Paleohippie

Prepping for Shroomfest

At Cloud Acre

-for Ty Allchin

Got back this late July weekend

Mowed the fallow field weeds

Have yet to mound the spuds

though watering daily

Not sure I can promise

a rainbow for our parade

But home from the gathering

the boy and I appear to be

rained out of an early

morning climb of Sheep

Mountain big brother Rio

& I had planned for months

& first reports from the San Juans

say some chanterelles already

& maybe a few boletes

(Leccinum, for sure)

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

Paleohippie

Your poem (long one)

-for rk

a paean to piles. to deconstructing events

to getting rid of what's cluttered a life

a mind ... futon ... red, black & tan

busy knees

families

piles

i actually studied piles

in the course of getting certified

to teach pre-schoolers

congeries

from Latin congeriēs: ‘heap, mass, pile’;

from congerĕre ‘carry together’

vygotsky taught community

"makes meaning" for us

which we then internalize

& recognized "unorganized congeries"

as a child's early stage of cognition

measured in the simple act of sorting

 basement. attic. shed. it's in

some other home than where we live

that it piles up

lately i've been meditating on time

that relentless inpulse to go on

preparing to die

not really so different from base

instinct in any other animal

we are embedded in time

will death

be a step

out of time?

a stopping of the instinctual

clock that rings its bell

to wake us up?

 

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

Paleohippie

Siempre Cantando

Flowers & Shrooms

(A Prayer)

-for Ernesto Cardenal

Yo ando siempre cantando

Make me a god of flowers & shrooms

Strong man. Story man

The asphalt’s alive with dead

Oil. I try to walk the edges

Keep distance to heart

And let the head dance

On its own, playing tricks

Joking with friends & strangers

I trust. Not the strangers we meet

In bluegreen bouncelight. TV ghosts

Musing on whose beer’s better

Or what car totem tie to buy

Cabezos Hablandos preguntan,

“Think their war’s as smart as ours?”

Make up’s the best mask for

Deception. A Tai Chi posture of peace

Can be a pounce in waiting

Some can pretend anything

Except what’s true, but

most of us can smell truth

What loves suddenly

May be rot taking root

Lipstick on a pig

Is that an argument against

Risk? Have you not been

Whirled, diced & consumed

By the unexpected razz-a-ma-tazz?

The turquoise blue waterfalls

Of Havasupai?

When I was young, I rode

My bike, whistling & making up

Songs, willy-nilly

Lyrics to charm the jacaranda

Tame the passionflower

Twined around my porch

Now it’s time to make love again

Not war. To celebrate being

So gratefully about-to-be-dead

Alive & living it up

So make me one. Quiero andar

Siempre cantando

Let me find the goddess within

This entangled multiverse

Of flowers & shrooms

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

Hai-unCouth

Lyric Dao of an Asian

Mountain Recluse

-for John St. Andre,

with nods to many dakini poets

No longer drawn to lush. Less

to Rumi or Mirabai. Finding myself

nearing the end, wild about spare

Though, of course, at times ecstatic

Tantric. Whirling one’s hair.

Embedded in the all-embracing feminine

But I’ve ranted at Pops. Taken my Zen

shots at Tooth-Mother naked

feverish & koyaanisqatsi

Aging, it's time to savor tanka

&, at last, a homeopathic dose of 

mystery’sTaoist antidotes

Paleohippie

Addicted

Chocolate to morphine. Acid to ecstasy.

I could jones on you forever.

Your taste on my tongue.

Sure, at times we trade tit-for-tat.

Give or take. But ultimately

both of us get taken away.

You say, Pay attention to my clock.

It’s on Tibetan Tantric Be-Here-Now time.

But what I hear are the crazed

bees of electricity

humming in the wires

& the sweet drawl lisp of your voice.

Love’s a dented circle

pierced with arrows. I bring you

a heart of rough-cut alabaster.

Take my anger & polish it

to a sheen where at last

my own scuffed self can be seen.

Time to dance, I shout

Hooping & hoofing it while we can.

Give me a hand, darling,

Let’s do a Tarentella Napoletana

under the slickrock black of our Anasazi sky

looking south to Lone Cone.

Once more I’ll ignore the stars to stare

into the polished juniperberry

blue of your eyes.

Glazed. Longing. Hungry for

the grip of the other. So here now

we’re gone.

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

Along the San Miguel

Winter in the San Juans

Along the San Miguel,

rock-studded slopes of P-J

& Ponderosa get hot mid-day.

Even with winter’s bite, snow

melts off, though it’s too cold

for new growth. Just

last year’s hardy perennials

scratching out roots in the

Dakota sandstone, Gambel

oak & leaf litter. But it’s

a tolerable kind of cold. Just

about sunny enough to roll up

your shirtsleeves. Even if

your forearms get goosebumps

with each passing cloud.

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50005

Afoot with Visions

Hospice Leave

odd to go

from fast-track

county meet & greets

to sitting

with Grandpa Vincenzo

in the rest home

weaving baskets of twine

that was once vine

& now’s the only line

back to the rainbow garish

sun flash San Miguel

end zone I’ve left

to sit on the foggy San Fran sidelines

as Dad makes his own last

end run dash

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

When is a Loss a Win?

How many times has someone asked you to write them a job recommendation, and you do? Sometimes they get the job, and sometimes not. Here's a poem responding to one just-about-to-graduate friend, after not...

When is a Loss a Win?

-for Dr. S. Lynn

Part of me

was almost sad

to help you net that job

you’d had

Admin done well

without doubt

But I wanted to say

Make a play A big catch

with that postdoc basket

of East Afric skill sets

Why not angle the reel

for more?

Maybe seconds’s a better

success

regardless of what you

wanted most

or thought

went first

 

Old Man Crow taught me

on the rez

You cast intent out in the world

& then just fish with the flow

Watching

instead of willing

Or like my wobbly

red monk hobo balladeer

tracker guru Utah Phillips

sez

Every so often

you have to wake up

& jump

off a cliff

 

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011

Tracking the Lyric Valuables

Nevertheless

-for Wendalicious

your slim sly book’s

a dance in the park

a daze, a drizzle

a puzzling lark

stones yearn to fly

words bark & sizzle

where you choose to fuse

we steam & bruise

to curve ourselves

to intent’s bent stem

changing color

undercover, just for fun

poems winsome

won some, lost & found

mossy, moving

knots unbound

 

I’m tantalized

I’m mystified

you pull my leg

my heart my eyes

and yet I bet

my best disguise

of dim wit & darkling

thought couldn’t pry apart

the surprising uptick

brilliant arc

of your even one

least question mark

Capt. Barefoot Broadside                                          Union of Street Poets

Vincent St. John Local / Colorado Plateau / Aztlán

 Kuksu Brigade (Ret.) / San Francisco

50011