Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

Rosemerry at the Gunnison Valley Poetry Festival (2018)
[photo by Art Goodtimes]

Rosemerry is an amazing friend, poet, storyteller and wise woman. Her latest book All the Honey (Samara Press, 2023) is a classic. If you're looking for one book of poetry to buy for the holidays, let me recommend this one.

She has a poem-a-day practice that she shares with folks. I find it invaluable -- uplifting, insightful, spiritually important.

Love Lessons

 

There were thousands of wild iris

in the wide, damp meadow.

Forty years later I remember it, still,

the pale purple petals fluttering

in the morning breeze.

The spring air was cold;

my feet squished in the mud,

and I picked armfuls of iris,

each bloom the loveliest.

I picked and picked

as if dozens of iris could convey

how extravagantly I loved a boy.

Loved him beyond measure.

Loved him meadowfuls.

Whole mountainfuls.

It’s so human to long to express

the inexpressible.

Forty years later, I remember

the immensity of that love—

how it changed me, made space in me

for who I am today.

Love is, perhaps, rhizomic,

like iris, spreading where no one can see.

If you could look inside me now,

you’d find fields of iris, infinite acres.

I still long to pick dozens for my loves,

even hundreds, though now I also trust

how sometimes a single stem

says everything.

I especially love  Love Lessons because my eldest daughter's name is Iris

One Sacredness

an altar for wonder—

that small pause

before you speak

Her short poems dive deep

After a Rogue Hard Frost in Late June

The usual suspects wilt and die.

Basil, of course, and beans. Potatoes.

Zinnias. Nasturtiums. Marigolds.

I find myself staring at the beet greens,

spinach, and arugula, marveling

at how they thrive, impervious to cold.

 

I have a craving for resilience.

I pull the dark leaves to my mouth,

devour the green communion.

It tastes like survival, so bitter, so bright.

Her poems of the natural world are full of awe

Tonight I Remember

how he resisted learning

to tie his own shoes,

how I cheered

when he learned

to pinch the laces

between his fingers,

knotting and looping

and pulling them tight,

making a bow

that would stay.

How I encouraged

the very thing

that allowed him

to walk away.

Oh, sweet woman

I was then,

beginning to learn

letting go.

Now that he’s gone,

I’m a student

of being loosened,

untied, undone,

still practicing

how to let him go.

And her poems of grief are truly transformative.

To subscribe to Rosemerry's Poem a Day  emails go HERE:

https://www.wordwoman.com/

Eclipse the Musical

 

Dalton Trumbo is Grand Junction's main claim to literary fame. The left-leaning author and Oscar-winning screenwriter is best known for Johnny Get Your Gun  (National Book Award novel), a slew of memorable film screenplays (Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo, Exodus, Spartacus, Papillion) and his imprisonment for being one of the Hollywood Ten and refusing to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee in 1947 during the red-baiting McCarthy Era. On the 100th anniversary of the city's Avalon Theatre, the Foundation responsible for its preservation and renovation hosted the world premiere of Eclipse the Musical. Conductor Scott Betts composed the music and wrote the lyrics adapted from Trumbo's first novel, Eclipse (1936) -- a social realist work based on his hometown.

My friend Dea Jacobson and I caught the first of two shows of this work which was a thinly-disguised fiction based on actual Mesa County characters and institutions. A fitting historical production with fine acting, great choreography, dazzling voices, live orchestra, period costumes, historic photo backdrops and a catchy finale song: "A shack, some grub and someone to be with. That's all you need. Any more is myth."

John Abbott lashes out at Violet Budd

While the story was a tribute to a capitalist hero who loses everything in the Depression, Trumbo imbued it with some interesting social critiques -- portraying the local madam as a supporter of the community-minded John Abbott who leverages his mercantile emporium and banking interests to lift up employees, boost the  town and even help his competitors. On the other hand, it's the righteous Violet Budd, crusading Women's Christian Temperance Union matron, who is the inimical thorn and foil who helps bring Abbott down. Their second act where Abbott unloads on Budd was poignant and powerful, after his assisting her projects for years -- even though he personally disliked her, having seen her as a  judgmental and self-serving virago.

Stumpy gifts Abbott when all others let him down

The singing was impressive throughout, with Joey Stafford's Budd waxing operatic, Chris McKim's Abbott was skillful and convincing, Miriam Deming's clarity was crystal and her warmth charming, Juli Jacobson's Ann Abbott solid, and Lana Leigh Rogal's Stumpy (the madam) winning in every way -- she doubled as director and choreographer making her a triple threat that served the production well.

The cast sings the finale song

The entire cast deserves praise and all the technical aspects were well done. A resounding success from all artistic angles.

Congratulations to Steve Doyle and the Avalon Theatre Foundation  as well as the Mesa County Historical Society for putting on a rousing celebration of Grand Junction's landmark theater's 100th year of existence.  It's no surprise the audience gave the premiere a standing ovation. 

The Main St. Trumbo sculpture in front of the Avalon Theatre

Liminal Space Odyssey

 

I can't say enough good about this dazzling event  in Norwood on the second day of Dia de los Muertos this year.  It was a multi-media happening with  poetry, story, video, slides and music. 

Craig Childs is an amazing storyteller. He had us riveted to our seats with wild yarns, asides, stories both personal and historical -- waving his arms, timing  riffs to images flashed on a screen, building to  suspenseful climaxes and then making us laugh hysterically before artfully transitioning to another of his trio. A maestro of the tale.

As for New Orleans-inspired blues folk guitarist Russ Chapman, I couldn't stay seated and had to get up and rockabilly a bit to his winsome lyrics and schooled performance. His song about the Wall that welcomes you in (WalMart) and his Let Bygones Go On By finale had me dancing in the foyer. Russ and Craig even did a bit of rat-a-tat playful debate and stand-up between performances.  No wonder he won the 2017 Telluride Blues Challenge award at the Telluride Blues & Brews Festival.  

Poet Kierstin Bridger is no stranger to awards either, having won the 2017 Women Writing the West's Willa Award and Telluride's own Fischer Prize for Poetry.  Her poems wove around the theme of liminality, just as did Chapman's songs and Childs stories from his adventures in a Tibetan river, the Pine Barrens of New Jersey and  Mexican caves

In anthropology, liminality is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the rite is complete.

As Childs' shows always do, they educate, sometimes titillate, while invariably entertaining. It may be its own veiled rite of passage but  expect a  ritual where one can look forward to a rollicking good time.

Indigenous Peoples Day

 I was gone back east for a wedding on Indigenous Peoples Day this year and so didn't post anything online. But my dear friend  Rafael Jesús González wrote an amazing essay in Spanish and English that I wanted to share with you.

Gaia's Lament

Lamento de Gaia (inglés)

El 12 de octubre es fiesta conocida en varias regiones y épocas por muchos nombres: Día de Colón, Día del descubrimiento, Día de la hispanidad, Día de las Américas, Día de la raza, Día de los pueblos indígenas.

En México en 1928 a la insistencia del filósofo José Vasconcelos, entonces Ministro de Educación, se le nombró Día de la Raza, denominación de la Unión Ibero-Americana en 1913 para declarar una nueva identidad formada del encuentro de los Españoles y los indígenas de las Américas. En 1902 el poeta mexicano Amado Nervo había escrito un poema en honor del Presidente Benito Juárez (indio zapoteca) que recitó en la Cámara de Diputados, titulado La Raza de Bronce alabando a la raza indígena, título que más tarde en 1919 el autor boliviano Alcides Arquedas daría a su libro. El bronce (metal noble fundido de varios metales) llegó a ser metáfora del mestizaje. Según el pensar de José Vasconcelos una Raza Cósmica, la raza del porvenir, es la raza noble que se forma en las Américas a partir del 12 de octubre de 1492, la raza del mestizaje, un amalgama de las gentes indígenas de las Américas, de los Europeos, los Africanos, los Asiáticos, las razas mundiales — en una palabra, la raza humana compuesta de una mezcla de todas las razas que Vasconcelos denominó la Raza Cósmica.

Pero no se puede ignorar que esta raza ideal se forma a gran costo de los pueblos indígenas Americanos (y de la gente africana traídos aquí como esclavos). Desde 2002, en Venezuela se le llama a la fiesta Día de la Resistencia Indígena.

Sea como sea, por cualquier nombre que le demos, de cualquier modo que la cortemos, es la misma torta — la fecha conmemora la llegada de los Europeos a América (que para ellos era un “nuevo mundo”), no una visita sino una invasión, un genocidio, subyugación de las gentes de ese “nuevo mundo” que hoy conocemos por el nombre de un cartógrafo Europeo que apenas pisó el suelo sagrado de los continentes que llevan su nombre. Lo que marca la fecha es una continua colonización, explotación, abuso, ultraje de los pueblos indígenas de las Américas que escasamente ha menguado, que ha persistido estos quinientos y treinta y tantos años.

Bien se le pudiera nombrar Día de la Globalización. A partir de ese día se comprueba concreta y definitivamente que la Tierra verdaderamente es redonda, una esfera, una bola, un globo. Y desde esa fecha se les trata imponer forzosamente a las gentes indígenas del “nuevo mundo” una cosmología, actitud bastante extraña hacia a la vida, hacia a la Tierra, hacia a la economía, hacia a lo sagrado, hacia al ser humano mismo — una sola "verdad" estrecha e intolerante, un desdén rapaz hacia la Tierra vista solamente como un recurso para explotarse, un concepto del progreso difícil de distinguir de la codicia y el hambre del poder.

La causa de los indígenas clama por justicia: se les sigue robando sus tierras y terrenos, se los destruyen por sus valiosas maderas y minerales; sus creaciones agrícolas, tal como el maíz y la papa, que han salvado del hambre a gran parte del mundo, se modifican al nivel molecular y se controlan por corporaciones rapaces; sus medicinas tradicionales se patentan por esas mismas corporaciones; el agua sagrada misma se privatiza y se les roba; aun no se les respeta el derecho a sus creencias y culturas. Aun poniendo al lado la justicia, todos deberíamos aliarnos a las gentes indígenas de las Américas (y del mundo entero) en su resistencia contra tal abuso porque lo que los amenaza a ellas nos amenaza a todos en el mundo entero — y a la Tierra misma. Tienen muchísimo que enseñarnos acerca de una relación sana del hombre con la Tierra.

En una Tierra, mucho más chica y frágil de lo que imaginábamos, nos encontramos en plena globalización y pugna contra la imposición de un capitalismo desenfrenado y del fascismo, su lógica extensión, que lo acompaña. Sigue la resistencia indígena que jamás ha cesado durante estos cinco y un cuarto de siglos y ma pesar de una represión brutal y ahora todos as nosotros de la raza cósmica de mera necesidad debemos aliarnos a su lucha, pues esa lucha es nuestra de todos si hemos de sobrevivir en la Tierra, bendita madre de nuestra estirpe, la estirpe de la raza humana — y de toda nuestra parentela los otros animales, las plantas, los minerales. En la Tierra redonda y sin costura son ficticias las fronteras y lo que amenaza a unos nos amenaza a todos. Pensar al contrario no es solamente inmoral sino locura.

Berkeley, Alta California

 

October 12 is a feast-day known in various regions and times by many names: Columbus Day, Discovery Day, Hispanic Culture Day, Day of the Americas, Day of the Race, Day of the Indigenous Peoples.

In Mexico in 1928 at the insistence of the philosopher José Vasconcelos, then Minister of Education, it was named Día de la Raza (Day of the Race), denomination of the Iberian-American Union in 1913 to declare a new identity formed by the encounter of the Spaniards with the native peoples of the Americas. In 1902, the Mexican poet Amado Nervo had written a poem in honor of the President Benito Juárez (a Zapoteca Indian), which he read in the House of Representatives, titled La Raza de Bronce (Race of Bronze) praising the indigenous race, title which later in 1919 the Bolivian author Alcides Arquedas would give his book. Bronze (noble metal amalgamated of various metals) came to be metaphor for mestizaje (the mixing of the races.) According to the thinking of José Vasconcelos, a Cosmic Race, the race of the future, is the noble race that is formed in the Americas since October 12, 1492, the race of mestizaje, an amalgam of the indigenous peoples of the Americas, the Europeans, the Africans, the Asians, the world — in a word, the human race made of a mixture of all the races which Vasconcelos called the Cosmic Race.

But that this race is formed at great cost to the indigenous American peoples (and to the African peoples brought here as slaves) cannot be ignored. Since 2002, in Venezuela the feast-day is called Día de la Resistencia Indígena (Day of Indigenous Resistance.)

Be that as it may, by whatever name we give it, however way we cut it, it is the same cake — the date commemorates the arrival of the Europeans to America (which for them was a “new world”), not a visit but an invasion, a genocide, a subjugation of the peoples of that “new world” which we know today by the name of a European cartographer who barely set foot on the sacred ground of the continents that bear his name. What the date marks is a continuous colonization, exploitation, abuse, outrage of the indigenous peoples of the Americas that has scarcely lessened, that has persisted these five-hundred and thirty plus years.

It could well be called Day of Globalization. Since that date, the Earth is concretely, definitively proven to be truly round, a sphere, a ball, a globe. And from that date is imposed by force upon the indigenous American peoples a quite strange cosmology, attitude toward life, toward the Earth, toward economics, toward the sacred, toward the human being him/herself — a single "truth" narrow and intolerant, a rapacious disdain toward the Earth seen only as a resource to be exploited, a concept of progress difficult to distinguish from greed and the lust for power.

The cause of the indigenous peoples screams for justice: their lands, their fields continue to be stolen from them, destroyed for their valuable woods and minerals; their agricultural creations, such as maize and the potato, which have saved a great part of the world from famine, are modified at the molecular level and controlled by rapacious corporations; their traditional medicines are patented by those same corporations; sacred water is privatized and stolen from them; even their right to their own beliefs and cultures is not respected. Even putting justice aside, we should all ally ourselves with the indigenous peoples of the Americas (and of the entire world) in their resistance against such abuse because what threatens them threatens us all throughout the whole world — and the Earth itself. They have a very much to teach us about a healthy relationship of humankind with the Earth.

In an Earth much smaller and more fragile than we imagined, we find ourselves in full globalization and struggle against the imposition of an unbridled capitalism and the fascism, its logical extension, that accompanies it. The indigenous resistance that has never ceased these five and a quarter centuries and more continues in spite of a brutal repression and now all of us of the cosmic race, of pure necessity, must align ourselves with their struggle, for that struggle is ours if we are to survive on the Earth, holy mother of our race, the human race — and of all our relations, the other animals, the plants, the minerals. On the round, seamless Earth all borders are fictitious and what threatens one threatens all. To think otherwise is not only immoral but insane.

Berkeley, California

© Rafael Jesús González 2023

Sunset Anvil Cloud

 

DEATH'S BLACK HOLE

                                                    -for Mr. & Mrs. Five Grain & the Robert Report

some just keep on keeping on

plow through snowpiles of pain

secure between cañon walls

others get knocked down

& the walls come tumbling in

on the hardwood floors of before

the other night we watched

a sunset anvil cloud of orange 

over the San Juan’s Wilson Range

just a brief moon look & then the sky

went black with stars like spores like

holes sucking us into the mystery

Monday's poem

 

Bio

Conceived in New Mexico

where my bombardier dad was stationed

during WWII I was born in peace

Grew up in Mountain View (California)

& as the Mountain Village grew (Colorado)

I raised three families

Divorced three wives

Lost a fourth. Had a child with a fifth

without any dread wedlocks

Now I marry people

having forsaken the collar for a ballcap

that belonged to Dolores LaChapelle

Living wildly alone like Capt. Barefoot

A life filled with friends & family

Kin of all kinds

& 

random acts of 

total surprise

John Nelson

 

As a poet and fan of all the spoken word arts, I've learned to love cowboy poetry that's well done. I like to think of it as the edge effect. A marriage of English prosody and American colloquial speech.  Being true to both is tricky. 

I got to read several times with Peggy Godfrey of the San Luis Valley who always said "cowboy" is a verb. She managed to get her feminist  leanings into real ranch stories and we all loved her at the old Sparrows Poetry Festival in Salida.

I first encountered John in David Rothman's anthology: The Geography of Hope -- Poets of Colorado's Western Slope (Conundrum Press, Crested Butte, 1998). Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer of Placerville, Luis Lopez of Grand Junction and I all appeared in that collection, along with several poet friends who have passed: Bruce Berger of Aspen, James Tipton of Fruita and Karen Chamberlain of Aspen.

I loved that David included John along with the rest of us poets. His "Word Wrangling" poem is a classic -- an encounter with a pedantic English "expert" poet and pack string word wranglin' John. It's funny and makes its point sharp as a needle in the thumb.

I caught up with John a few months back and he shared this new poem with me. And I'm proud to be sharing with you.

I’M GOIN’ SOMEDAY

 

Some days come and some days go

But someday never gets here.

Someday is just a dream away.

Someday is always next year.

 

Someday we’ll all go fishing.

I’m taking my family with me.

Heading to that lunker lake

Where the trophy is bound to be.

 

Someday we’ll raft the river

Or maybe paddle by canoe.

We’ll soak up fun and challenge.

There’s nothing we won’t do.

 

Someday I’m heading up north

Or maybe I’ll head west.

Take my son on that dream hunt

Where hunting is the best.

 

We’ll go by boat.  We’ll go by plane

Or maybe mule or horse.

Somewhere where big game is big,

In the wilderness of course.

 

Someday I’ll win big in the lotto.

And when my ship comes in,

I’ll find the time.  I’ll find the money.

I’ll be gone with the wind.

 

But, something says there’s work to do

And bills that must be paid.

That time and money can’t be found.

They both must be made.

 

So, the time had come for action.

Someday would soon be here.

I’d go for broke. I’d make my move.

I’d overcome my fear.

Then I called the man to set it up

And confirm our coming date.

He said, “Someday ’s been booked for years.

That we were way too late.”  

 

It seems that everyone is going someday,

The most popular of days.

He suggested that I try firsts or seconds

of Junes, Julys or Mays.

 

And when I cursed in great frustration

He sensed that I turned red.

So, he agreed to confirm a date for me.

That someday I’d be dead.

 

And on that day we will all be together,

My family and my friends.

They’ll toast the times that could have been

And say their last amens.

 

They’ll say, “ol’ John  was quite a guy.”

“He knew how to set a goal.”

Then bury those dreams right with him

Inside a six foot hole.

 

Because some days come and some days go,

And someday is going to get here.

Some day when your dreaming is done,

Some day there’ll be no next year.

 

So make the time and take the money

And make your dreams come true.

Because every day is someday!

But, the decisions are up to you.

 

 

John Nelson 

Gunnison, Colorado 

Goodtimes New Mexico Tour

Taos Reading

Bill Nevins is the author of AWE, a book of poetry and prose, a freelance journalist at The Paper, staff reporter at The Enchanted Circle News, and works at Green Left. He studied Journalism and Mass Communication at University of California at Berkeley and English Language and Literature at Iona University.

He currently lives in Albuquerque and Angel Fire, New Mexico.

Art Goodtimes, poet, basketweaver, journalist and five-term 

San Miguel County Commissioner (Green Party) who retired in 2016, is known for his amanita-spotted red Toyota truck at the head of the annual Telluride Mushroom Festival Parade, for his booming voice that can also be soft and soothing, and for his practice of weaving baskets during county commissioner meetings. He is back from a three-year challenge with cancer, continuing his life’s work of building community through relationships and creating platforms for poetry.

Goodtimes learned “the passing of the gourd” from Dolores LaChapelle, who founded the Way of the Mountain Learning Center in Silverton, Colorado, back in the Seventies. A gourd circle “is really about really listening,” Goodtimes said, 

"as well as performing." It usually follows the readings

giving everyone a chance, peer-to-peer, to share their own words.

Info on the Taos reading HERE

Poet buddy Bill Nevins reading

Info on the Santa Fe reading HERE

Robyn Hunt & Art Goodtimes after a reading
in Santa Fe in 13014 [2014 AD]

Info on the Placitas reading HERE

Art wearing Rainbow Hat

YouTube video of Art performing 

at the Jules Playhouse zoom session

"On the Road with a Paleohippie"

HERE

Poem for the 4th

 

MORE THAN SPARK

More than the spark

of the 4th’s faux bombardments

itki’s the dark

with itkis slow burn

of thousands of nuclear fires

which makes me appreciate

the exploding galaxies of stars

that we imitate

That all nature mimics

This space-time desire

to expand beyond all limits

Coloring our lives

saffron, silver, vermillion & gold

but speeding our demise

as a billionaire species

Beautiful

Deadly 

Perplexing

A Poem for John Mansfield

 a fine woodworker polishes his roughcut to best accentuate the grain

poets do that too, tinkering with words

here's my latest version of Golly John

Golly John

We made folks in this county get development permits

Be it fixing a roof or replacing a window

But you just off & die on us?

On the way home to Colorado from Cali

No permit. No notice

That big fat Buddhist ensō of no thing

You knew the heart sutra

Nothing's permanent about 

a Zen cleaver

Chuckled along with the rest of us 

when the Blues Brothers 

bombed on the Valley Floor

You took risks

Worked with kids who said they wanted a lifeline

Tossed them into rafts & ran the rapids

I liked you best over coffee 

in the morning's repartee at Mesa Rose

Pioneer old-timers. Ex-Telluriders

Feisty Floridian short-timers 

who loved to crocodile 

& then told great snapping stories

You took leadership

Wore your advocate jeans. Mixed drinks

& mediums

Some saw you as a fine art cartoonist

who illustrated our absurdities

 Watercolored in the silences

But golly, John. You took a damn quick exit

After shuffling up & down Grand Avenue 

for the last ten years

Manifesting 

that wry savvy calm 

behind the half-smile

Coyote artist. Trustee. Officer of the Peace

Tickling wit out of whim

Fancy out of the angler's cast & spin

One fine spring day, all of a sudden

you spun on an eddy in Whitewater 

& left

Leaving us now unable to imagine

a Wrights Mesa without your

ambling shoes. Your tinkering brushes

Western Slope Poet Laureate

 

Wendy Videlock accepts Western Slope Poet Laureate
trophy at the Center for the Arts in Grand Junction
(Photo by Todd Videlock)

Telluride Institute names Wendy Videlock sixth Western Slope Poet Laureate

Poetry is a niche art. Not a lot of folks practice it, nor are there many who pay much attention. But a consistent few do, as good poetry is mostly good storytelling, shaped by thousands of years of Western lyric traditions.

For a dozen years the Western Slope has had its own Poet Laureate, an honorary title started in Carbondale at the Karen Chamberlain Poetry Festival. This year the Western Slope Poet Laureate baton is changing hands as it does every two years.

The Telluride Institute’s Talking Gourds Poetry Program named Wendy Videlock of Palisade as the sixth Western Slope Poet Laureate during a reception at the Grand Valley Creative Alliance’s “Art After Hours – With A Twist” event at the Art Center of Western Colorado Saturday May 20th.

The Telluride Institute also honored Dr. L. Luis López of Grand Junction, the outgoing Western Slope Poet Laureate.              

A professor emeritus at Colorado Mesa University, Dr. López taught English, Latin, Ancient Greek and Mythology, as well as serving as Director of the Academic Honors Program. He was awarded two National Endowment for the Humanities fellowships -- one to study lyric poetry with Dr. Helen Vendler at Harvard University and a second one to study the literature of innocent suffering with Dr. Terrence Tilley at St. Michael's College in Vermont.

Dr. López has published five books of poetry, including Musings of a Barrio Sack Boy, A Painting of Sand, and Each Month I Sing (2008), which won the American Book Award and the Colorado Independent Publishers Association annual Best Poetry award.

A widely published Colorado poet, Videlock’s work has appeared in the New York Times, Poetry, Oprah Magazine, Hudson Review, the anthology Best American Poetry and Ted Kooser's syndicated poetry column American Life in Poetry. She performs her work around the region, hosts many regional poetry gatherings and publishes a Trickster Ridge newsletter of poetry events and announcements.

A respected visual artist whose paintings are featured in a number of galleries, Videlock has published four books of poetry with the Able Muse Press of California: Nevertheless (2010), The Dark Gnu and Other Poems (2011), Slingshots and Love Plums (2015) and Wise to the West (2022). She also published a chapbook, What’s That Supposed to Mean, with EXOT Press of New York (2010). And Lithic Press of Fruita has just brought out her latest, a collection of poetry & prose as a mixture of lyric, critical essay, review and memoir, The Poetic Imaginarium: A Worthy Difficulty.

Past Western Slope Poet Laureates include Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer of Placerville, David Rothman of Crested Butte, Art Goodtimes of Norwood and Aaron Abeyta of Antonito.

Art Center of Western Colorado's ballroom

JOHN SCOTT MANSFIELD [1943-2023]

John Mansfield and Art Goodtimes after taping a KOTO-FM
radio interview at the media room in the Norwood Public School, 2019.
[Photo by Cara Pallone]

Whitewater ... Coming back to San Miguel County where he'd made his home. Didn't feel good. Something wrong. Pulled over in time. Not crashing. Hands on the wheel. Expired. Samaritans lifted him out of the car. Laid him by the road. Tried CPR. Nothing ... Couple months before he'd found his Mesa Rose coffee club buddy, Charlie, face-down on the ice where alone he'd slipped, carrying firewood. Six hours. Neck broken. Unable to reach the phone. His lifeline since his wife had died. Hypothermic. Frost-bit. Hospitalized. Transferred. Nothing left. He died.  ... My last email to John asking about Charlie's memorial. Celebration of Life. The wake of his passing from our lives ... Now John too. Gone ... His wry smiling zen eye on the day's promenade. "Hello," we call to each other, lost in our meanders, shuffling by. Waving. All of itki, passing. Pastiche of time & place. Interwoven fabric. Needle & thread. Rapids around the bend & then calm. And the slow deep pull of memory's currents.

 

May Day

 

May Day morning at Wrenheim in Naturita Canyon

May Day

“Let the millionaire go naked, stark naked!”

                     —César Vallejo

May the multi-billionaires bankrolling proxy cock rockets for the 1% to escape stop.

May they instead fund food desert grocery stores, wellness checks, dental exams, universal health care, apprenticeships, journalists, trade school, college, trains, buses, marching bands, drumlines, symphonies, poetry readings, and neighborhood puppet shows, two free cold drinks per attendee.

May solar panel and wind turbine farms replace golf courses and parking lots.

May megachurches, shopping malls, and munitions factories shelter the shelterless.

May corporations and the rich pay their taxes like any entry-level janitor.

May minimum income let no one hunger.

May guns become curios.  

May not one more child be shot.

May all go garmented as wanted.

May no one struggle between lights or groceries, groceries or medicine, medicine or rent.

May throwing money at problems solve them.

Unlimited music streaming services, tiny homes, and spicy vegan snacks for everyone!

My brain’s a pessimist, my heart a Marxist, stomach an anarchist, feet the downtrodden.

My soul’s on the side of kids throwing rocks at cops.

May only their helmets and shields be thumped.

May anyone ill be healed.

May the North Atlantic garbage patch—marine debris and microplastics hundreds of miles across—be engineered to serve as refuge paradise for everyone whose islands rising waters overwhelm.

May personal solar-powered cooling suits be distributed to the populace, embroidered with one of three slogans in Esperanto: “Hot and bothered,” “Just chilling,” and “Sorry!”

May hands exert themselves for common purpose.

May the sleep of the people be bountiful.

May the dreams of those sleeping in work clothes contain no labor.

May we wake with the happy idea of infinite wishes.

Sheep Mountain