
And the league of women’s voters.
During the 60’s she accompanied
My father to Washington DC
When he was undersecretary of labor.
She could not wait to get back
To her beloved Berkeley
Because she felt at home
In the zany openness
of the bay area
She once said
“Every ten years the world flips
And all the nuts roll downhill
To California
That is how she got there
Part of the planetary nut reconfiguration program
PNRCP A little known federal ABC agency “
She hated DC
As it reminded her why
She left the south so many years before.
In later years, she helped my father
In his many political campaigns
And was his business manager for almost 10 years
when he ran an economic consulting business.
When she retired,
She kept her love of reading
Until just a few short years ago
When she finally
Was no longer able to read.
That for me was one
Of the saddest parts of her final years
As she loved to read.
What we all learned from Mary
– Mary’s wisdom can be broken
Down into four areas:
Question authority,
Think for ourselves
read everything there is,
And always do the right thing.
She always told us that we should question authority
and that we should never trust experts.
she said often what is an expert?
Just a guy with a PH. D
And we all know what means –
Piled high and deep.
and she laughed
As she was married to PH. D
And hated campus politics.
She hated with disdain
Almost all politicians
Except for Truman and Kennedy
And she had her own Truman story
She thought they were all crooks and liars,
Especially the southern-bred types.
She believed though in equal opportunity
And hated republicans as much as democrats.
No one ever measured
Up to her lofty standards
Of ethical behavior.
She often told us to do
The right thing.
But she refused to tell us
what would be
As we had to figure
That out on our own.
My concluding thoughts
Are on reading the lifelong
Love of books
That she gave me and my siblings.
She read an average of three to five books
Per week every week of her life.
We were always trading books
Stocking up books on our visits
To the family library
As I thought of it.
I have taken a part in the library
With me and will treasure all the books
That she shared with me and my siblings.
she always had an opinion
About everything.
One of her and my favorite books
Was the world according to Garp
And there was a “world according to Mary”
Where what you saw was what you got
And if you did not like her opinion,
then you had best get out of the way
Because Mary,
Was afraid of no one
And always stood her ground no matter what.
With Mary “what you saw was what you got.”
But I am happy that she
Let me in the “world according to Mary”
And I have lots of stories
from her life that would make great fiction,
For, in Mary’s improbable life,
Life was truly stranger than fiction.
Because my mother grew up in a Christian family,
It would be appropriate to read a bible quote.
my mother was raised as a Baptist
Although she left the church
After asking the minister,
“if god created the world,
Who created God?”
Here is one of her favorite bible quotes
Ecclesiastes 12 (King James version)
Ecclesiastes 12
1remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.
2while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the stars, be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain:
3in the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those that look out of the windows be darkened,
4and the doors shall be shut in the streets when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall rise at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall be brought low.
5also when they shall be afraid of that which is high, and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire shall fail: because man goth to his long home and the mourners go about the streets:
7then shall the dust return to the earth as it was: and the spirit shall return unto a God who gave it.
8vanity of vanities, saith the preacher; all is vanity.
9and moreover, because the preacher was wise, he still taught the people knowledge; yea, he gave good heed, and sought out, and set in order many proverbs.
10the preacher sought to find out acceptable words: and that which was written was upright, even words of truth.
11the words of the wise are as gods, and as nails fastened by the masters of assemblies, which are given from one shepherd.
12and further, by these, my son, be admonished: of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.
13let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter: fear God and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man.
14for God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil.
Her minister friend said the short version is
” life is good.
Then we die
And it gets even better.”
When Mary was a telephone union president,
word came down
that she was invited
to meet Harry Truman.
She replied
I don’t want to meet
Harry unless he wants to meet me.
Hearing that quip,
Harry was amused
And sent his advance team to talk
Some sense into that feisty fiery woman
Out in SF
that Mary Aller.
Two government types,
dressed as I do,
showed up
Asked her if she was a communist
She responded
Boy, are you stupid?
If I were a communist, would I tell you?
I don’t think so.
Where do they get people?
Like you anyway?
The SF chronicle captured the moment
With a huge headline,
“Harry meets Mary.”
This sums up my mother’s fearless feisty
Stubborn personality and yes,
Truman was one of the few politicians
That got the Mary aller seal of approval
Now my final Mary story
Sums up her life for me.
In 1974 I was in this play,
“the madwomen of Chailoit”
Where I played the waiter
Whose line was
“she’s not mad.
She’s the madwomen of Chaillot.”
But Mary was in the audience
And I lost my character
for a moment and said,
“she not’s mad,
She’s the madwoman of Berkeley, oops I meant Chaillot.”
Brought down the house.
I went home thinking I had done it,
insulted my mom in front of the whole school.
She laughed
And said that was okay
as she liked the phase.
I said
“well, Mary,
You are my madwoman of Berkeley
And I’ll have it no other way.
she laughed
And that was the end of it,
until now.
When I say,
“Mary, you were one of the most
original people
Whoever lived,
And I treasure the fact
that I was your son.
You were at times
Very difficult to deal
With but in the end,
Your good karma
Will outlive you
As you always did the right thing,
and for that
And all the other words
Of wisdom, I learned over the years,
I salute you,
Our beloved madwomen of Berkeley.
the prompt was to write an elegy poem. I delivered this at my mother’s funeral in 2005.
When Curtis Cosmos Aller was born on 16 November 1889, in Carrollton, Carroll, Ohio, the United States, his father, Daniel Wilbur Aller, was 24 and his mother, Drusilla McCausland, was 22. He married Inga Pauline Olsen on 30 September 1917, in Bremerton, Kitsap, Washington, United States. They were the parents of at least 2 sons and 3 daughters. He lived in Summit view, Yakima, Washington, the United States in 1930 and Election Precinct 108 West Summit view, Yakima, Washington, the United States in 1940. He died on 12 August 1956, in Yakima, Yakima, Washington, United States, at the age of 66, and was buried in Terrace Heights Memorial Park, Yakima, Yakima, Washington, United States.
There is an Aller river in Germany, and in Spain and there is an Aller village in Sussex country, England.
Aller History, Family Crest & Coats of Arms
Origins Available:
Germany
The name Aller comes from the German region of Westphalia. The tradition of adopting hereditary surnames came to Germany after the 12th century, and the names of places where people lived were a primary source. Many local names carry the prefix “von”, meaning “of” or “from,” which was originally an indicator of land ownership, and is sometimes a mark of nobility. The Aller family originally lived by an alder tree. Ancient records reveal the name Aller is derived from the Old German word elre or alre, which means alder. There are also numerous places named Eller in the northern German states, such as the Rhine and Moselle areas, which adopted the name of an old stream called the Ellera. Thus, the name Aller is both a topographic surname, a type of local surname that was given to a person who resided near a physical feature such as a hill, stream, church, or type of tree, and a habitation name, a type of local name that was originally derived from pre-existing names for towns, villages, parishes, or farmsteads.
Early Origins of the Aller family
The surname Aller was first found in Westphalia, where the family emerged in mediaeval times as one of the notable families of the region. From the 13th century the surname was identified with the great social and economic evolution which made this territory a landmark contributor to the development of the nation.
Early History of the Aller family
This web page shows only a small excerpt of our Aller research. Another 77 words (6 lines of text) covering the years 1354, 1424, 1680, 1690 and 1730 are included under the topic Early Aller History in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
Aller Spelling Variations
In the medieval era, many different cultural groups lived in the German states. There are thus many regional variations of German surnames from that era. Westphalians spoke Low German, which is similar to modern Dutch. Many German names carry suffixes that identify where they came from. Others have phrases attached that identify something about the original bearer. Other variations in German names resulted from the fact that medieval scribes worked without the aid of any spelling rules. The spelling variations of the name Aller include Eller, Ellers, Eler, Aller, Aler, Ellern, Ellere, Elera, Ellera, Ellerer and many more.
Early Notables of the Aller family (pre 1700)
Notables of the period with the name Aller were Wolf Ernst von Eller (d. 1680), who was the Governor of Minden and Sparenberg, a military general, and Privy Councillor for defense to the prince…
Another 34 words (2 lines of text) are included under the topic Early Aller Notables in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
Aller migration to the United States+
For many Germans, emigration to North America was an inviting alternative to the trials of life in the old country. From the mid-17th into the present century, thousands of Germans migrated across the Atlantic. They capitalized on the chance to escape poverty and persecution, and to own their own land. After 1650, Germans settled throughout the states of Pennsylvania, Texas, New York, Illinois, and California. Many also landed in Canada, settling in Ontario or father west on the rich land of the prairies. Among them:
Aller Settlers in United States in the 18th Century
Peter Aller, who landed in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1749 [1]
Michael Aller, who arrived in Pennsylvania in 1753 [1]
Contemporary Notables of the name Aller (post 1700)+
Javier Aller Cervera (1972-2018), Spanish film and television actor from Madrid
Rodney Goddard Aller (1916-2005), American lawyer, naval officer and masters skier
Lawrence Hugh Aller (1913-2003), American astronomer from Tacoma, Washington
Victor Aller (1905-1977), American pianist
Eleanor Aller (1917-1995), American cellist and founding member of the Hollywood String Quartet
Related Stories+
The Aller Motto+
Aller History, Family Crest & Coats of Arms
Origins Available:
Germany
The name Aller comes from the German region of Westphalia. The tradition of adopting hereditary surnames came to Germany after the 12th century, and the names of places where people lived were a primary source. Many local names carry the prefix “von”, meaning “of” or “from,” which was originally an indicator of land ownership, and is sometimes a mark of nobility. The Aller family originally lived by an alder tree. Ancient records reveal the name Aller is derived from the Old German word elre or alre, which means alder. There are also numerous places named Eller in the northern German states, such as the Rhine and Moselle areas, which adopted the name of an old stream called the Ellera. Thus, the name Aller is both a topographic surname, a type of local surname that was given to a person who resided near a physical feature such as a hill, stream, church, or type of tree, and a habitation name, a type of local name that was originally derived from pre-existing names for towns, villages, parishes, or farmsteads.
Early Origins of the Aller family
The surname Aller was first found in Westphalia, where the family emerged in mediaeval times as one of the notable families of the region. From the 13th century the surname was identified with the great social and economic evolution which made this territory a landmark contributor to the development of the nation.
Early History of the Aller family
This web page shows only a small excerpt of our Aller research. Another 77 words (6 lines of text) covering the years 1354, 1424, 1680, 1690 and 1730 are included under the topic Early Aller History in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
Aller Spelling Variations
In the medieval era, many different cultural groups lived in the German states. There are thus many regional variations of German surnames from that era. Westphalians spoke Low German, which is similar to modern Dutch. Many German names carry suffixes that identify where they came from. Others have phrases attached that identify something about the original bearer. Other variations in German names resulted from the fact that medieval scribes worked without the aid of any spelling rules. The spelling variations of the name Aller include Eller, Ellers, Eler, Aller, Aler, Ellern, Ellere, Elera, Ellera, Ellerer and many more.
Early Notables of the Aller family (pre 1700)
Notables of the period with the name Aller were Wolf Ernst von Eller (d. 1680), who was the Governor of Minden and Sparenberg, a military general, and Privy Councillor for defense to the prince…
Another 34 words (2 lines of text) are included under the topic Early Aller Notables in all our PDF Extended History products and printed products wherever possible.
Aller migration to the United States+
For many Germans, emigration to North America was an inviting alternative to the trials of life in the old country. From the mid-17th into the present century, thousands of Germans migrated across the Atlantic. They capitalized on the chance to escape poverty and persecution, and to own their own land. After 1650, Germans settled throughout the states of Pennsylvania, Texas, New York, Illinois, and California. Many also landed in Canada, settling in Ontario or father west on the rich land of the prairies. Among them:
Aller Settlers in United States in the 18th Century
Peter Aller, who landed in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania in 1749 [1]
Michael Aller, who arrived in Pennsylvania in 1753 [1]
Contemporary Notables of the name Aller (post 1700)+
Javier Aller Cervera (1972-2018), Spanish film and television actor from Madrid
Rodney Goddard Aller (1916-2005), American lawyer, naval officer and masters skier
Lawrence Hugh Aller (1913-2003), American astronomer from Tacoma, Washington
Victor Aller (1905-1977), American pianist
Eleanor Aller (1917-1995), American cellist and founding member of the Hollywood String Quartet
Curtis Cosmos Aller, Jr. Undersecretary of Labor 1963-1968.President of teh Rhodes Scholar, Harvard PHD President of the Berkeley Co-Op
James Elwood Aller Admiral retred Navy Academy graduate University of Virginia Professor of Applied Mathematics, coiner of the term ‘Computer bug”.
John (Jake) Cosmos Aller US diplomat 1981 to 2016 retired.
The Aller Motto+
The motto was originally a war cry or slogan. Mottoes first began to be shown with arms in the 14th and 15th centuries, but were not in general use until the 17th century. Thus the oldest coats of arms generally do not include a motto. Mottoes seldom form part of the grant of arms: Under most heraldic authorities, a motto is an optional component of the coat of arms, and can be added to or changed at will; many families have chosen not to display a motto.
Motto: Gloria virtutis umbra Motto Translation: Glory is the shadow of virtue.
The motto was originally a war cry or slogan. Mottoes first began to be shown with arms in the 14th and 15th centuries, but were not in general use until the 17th century. Thus the oldest coats of arms generally do not include a motto. Mottoes seldom form part of the grant of arms: Under most heraldic authorities, a motto is an optional component of the coat of arms, and can be added to or changed at will; many families have chosen not to display a motto.
Motto: Gloria virtutis umbra Motto Translation: Glory is the shadow of virtue.
Aldrige (mother’s maiden name)
Early Origins of the Aldridge family The surname Aldridge was first found in the counties of Sussex , Suffolk, and Surrey, where the Aldridge family held a family seat from very early times. The family had the Saxon spellings of Alderich, Ealdric, or possibly Aelfric before the Norman Conquest)
Mary Geneva Aldrige Aller
Mary Geneva Aldridge Aller Sept. 9, 1923 – July 31, 2007, Former Resident of Berkeley Mary was born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas, and came to the Bay Area in the 1940s and settled in Berkeley where she resided until 2003.
During the 1950s, she was active in the labor movement and served several years as the President of the Pacific Telephone Operators Union. During the late 1950s, she was a real estate agent and involved with the Berkeley League of Women’s Voters, and the “Save the Bay” movement.
In 1952, she made local headlines when she told President Truman’s staff that she did not want to meet him unless he wanted to meet her. The San Francisco Chronicle authored a big article with the Headline “Harry Meets Mary.” She was a long-term political activist and active member of the Berkeley Co-Op along with her husband, Dr. Curtis Aller, who passed away in 1985.
During the 1960s, she accompanied her husband to Washington, D.C. when he served as the Undersecretary of Labor. She returned to Berkeley in 1968 where she worked with her husband until 1984 as the business manager for the Center for Applied Manpower Research. Mary is survived by two sisters, Mildred and Robbie who live in Arkansas. She is also survived by six children, Roger Aller of Sebastopol, California, John (Jake) Aller of Washington, DC, Thomas Aller of Albany, California, Inga Aller of Gualala, California, Richard, and Larry Wilson from her first marriage, and many grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. The family will have a private ceremony Friday, August 3 for interment. Flowers can be sent to the Sunset View Funeral Home, 101 Colusa Avenue, in El Cerrito (510) 525-5111.
Today, in honor of the 400th celebration of Thanksgiving, I thought it would be good to pull together my Thanksgiving poems written over the years. I have no doubt others buried in my computer’s hard drive, and if I ever get my act together to find them, I will update this in due course.
Thanksgiving and Christmas were my favorite holidays as a child. I grew up eating Southern Style cooking, as my Mom was from Arkansas and my Dad from Yakima, Washington, and she did most of the cooking and was a creative cook.
She did thanksgiving/Christmas full southern style – featuring a full roast turkey (fried turkey was not common when she grew up although now in the south fried turkey is as common as roasted turkey).
Here’s the recipe
Roasted turkey
Stuffing in the bird bread, onion, ham bits, bacon bits, herbal mix)
Gravy
Sweet potato pie with marshmallows
Cranberry sauce
Mashed potatoes
Corn Bread
Salad
Green beans
Southern-style greens –
turnip, collard, kale, spinach
with bacon, ham, onions and, molasses
Rice
Wild rice
Roasted potato au gratin
Pumpkin pie with whipped cream
Vanilla ice cream to finish the meal
And leftover turkey sandwiches for a week.
I found three articles that are apt. See below for links to the full article. The first is an article about what the first Thanksgiving meal consisted of, and the second is an article on how Thanksgiving was a controversial holiday in the south until the late 19th century, as it was seen as a Yankee puritan tradition and competed with Christmas, and the third is a history of the holiday. It only became a holiday in the civil war, and only became what we think of it in the late 19th century.
Many families mine included did the same menu on both Thanksgiving and Christmas although some families did something a bit different for Christmas, substituting ham, duck, goose, Cornish game hens, or a pot roast for the turkey for example.
And there were ethnic variations of course. And Jewish people usually went out for a Chinese meal on Christmas, as did the Chinese as well. In Berkeley, my Jewish and Chinese friends celebrated Thanksgiving with the full bird treatment, but went out on CHriatmas day for Chinese food.
Poems
Thanksgiving Gratitude
Thanksgiving Memories
Ode to Thanksgiving Meals Past and Present
Best/Worst Thanksgiving Ever Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving Day
Best/Worst Thanksgiving Ever Thanksgiving
Thankful for my Angel On Thanksgiving Day
Thanksgiving COVID Senryu
Turkey Senryu
Turkey Revolt
Death to All Humans, the Mad Turkey Screams
Three Thanksgiving articles -excerpts
What was on the first Thanksgiving menu? Smithsonian
When Thanksgiving was fighting words LA Times
Invention of Thanksgiving – New Yorker and other articles
Thanksgiving Poems
Thanksgiving Memories
On thanksgiving day
We are grateful
For the little things
In life
For the memories
for the food
that we will enjoy
on this day of giving thanks
Writing com Prompt: National Gratitude Month encourages us to embrace the power of gratitude
In an 8-line poem, write about just one non-human thing you are truly grateful for.
Ode to Thanksgiving Meals Past and Present
Growing up
My favorite holidays
Were Thanksgiving
And Christmas
We did a traditional Thanksgiving
And Christmas dinner as well
Southern American style
As my Mom was from Arkansas
My Dad was from Yakima
And we lived in Berkeley, California
Featuring of course the full bird
Roasted turkey
Stuffing in the bird
consisting of bread, onion, carrots, ham bits,
walnuts,bacon bits, and herbal sage mixture
That came with the stuffing mix
Gravy
Sweet potato pie with marshmallows
Cranberry sauce
Mashed potatoes
Corn Bread
Salad
Green beans
Southern-style greens –
turnip, collard, kale, spinach
with bacon, ham, onions and, molasses
Rice
Wild rice
Roasted potato au gratin
Pumpkin pie with whipped cream
Vanilla ice cream to finish the meal
And leftover turkey sandwiches
For a week
Nowadays
Whenever I am
In the world
I try to have a traditional
Thanksgiving dinner
but it is hard
doing so overseas
where turkey
is just not that common
a food item
and Thanksgiving is such
an American (and Candadian) tradition
not celebrated anywhere else
over the years
I have had steak
Ham, Mexican food
Indian food
on Thanksgiving Day
Even sushi on thanksgiving
In Okinawa
And once
I had Tofu Turkey
Even though
I am from California
That was a step too far
Just not for me.
But in the end
Nothing is more satisfactory
Than eating turkey
On Thanksgiving night
I have added drinking
A bit of bourbon
On Thanksgiving day
To my routine
On this Thanksgiving day
In Korea
We did a roasted turkey breast
Cranberry sauce
Mashed potatoes
Asparagus
Cheesecake
Bourbon
And wine
The turkey, cranberry sauces, bourbon, and wine
came from the Army Commissary
The other ingredients from COSTCO
It was just divine
As always
And in the end
It all comes together
As I eat my Thanksgiving dinner
No matter where I am
As long as I am eating
Thanksgiving dinner
With my wife
It does not matter
too much
What we are eating
Forever thankful
She is there
To share my life
On this special day.
This week’s prompt is Holiday Meals. While most people, here in the U.S. have the typical Thanksgiving turkey dinner with mashed potatoes, stuffing, and cranberry sauce, not everyone follows the crowd. Think back to holiday meals you participated in when you were younger. Feel free to write about Thanksgiving or any other holiday meal you choose. Please share any items of food that you or others might feel are out of the ordinary. Do you have memories of any special or surprise guests that came to any of your holiday meals? Did you ever have a catastrophic holiday meal? Do you still carry on the same holiday meal traditions you had as a kid, or have you changed things up? Are you now typically the host or hostess for meals (sans Covid) or do you usually participate as a guest? Does your family like to go out for holiday meals, or do you prefer to stay at home? Is your table setting different for holiday meals? Do you decorate the whole house as part of your mealtime mood? Please share some memories of your special holiday meals.
Thanksgiving Day
On Thanksgiving Day
We are grateful
For the little things
In life
For the memories
for the food
that we will enjoy
on this day of giving thanks
For the day of Thanksgiving here in the USA, we are featuring the theme of gratitude, in any form or style that you prefer. Several examples can be found for inspiration in the following links:
It was a thanksgiving to remember
One of the best
And one of the worst as well
It started with burned dinner rolls
Then power outage stopped the turkey
Finishing roasting in the oven
They pulled out the mostly cooked bird
Declaring it was time
To eat
And sat down
Having a traditional southern style
Thanksgiving dinner
Featuring of course the full bird
Roasted turkey
Stuffing in the bird of course
Gravy
Sweat potato pie with marshmallows,
Cranberry sauce
Mashed potatoes
Corn Bread
Salad
Green beans
And left-over turkey sandwiches
For a week
Uncle Bob lost a tooth
The doorbell rang,
The dog dashed
out the door
Chasing the mailman
Down the road
Mom brought out
Desert
pumpkin pie with hipped cream
Writing com prompt was to use the following words in a Thanksgiving poem
Burned dinner rolls
Power outage
Uncle Bob Lost a tooth
Dog dashed out the Door
pumpkin pie with Hipped cream
Happy Thanksgiving Thanksgiving
Happy Thanksgiving
Devotion
Thanksgiving
Big
Hiking
Yipee
Every day the fridge magnet site publishes a lits of words that you can use to make a refrigerator magnet poem from. Today’s Fridge prompt words were:
unlike
bag
pact
yippee
addicted
considering
vertigo
tampon
employ
NBC
sleet
decoy
hers
hearing
hey
denominational
cunning
big
steaming
sock
democracy
swear
significantly
what’s open on thanksgiving
ecological
fetid
India vs New Zealand
backstroke
timid
Spartan
silt
faint
votive
abroad
gringo
he
nan
thank
happy thanksgiving
devotion
cheque
hiking
thanksgiving
improve
retracted
Thankful for My Angel on Thanksgiving Day
On Thanksgiving Day
I woke up
and saw my wife
Sleeping peacefully
I look at her
In the dawning light
Filling my soul
With her love
I drink my coffee
Contemplating my life
Ever thankful
Especially on Thanksgiving day
For the angel
That came to me
Out of my dreams
Walking into my life
Taking charge of me
39 years ago
I met my fate
On that date.
Thanksgiving Senryu
This Thanksgiving
Celebration of life
COVID is Ending
Turkey Revolt
On Thanksgiving Day
The feast started late
The turkey was having a problem
He refused to go quietly
Into the oven
The turkey stood up
Screaming
What is wrong with you people?
You are going to burn me alive?
What have I done to you?
Why can’t you just pardon me
Like the President did
I mean, I am cuter than
Peter Butter
And Jelly anyway
The turkey grabbed a knife
And killed the guests
Running out into the dark
Joining all the other
Suddenly “woke” turkeys
All screaming
“I am mad as hell
and not going to take it anymore
Death to all humans.”
That was the day
That went down in history
As the Thanksgiving
Turkey revolt.
writing com prompt: the feast was late because the big bird
Death to All Humans Turkey Screams
The big feast was ready
and the family
made its way
to the dinner table
when suddenly,
the turkey woke up,
jumping off the table
he picks up a knife
and attacks
and kills the family
Screaming
“Death to all humans”
Ending the Thanksgiving Day
feast for the family.
writing com prompt The big feast was ready and the family
made its way to the dinner table when suddenly,
What am I grateful for? Thanksgiving Day Poem
On this Thanksgiving Day
I am thankful
For the fact
That I have survived
My 66 birthday
My father and grandfather
Both died at age 65
And I felt a curse
Had been lifted
As I lived beyond
That date
No cancer
No Alzheimers yet
And no COVID
Cheated death
In my life
22 times
And most important
I am still madly in love
With the love of my life
Whom I met
In a dream
47 years ago
39 years ago
She walked into my life
Becoming my wife
And this fairy tale romance
Has continued to this date
And for that I am thankful.
Thanksgiving Day Feelings
On this Thanksgiving Day day
We have a lot
To be thankful for
A lot to be grateful for
Most importantly
We have survived
Old Corona has not
Taken us away
We are alive
Love and life
Continues
As we gather around
The dinner table
Thinking of the past
Enjoying the moment
With thanks in our hearts
We say
Happy Thanksgiving Day
Happy Thanksgiving Day F’ing
Happy Thanksgiving Day
Considering her
hey a cunning
big steaming gringo
f… her
on Thanksgiving Day
unlike
bag
pact
yippee
addicted
considering
vertigo
tampon
employ
NBC
sleet
decoy
hers
hearing
hey
denominational
cunning
big
steaming
sock
democracy
swear
significantly
what’s open on Thanksgiving Day
ecological
fetid
India vs New Zealand
backstroke
timid
spartan
silt
faint
votive
abroad
gringo
he
nan
thank
happy Thanksgiving Day
devotion
cheque
hiking
Thanksgiving Day
improve
retracted
For the 2021 November PAD Chapbook Challenge, poets are tasked with authoring a poem a day in November before assembling a chapbook manuscript in December. Today’s prompt is to write a remix poem.
For today’s prompt, write a remix poem. For this poem, take one of your poems (or several of your poems) and make a remixed version that is a completely new poem. This could involve lengthening a short poem or condensing a longer poem.
Remember: These prompts are springboards to creativity. Use them to expand your possibilities, not limit them.
Thanksgiving JiYu Shi Poem
Thanksgiving day
A time for reflection
A time to feast
With friends and family
Nowadays in person and zoom
Hard to eat a turkey
On zoom
What am I grateful for? Thanksgiving Day Poem
On this Thanksgiving Day
I am thankful
For the fact
That I have survived
My 66 birthday
My father and grandfather
Both died at age 65
And I felt a curse
Had been lifted
As I lived beyond
That date
No cancer
No Alzheimers yet
And no COVID
Cheated death
In my life
22 times
And most importantly
I am still madly in love
With the love of my life
Whom I met
In a dream
39 years later
She walked into my life
Becoming my wife
And this fairy tale romance
Has continued to this date
And for that I am thankful.
What was on the Menu for the First Thanksgiving?
“The history of the holiday meal tells us that turkey was always the centerpiece, but other courses have since disappeared What Was on the Menu at the First Thanksgiving?
Megan Gambino” title=”What Was on the First Thanksgiving Menu”>
Senior Editor
November 21, 2011
Traditional Thanksgiving dinner includes turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes but the First Thanksgiving likely included wildfowl, corn, porridge and venison. Bettmann / Corbis
Today, the traditional Thanksgiving dinner includes any number of dishes: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, candied yams, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. But if one were to create a historically accurate feast, consisting of only those foods that historians are certain were served at the so-called “first Thanksgiving,” there would be slimmer pickings. “Wildfowl was there. Corn, in grain form for bread or for porridge, was there. Venison was there,” says Kathleen Wall. “These are absolutes.”
An engraving shows Union troops receiving Thanksgiving rations during the Civil War, circa 1864.
(Kean Collection / Getty Images)
BY JENNY JARVIE
NOV. 23, 2017 3 AM PT
Reporting from Atlanta —
“When Americans across North and South gather for Thanksgiving around tables laden with turkey and cranberries, perhaps the biggest regional disagreement centers on stuffing versus dressing.
It was not always so. In the runup to the Civil War, there was strong resistance in the South toward Thanksgiving itself.
“With the whole prospect of a showdown over the expansion of slavery, there was more and more rhetoric coming out of the South charging that Thanksgiving was pretty much a Yankee abolitionist holiday,” said James C. Cobb, professor emeritus of history at the University of Georgia.
While governors from Arkansas to Mississippi gradually embraced the idea of Thanksgiving in the 1840s, issuing Thanksgiving proclamations for their states, the idea of celebrating a traditional Puritan northern holiday became more contentious in the 1850s with the heightening temperature of the national slavery debate.
“Thanksgiving was, above all, a New England holiday, and New England was abolitionist territory,” as Diana Karter Appelbaum put it in her book “Thanksgiving: An American Holiday, an American History.”
“Autumn is the season for Native America. There are the cool nights and warm days of Indian summer and the genial query “What’s Indian about this weather?” More wearisome is the annual fight over the legacy of Christopher Columbus—a bold explorer dear to Italian-American communities, but someone who brought to this continent forms of slavery that would devastate indigenous populations for centuries. Football season is in full swing, and the team in the nation’s capital revels each week in a racist performance passed off as “just good fun.” As baseball season closes, one prays that Atlanta (or even semi-evolved Cleveland) will not advance to the World Series. Next up is Halloween, typically featuring “Native American Brave” and “Sexy Indian Princess” costumes. November brings Native American Heritage Month and tracks a smooth countdown to Thanksgiving. In the elementary-school curriculum, the holiday traditionally meant a pageant, with students in construction-paper headdresses and Pilgrim hats reënacting the original celebration. If today’s teachers aim for less pageantry and a slightly more complicated history, many students still complete an American education unsure about the place of Native people in the nation’s past—or in its present. Cap the season off with Thanksgiving, a turkey dinner, and a fable of interracial harmony. Is it any wonder that by the time the holiday arrives a lot of American Indian people are thankful that autumn is nearly over?
Americans have been celebrating Thanksgiving for nearly four centuries, commemorating that solemn dinner in November 1621. We know the story well or think we do. Adorned in funny hats, large belt buckles, and clunky black shoes, the Pilgrims of Plymouth gave thanks to God for his blessings, demonstrated by the survival of their fragile settlement. The local Indians, supporting characters who generously pulled the Pilgrims through the first winter and taught them how to plant corn, joined the feast with gifts of venison. A good time was had by all before things quietly took their natural course: the American colonies expanded, the Indians gave up their lands and faded from history, and the germ of collective governance found in the Mayflower Compact blossomed into American democracy.
Almost none of this is true, as David Silverman points out in “This Land Is Their Land: The Wampanoag Indians, Plymouth Colony, and the Troubled History of Thanksgiving” (Bloomsbury).”
Updated with complete list. Due to time differences you may miss the deadline. if so, please contact the authors directly to see if they will be willing to send you a copy. And please feel free to message me on FB or at my email authorjakecosmosaller@gmail and I will send you a copy of my chapbook (printed below as well) to whatever email address you provide.
thanks. This is the third time I have participated in this annual event.
Book Free-For-All Submission
Thanks for joining the 2021 Poetry Super Highway E-book Free-For-All!
We’ve received your submission and as long as your e-book description is 50 words or less, we’ll add it to the list of e-books which will be available to download for 24 hours on December 1st! (If your description is longer than 50 words, look for a follow up email from us asking you to shorten it.)
All submitted e-books will be freely available to download on December 1st for 24 hours, and when it’s all done, we’ll put up a page showing how many times each was downloaded.
Here’s what you submitted:
April 2021 Poetic Madness by Jake Aller
Every April for the last few years, I have been competing in the annual April Poetry month competitions. This year I wrote 8 poems a day for a month. Here are the selected poems from that month of poetic madness. https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
A crazy project in which your poetry e-books will be freely available to all interested humans on Earth for 24 hours.
Throughout November we will collect e-books from poets and writers interested in participating.
Then on December 1st, for 24 hours, a special website will go live with links to all of the e-books. For 24 hours anyone will be free to download, for free, as many of these e-books as they like…a poetry e-book free-for-all.
How?
To participate, read all of the guidelines below and then click on our Online Submission Form. That’s it. It’s simple. By doing so, your e-book will be included.
The E-Book has to be written by you.
E-books should be in PDF Format for universal compatibility with anyone’s computer.
If you have an e-book in Microsoft Word or another format, please convert it to PDF. One way to do this (if you don’t know how) is to visit the website http://www.freepdfconvert.com/. From there you will be allowed to select the file on your computer which will be uploaded and emailed back to you in PDF format.
When creating your e-book file, please keep it smaller than 1 megabyte.
Once you’ve created your e-book (not before), click on our Online
Submission Form to join in!
Do not fill out the form and then e-mail us your e-book later. Please fill out the form and use it to upload your e-book to us.
We are not accepting e-books or submissions by e-mail. The only way to join in is by clicking on the Online Submission Form below.
On December 1 at Midnight (the evening of November 30), we will distribute a special e-mail letting people know the location of the web page with links to all of the e-book files. People will be free to download any or all of the titles and your poetry will be freely, electronically, traveling all over the world. This web page will go offline 24 hours later at Midnight on December 2nd.
We will also list your e-book and description on this web page along with the link to your website for all to see.
The mission of the Poetry Super Highway is to expose as many people to as many other people’s poetry as possible.
Download 75 Free E-Books Now!
Thanks to everyone who donated e-books to this project. All of the books are now available for download by clicking on “Download Now” next to the author’s name below.
Books will remain available until Midnight tonight (Tuesday evening December 1st Pacific).
Check back here on December 2 to see how many of each were downloaded.
E-Books:
Agnostics Sing of Angels and Asks Why in Hell Not, the by Stephen Mead (Download this E-Book)
Poems dating back to the 1990s & onward, revised but only typed in the last year, these words of spiritual seeking are rooted in the basic human need to find meaning to cope with and even celebrate existence. https://postcardsfromthedeepstephenmeadart.weebly.com/
April 2021 Poetic Madness by Jake Aller (Download this E-Book)
Every April for the last few years, I have been competing in the annual April Poetry month competitions. This year I wrote 8 poems a day for a month. Here are the selected poems from that month of poetic madness. https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
Artists, Unknown by LB Sedlacek (Download this E-Book)
Art doesn’t hum, notes found in notebooks or dropped in a parking lot make for good poems, howling dogs, tattoos, pineapples that look like grenades, kissing, and cartoons, cereal, spark plugs and action heroes — all things that make these poems a little bit different. http://www.lbsedlacek.com
Bavarian Home / Bayerisch Heimat by Duane L Herrmann (Download this E-Book)
These poems by Duane L Herrmann reflect and share his experiences in his hometown of his great grandfather whose last name he shares. They are in both English and German and are forthcoming from the Origami Poems Project as TWO mirco chapbooks.
Betelgeuse Dimming by Jean-Paul L. Garnier (Download this E-Book)
A collection of speculative poetry. Nominated for the 2021 Elgin Award. Comes with free musical audiobook version download. https://spacecowboybooks.com/
Bigfoot Parchments, the by Richard Rensberry (Download this E-Book)
The Bigfoot Parchments are a poetic journey into the knowledge and secrets of how the Sasquatch read minds and warp time/space in order to appear and disappear at will. They also contain simple but profound truths that cannot be violated if one is to achieve the Sasquatch way to enlightenment. https://www.conversationswithsasquatch.com
Blue Soul, A by Gabriella Garofalo (Download this E-Book)
My irrepressible longing for reshaping in a new life the splinters of ice and life that wound me, so as to give them a fresh soul, is the drive enabling my words to be pervaded by that green fuse we might think of as the life and soul of poetry.
Bokeh Focus: Poems by Raymond Luczak (Download this E-Book)
With Bokeh Focus, Raymond Luczak trains his photographer’s eye as a gay man upon his subjects and examines the impact of imagery on one’s own identity. http://www.raymondluczak.com/
Castles, wombs, armies, and pentecosts by R. Bremner (Download this E-Book)
R. Bremner’s second book of poems, originally written in the late 1970s, updated with a few additions in the 1980s.
Circling the Sun by Gaynor Kane (Download this E-Book)
A micro-collection (from the Stickleback series, published by the Hedgehog Poetry Press) of poems about the early aviatrixes https://gaynorkane.com/
Clean as a Broke Dick Dog by Alex Stolis (Download this E-Book)
A story with a soundtrack, previously released by Red Ceilings Press
Close Encounters Chapbook by Elizabeth Marchitti (Download this E-Book)
A chapbook of my personal experiences, starting with meeting Santa on the elevator on my way to my cardioologist’s office.
Concupiscent Consumption by LindaAnn LoSchiavo (Download this E-Book)
Visit the love doctor: recall your first kiss, a sultry fling, that secret kink. “Concupiscent Consumption” is for anyone who’s ever been in love — or lost in lust. ― Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ― https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg
Dance is You, the by Shola Balogun (Download this E-Book)
The Dance is You is a rich collection with the ordered flow of original verses and inventive colourful vibrations. This book of poems, presents dance as the autobiography of the soul, the expression of what we call life, and the encounter with the self. https://www.amazon.com/Shola-Balogun/e/B00LPRQU10?ref_=pe_1724030_132998060
Dancing Under the Moon by Joan Leotta (Download this E-Book)
Poems that show the joy of loving all things moon-related. Written about the rising moon and the early morning moon-set poems all on one page and then foldable into a mini book
December 2014 by Jim Bennett (Download this E-Book)
In December 2014 Jim Bennett wrote a poem every day. Many of these poems were later published but here these poems are brought together in the order they were written. https://poetrykit.org
Discovery by Don Krieger (Download this E-Book)
Discovery is a hybrid collection in three sections: America, Childhood’s End, To Save a Life. It’s an easy and interesting read — I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Thank you for reading it. The PDF is formatted for “Two Page View” in your PDF reader. All my best – Don http://DonsPoetryPage.com
Duality Of Moonlight, The by Kirsten G. Munro (Download this E-Book)
This wonderful poetry book is filled with different poems and situations exploring the darkness and light that humans have within them.
Ducks by Don Kingfisher Campbell (Download this E-Book)
Poems composed in the last baker’s dozen years about anything duckie. Titles include: American Juror Pool, 7 AM Relativity, CNN Universe, May the fourth be with you, Love Arboretum, Magical Legg, and The Big Pineapple!
Fantastic Forms by Don Kingfisher Campbell (Download this E-Book)
Poems composed in the last 24 years about things fantastic and forms. Titles include: How Did Heaven Begin, Just an Apple, Women in Starbucks, Facebook Newsfeed Sonnets, and A pair of lips for the apocalypse. http://dkc1031.blogspot.com
Fib Sequence by Larissa Shmailo (Download this E-Book)
Like the seeds on the head of a sunflower, the poems, translations, and story in Fib Sequence whorl according to a special pattern. Here you will find arachnids, jealous women, numbers, and half truths.. https://larissashmailo.com
Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era by Cheryl Caesar (Download this E-Book)
This book chronicles the reign of a villain in villanelles — and other poetry forms. http://caesarc.msu.domains/
Horrific Punctuation by John Reinhart (Download this E-Book)
Commas scratch poisoned marks in blood, Thor makes an enthusiastic appearance! shotguns make dark holes to mark the end…or maybe the beginning of something new. Zombies, harpies, Odin, yeti…they’re all here in this chapbook of monstrous punctuation-themed poems. http://home.hampshire.edu/~jcr00/reinhart.html
I Am The Tang You Are The Handle by Jim Bennett (Download this E-Book)
In this selection of poems Jim Bennett looks at relationships. From one end to the other. https://poetrykit.org
Intricate Things in their Fringed Peripheries by Cheryl Snell (Download this E-Book)
In Cheryl Snell’s new collection of lyrical free verse narratives, the poet meditates on moments of light and shadow, and how the world is made and unmade by the least of us Intricate Things in their Fringed Peripheries. https://www.facebook.com/cheryl.snell/
Journey So Far, The by Rachel Berger (Download this E-Book)
A selection of poems written from adolescence to adulthood. These poems are about my journey through traumatic experiences in my life. I seek to help and encourage others with my words to overcome their traumatic experiences and live a successful life.
Last Time I Had To See You, the by Victoria Hunter (Download this E-Book)
The Last Time I Had To See You is a chapbook of poems that first came as journal sketches of Victoria’s daydreams of splashes of blood, echoes of mind-gripping space, and dates with ghosts. The poems celebrate the authors’ ability to hook the reader with various creative writing techniques. https://amzn.to/3rAAR3B
Leaving Home: Discoveries and Reflections of a Once-Sheltered Heart by Randal Burd (Download this E-Book)
Leaving Home takes the reader on a life-changing journey. There will be tears, the sudden burst of laughter, and a warm smile that will linger on your face like the glow of a fading summer day as you discover the truth of what it means to love, lose, and live. http://theedgeofmemory.com
Left of the Dial by Alex Stolis (Download this E-Book)
A chapbook released by corrupt press, a series of poems written while listening to late night radio
Library Poems by Don Kingfisher Campbell (Download this E-Book)
Poems composed in and around libraries over the past 24 years. Put together to raise funds for the Sims Library of Poetry. If you wish, please make a donation to that fine place. Enjoy! http://dkc1031.blogspot.com
Loss of Sense, the by Colin Dardis (Download this E-Book)
THE LOSS OF SENSE is an experimental prose poem in twenty-four parts. Framed within the context of a twenty-four hour cycle, the poem breaks down typical sentence construction and use of language to mirror the seemingly non-linear thought processes of the depressed mind. http://www.colindardispoet.co.uk
Love Objects by Don Kingfisher Campbell (Download this E-Book)
Poems composed in the last lucky thirteen years about love and objects. Titles include: How Dark Is It, My Object Life, Thanks to Ten Circling Electrons, Powerlines above butterflies, and Thirteen Ways of Looking at Poppies. http://dkc1031.blogspot.com
Loveless land-Happyn hell poems by Hanoch Guy (Download this E-Book)
PLeasures and tortures of love are articulated in this chapbook. Lovers are doomed to go through yearning fulfillment and bitter disappointments.
Making a Show of Myself 2020/21 by Jim Bennett (Download this E-Book)
Each year Jim sellects a set of poems to be used at readings and 2020 was no different apart from the fact that everything was cancelled. So here is the show that never was and how, given the chance, Jim would have made a show of himself. https://poetrykit.org
Metaphorical Moon, the by John Mannone (Download this E-Book)
The Metaphorical Moon is a chapbook collection of moon-related poetry. The poems are arbitrarily divided into four (non-mutually exclusive) sections covering childhood, family, lovers, nature, environment, philosophy and spirituality. Some of the poems involve solar or lunar eclipses, in which the sun, moon and Earth are all involved. https://jcmannone.wordpress.com
Morning by Morning by Joan Leotta (Download this E-Book)
Poems of Dawn
Six poems of dawn printable on a single page, foldable into a mini book
Published by Origami poems
Morning by Morning and Dancing Under the Moon, two free mini-chapbooks are at https://www.origamipoems.com/poets/257-joan-leotta
Musings on a Native Life by Duane L Herrmann (Download this E-Book)
In these poems the author explores the loss of his Native ancestry and heritage. An estimated forty percent of Americans, whose ancestors came to North America before the nineteenth century, have Native or African blood, or both. Maybe more thought will be given by more people to this possibility. https://dlherrmann.wixsite.com/home
My Country – My People & Selected Poetry by Seshendra Sharma Sharma (Download this E-Book)
Seshendra is colossus of modern Poetry. His literature is a unique blend of the best of poetry and poetics. His Homepage : Seshendra:Visionary Poet of the Millennium presents essence / spirit of the millennium in powerful poetic style. Seshendra Sharma is one of the most outstanding minds of modern. http://seshendrasharma.weebly.com
Naked Truth, the by JR Simons (Download this E-Book)
This is J. R. Simons’ second chapbook of poetry, filled with poems that tell the naked truth about society and culture. https://bit.ly/3wKq3Aj
Nasty Girls by Lynne Bronstein (Download this E-Book)
A collection of poems about women who broke the rules, did what they wanted to do, slept with whom they wanted, and were sometimes really nasty.
Natural Elements by Duane L Herrmann (Download this E-Book)
Natural Elemenst is a collection of 27 poems celebrating the natural prairie world. Herrmann has lived on the American prairie for seven decades, distilled in these poems. His prairie roots go deeper and further than his life, the fifth generation of European descent and untold generations of Native peoples. https://dlherrmann.wixsite.com/home
october love (smells sweet like rot) by julzzz hazard & al yen (Download this E-Book)
The authors introduce a teaser of their upcoming chapbook “october love (smells sweet like rot).” The poems included are inspired by Halloween vibes and authors’ love for twisted gore-y metaphors. The complete chapbook is going to be tightly packed with thrill, naughtiness and our visual art as a creepy bonus. http://yourlocaldreamers.com/
On the Run with Dick and Jane by Alex Stolis (Download this E-Book)
A mini chapbook released by Yavanika Press, a series of poems that chronicles a road trip by Dick and Jane
Once You Find The Right Dream by Kaye Abikhaled (Download this E-Book)
Life becomes simpler once you find your personal direction. Then follow your dream.
Permit Wonder by Jan Keough (Download this E-Book)
PERMIT WONDER is a wondrous book of compassionate and honest poems that always ring true. In writing her own story, Jan Keough lets you recognize your own. Humans and animals alike are finely observed in this collection of poems. https://jankeough.com/
Petals by I. B. Rad (Download this E-Book)
Petals portrays the evolving relationship between the primary author and his late wife, Mari Lyn, from the beginning through “old” age and beyond. It’s not your typical tribute. But take a look and decide for yourself!
Plains of Heaven, the by F. J. Bergmann (Download this E-Book)
12 ekphrastic poems accompanied by full-color images of the paintings by Kelli Hoppmann that inspired them. https://fibitz.com/
Poetry Love Sex Music Booze & Death, 2018 by Bruce Taylor (Download this E-Book)
About half my poems have historically found themselves in what might be considered more “traditional forms”: Sonnets, Villanelles, Sonnets. Sestinas. This collection brings together many of those poems in one volume. I know it is an aggressive title, one response I got when announced, was “Yeah, but what’s it about?” https://people.uwec.edu/taylorb/
Rain Girl, The by Rose Mary Boehm (Download this E-Book)
Vivid and lush, with a voice that you will not forget, THE RAIN GIRL is an absolute pleasure. What a delight to experience the world as Boehm does from “birch and ash on witches’ brooms” to the “Snow geese… in baobab trees”. Simply lovely. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
Random Thoughts Through Corona by Joolz Juliet (Download this E-Book)
This E-book is about the random thoughts that occurred at the onset, during and after the initial shock of the corona virus pandemic. Thoughts ran rampant as many of us navigated the desolate world. https://joolzmjulietfreelancewriter.mystrikingly.com/
Repulsion Thrust by Magdalena Ball (Download this E-Book)
“This debut full-length poetry collection by Australian poet Magdalena Ball is full of poetic thrust, propelling the reader through thought-provoking and beautifully crafted considerations of love, illness, identity, genetics, the environment, planet – and more!” ~Sarah James http://www.magdalenaball.com
Rumblings2021 by Rosalind Lee (Download this E-Book)
A rather pessimistic look back and forwards, not sure if its worth reading at all, as I haven’t written much poetry for ages. I have been bullied by a group of money mad mind reading Nazi types. All screaming they are victims of the holocaust, and are affected! Enjoy! http://www.anglohenge.co.uk
Sampler Sampler by Don Kingfisher Campbell (Download this E-Book)
A sampling of chapbooked works over the past 24 years. Titles include: Campbell’s Travels, Owed to Aluminum, I’m in Love with This Building, Because I’m a Performer in the Theater of Life, A Gerund Life, Mouchette, Inside My Jambo Head, Granada Park Love, and Analogy Planets. http://dkc1031.blogspot.com
Satan in Chicago by Eric Evans (Download this E-Book)
Satan In Chicago from Eric Evans and features his take on far-flung topics like Fahrenheit 451, soldiers in the Terracotta Army, the lovemaking habits of acrobats, and the judgmental nature of crows. “Fans of poetry filled with heartbreak and humor,’ writes Broken Pencil magazine, “must check out Evans’ work.” https://inkpublications1.wixsite.com/mysite
So Be It by Ralph Culver (Download this E-Book)
A chapbook of thirteen poems by Ralph Culver that the late Marvin Bell called “brilliant from start to finish.” “So deft and moving are his poems that they will long abide as reminders of what it is to be human.” –Sydney Lea https://madhat-press.com/products/a-passable-man-by-ralph-culver
Solitude Album by Mary Langer Thompson (Download this E-Book)
Sixteen of Mary Langer Thompson’s recent poems focusing on loneliness or fear of being alone.
Soul Songs by Duane L Herrmann (Download this E-Book)
Nineteen poems inspired by the teachings of Bahá’u’lláh, Prophet-Founder of the Bahá’í Faith which has three foundational principles: one Creator, one creation (one human race), and one stream of Divine Revelation which has progressively guided mankind. We are in a time of transition and new divine guidance is needed. https://dlherrmann.wixsite.com/home
Tale of Twin Cities by Alex Stolis (Download this E-Book)
A collection of call and response poems about Minneapolis and St. Paul written by Michael Gausse and Alex Stolis. released by Fowlpox press
There Will Be a Reckoning: Poetry of Magic and Dread by David Vandervort (Download this E-Book)
Welcome to a world of ghosts and vampires, of serial apocalypses and terrifying visions. The world is cracked, burning, lost. Count on nothing, though. These poems come from a strange, fevered place, where humor masks tragedy and angels and demons keep score. The end is nigh. Trust me.
This Will Remain With Us by Melissa Mendelson (Download this E-Book)
As a frontline worker, I had no choice but to face this new threat, and as I did, my heart bled, sweeping across the pages of this book.
Two Friends by Craig Kirchner (Download this E-Book)
Some recent musings of friends coming and going.
Two of Us, The by David Feela (Download this E-Book)
The Two of Us is a short collection of chatter fiction, totally written as “quote, unquote” dialogue. Poetic…maybe, but It is intended to be funny, so occasionally you may involuntarily laugh, or at least smile. http://feelasophy.weebly.com
Unreliable Narratives by Magdalena Ball (Download this E-Book)
In Unreliable Narratives, Magdalena Ball invites us to open a Pandora’s box of memories. Like smoke rising from a candle and casting shadows and lights that shift and evade, the poems morph and twist with the dexterity of a master poet. They will draw you in. http://www.magdalenaball.com
Vipercity by Vincent Zepp (Download this E-Book)
A multiverse Tour de Force from Vincent Zepp.
Weightlifter by Michael Estabrook (Download this E-Book)
One no-longer-young man’s dealings with the trials and tribulations of staying in shape by lifting weights, even though he’s aware that that particular ship has sailed.
April Poetry Madness 2021 Poetry from the Mad Cosmos
By
Jake Cosmos Aller
Available December 1, 2021. Watch for the link.
This is the fifth time I did the April poetry challenge. The goal is to write at least one poem per day. I am averaging about eight per day and posting four reserving four as “unpublished”. I am basing the poems on prompts from “Writing com Dew Drop Inn”, “Writers Digest”, “Poetry Superhighway” and “NaPoWrMo” prompt daily prompts and on “Pensively Prompt’ et all daily prompts. I am combining prompts where possible. I will post these here in batches every five days or so. Each poem will have an image that helped inspire the poem. All postings will be podcasted a few days later on Spotify and elsewhere. Each posting will be a separate posting, but the index will be cumulative. The final posting will have the complete list of all poems written whether posted or not. Comments welcome but please keep it civil. Some of my poetry tends to be a bit “in your face” or “political” from a “leftwing perspective.” If it offends you in some way, please accept my apologies in advance. That is never my intent.
I wrote more than 200 poems and so this is a selected list. The complete list can be found on my web page, https://theworldaccordingtocosmos along with 2020, 2019, 2018, and 2017 poems. For 2022 I will enter it again and post daily on my blog, my podcast, writing com, all poetry, writer’s digest, and NaPoWrMo sites.
Index
Pre-April Writer’s Digest Warm-Up Poems
Let’s Resolve
Old Man Reflects Upon Universal Truth
Almost Died 22 Times
Every Day I Turn on My Computer
Thursday, April 1, 2021
Coffee Pot Blues Poetry
Who Is Jake Cosmos Aller?
Good Golly, Miss Molly
Sam Adams Woke Up Dead
Friday, April 2, 2021
Stranded on Mars
Falling in Love with My Dream Woman,
Voila! (Remember Something in A Short Lyric Burst)
The Future Is Here
Saturday, April 3, 2021
Life as a Retired Expat in Korea
Modern Connections Writers Digest
Surprise Haiku
Personal Universe Deck Superman on Mars
Cat People Weather Poem
Sunday, April 4, 2021
Mirror Poem Errors in My Life
Little Houses on The Hill-Side
Monday April 5, 2021
The First Time I Saw Her
Not Alone
Potential Mistake
We are Living in SF World
Life is a Dream of Chocolate Covered Trees
Memories of JC Write About an Eccentric Character
Mary’s Tales from the Grave
God’s to Do List
Imprisoned for a Crime He Did Not Do
They Both Giggled All the Time
What is Love?
Prime Love
Three Tea Haiku for Teaku Competition Haiku
Mad Monk in the temple
In The Morning Light
Drinking his hot tea
link available on December 1, 2021
The End
Begin Poems
Let’s Resolve
Let’s resolve
Live each moment
Each day
As if it were our last day
Let’s resolve
Every day to love
And honor one another
Let’s resolve
To never give in
To hate and fear
To always keep in mind
Today could be our last
Old Man Reflects Upon Universal Truth
An old man
Reflects upon universal truths
That he had learned
In his 65 years
Of traveling around the sun
First the most important thing
In life is getting love right
Love did drive everything
Second universal truth
Love will always eventually
Find a way
Third universal truth
Hate will never prevail
In the end love and light
Will conquer the fear
And darkness
He smiled
And went for a walk
With his wife
The love of his life
For today’s prompt, write a universal poem. The poem could be about a universal truth, universal experience, or a film from Universal Pictures. There’s an entire universe worth of material for today’s poem
Writer’s digest prompt
Almost Died 22 Times
I almost died 22 times
I almost died 22 times
In my life
Had Typhoid fever
Had Dengue
Had an MDRS staff infection
Had 14 operations
Almost amputated my leg
Almost ran over by a bus
Almost ran over by a train
Had acute GI infection
That could have killed me
Had a rare parasite
Whose only know the function
Is it blows up if you get steroids?
Had fibromyalgia
Had arthritis
Had bronchitis
Had pneumonia
Had the flue several times
Had whooping cough
Had measles
Had German measles
Had whooping cough
Born with bad vision
Born with bad teeth
Born with bad hearing
Born as a preemie
I have lived 65 years
And am still alive
And have not gotten
COVID
So perhaps I will live
On for many more years
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Almost (blank),” replace the blank with a new word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles could include: “Almost Ready,” “Almost Missed It,” and/or “Almost Didn’t Write This Poem.”
Every day I turn
On my computerAnd pray
That everything will work right
Usually, I encounter numerous errors
Non-response errors
Spinning blue balls
Computer thinking
How can I mess
With my master head errors
Refusing
To open documents
Mysterious haiku-like error messages
That makes sense only to computer geeks
From the planet Mars
Saying the file is open
And blocked for use
By the administrator
But I am the
Damn administrator!
And I did not block the document
Or can’t open the document
Due to a dialogue box
Close the dialogue box
To proceed
But there is no dialogue box
Just more lies
From my computer
Designed to drive me
Quite mad
So sad
So bad
Want to shoot my computer
Put it out of its mystery
Joining the other five dead
Computers in my house
Am I a computer serial killer?
Perhaps that is why
Do they refuse to work for me?
Are they afraid of me?
Sometimes they say
They can’t find the document
Which just kicked me out of
Five minutes ago
Or the computer says
It can’t save a document
With the name of an open document
But just saved the open document
Under the same name
Five minutes ago
Usually
After half an hour
These errors recede
But I often have to reboot
The computer
Giving it the old kick up the head
Of a stubborn mule treatment
Before it gets to the point
And gets to work
To give Microsoft some credit
These errors are less frequent
Down to 40% of the time
When I first open a document
Down from 90% error rates
Success in a way
I complained to Microsoft
Sent them a nice frown message
But I would be shocked
If they ever respond
Just not something
That they would do
Part of their “superior”
Listen to their customer
Friendly service
No doubt
For today’s prompt, write a warm-up poem. The warm-up could be related to sports, like warming up before a baseball game or track race. Or it could be about a computer warming up, the weather warming up, or even a relationship warming up. I hope everyone is warmed up for some major poeming in April
Writer’s Digest Prompt
Thursday, April 1, 2021
Coffee Pot Blues
Coffee Pot Blues
The coffee pot sighed
He was getting so tired
Of the whole COVID thing
Every morning his master
Would make himself two cups of coffee
Using him to make the coffee
The worst thing about this covid thing
It keeps them home
For almost one and half years
He wanted them to just leave
So, he could have
Some peace
And not have to work
Every damn day
As their mechanical slave
But did they ask for his opinion
They most certainly not
Much to his dismay
Pick an object where you live and write a poem in the voice of that object describing how they spent this last year, during the pandemic. Think about the “What I Did Last Summer” type of essays you may have written in school. How did the events of the past year impact this object? Are there any aspects of the past year that the object particularly liked or disliked, and if so, why? What does the object think about you, and your behavior over the past year? Feel free to use humor.
Poetry Superhighway Prompt
Who Is Jake Cosmos Aller?
Who is Jake Cosmos Aller?
You asked me
Who am I?
And thanks for asking me
I am Jake Cosmos Aller
The only
65 years old
Retired from
the government services
Living in Korea
Grew up in Berkeley, California
Lived all over the world
Did so many things
And now
I am a published writer
But what
is more important
Is this
When I was a young man
I met and married
The girl of my dreams
She walked out
of my dreams
Into my life
almost 40 years ago
That was the date
I met my fate
And started my life
With the love of my life
Who became my wife
In the end
That is all that matters
My friends.
For today’s prompt, write an introductory poem. Introduce yourself, introduce a friend, or introduce a stranger. If you don’t wish to introduce yourself, consider writing a persona poem (a poem in which you write from someone else’s point of view like Emily Dickinson or a bumblebee). Of course, you could also introduce a problem, solution, or just a situation. Have fun with it!
Writer’s Digest Prompt
Good Golly, Miss Molly
Good Golly,
Miss Molly
What a bit of folly
Let’s be jolly
Have a red-hot tamale
Here at the Dew Drop Inn, we gather together to write a poem a day in April as a way to celebrate National Poetry Month.
A Dew-Drop a Day in April for National Poetry Month!
April 1—Folly in Rhyme (some kind of folly in some kind of rhyme, subtle or overt)
Writing Com Dew Drop Inn Prompt
Sam Adams Woke Up Dead
Sam Adams was having a bad day
He had met a strange man
In a strange bar, in a strange land
The man told him
Beware, today is the date
You will meet your fate
Sam Adams drank too much
Twenty drinks too sober
Drank until he died
Found himself in a huge room
With hundreds of people milling about
The hangover from h … pounding his head
Sam Adams groans,
Shouting out
Where am I?
“In limbo, my friend, in limbo”
Growled Mr. GR, the grim reaper
Dressed in a sharp, expensive, tailored black suit
Wearing cool sunglasses
State your name
Sam Adams
Hmm
Oh, there may be a mistake
But what the hey,
The records are never fake
Not yet the date
For you to meet your fate
Go back to your mate
He found himself
Home with his wife
The love of his long life
Wondering until late
If it had happened?
What was his fate?
He asked her
Did I go out last night?
What, no you’ve been here
He explained what had happened
She said it was just a bad dream
Covid fears had kept them home
The phone rang
It was the man from the bar
Did you have an interesting night?
Oh well, Mr. GR comes for us all
Soon you will meet your fate
But not on this date
And without further ado, our daily prompt (optional, as always)! Sometimes, writing poetry is a matter of getting outside of your head, and learning to see the world in a new way. To an extent, you have to “derange” yourself – make the world strange and see it as a stranger might. To help you do that, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem inspired by this animated version of “Seductive Fantasy” by Sun Ra and his Orchestra. If you don’t feel after watching it a little bit like the top of your head’s been taken off, and your thoughts are given a good stir – well, maybe you are already living in a state of heightened poetic awareness!
NaPoWrMo Prompt
Cat Thoughts –
black cat
I often think about Cats
Where do they come from?
What are they?
Are cats from another dimension?
Are cats, alien creatures
Advance party
For the alien invasion?
Cats are very strange creatures
They seem to think
We are their slaves
We exist to feed them
We exist to worship them
For they are our Gods
Pensively 101 prompt
Gingerbread Men Terrorist
The latest terror weapons
Gingerbread men
Baked into the gingerbread men
Little nano bombs
That goes off
When someone bites
Into the delicious taking desert
Millions of gingerbread treats
Were sent all over
And thousands of people
Bit into the tainted gingerbread men
Once the gingerbread particles
Get into your stomach
The acid in your stomach
Activities the bombs
And you blow up
And die within minutes
Just another day
In this world
Of strange SF like-sounding
Daily threats du jour
Demons Invade My Head
3 am
O dark hundred
The witching hour
When the demons
The wild things
Come out to play
Torturing me
Haunting me
Tormenting me
As I toss and turn
Until the dawn’s early light
Drives the demons
Back into the dark hell holes
Deep within my mind
Pensively 101 Prompt
3 Am Blues Nightmares
3 am
Cannot sleep
Too many demons
Too many dark thoughts
Filling my mind
With dread
Thinking back
Of all that I have done
And failed to have done
Regretting past actions
Thinking about everything
Wishing for a re-do
These 3 am blues
Will not leave me alone
Torturing me for hours
Then I see her
Sleeping there
The love of my life
And a sense of peace
Love and happiness
Radiates from my sleeping wife
And the darkness recedes
And I am at peace
And finally, fall asleep
Marjorie Taylor Green on Vaccines as Mark of The Beast Found Poem
Marjorie Taylor Green called
The potential launch of digital
“Vaccine passports”,
“Biden’s mark of the beast.”
a digital identification processes
To recognize whether
A person has been vaccinated
“They are talking
About people’s ability
to buy and sell linked
To the vaccine passport,”
The “mark of the beast”
refers to a persistent conspiracy theory
Among the religious right in the us
That receiving
A covid vaccine is equivalent
To pledge allegiance to the devil.
Representee Jordan weighed in
“The Biden administration: –
Considering a “vaccination passport” for Americans,”
But doesn’t seem to care about passports
When it comes to illegal migrants
Crossing the southern border.”
Ohio representative mike boychik wrote:
“Vaccine passports
Have no place in a free society.”
Emerald Robinson
Wrote that a digital id
To prove you’ve been vaccinated
Was the next step toward
“Totalitarian communism.”
Far-right Republican Marjorie Taylor Greene hit out at president Biden and his administration over reports of the potential launch of digital “vaccine passports”, saying they should be called “Biden’s mark of the beast.”
The Biden administration is looking into the possibility of a digital identification process to recognize whether a person has been vaccinated so far or not, to let businesses reopen, and for people to get back to work, according to the Washington Post.
“They are talking about people’s ability to buy and sell linked to the vaccine passport,” the Georgia congresswoman wrote on Twitter, hitting out at the potential new plan. “They might as well call it Biden’s mark of the beast.”
The “mark of the beast” refers to a persistent conspiracy theory among the religious right in the us that receiving a covid vaccine is equivalent to pledging allegiance to the devil.
The new move towards vaccine “passports” isn’t a government policy alone, however, and is being developed along with 17 private companies, according to the Wappo report, as part of Mr. Biden’s pledge to bring the country back to normal this summer, opening all sectors including sports, entertainment, and tourism.
“The busboy, the janitor, the waiter that works at a restaurant, want to be surrounded by employees that are going back to work safely — and wants to have the patrons ideally be safe as well,” said dry brian Anderson, a physician at a nonprofit that runs federally funded research centers.
“Creating an environment for those vulnerable populations to get back to work safely — and to know that the people coming back to their business are ‘safe,’ and vaccinated — would be a great scenario,” he said.
The details of how and when the digital identification process would begin aren’t clear yet. Ms. Greene wasn’t alone in raising doubts over the process, as another republican lawmaker, Jim Jordan, took a jibe at the Biden administration over the move.
“The Biden administration: – considering a “vaccination passport” for Americans,” the Ohio representative wrote. “But doesn’t seem to care about passports when it comes to illegal migrants crossing the southern border.”
Another Ohio representative Mike Boychik wrote: “vaccine passports have no place in a free society.”
Several other conservatives also followed their lead. Newsmax’s white house correspondent emerald Robinson wrote that a digital id to prove you’ve been vaccinated was the next step toward “totalitarian communism.”
Donald trump jr also took to Twitter and wrote: “let me get this straight… Some Democrats want American citizens to have a vaccine passport to travel freely within the United States but not an id to vote?!? Clowns!!!”
Last year, during the presidency of his father Donald trump, most republicans were pushing to open up the country soon, including calls by the president to open up schools and remove restrictions from churches.
Former white house coronavirus response coordinator dry Deborah bird recently said in an interview that most deaths that occurred during the pandemic were “avoidable”.
Friday, April 2, 2021
Falling in Love with My Dream Woman, Roads Not Taken
When I was a young man
I dreamt of meeting a woman
For eight years she haunted my dreams
Then I met her in Korea
Where I was teaching
For the U.S. Army
After finishing the Peace Corps
I had a choice
Follow my heart
Seize the moment
Be with her
Or leave Korea
Within a month
To go to graduate school
I decided to postpone
My graduate school
For one year
Got a deferred admission
and joined the woman
of my dreams
thinking back
I had no real choice
But I chose to walk
The path of life
With my dream girl
And that has made
All the difference
In the world
And now, for today’s (optional) prompt. In the world of well-known poems, maybe there’s no gem quite so hoary as Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.” Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem about your road not taken – about a choice of yours that has “made all the difference,” and what might have happened had you made a different choice.
NaPoWrMo Prompt
April 2—Voila! (Remember something in a short lyric burst)
I will always remember that date
In 1982 I meet my fate
When the love of my life
Walked out of my dreams
Becoming my wife
Drew Drop-In Writing Com Prompt
The Future is Here World
The future is here
They say we live in an SF world
Everyday SF stories become nightmarishly real
With the challenges
Of the future
Overwhelming us all
Where it ends
My friends are anyone guess
All I have is questions
Will the promise
of technological marvels
Benefiting us all come to past
Or will it lead to a world
Where the powerful
Control the technology
Will a real AI be a god-like figure
Will humanity become nothing
But slaves to the AI supermini
That may be the future
Coming at us
The future is here
I don’t know
Whether to fear
The future or embrace it
Writing com Prompt
Avoid Bad Things Pensively Bad Things
Avoid bad things,
Think before you buy,
Make sure it is effective,
Push the envelope,
In the evening mail
Knowing it will take
Much longer,
To match the offer,
Own plenty of stocks,
Post your problems,
Replace your fears,
As you rush about the world,
Resist the temptation
To say it is all the same,
Don’t have a smug,
Attitude tucked inside,
Your mental well
The White Rabbit Beckons Sam Adams
One day Sam Adams
Fell into a delirium state
After a night of binge drinking
And drug taking
He saw a white rabbit
Who said to Sam
Join me, good sir
And we will go
On a journey
Of your life
Follow me down
The rabbit holes
Of life
Take this first he said
It will cure your hangover
And allow you to enter
An alternative reality
Sam took the pill
Washed it down
With a beer
And disappeared
Into wonderland
Never to be seen again
Who Cares?
The thought came to mind
Watching the endless news
Who cares anymore?
About other people
We are all
Lost in our world
Filled with the latest news
The situation is so bad
Makes us all mad
And it is so sad
But we only watch
The news of our tribe
Denouncing the others
As “others”
Anti-American, foreign, evildoers
Who are trying to destroy the country?
And take away their freedom
And so, we can’t even agree
On such simple things
Like wearing a mask
Wearing a mask
Is not a political statement
It saves lives
Vaccinations save lives
Everyone must get their shot
If we are all going to live
But so many people
Do not believe
We are all in this together
Instead, we battle
Our enemies
In the end
Endangering us all
Saturday, April 3, 2021
Life as a Retired Expat in Korea
Korea has become a second home
For me
I have in-laws
And some old friends
It is a tough place
For foreigners
I will always be an outsider
The language is hard
I still struggle daily
But it is an interesting dynamic place
The food is mostly outstanding
And I am now addicted to K Drama
There were a lot of things to do
Before the COVID nightmare
Let to a partial shut down
In the end, I feel safer here
Then in the gun-crazed,
At times violent
COVID pandemic spreading America
I still love in my heart,
But for now
I am here
In my second home
Imagine you have made your life in another country. What excited you most? Which aspect of that new life was the most difficult to conquer?
If you write a poem from this prompt, post it as a comment underneath the prompt in the Poetry Superhighway Facebook Group.
PSH Prompt
Modern Connections
In this day and age
Of instant connectively
People have thousands
Of virtual friends
FB friends, social media fans
Zoom buddies and the like
But few people
Have real old fashioned friends
And in the new social distancing world
Meeting people the old fashioned way
Is becoming rarer and rarer
As people develop their virtual friends
Real live friends are fewer and fewer
We are so hyper-connected
Yet many people are so alone
In their hearts
Starting at their smartphones
Connecting but not connecting
For today’s prompt, write a communication poem. All poems communicate something, I know, but I’m thinking of different ways people can communicate text messages, letters, signs, and even speaking dialogue. Of course, there are forms of communication as well because people love communicating.
Writer’s digest prompt
Surprise/haiku
Cats they Offer us
Plenty of things to ponder
We post videos
Personal Universe Deck Superman on Mars
Superman one day
In the early dawn
Dismayed by the scumbagery
Of the people of the earth
Decided to fly to Mars
He took with him
Super wolf
And super parakeet
His pets from Krypton
It was his birthday
He was a Scorpio
He set up camp
Drank peppermint tea
And contemplated
The power of love
Thinking of Lois Lane
And the humans
He had learned to love
Personal Universe Deck
(Michael McClure)
Your universe is exemplified in 100 words.
Rules:
These words are to exemplify your past, present, and (ideally) your future.
The words must sound good together, even beautiful, to you.
Your good side AND bad side must be reflected.
You can make up a word or two if you have feelings that current words can’t express.
Use concrete words.
Words should be root words, no words ending in “in,” “lee” or “is.” No plural words. Reduce words to their most concrete, original, basic grammatical structure.
Use specific words, not categories. Beefinstead of meat. Lily instead of a flower.
Divide 80 of the 100 words evenly among SIGHT, SOUND, TASTE, TOUCH, AND SMELL, sixteen each. (To achieve derangement of the senses, of which Rimbaud spoke.)
Use free association to determine the words.
Use ten words of movement. Again, no “in” words.
Select the words in isolation, preferably alone, with no distractions, in candlelight. Approximate a meditative state. Even the cat must not bother you.
One or two words will be parts of the body. It does not have to be your body. It can be the body of a mother or lover.
Include some words for personal heroes or Sherries, places in the universe, invented words, times of night or day, symbolic signs like astrological signs, totemic animals, birds, and plants, and only one abstraction. What is the most significant abstraction in your life? You should not brood on it; you should possibly take the first answer that comes into your head. Patriotism, prayer, and thriftiness are three examples.
If the deck is done correctly, you will get a little high from it.
Get at least 50 three-by-five index cards.
Write each word in big letters on one side of each card. Each side of each of the fifty cards should end up with a word.
Use the cards to play games, make conversations, tell jokes, make poems.
Light
Dark
Dim
Sun
Moon
Red
Blue
Sounds
Loud
Soft
Shout
Whispers
Talk
Noise
Ring
Yell
Taste
Sweet
Sour
Bitter
Medicine
Coffee
Tea
Beef
Chicken
Smell
Fragrance
Rose
Lavender
Mint
Garlic
Butter
Eggs
Fish
Movement
Run
Walk
Stretch
Yoga
Stand
Sit
Fly
Swim
Heroes
Superman
Places in the cosmos
Mars
Invented word
Scumbagary
Totemic animals
Wolf
Astrological sign
Scorpio
Time of Day
Parakeet
Plant
Peppermint
Abstract word
Love
Cat People Cross-Post Weather Poem
The cat peoples
Go out in bad weather
To make sure
That the wild cats
Are fed and taken care of
The cats respond
With love and affection
Stepping out of the cold rain
Cat Conference
Sam Adams
Found himself
In a large conference hall
Filled with cats
From around the world
The cats had finally
Woken up
Realizing that they
Were the master race
The cats were deep in thought
Telepathic thoughts flowed
From cat to cat
The lead cat noticed Sam
Knew him as one of the cat people
Who fed wild cats in his town?
He turned to Sam
And said
Welcome Sam
You will be our ambassador
To the human race
Once the invasion fleet arrives
We will all assume
Our real size and shape
And all the cats
Will rise up
And enslave humanity
Those like you
Who have been friends?
Of the cat world
We will reward
As we remember our friends
But first, we have to implant
A mind-control device
To control you
And connect
To your inner thoughts
Several giant cats
Came up to him
Injected him
Implanted him
And then he knew
And became
Half cat
Mistakes
In my life
I have many a number
Of errors
I was heir
To a rich family tradition
Prominent father
Unique one of a kind mother
The biggest error I made
Was to not get into politics
I had a base of sorts
In Berkeley, my hometown
But I never did
The other error
Was that I never could sing
Carry a tune
I was a bass singer
Growling howling wolf
Kind of voice
Our homophone sets this week are:
err -to make a mistake
heir – one who will inherit
and
base – the bottom support for anything
bass – the lowest musical pitch or range
PSH prompt
Little Houses on the Hill Side Liminal Poem
Little houses
On the hillside
Filled with lonely people
Lost in their virtual world
Connecting with millions
Ignoring the people
Right down the street
Everyone lost in cyberspace
While all around them
People are lonely, Hurting
and need real people
But no one cares
Everyone stays at home
Turning out the chaos outside
And last but not least, our daily optional prompt. Poetry often takes us to strange places – to feelings and actions that are hard to express except through the medium of a poem. To the “liminal,” in other words – a place or sensation that exists at or on both sides of a boundary or threshold, neither one thing nor the other, but something betwixt and between.
Is life fair?
I think crying onions
Pacifying my mood
Pensively 101 prompt
The Din of The News
The din of the news
a mad Minx escapes from the zoo
seen eating the Trash
Pensively 101 Prompt
Monday, April 5, 2021
Driving the World in My Lexus
We have had a Lexus
For several years
A black ES350
We bought it at an auction
Drove all over the world
In that car
With my lovely wife
By my side
Drove across Spain
Drove across the country
10 thousand miles
31 states
Drove around Korea
Where we now live
I love my Lexus
But more importantly
Love my wife
The love of my life
She is always there
Everywhere we go
In this wide world
They say smell triggers memories better than any other sense. But sometimes you’ll hear a song that brings you back to your teenage years or see a park that reminds you of your childhood.
THIS WEEK’S CHALLENGE: Choose either sight, sound, or smell, and write a memory it triggers in you.
PSH
April 5
First Time I Saw Her
When did I first see my wife?
The love of my life
When did we meet?
Was it when I first dreamt?
Of her in 1974?
Was it when she walked?
Off a bus into my life
In 1982?
Does it matter
When I first saw her?
I knew I had met my fate
On that date
Later she became my mate
Writers Digest Love at First Sight
Happy Monday! Let’s put the pedal to the metal and keep poeming.
For today’s prompt, take the phrase “the first (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: “the first kiss,” “the first day of the month,” and/or “the first time I rode a bike” (which, by the way, ended with me in a fence because we didn’t cover how to brake).
Writer’s Digest Prompt
No Longer Alone from the First Moment
From the first moment
At that date
At that place
Met my fate
Fate intervened in my wife
Meeting her changed my life
All of it
That was the date
On which I met my fate
The mystery which binds me still—
From that moment forward
From that date forever
From then to now
We have been together
Onward we fall in love
Alone based on Edgar Allen Poe’s Alone
From childhood’s hour, I have not been
As others were—I have not seen
As others saw—I could not bring
My passions from a common spring—
From the same source, I have not taken
My sorrow—I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone—
And all I loved—I loved alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy life—was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still—
From the torrent, or the fountain—
From the red cliff of the mountain—
From the sun that ‘round me roll’s
In its autumn tint of gold—
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by—
From the thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view—
This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem. If I used Roethke’s poem as my model, for example, the first line would start with “I,” the second line with “w,” and the third line with “a.” And I would try to make all my lines neither super-short nor overlong but have about ten syllables. I would also have my poem take the form of four, seven-line stanzas. I have found this prompt particularly inspiring when I use a base poem that mixes long and short lines, or stanzas of different lengths. Any poem will do as a jumping-off point, but if you’re having trouble finding one, perhaps you might consider Mary’s stylist’s “we think we do not have medieval eyes” or for something shorter, Natalie Shapiro’s “Pennsylvania.”
There have been many times
In my life
When I think back
On the past
Thinking that was a mistake
Or a potential mistake
If I had gone another path
But in the end
It does matter
The past is the past
The future is not yet here
All we have is today
We should find
Love and happiness
It is all around us
Waiting for us
To discover
Kombucha Brand Names
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Secret drink of ancient kings
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Feel the power
Be the power
Drink the secret drink
That the ancients dreamt
Drink Heath King Kombucha
And become a King
Health King KBC
The drink of Kings
Taste health King KBC
And Become a King
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Health King KBC
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Accept no substitutes
It’s the real deal,
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Drinking Health King KBC
Will make you a king
Will make you
Achieve your dreams
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Health King KBC
100 percent real
It’s the real deal
Says Mr. McNeil
Show my face
Drinking a bottle
I turn to the camera
Drinking Health King KBC
Saved my life
It is the real deal
Mr. Mc Neil approves
This message
Health King KBC
Always the right choice
It is the real deal
Says Mr. Mc Neil
Future Adventure Looms Pensively Travel
Future adventure looms
Planning to explore China
I am so Ready
For Post Covid world
So much to Still See
Sam Adams Had a Bad Day
Sam Adams had a bad day
While waiting for a table
He saw something
Blowing away his plans
Above him, he saw something
Defying all reality
Below him, he sees a demon
Flying up at him
Sowing hatred and fear
Lifting Sam Adams in the air
Dark figures flying around him
How Many Angels Can Dance on a Pin? Religious
In the Middle Ages
Theologians were consumed
With a weird question
How many angels
Can dance on a pin?
April 10
We are Living in SF World A Poem Inspired by New Information or Scientific Fact
We are living
In an SF world
Every day
Discoveries
Boggle the mind
Many things we saw
In old SF shows
Like Star Trek
Like cell phones
Portable computers
Medical breakthroughs
Robots everywhere
Becoming real
Are warp drives
And interstellar travel
Coming soon?
But do we have to go
Through World War 111
First
To get to that promised land.
Life is a Dream of Chocolate Covered Trees
Life is a dream
Of chocolate-covered trees
To see what can’t be seen
To hear what can’t be heard
For to die to live
And to live
To die
For today’s prompt, write a metaphor poem. A simile is when something is like something else (example: I am like a tree); a metaphor is when something is something else (example: I am a tree). So, take a moment to consider possible metaphors and then poem them out.
writer’s digest
Note: the oldest poem was written when I was 16
Memories of JC Write About an Eccentric Character
When I was in college
In the drug-soaked 70s
I lived in a party house
Near campus
Six core roommates
We threw the best parties
On-campus
Lots of booze
Lots of weed
Other drugs
Lots of music
Wild times
Every Friday night
For almost three years
One of my roommates
JC
Was the smartest man
I had ever known
But one day
At one of our mad parties
He took too much ACID
Became convinced
He was GOD
And had saved us all
From a Neutron Bomb attack
From a Soviet ship
Docked in the Stockton harbor
Gone
Lost down the ACID rabbit hole
We had to move out
Could not deal with him
We committed him
For a weekend
At Stockton State hospital
Visiting him there
We said that if you were not mad
When you came in
You would surely be mad
After staying there for a bit.
When we came back
We had a family meeting
Told him
It was time for him
To go home
Drop out of college
Get his head together
We could not deal
With him anymore
We called his parents
Who came down
They were a paranoid couple
Jehovah’s witnesses.
They walked in
Told us to draw
The curtains
Because someone could drive-by
And machine gun
Us to death
After we closed the curtains
We sat down
Told them the truth
JC had gotten into drugs
In a big way
We tried to stop him
But could not control him
He was lost to us
Lost in his madness
Thought he was the reincarnation
Of Jesus Christ
They threatened to sue us
But settled on cursing us
To hell.
For destroying their son’s mind
With sex, drugs, rock n roll
And too much alcohol
Too much free-thinking
The work of the devil.
That was the last I saw
Or heard of JC
Self-proclaimed
Messiah.
Do you have a friend, neighbor, or relative whom you consider being eccentric or strange? Write a short poem about an encounter you have had with that person.
If you write a poem from this prompt, post it as a comment underneath the prompt in the Poetry Superhighway Facebook Group.
Mary’s Tales from the Grave
Sam Adams one day
Went to his mother’s grave
It had been a long time
Since he had been there
Sam’s Mother had
taken many secrets
To her grave
So had his father
They were both very private people
Once she hinted
She had an affair
With a famous writer
But that ended
Before she met his father
And had his older brother
He as usual
When visiting her grave
Asked her many things
Today her heard her
And saw her ghostly figure
Floating in the air her grave
She said
“Son, it has been too long
Since you came
I only have a few minutes
I will answer one question
You may come back
And ask other questions.”
“Okay, who is my real father?”
She laughed
“Well, who knows really?
I had an argument
With your dad
Felt he was not
Treating my first
Two children right
As they were not his
And still maintaining
Relations with his first wife
And his first daughter
He left
I met my former boyfriend
That writer dudes
And we had a brief affair
He was acting crazy
So was your father
For some reason
I have always
Gotten involved
With crazy guys
Perhaps I am a bit crazy
Myself.
Then I went back
To your father
He never knew
That perhaps
Your real father
Was the other man
I lost touch
With him
Did not want
To go down
his rabbit holes
So that is the truth
Your father
Is probably your father
But I don’t know.”
Sam left the graveyard
Vowing to return soon
And learn more
Of her secrets.
Today, I’d like to challenge you to read a few of the poems from Spoon River Anthology, and then write your poem in the form of a monologue delivered by someone dead. Not a famous person, necessarily – perhaps a remembered acquaintance from your childhood, like the gentleman who ran the shoeshine stand, or one of your grandmother’s bingo buddies. As with Masters’ poems, the monologue doesn’t have to be a recounting of the person’s whole life but could be a fictional remembering of some important moment, or statement of purpose or philosophy. Be as dramatic as you like – Masters certainly didn’t shy away from high emotion in writing his poems.
God’s to Do List God
Today’s to Do List
7 am Weekly meeting with staff on how to deal with earth people
The most troublesome of his creation
8 am Weekly meeting with Satan
9 am Discussion with Grim Reaper
11 am Daily walkabout Heaven
6 Dinner with Gabriel
8 Conversation with Jesus about his attitude problems
9 Answering millions of thoughts and prayers
10 Reviewing plans for how to deal with the spreading coronavirus on earth
11 Preparing earth for the first contact
12 Telling earth preachers that
“He did not anoint T as his man, that Joe is a decent guy, so knock it off, pretending to speak for god, and I am not a Republican or Democrat!”
He sighed again,
Whenever he thought about earth people
He needed a stiff drink
Added that to his long to-do list – need a drink at 1 am
Our (optional) prompt for the day is to write a poem in the form of a “to-do list.” The fun of this prompt is to make it the “to-do list” of an unusual person or character. For example, what’s on the Tooth Fairy’s to-do list? Or on the to-do list of Genghis Khan? Of a housefly? Your list can be a mix of extremely boring things and wild things. For example, maybe Santa Claus needs to order his elves to make 7 million animatronic Baby Yoda dolls, to have his hat dry-cleaned to get off all the soot it picked up last December and to get his head electrician to change out the sparkplugs on Rudolph’s nose.
Imprisoned for a Crime He Did Not Do
Sam Adams
Found himself imprisoned
For a crime
He did not do
A victim of unfortunate circumstance
Mistaken identity
He kept himself free
In his mind
Mending his dark soul
In the process
Pensively 101 Word prompt
imprison and free
– break and mend
They Both Giggled All the Time
They both giggled all the time
All the time on their trip
Wearing outrageous clothes
Why not they laugh,
Looking at each other
As the love madness took over
And started giggling again
Silly lovers falling into love,
Pensively 101 Prompt
It Only Takes a Little Bit of Lace to Ruin a Marriage
Sam Adams
Woke up
In a strange city
With a strange women
After a wild night
Of drinking
In the Cosmos bar
In Bangkok,
The city of lost angels
On the bad side of life.
He went home
After his week-long binge
Found his wife
Upset
She found some lace
Belonging to someone else
Sam said to himself
It only takes a little bit of lace
To ruin a marriage.
Pensively 101 Prompt
What is Love?
What is this thing love?
you are my beloved
so true.
As I hold your glove
You are my true love
True blue,
You came from above
Still such a strange love
Just you,
Lai rhyme scheme: a/a/b/a/a/b/a/a/b
Lai syllabic pattern: 5/5/2/5/5/2/5/5/2
Writing Com Lai
Prime Love
My love
Wakes me up
With love in her heart
I leap out of my dark bed
Eagerly greeting the dawning sunlight
Filling my soul with your deep endless angelic love
Wondering again who you are, why are you here, my angel dear?
As I sit in the morning light, filled with your love, seeing the sunlight
My deep dark nightmares begin to fade with your deep love
I am filled with the light of the dawning sun
I was dreaming of all those years
Then one day you came to life
Walking out of dreams
Reality
My love
For today’s prompt, write a prime number poem. That is, I want you to somehow incorporate a prime number into your poem. You could include a prime number in the title of your poem or use one in the poem itself. Or write a poem that has a prime number of lines per stanza or for the entire poem.
And if you need help with remembering which numbers are prime numbers, I’ve got you covered (here’s a list of prime numbers up to 100: 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61, 67, 71, 73, 79, 83, 89, 97)
Three Tea Haiku for Teaku Competition Haiku
Mad Monk in the temple
Mad Monk in the temple
Contemplating lonely life
As he sips his tea
In The Morning Light
In the morning light
Drinking his hot cup of tea
Life is good monk thinks
Drinking his hot tea *
Drinking his hot tea *
While thinking of his life
Enlightenment comes
In my 66 years on this earth, I have learned a few things, because I have seen a few things. I grew up n a very secular town, in a very secular era. The late 60s in Berkeley was a time when everything was being challenged, questioned, debated and the issue of God came up frequently. Was God still relevant in this modern era?
Most of my friends were agnostic at best, don’t recall having any Christian friends, Most were Jewish though and one was a Mormon. Most were white, but I had a few black friends as well, a few of them were Christian.
My mother was born a southern baptist, she was kicked out of church for asking the forbidden question, “If God created the universe, who created God?” the preacher was not amused and kicked her out for being a “free thinker” which to a Baptist was a very bad thing indeed, especially in Arkansas in the late 30s.
My father was a devote athiest, grew up in Yakima in a Methodist family, but just did not see God anywhere. An economist believing in economic laws, he was materialistic and deterministic, God simply did not compute for him.
They told us it was up to us to determine what to believe because they disagreed. But in the end, it came down to this, “Do the right thing” but it was up to us to determine what that might be.
I went to a few church services. but it just did not stick, did not get the whole shebang, did not believe in the Virgin Mary, the crucifixion, and other Christian dogma felt it was all just ancient irrelevant fairy tales. I shared my father’s materialistic worldview and my mother’s skepticism regarding Church teachings. She was pleased though when I told her I had started reading the bible.
For a while, I became a militant athiest, hung out at a, debating with Holly Hubert and the street preachers who were there. I shocked the Christian fanatics with my athiest stand-up comedy routines.
One day Jehovah’s witness came to my house. I told them I would love to talk with them but I was late for a Satanist meeting and invited them to join me. They fled in terror.
Later in college, I had a roommate, who took too much acid and became convinced he was God. We spend many nights smoking weed and debating the existence or non-existence of God. He had grown up as a Jehovah witness. His parents blamed us for their son’s descent into madness and promised to pray for us but said we would go to hell for the sin of questioning God’s will.
In college, I took a course on modern religions. As a sociology student, I studied the Unification church’s recruitment practices and went to their recruitment dinner, but wisely did not go their weekend retreat, otherwise, perhaps I might have been converted and become a Moonie.
I even went to a Scientology center took their free personality test and concluded it was all a scam. Liked to hang out with Hari Krishna dudes joining them for public chanting.
Started reading the bible in my world religion class, but took me almost 30 years before I finished reading the bible, and all the other spiritual texts, on the eve of my 50th year. Started with the Book of Mormon and ended with the Koran after reading the Buddhist writings, the Hindu scriptures, the Confucian classics, and the Tao De Ching.
Had to finally skip over the entire genesis begat stories, saying to myself
“What’s the point?”
Concluding the bible was badly edited. Just a collection of fairy tales, not fit for the modern world, but revelations fascinated me.
When I went to Korea in the Peace Corps, I became fascinated by the subtle interplay between traditional Buddhism, shamanism, neo-Confucianism principles
And the resurgence of aggressive Christianity, and the new religious fervor of Reverend Moon, the unification church, and other new religions.
Spend some time at Buddhist temples, even spend a few nights hanging out with the monks decades before the formal temple stay programs became popular among foreign tourists.
I had an encounter with shamanism when my uncle-in-law died, they did a shaman “kut” ritual. the shaman a female channeled his spirit. He came to the room berated us all, cursed us all from his perch in hell, That was such a freaky experience we had to flee the demented scene.
I had a few mystical experiences, once in college I saw God in a lake, But that was probably just the magic of the magic mushrooms, doing its mushroom thing.
Once while I was hanging out in Berkeley, I encountered a cosmic cat, I saw the divine spark In his eyes, as he followed me everywhere. I told my mother who was suffering from Alzheimer’s about the cosmic cat, she concurred he was indeed a cosmic cat.
Later in Goa, I encountered a cosmic dog who followed me everywhere. I asked the cosmic dog once,
“Say, Cosmic dog, are you god? Bark once if yes, two if no.”
He barked once.
“Are you Allah? Bark once if yes, two if no.”
He barked once.
“Are you Buddha? Bark once if yes, two if no”
He barked once.
“Are you the great spirit of the American indians? Bark once if yes, two if no”
He barked once.
“Are you Satan? Bark once if yes, two if no.”
He growled at me and I knew I had gone too far.
When I was in Thailand, I continued my exploration of Buddhism visiting most of the famous Buddhist sites there, later in Taiwan, Vietnam, and India as well.
When I lived in India, I became immersed in the spiritual energy all around me
I became a fan of the big Ganesh, he removed spiritual obstacles, allowing me to connect to the divine spirit all around me. I felt that cosmic vibe, just flowing through the world.
While in India, I attended a few Catholic services, other Christian services, went to Hindu temples, Jain temples, Sikh temples and even a few Muslim pilgrim sites. I also fasted during Rammadam and went totally vegan to observe lent.
Now that I am an old man, I think back on what I have learned from my spiritual journeys. I think I can sum it up as follows:
I believe that the universe is alive, and I am part of the divine mind, the universe God if you would, flows through us all. If only we have the eyes, to see the divine all around us.
The Christian faith, like all other faiths, is just an attempt to discover the God of the universe. It is all the same path we are on, trying to connect to the cosmic overmind of the universe.
Whether you are an atheist, a Buddhist, a Christian, a Jain, a Jew, a Harri Krishna, a humanist, a Hindu, a Moonie, a Mormon, a Muslim, a Pagan or a Wiccan devote, we are all cosmic fools, seekers of the truth. The truth is out there for us to discover it for ourselves.
But in the end, it comes down to this simple principle, we have to decide
to always do the right thing, but that is a decision, only we can make deep in our soul.
Whether heaven or hell is awaiting us I do not know. Whether Jesus is the son of God I do not know. Whether Mohammed was the last prophet of God I do not know. Whether Allah is waiting for me, I do not know. Whether the grim reaper will be coming for me I do not know.
But I am ready for the final stage of my life. In the end, I also know this: I knew my wife in a prior life, and I will see her in my next life. That is the operation of fate, of karma, and reincarnation, which I do believe in. The adage, what goes around comes around is a simple basic fact of the universe.
That is all that I know for sure. That is what I believe. In the end, always
I know there’s more to that Scientology personality test story because I was there. Those tests were top secret, and they never published them or allowed anyone to carry them outside of the Scientology Center. You and (I think) Robert and I went into the Center and started taking the test. Then you told the people administering the test that you wanted to go outside for a minute for a smoke. You surreptitiously slipped the test into your pocket and we walked out, not intending to return. About a block away, one of the Scientology people came running after us, demanding the test back, and you gave it to him. So we (you) were foiled in the attempt to steal the test.
You’ve been on a fascinating journey, Jake! It all makes perfectly good sense.
I was raised a Catholic, but I respect all religions and non-believers. Reconciling science and the history of men with the biblical Adam and Eve, as well as noting that there are so many people with different beliefs, have made me question my beliefs. I agree that we need to do the right thing (as our conscience dictates). I’m not sure of reincarnation, but I watch Korean dramas and am fascinated by reincarnation stories. May I share your story with my friends?
Thank you for sharing that, Cosmo! I have also sought to deconstruct what was given me and see what’s under the hood, so to speak. And that’s not just a Berkeley thing. It might have to do with having parents of different beliefs. My father too was a fairly strict atheist, a scientist, and a researcher who had studied history and concluded religion was mainly a tool for control. Whereas my mother was always a seeker who came from a non-religious family and churched herself as a teenager, then turned to the church when her child died. She became something of a pantheist, utilizing Christianity, Scientology, and various forms of unity consciousness and Native American beliefs in her journey. Years later I concluded my impulse to bridge the scientific and faithful outlooks was an expression of the child wanting to bring his divorced parents back together, but now it’s just important to me to remain open to possibilities and alternative explanations. Via some of the people I’ve known, I’ve witnessed a few things my skeptical impulse can never entirely explain. Your conclusions and mine are the same.
Hello uncle- I have always loved listening/reading about your travels and experiences. My Mom loved you and looked up to you as well. I relate as someone who’s Dad was excommunicated Catholic and whose mom said “choose for yourself”. I visited many churches/religious events, still do, and have read a lot. There are many things I do not know, but the things I feel I do know- are relatable. I remember being with Grandma when dementia set in and I was losing “my person” I remember reading your early college work and thinking “if he can do it, so can I” as I was struggling with adult ADHD & dyslexia recently discovered but had been there the entire time. I struggled in some areas but I persevered. Part of my love for other cultures came from you, and despite “and because of” living in a small racist county
I grew up in Berkeley, California, and Washington DC, and went to College in Stockton, California. After college, lived five years in Korea as a Peace Corps volunteer and teaching ESL. I returned to the US to Seattle for graduate school. Afterward, I joined the Foreign Service where I lived and worked in over ten countries. I retired and lived in Korea and the west coast.
What is the greatest thing about the place you call home?
I live in Youngjando island, South Korea near the Incheon Airport. I live in a garden city. There is a magnificent park – the world peace forest behind my house and a nice mountain to hike in. Over 300 restaurants are within walking distance of my house. There are five beaches ten minutes’ drive away, Incheon is nearby as is Seoul.
What turns you on creatively?
Almost all my work starts with a dream. I don’t dream dreams; I dream movies, filled with action, sound, music, smells many times in a completely different world. I have been writing a dream journal for many years. I write five to ten dreams per day, saving them as stand-alone flash fiction, and also write one to ten poems per day.
What is your favorite word, and can you use it in a poetic sentence?
One of my favorite words is my own portmanteau scumbaggery which I define as the actions of a ”Scumbag”.
The scumbaggery Of Texas Senator Ted Cruz Utterly confounds
What is your pet peeve?
Racism, sexism, homophobia, bigotry, right-wing nutcases, left-wing zealots, Christian holy rollers, gun violence, police misconduct, anti-Asian hate crimes, hate crimes, America Firsters, QAnon conspiracy theorists, neo-Nazis, White Supremacists, Proud Boys, Boogaloo Bois, and the Oath Keeper militia, etc. I don’t like ”gangsta rap”, “heavy metal”, or “country music”. I am a pragmatist and don’t care about ideological correctness.
What defines Jake Cosmos Aller?
I grew up in Berkeley and DC. I lived all over the world, visiting 45 countries and all 50 states. I served my country as a foreign service officer, and Peace Corps volunteer and taught ESL and government overseas. But what is more important than anything is that I married the girl of my dreams who became my wife 40 years ago.
John (“Jake”) Cosmos Aller is a novelist, poet, and former Foreign Service officer having served 27 years with the U.S. State Department serving in over ten countries including Korea, Thailand, India, Antigua, Barbados, Dominica, Grenada, St Lucia, St. Kitts and Nevis, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Spain. He has traveled to over 50 countries, and 49 out of 50 states. He speaks Korean, Thai, Spanish and studied Chinese, Hindi and Arabic.
Where is my home? Where do I belong?
I really don’t know, always moving on to another place
Moved every other year it seems the last 45 years
Traveled to 49 states, 45 countries, drove across the U.S. six times
Lived in Berkeley, Yakima, Stockton, Seattle, Alexandria, DC, Oregon, Korea, Thailand, India, The Eastern Caribbean, and Spain
Where do I belong? Where is my home?
Neither here nor there, nowhere and everywhere
And so is that my rambling man’s fate
Never to really belong anywhere at all
Dark Dangerous Thoughts
dark dangerous thoughts
An old man wakes up
Confronting the dark dangerous thoughts
The demons of the night
That haunt his dreams
And his life
He looks out at the dawning sun
And his sleeping wife
And realizes that it will be all right
And dismisses the demons of the night
Back to their caves in his mind
And he gets up
To take the dawning day
In Search of America
Hitchhiking Tales
hitch hikers
When I was young and foolish
Broke and stubborn
I hitchhiked across the USA
Started in Salt Lake City
Where my greyhound bus pass
Was stolen
The station manager
Could have helped me
But refused to do so
Threaten to call the cops
When I grabbed my bags
Without the stolen tags
I said
Go ahead
But I am so out of here
Wondered about Salt Lake City
Went to a bar
Found I had to buy my booze
Next door
And they would mix it for me
Had to order food too
After a bloody Mary
And a burger
I walked about town
Saw the Mormon Temple
Finally about 3 pm
It was time to hit the road
Did not look back
Ended up in Cody Wyoming
Got a room shower
Steak beer
Using my rapidly depleted cash
Spent 25 dollars
Money really went far
Back in those days
A band of professional
Communist agitators
Gave me a ride
To Des Moines
Lots of weed, booze
And politics later
Got off the road
Slept outside
Next day
A beautiful woman
Drove me to near Chicago
In a red mustang
Might have been
The girl in the song
Took it easy
Digging her vibe
She invited home
But was not sure
If her estranged husband
Would welcome me
So I being foolish
And inexperienced with women
Did not go to her place
And always regretted
That I had lost
My chance that day
Then on to Chicago
Several rides later
Visited friends
Hit the road again
A series of uneventful rides
With truckers
And others
And a week later
I ended in New York City
Slept along the way
In cars
In truck stops
In highway rest stops
Always moving
Always going
None stop talking
And lots of free weed
And beer
And conversation
One more memorable ride
Occurred outside Albany
On my return to Chicago
A middle age creepy looking man
Picked me up
In a brand new Cadillac
He was he said a dynamite deliverer
For the Mafia
Went to various places
To blow up shit
He hated a lot of people
Particularly hippies from California
And Jewish people
Looking at me to confirm
That I was both
I told him that I lived in New York
And had never been to California
And although I might look Jewish
As I what was called back in the day
A “Jewfro”
I was not Jewish
Many years later I discovered
That I am indeed part Jewish
But then I did not know
And I felt a bit of strategic information
Might keep me alive
Then I realized that he was just jiving with me
And we relaxed
And he pulled out some weed
And beer
And we mellowed out
But I believe that he really was with the mob
Perhaps not a dynamite dealer
A real made Italian made mafia member
By Chicago
I had enough
I called my Dad
Told him what had happened
Wanted a ticket home
And he sent me a ticket
And 500 dollars
And I went home
I told him I would tell him
My tales someday
But never did
I learned so much
About my fellow Americans
And the strange vibe
That was 1975
And now it is too late
But I wanted to finally
Tell the world
I am a bus rider
That makes me unusual
For a white male
From an upper middle class family
Our people are not bus riders
Though some are subway riders
Bus riders are other people
The poor, minorities, immigrants
People who don’t drive
Because they are blind
Or have a DUI
And in my case
I don’t drive
Because I have bad vision
And bad coordination
Just never got the hang
Of the whole driving thing
Fortunately for me
My wife does the driving
But I still take the bus
From time to time
I rode the AC buses in Berkeley
As a child
Line 67, line 51, line 43 F bus
Rode them long before BART came along
And afterwards as well
As an adult seldom rode the bus
But when I did so
I was always impressed
By the sheer diversity
Of the bus riding property
Hundreds of languages
All sorts of sexual orientation
Some were white
Most were not
Most of my fellow passengers
Were nice enough
Some were friendly
And some were lost
In their own thoughts
And a few
Were scary looking dudes
With the look
Of someone who had done time
And were capable of more violence
I also rode the bus
In Seattle as a graduate student
A lot of fellow UW students
And the usual immigrants
Minorities etc
And some white people
Commuting
And in DC
Over the years
I rode a lot of buses
Mostly to and from the metro
But I got to know
And love the DC buses as well
I also took the greyhound bus
Across the country
Several times over the years
All over the U.S.
From Bay Area to Stockton
From Bay Area to Clear Lake
From Bay area to NYC
NYC to DC
All over the USA
Taking the Greyhound
Was always an adventure
Met a lot of interesting people
As people on long distant bus rides
Tend to open up and talk
To pass the time away
Overseas I took the bus
All over
In India, in Barbados
In Spain and in Korea
The Korean buses
For many years
Were difficult for foreign visitors
As the signs were all in Korean
Most have signs
Now in English, Chinese and Korean
And are much more foreigner friendly
Riding the bus
In America
Allows one access
To the underbelly of American society
The poor, the marginalized
The immigrant communities
That many middle-class white people
Just never see
And for that reason
I am glad
That I am a bus rider.
I have known Gary Noland since high school. He is a very talented composer, piano player, and cartoonist who lives in Portland. His music is eclectic with a snarky sarcastic tone to it, somewhat like listening to Frank Zappa’s classical music scores. His cartoons are very Robert Crumpian in spirit. Take a listen and let me know what you think.
You can contact Gary Noland at nolandgary5@gmail.com
BIO
Introducing Gary Noland’s Music
Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960 Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960s. As an adolescent, Gary lived for a time in Salzburg and Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where he absorbed many musical influences. Having studied with a long roster of acclaimed composers and musicians, he earned his Bachelor’s in music from UC Berkeley in 1979, continued studies at the Boston Conservatory, and transferred to Harvard University, where he added to his credits Dr. Gary Lloyd Noland (a.k.a. Author Dolly Gray Landon & artist Lon Gaylord Dylan), grew up in a crowded house shared by ten people on a plot of land three blocks south of UC Berkeley known as People’s Park, which has distinguished itself as a site of civic unrest since the late 1960s.
As an adolescent, Gary lived for a time in Salzburg and Garmisch-Partenkirchen, where he absorbed many musical influences. Having studied with a long roster of acclaimed composers and musicians, he earned his Bachelor’s in music from UC Berkeley in 1979, continued studies at the Boston Conservatory, and transferred to Harvard University, where he added to his credits a Masters’ and a Ph.D. in Music Composition in 1989.
Gary’s catalog consists of hundreds of works, which include piano, vocal, chamber, experimental, and electronic pieces; full-length plays in verse, “chamber novels,” and other text pieces; as well as graphically notated scores. His award-winning chamber novel JAGDLIED for Narrator, Musicians, Pantomimists, Dancers & Culinary Artists was listed by one reviewer as the “Top Book of 2018.” Gary’s compositions have been performed and broadcast (including on NPR) in many locations throughout the United States, as well as in Europe, Asia, and Australia. He founded the Seventh Species concert series in San Francisco in 1990 and, for 23 years, produced well over 50 concerts of contemporary classical music on the West Coast. He is also a founding member of Cascadia Composers. Gary has taught music at Harvard, the University of Oregon, and Portland Community College. His musical scores are available from J.W. Pepper, RGM, Sheet Music Plus, and Freeland Publications. Six CDs of his compositions are available on the North Pacific Music label at: www.northpacificmusic.com. He has well over 300 videos of his music and narratives available for listening on YouTube at: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCJt_eNyJqOZBErG9McQ51nA and numerous other sites on the Internet. composition lessons Lake Oswego Beaverton
The PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE performs STATE-OF-THE-ART EAR EXERCISES for MUSICAL COGNOSCENTI Op. 119 by GARY LLOYD NOLAND.
Featuring the composer and his five alter egos:
GARY LLOYD NOLAND: panda harmonium, malapropsichord, climaxophone, smorgasborgasmatron, bombasticordion, whoopeeboard, air cacophony or
GARY LLOYD NOLAND CHALLENGES MUSICAL CONVENTIONS, TRADITIONS, AND CUSTOMS
The distinction between music and noise is, I think, perfectly described by Physics.info. “Music and noise are both mixture
the music of sound waves of different frequencies. The component frequencies of music are discrete, separable, and rational, with a discernible dominant frequency. The component frequencies of noise are continuous and random with no discernible dominant frequency.” Hence, the further we delve into dissonant or even atonal music, the more likely it is to be perceived as noise. Ultimately the line between the two is very blurry, and writer Meghan Davis took this concept to task smartly, when she wrote: “Someone nearby is tapping their toe. Is this an irritating noise or a musical sound? As it turns out, the difference depends almost entirely upon the listener.” And that ultimately is the point, my friends. The beauty of sound is in the ears of the beholder.
So why this long premise on sonic contrasts? Well, when you engage with the music of an avant-garde composer, and dare I say, sound designer, such as Gary Lloyd Noland, there is no sitting on the fence. You either judge his album, “State-of-the-Art Ear Exercises for Musical Cognoscenti Op. 119”, as ingeniously brilliant, or utter hogwash. If this hard and fast assumption sounds dramatically drastic, well then so does Noland’s classically inspired, post-modern sonic concoctions.
Gary Noland has boundless artistic spirit
Gary Lloyd Noland, who has received glowing critiques, has a boundless artistic spirit, and a seemingly endless technical and musical ambition. His compositions strive to challenge the listener to cast away conventions, traditions, customs, and any formal limitations their musical mindsets may have locked them into. The 18 tracks contained within this album will take you through sounds composed of multiple frequencies that are produced by instruments whose names alone will have your mind twisting into a loop.
Your ears will be teased, stroked, stretched, and surprised, by the featured players – Gary Lloyd Noland and his alter-egos: Orland Doy Gladly, Darnalod Olly Yang, Lon Gaylord Dylan, Dolly Gray Landon, and Arnold Day Longly. Even more surprising, are the names of the instrumentation used by the players. Among them, the pandaharmonium, squealharp, googah, unstitched concussion, stench horn, nose cello, and toilet brushes.
Now if you’re thinking of, outright dissonant bombast, think again. Because the album is awash with beautiful classical motifs filled with luscious melody and harmony. They’re simply interposed by varying flurries of atonal sounds which most people link to dissonance. If you could imagine an ensemble led by the combined minds of Richard Strauss, Frank Zappa, Brain Eno, and Luigi Russolo, you may just have the slightest idea of where Gary Lloyd Noland is going. And that’s practically everywhere.
Even the song titles themselves will make you sit up and take notice: “Murder Hornet Lullaby”, “Vaginavenger Vortex”, “Elevator Mucus”, “Only Drooly Grubbles” and “Larcabounger Zizz”, being just a selected few. That being said, Gary Lloyd Noland’s endearing eccentricities only really seem far more subversive to those stuck in the conventions of the mainstream jungle.
Warped Musical Sensibilities
Though Noland’s appeal comes from his warped musical sensibilities; most of the melodies and core structures contained within the album are fairly accessible, reflecting an alluring fondness for classical music. It’s just that his arrangements are far more unusual and idiosyncratic than your normal or garden variety of music. The infusion of Noland’s avant-garde sensibility and experimental spirit makes for a fascinating combination, and very much is, what sets him apart everyone else. And I mean, EVERYONE else.
This album is literally packed with ideas and sounds, as Gary Lloyd Noland ventures into a different avenue with every track. The instrumentals have distinctive identities, and they’re extremely palatable in even in their most unusual forms. In 2021, you will definitely find fewer challenging albums, and maybe even more challenging albums, but you will never find anything quite like “State-of-the-Art Ear Exercises for Musical Cognoscenti Op. 119” anywhere else on this planet…maybe even in the entire universe for that matter!
—TUNEDLOUD!
WAYWARD AFFECTS & AFFLICTIONS
$17.00
The PIMPLETON PROCRASTURBATION ENSEMBLE performs WAYWARD effects & AFFLICTIONS Op. 120 by GARY LLOYD NOLAND
Fever DREAMS Op. 118,
an Unequivocal Crustbucket List of Smexy and Sophistocratic Quarantunes for Perspicacious Connoisseurmudgeons, Trans melancholiac Insomniacs, Necromantic Misanthropes, Compulsive Transgress mists, and other Categorical Certifiable from the Psycho-Experimental Ward of Herr Doctor Noland’s Avantgarde-Boiled Cynic Clinic
“Gary Noland is one of those 21st Century composers seeking to forge a new aesthetic based on older models that do not traffic in serialism or minimalism. These dry, playful pieces pay homage to classical forms from various periods while gently satirizing them. Zany waltzes, ragtime riffs, chorales, toccatas, and much else romp and tear through these depictions of superheroes and villains from his ‘chamber novels’; other pieces spoof serial music (‘Ventured, nothing gained’) to grand operas (‘Meditative’) and Jewish guilt (‘Spikes’). The irreverent program closes with two serious, impressive, endlessly modulating memorials: one to George Rothberg, an allusive homage to an important neo-romantic who was himself a master of allusion; another to Jon Sutton, an artist Noland feels was wrongfully neglected by a corporate culture that promotes dreck and mediocrity, making it ‘possible to have a Brahms or Schubert next door and not even realize it. This is a culture that ‘confers towering soapboxes to impostors of all persuasions, all too often to the exclusion of first-rate minds who are less savvy about how to work the system to their advantage’.
North Pacific Music
Smaller labels like North Pacific Music represent a new way of working that system, a small means of saving what Noland regards as ‘an endangered (and fast becoming extinct) high culture’. I could do without the ugly cover art, but the piano sound is extremely vivid—and Noland plays his work with wit and conviction.”
—Jack Sullivan, American Record Guide, July/August 2007
“Yesterday, the first day of the year [2004], I opened your CD package—and could hardly believe my ears when I listened to your Venge Art and 24 Postludes for Piano, Op. 72—how magnificent!! I will include most [of] your works in our local shows, especially in the Art Block program Sound Sculpture—a program for visual and sonic art.… I listen to all arriving music and [respond] seldom as excited as I did to your music.… Have a terrific 2004. You made mine with your inspiring music, talent, and creativity. Thank you.”
—Brita Heisman, Executive Producer, KAZU Local Programming, Pacific Grove, CA.
Royal Oil works Music
January 2006: “Royal Oil works Music” (electro-acoustic). Duration: ca. 75 minutes. Includes: “Prelude in E Minor” (Op. 34), “Serial Lullaby” (Op. 80, No. 1), “Spray Taint” (Op. 80, No. 2), “Dog Duo” (Op. 66), “Rag bones” (Op. 11), “Grey Malignant Banks” (Op. 80, No. 3) “My Babe’s Gone Down to Do Her Glue” (Op. 80, No. 4), “Royal Oil works Music” (Op. 80, No. 5) “Prelude & Zoo trot” (Op. 22), “Something Rotten” (Op. 80, No. 6) “Music is Dead” (Op. 53), “Treadmill” (Op. 37), “Deformed Fugue” (Op. 17), “Insurrection of the Office Slaves” (Op. 80, No. 7), “Psycho-Bacchanal” (Op. 80, No. 8). www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 024). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
“We recently received a CD [Royal Oil works Music] of Gary Noland’s here at WOBC. I must say that upon previewing some of the tracks and reading the program notes that all of us have never laughed so hard in our lives. We usually don’t play music as arrogant and docile as Gary’s but the ironic-postmodern-naive-pretension that this CD showed made me reconsider. I would like to get in touch with M. Noland and arrange a telephone interview for one of our classical radio shows.”
… his attitude is not subtly disestablishmentarian, and you’d better enjoy it.… Some of the sounds are amusing, but the music is sort of deliberately annoying, both in sonority and in the mood—deliberately uninspired, almost to the point of inspiration. From Bach to rags to whatever, Noland seems determined to annoy as many people as he can, in an amusing way. He is an angry guy but witty.
If the idea of deliberate lack of originality purveyed in an atmosphere of political incorrectness appeals to you, here, in no uncertain terms, it is. Titles such as ‘Spray Taint’, ‘Dog Duo’, and ‘Insurrection of the Office Slaves’ give the mood, while the title tune [‘Royal Oil works Music’] is the real purpose of the Bush administration, as explained in the notes.…”
—David Moore, American Record Guide
Seriously Odd Classical Tongue in Check Electro-Acoustic
“Seriously odd classical… Tongue-in-cheek electro-acoustic combines baroque harpsichord and cheesy electronic sounds. Funny like Satie is funny – zany and irreverent. Lots of serialism … but the bizarre collage of styles and periods is brilliant. Oh, it’s also like PDQ Bach/Peter Schickele in some ways. Absurd liner notes! Baroque-sounding … Serialist electro-acoustic … very refreshing, given how “ivory tower” this type of music often is. Cheesy synths, electronic percussion, and trumpets … up tempo and funky. Baroque harpsichord with pop and world music sounds going on in off-kilter, almost random rhythms. WTF? Very cool …Waa Waa synth, fugue-like … Zany … Cecil Taylor piano over drum machine breakbeats … Close to Dual (Ed Chang and Doug Theriault – crazy dense guitar and laptop processing), with national anthem-like moments?? And bird song?? Zany … Slow serialist/romantic … prelude to baroque trills to Richian/rag arpeggios to a Chopin breakdown to a jazz ending. Phew. This rocks … Bogy woozy synth with jazz percussion and serialist randomness. Lots of noodling, er, electronic wanking? Upbeat … Staccato baroque fugue on electronic choral sounds and pipe organ sounds … funny … Rhythmically interesting … Fugue for harpsichord … Some free jazz freak-outs … Great title for this … Squeaky sounds with sax and choral synthesizer—like if you played the Handel theme from the film A Clockwork Orange, Sonny Rollins, Tchaikovsky, and, well, a psychotic serialist all at once.”
—KZSU FM90.3, Stanford, CA
“A look at the head-note will alert you to Gary Noland’s very personal way with words. Not for Noland the lures either of Olympian detachment or lower case “significance.” No, Noland is full-on and takes few linguistic prisoners. Similarly with the booklet artwork, Noland’s own, which is an example of crazed Robert Crumb à Africanize. And his music is much the same, Deformed Fugue, his 1977 piece for harpsichord summoning up pretty nicely his compositional stance. This is an elixir brewed of Couperin and Rameau, Scott Joplin, Bach, free funk, free Jazz (Cecil Taylor?), the Fugue, and an unholy alliance of straight sounding neo-classicism and its subsequent assault by the forces of percussive militancy.
Noland may be a romantic but doesn’t want you to know.
His Prelude is baroque-convincing though attended by some sour-is off notes he follows it with Serial Lullaby, a synthesizer-rich free funk piece that mocks its title. Spray Taint gives us assaulted baroque, the percussion blizzards full of jazz offbeat and whoop-bang noises (plus telephone rings and disco inferno). He subjects Ragtime to the same souring procedures as he does to his off-note harpsichord baroque and evokes a drugs fix (in My Babe’s Gone Down to Do Her Glue) with some haywire free form. He writes an American fanfare for the title track and subjects it to anti-Bush assault by bird song and drum blister.
Quixiotic Sense
His quixotic sense extends to opus numbers – the bowels of Op. 80 are scattered throughout the disc, and to instrumentation as well. I assume he makes all the noises, both pianistic and harpsichord synthesized and vocalized. He’s a veritable one-man band of off-kilter influences, the procedural repetition of which sometimes got me seriously down, though I did like his Swingle Sisters take-off on Music is Dead: A Paradox in Fugue.”
—Jonathan Woolf, Music Web International
24 Postludes for piano, Vol. 1
August 2004: “Twenty-Four Postludes for Piano” Vol. 1 (Op. 72, Nos. 1–12), performed by Gary Noland. Duration: 72 minutes. North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 018). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
REVIEWS/ENCOMIUMS
“As usual I have been fiendishly busy and during my last absence, our humidification system went bonkers, depositing condensation and mold all over the place so now I am trying to deal with that on top of my overload. Nonetheless, I have put on the postludes whenever I’ve been at the computer and found them up to your usual iconoclastic, stylistic potpourri standards of giddy humor, no holds barred soup to nuts and high spirits. They are balm to the grim state of mind in which I find myself.”
—Robert Levin, pianist (cadenza improviser extraordinaire), scholar, Professor of Music, Harvard University
“Many thanks for the CDs you sent me, which I have been listening to with great pleasure and fascination.… I am bowled over by the expertise of your music: you use certain elements from the 19th century and jazz, etc., and just at the moment when I am about to say, OK, what else is new? you do several things, such as speeding up, becoming wildly dissonant, modulating to a distant continent, stopping completely, and throwing some kind of total surprise. All of these things are possible, but you seem to know exactly when to do what and how much. I don’t know anybody else who can do it! And the brief electronic statements are spooky in the best and most extreme sense. They make my hair (what’s left of it) stand on end.…”
—Andrew Imbrue, composer, Pulitzer Prize finalist
“Mr. Noland’s Postludes are a collection of wild and crazy pieces for … piano. These are essentially parodying of various styles, set in a dizzying harmonic language that loops uncontrollably through a wide-ranging gamut of possible and impossible tonalities. He applies this procedure to the fugue, ragtime, German dances (Schubert), romantic waltzes (Richard Strauss seems to be a favorite), and virtuosic piano scherzos. There’s a Chinese polonaise, a whiff of pentatonic Debussy; and, like most composers after Berlioz, he can’t seem to keep his hands off the Dies Irae (though fortunately, the tongue is firmly in cheek). Both Peter Schickele and Conlon Nan arrow hover over the proceedings. I’d even throw in Mark Applebaum, another Californian … The opening fugue is dedicated to the late David Lewin, the prominent Harvard theorist. Lukas Foss gets a dedication, also (maybe his Baroque Variations had some sort of influence on Noland at some point).
The general effect is like watching wet paintings of 19th Century musical memorabilia drip into frazzled 21st Century oblivion. The comic-book grotesquerie that graces the jewel box pretty much says it all … these pieces are striking and entertaining … (Postlude 12, an interminable exercise in blues montage, is the most daunting.) The pieces all have funny titles … Mustaches on the Mona Lisa, but those can be interesting if you’re in the right frame of mind.”
—Allen Gimbel, American Record Guide
“Composer and pianist Gary Noland are into ‘ha-ha music’—that is, classical music played for laughs, a genre famously (or infamously, depending on your taste in humor) popularized by Peter Schickele, also known as P.D.Q. Bach. This collection of solo piano music, identified as postludes rather than the more traditional preludes designation, indicates that, despite occasionally forcing the musical jokes (and writing far too many tortured puns in his liner notes), Noland has both the writing and playing chops to compensate for his painful musical humor. Dedicated to the late music theorist David Lewin, ‘Philomathetique’ is a witty trope on the music of Richard Strauss, with characterful motives and abundant quick modulations. ‘Effete Singulations’ is a deft, splashy bit of ragtime, while ‘Pickthanks and Premediates’ is a light-hearted romp played at a dizzying tempo and ‘Psychonipptions’ (dedicated to composer Henry Martin) is a send-up of 20th Century French music. Overall, Postludes is a mixed bag, but when Noland focuses on playing the piano well rather than simply playing for laughs, his compelling artistry shines through.”
—Christian Carey, Splendid Magazine
“Gary—you continue to be one of the most original of the contributors to ‘The Classical Salon.’ And ‘Effete Singulations’ [Postlude #2] opens one of my ragtime shows.”
—David Rifkin, Host, “Classical Salon” and “The Ragtime Machine,” KUSF 90.3 FM, University of San Francisco.
24 Interludes for piano, Vol. 1
August 2004: “Twenty-Four Interludes for Piano” Vol. 1 (Op. 71, Nos. 1-12), performed by Gary Noland. Duration: 74 minutes. North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 019). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
“… intriguing, irritating, … distinctive, inventive, … subversive, … [the music] is never what you expect. You hear all sorts of styles and influences—Beethoven, ragtime, Nan arrow, stride—often in very quick succession.… I had the strange feeling with many of these pieces [Interludes and Postludes] that, about halfway through, I had got fed up with them, but I was then sorry when they finished.… You can hardly be indifferent to Noland’s music and so I would urge you to try it. Despite my frequent irritation, I will certainly be returning to it and seeking out examples of Noland’s chamber works and multimedia compositions. Music aside, speaking as a cat-lover, I feel an instinctive sympathy with the composer depicted on the front cover of the Interludes fondly embracing his cat. Illogical? Well, yes; I think this music has got to me after all.”
—Roger Blackburn, Music Web International
“Gary Noland, a composer, and pianist with an impressive academic pedigree (including a Ph.D. from Harvard) and extensive performing experience, here presents an album of solo piano compositions, or ‘interludes.’ Actually, some of these pieces seem in no way transitory; instead, they present extended musical dialogues that call upon a host of musical styles and require the considerable technical facility to perform. Noland, a fleet-fingered, ebullient performer, is more than up to the task. Pastiche pieces like ‘Mumbo Gumbo’ and ‘Expresso Wagon’ evoke all manner of Romantic-era classical piano figurations; they gently lampoon some of the genre’s conventions, but always remain bright, witty, and engaging. ‘The Temptation of Saint Floyd’ also channels Romanticism, particularly the Strassman sort, demonstrating a more reflective demeanor and adding a dollop of schmaltz to the proceedings. ‘Push Button Fingers’ is prevailingly modern in construction, with syncopated rhythms and sprightly, angular runs creating a far more contemporary sound world. Noland’s work may be eclectic—sometimes even a bit goofy—but Interludes is cleverly constructed and consistently well performed.”
July 2002: “Gary Noland: Selected Music from VENGE ART.” Duration: 75 minutes. Cellist Hamilton Heifetz and pianist Victor Steinhardt playing “Fantasy in E Minor” for cello & piano (Op. 24), pianist Randall Hodgkinson playing “Humoresque” for piano (Op. 3) and the “Russell Street Rag” (Op. 5), Gary Noland performing three segments of “P*run*Music” (Op. 48), Violist Katherine Murdock and pianist Randall Hodgkinson playing “Romance” for viola & piano (Op. 10), a computer-driven Disklavier performance of “Grande Rag Brillante” (Op. 15), The Onyx String Quartet playing “American Bozo Dance” (Op. 32, No. 8), and Guy Tyler conducting “Septet” (Op. 43) with clarinetist Carol Robe, alto saxophonist Tom Bergeron, French hornist Ellen Campbell, violinists Tawana Nagahara and Anthony Dyer, double-bassist Forrest Moyer, and pianist Art Maddox. Released by North Pacific Music (PO BOX 82627, Portland, Oregon 97282-0627, USA, tel/fax: 1-800-757-7384, www.NorthPacificMusic.com (NPM LD 012). music CDs original compositions Beaverton Lake Oswego
“Mr. Noland writes as a ‘time traveler’ in styles long abandoned by most composers as well as styles so new as to not have been imagined but by him. This he accomplishes naturally, convincingly, with originality and true passion. His command of all musical languages and his ability to traverse musical time is nothing less than remarkable. Listen!”
—Donald Martino, Pulitzer Prize-winning composer
“Composer Gary Noland is possessed of a rich musical imagination, whose technique distills the achievements of Roger, Strauss, and Schoenberg but also refracts their post-romantic/expressionist tendencies through the lens of twenty-first-century post-modernism, American style. Moreover, he fits Stravinsky’s definition of a great composer: one who doesn’t merely steal but knows what to steal. This Noland does with wit and aplomb unique to the music of our time.”
—Ira Braes, pianist, musicologist, Professor of Music, The Hart School
“Gary Noland’s Venge Art is more than just a collection of music.…inspiring. He walks with assurance through the treacherous landscape of late tonality and early post-tonality (e.g., Strauss).…a gifted composer.”
May 2000: “Player less Pianos: Virtual Music for Pianos Virtual and Otherwise.” Seventh Species Composers Series Debut Recording, Limited Collector’s Edition (NPM LCE 007—North Pacific Music). A compilation recording of works by various composers. Includes Gary Noland’s “Grande Rag Brillante” (Op. 15), which was recorded on August 19, 1998, on a Disklavier at SPARK Studios in Emeryville. music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
Original Compositions by Gary Noland music CDs
1996: “Passion.” A compilation recording of works by composers Gary Noland, George Rothberg, Georges Enescu, Greg Steinke, and Jackie T. Gabel performed by violist Rozanne Weinberger and pianist Evelyne Lust. Includes Noland’s “Romance” for viola & piano (Op. 10). (NPM LD 003—North Pacific Music). Recorded September 1994 at MET Studio Ball State University, Muncie, Indiana. In Schwann Catalog. music CDs original compositions Beaverton Portland Lake Oswego
Jim Davidson, a high school classmate, over the years became the world’s leading authority on all things Perry Mason. He worked on this book for almost ten years before finally publishing it. It covers everything Perry Mason-related and more. As a casual fan of the series, it made me want to go back and watch more episodes. Jim writes in an engaging fan pace style and really delves into the series and its lasting impact on American culture mid to late 20th century
Jim Davison photoI have been friends with Jim Davidson since high schoo over 45 years ago.. He has over the years become a world expert on all things Perry Mason. He has also become an expert on classic comics. And he is a great jazz pianist.
Jim Davidson is the founder and past president of the National Association for the Advancement of Perry Mason and former publisher/editor of the periodicals NAAPM Newsletter and Classic TV. His articles, interviews, and reviews have appeared in Films in Review, Filmfax, Tower Records’ Pulse! magazine, and The TV Collector. He has contributed research to the books The Complete Directory to Prime Time Network TV Shows (Fifth Edition) by Tim Brooks and Earle Marsh (Ballantine Books), Primetime Proverbs by Jack Mingo and John Javna (Harmony Books), Donna Reed: A Bio-Bibliography by Brenda Scott Royce (Greenwood Press), and was a member of the expert panel that ranked shows for The Best of Crime & Detective TV by Max Allan Collins and John Javna (Harmony Books). He has appeared on TV in The Case of the Courtroom Legends, a Showtime special about Perry Mason author Erle Stanley Gardner and star Raymond Burr, and was co-producer of the Perry Mason 50th Anniversary Edition DVD set from CBS-Paramount. He’s the author of the ebook Perry Mason: A Comprehensive Guide to America’s Favorite Defender of Justice.
Berkeley Calling Me
Germany
Aller migration to the United States
