June Post: Bottoms Up!

Been Italy traveling for three weeks, so a bit late again this month. Sorting old files on my laptop I found this, and since we're busy catching up on home chores, it'll do:


We’re going
to get
To the bottom
of this!


We’re going
to get
To the bottom
of this!


We’re going
to get
To the bottom
of this!

Bob Loomis
© 2004

May Post: The crows are alarmed

The crows are alarmed at our cat Stumpy. She sits on the picnic table blinking as if to say “Who are these large, black birds that are so disagreeable? Why are they picking on us? We would never attack birds that large.” Stumpy is the smallest, most aggressive cat of our five. The others stay out of sight. “It’s karma for your depredations,” I say, referring to her role as the Goddess of Doom to lizards. She looks away, pretending not to understand.

hey crows,
why all that May Day over
one small cat?
Shut up
so I can practice flute!


(c) Bob Loomis (with thanks to Linda Papanicolaou for help editing)
05-31-2011

April's Post: These paintings by dead poets

Again not much in the way of new writing this past month, so I'll post one of the poems from a work entitled Homage to Schwitters, an example of word collage writing. I and collagist Susan Jokelson are putting together a book of these, with one collage paired with each poem. Hope you enjoy this Beat-flavored work:

These paintings by dead poets of resurrected love … graceful lonely versifiers searching for antique hay in fields of unknown soldiers … bottled-up mourners laughing mightily at jokes on us … urge vote for blind politicians leading blind puppets … fill days with heartfelt gestures calling for independence for all suburban pets … cite unmistakable upsurges in efforts to attack imaginary states … say it’s all in many ways a measure of broad bandwidth sounded on tarnished trumpets applauded by amateur strumpets … we keep marching … hope for one honest sacrificial lamb chop … pound out rhythm on Native American drums … bury meat hooks in pectoral flesh … fly outward round Maypole … hope resultant warriors equal to eternal task … pray god help us please at least look good … so we can strut like cocksure dandies … so we can end loneliness with dances of redemption …

© Bob Loomis
01-06-10 / 01-23-10

March Entry: The Old Singer

Not much in the way of poetic inspiration this month ... but I'll offer this small token:

Stumbling in midtune
the old singer turns miscue
into joke ...
frets about it afterward
talking with the band ...

(c) Bob Loomis, 2011

February Post (Late Again)

We're on the road on our annual trip to visit friends near Olympia, attend the Wintergrass Festival in Bellevue, WA, and do a week of R&R in Cannon Beach, OR, so of course I forgot to post for February before the month was up. Herewith a better-late-than-never poem:

Now sweet young things
look right through me
on rapid transit --
where's the stop
for the Fountain of Youth?

(c) Bob Loomis, 02-02-2011

January Post: Whatever Happens, Happens

I wrote this in reply to a poem by Jennifer Simon on The Well (kind of a thinking person's Facebook). You can view the whole thread, if you are a Well subscriber, by going to the topic More Work: Poems by Conference Members in the Poetry conference and starting with entry 573. Here's my part of what was a roundabout discussion in poetry:

Whatever Happens, Happens

Ah, yes, that was our band's motto
& as The Geezers we more or less continued it
even after band co-founder and
major mainspring Mike Robertson
died, claimed by some sort of cancer
wrapped around his lower trachea
in a way that prevented treatment.

We watched him waste away,
he who already had beaten throat cancer
several years before
and had at last found his new mate,
and I sometimes think
of the oddness of our motto
in light of that latest whatever.
None of us wanted to accept it,
especially him.

But the music plays on,
we dance the dance
and pay and/or play the piper
each in his own way,
still hoping, even as the road sign
"Dotage Ahead" becomes legible,
that no matter what,
we can put off that last whatever
forever.

(c) 2011, Bob Loomis

December's Posting ... A Bit Late

Even with the most painful loss of our daughter Shannon and resulting emotional and material upheavals, 2010 has been a year that included many blessings. We’ve been able to help our two grandsons cope with their tragic loss. I’ve gotten to take some memorable trips with Beverly and friends and look forward to our annual trip to the Wintergrass Festival at the end of February. I’ve been able to begin playing mandolin again, so far without the left-hand tendon problems of the past. I’ve written a few new songs, and had some success and good feedback at West Coast Songwriters competitions and other open mics. I look forward to 2011. May it be a year of good health and happy, creative experiences for everyone.

Christmas Day --
rain by buckets
on bare trees

(c) Bob Loomis, December 2010

Thanks for the Future

I sort old photos
and memories,
our oldest grandson fills out
his college app ...
his younger brother
practices for his band's
appearance at the high school.
Life plays and dances
to its own rhythms.
We watch
and sometimes play and dance, too,
glad to have had the chance.
We thank the Great Spirit
for this perfect day.
Let us walk in beauty
all the way.

Halloween Haiku (October Post)

Halloween
memories haunted
by our daughter

tears but no fears
this Halloween ... grim reaper
called way early

Halloween
her orange and black wall hanging
suits the night

day of dead saints
we remember
how she loved Halloween

Here and there
around the house, her gifts
bequeath her love

(c) Bob Loomis, 10-31-2010
Concord CA USA

Late Again! The September Post

Just since this morning
the laundry basket
lined with autumn leaves ...

Bob Loomis
09-30-2010

Running Again, Sort Of

Note: I'm a bit late with my August post, but here it is.

I am running again, running from grief, running from sorrow. running not as I did when I was 40 and running 10-mile workouts at 8 minutes per mile, but jogging short intervals, a tenth of a mile in between walking intervals: 200 left-foot walking steps to warm up, then alternating 100 jogging and 100 walking steps out the trail a mile and then back in with 200 walking steps at the end to cool down.

Occasionally, I see wildlife: Many coyotes over the years, recently one carrying a ground squirrel in his mouth and loping leisurely along, scarcely glancing my way as he slipped into the woods. I see many hawks, usually redtails, and never tire of them. Cottontails, red squirrels, peregrines, quail, lizards, and the other day we saw the most beautiful rattler we’ve ever seen, iridescent. He must have just shed his old skin. I almost stepped on him but leaped four feet to the side in midstride when I heard his dry whirrrrrr! For that brief instant his presence restored the alacrity of youth! We faced each other then he turned and slid into the tall grass, tail still whirring, waving farewell as we thanked him for the warning.

The hills are dry and yellow-brown as September’s song commences. I still think of Shannon but already sadness is … well, not receding, but now arrives accompanied by resignation each time it hits. What is, is and cannot be changed. As Dodo Miller always said and sang, “Life goes on.” She was correct, of course.

So I run again, recalling how I ran in younger days, when I ran to escape responsibility, to flee the pressures of job, of the fathering and husbanding I really didn’t know how to do. I am now I hope a much better grandfather than I was a father. Either way, I run out, but always return, wondering how many more years I’ll be granted this gift.

The gift of running has been passed along, apparently. Cameron, our eldest grandson, has joined the ranks of runners, perhaps also running from his grief, but also because he wants to. He’s gone out for the high school's new cross-country team. That makes me happy: to see another in my line lace up the shoes and fire up the endorphins. May he find as much joy in it as I did and do still in my somewhat feeble way.

Sometimes I dream of running. I am jogging along some familiar street and my stride becomes longer and longer and stronger and stronger until each step is an almost flying and I am bounding past the other runners, and taking even longer strides that are now almost flying! Then, just as I begin to soar away into the sky, I wake up, back to earth again.

Life goes on. The earth repeats her cycles, making necessary adjustments, recovering from disasters, ignoring the sorrows and joys of humans, but also providing comfort in her wild beauty and the possibility of fulfillment. Shannon’s run has ended. Ours goes on. May we meet at the finish.

Song for Shannon

On June 20, 2010, our lovely daughter Shannon Christine Loomis, 43, took her own life. It was a tragic end to an eight-year struggle with bipolar disorder. Her obituary, with a link to a guestbook, is here:
http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/contracostatimes/obituary.aspx?n=shannon-christine-loomis&pid=143894026

I am working on a poem in her memory, a short section of which is this month's post:

I

After her death,
Her cat waits at the front door
meowing.
We sit staring,
Still expecting to hear
Her footsteps on the stairs.

Among her papers
The eulogy she wrote
For her cat, Godzilla.
He sat on the tub’s edge
During her darkest times
Keeping her alive.

This cool morning breeze
She will no longer feel.
Summer and the other seasons
Roll on without her,
Now we must do the same
Though it breaks our hearts.

Our daughter, gone.
We hold in our hearts
The memories
Of her best times,
The love she shared
So willingly with others
In their need,
The gift she had
For nurturing friends
And children.

The morning breeze
stirs the red oak leaves
whispering her name.
She cannot answer.

Song 48 for Beverly Loomis

On the occasion of our 48th wedding anniversary:
By Bob Loomis

We had no intention
Of lasting this long.
Back then life was simple:
Some laughter, some song.

But now here we are
After 48 years,
No known end in sight
But the one we fear.

Yes, we still laugh,
We still love and sing
Though lately our dance
Has somewhat less spring.

We still smile a lot
And love the old songs
Of life’s music track
As we journey along.

There’s not much to say
After I love you’s said
But we know we’d start over
If we could carry the sled

Up the hill for one more run
Down the slippery slope
(We know that won’t happen
But we can hope).

So just take my hand
And sit in the back yard
And know it’s been worth it
No matter how hard.

Look into my eyes
And share this one truth:
In love we’ve been lucky,
Thank the gods & forsooth!

-- For Beverly with love,
(c)06-20-2010

May Poem: Till Strips of Cactus

Work continues on Homage to Kurt Schwitters, so this month I'm posting another poem from that work in progress:

Till strips of cactus cover muted sobbing of coroners’ deputies with medicinal spines … till lost faces give love to celluloid mummies … till end of thyme & rhyme … till Everest crumbles atop Dutch apple pie … till solons act to empower idealistic surgeons … till collectors of tardy, tawdry minutae find hollow logs for shelter … till woman with obsolete grocery cart finds discarded hamburger wrapped in 14k gold foil … till we recover all lost words in found forgotten manuscripts written with Lindy ballpoint pens in ancient tongues … till Moses lets Red Sea depart … till Sahara goes green again … till Mommy tells last of red-hot Daddies to cavort with fire engines & beer-belly bailiffs … till final triumph of Reason heralds New Age of gropeless sex … till bank bandits stop wearing pantyhose masks … till remains of the day are laid to rest in temporary vault of night … till we run out of elliptical romances whispered only in purple undersea grottoes … till music goes round and round and comes out here … till Kerouac blesses consensual iambic pentameter in Latinate murmurings … till then, my friend, till then & then some …

© Bob Loomis
01-22-2010

April Poem Posting: The Top 500 Poets List

The Top 500 Poets list
awaits mouse or muse,
not sure which …
Is my mouse
my muse?
Does my mouse
in da house
inspire me
or does my spouse?
Does my mouse
in da house
make my poems click?
And then there are
the Classic Poets
all waiting
at the corner of
Hubris and Pride …
or is it the corner
of Rhyme and Meter?
Or Words and Wisdom?
Or simply a tiny back alley
in the guidebook
of literary history?
Rhetorical questions
posed on a rainy Tuesday
when neither mouse
nor muse seem interested
in doing much
more than this.

(c) Bob Loomis
04-30-2010

March Pome 2010

This month's poem is a hay(na)ku, a three-line verse form in which 1, 2 and 3 words are used in succeeding lines. Google the term and you'll find Web sites on the topic. The poem:

Wind,
Light from
The east and

Foliage
On the oaks
Has overnight become

Thick
Enough to
Block the view

From
Second story
Resort condo window

But
Not the
Roar of motorcycles

On
Their spring
Gold country runs

Nor
Happy cries
Of children playing

In
The dry
Wash below the

Balcony:
“Mom! I
Caught a lizard!”

We
Sip coffee
Above it all

Remembering
The time
Just last year

When
We stayed
Here with the

Kids
And grandkids
For Geezerpalooza Eleven

Our
Annual music
And potluck gathering

Revived
After a
Three-year hiatus.

Now
The condo
Seems somewhat empty

Without
The company
Of our descendants.

But
It’s nice
To have some

Time
Alone together
Too, nice to

Be
Here while
It’s quieter than

It
Was in
Late summer 2009.

Nice
To be
Here, be alive

Together
After all
These many years

Though
In retrospect
It hardly seems

Long
Enough even
After four decades.

We
Give thanks
For being allowed

To
See another
Spring in Twain’s

Celebrated
Jumping Frog
Mother Lode country …

Treasure
Indeed beyond
Measure and not

Hidden
After all!

(c) Bob Loomis
03-29-2010

February Poem: Untitled

We're off to WA and Wintergrass on Saturday and have a busy prep week ahead, so I'll make this poem inspired by some of Ron Padgett's work my February entry here:

Untitled
© Bob Loomis, 02-05-2010

I sit in the new
Many-windowed bump-out

Having morning
Coffee and

Watching the red oak tree
Slowly and proudly strut

Across the
back yard

So slowly
It appears not

To be moving
At all

But with such
Stateliness

That I know
It must be traveling

At least
25,000 mph!

Then the neighbor
Lets out his three

Big dumb
German shepherds

And they
Begin to fill

Their day’s
Barking quota:

BARK! BARK! BARK!
BARK! BARK! BARK!
BARK! BARK! BARK!

And so on
And on

And on
And on.

And I try
To learn from

The tree,
Which pays

No attention
To the noise

And in fact
Appears not to

Hear the dogs
At all.

Yes, I think,
Sipping my coffee,

I will be
Like the tree.

I will not
Go next door

With a
Large-caliber rifle

And put a final
End to the barking.

I just wish
The dogs

Would bark
More like our tree.

Happy New Year, Etc.

Last year around this time I decided to try to write a poem a day, no matter what. Like most of my resolves, this one soon dissolved. Nonetheless, I'll post one of my January 2009 efforts and one piece of word collage work done this month as my first 2010 blog entry:

Frost on the cars,
Sun rising over it all –
Diamond sutra!

(c) Bob Loomis
01-03-2009
Concord, 39 degrees, 8:15 a.m.

---

Happy New Year Collage

Happy New Year from dilapidated back hoes digging wiggy wainscoting … gentle drizzle raining kindness on beds of phlox … Ima Sumac singing “Poison Ivy” to nude, gasping matrons in enemy-of-the-state-of-the-art prison cell jodhpurs … forgotten Charles Manson admiring jihadeen bombers … BBQ’d bare black rock awaiting picnic-table diners … man spewing venom dressed in holy raiment … lovers leaping into marriage eyes wide with hope … newborn children asking forgiveness for joblessness … young people enlisting in armies to earn death benefits … old English lit professor snorting lines of verse off mirror of eternity … pulses quickening at Verdant Boulevard & Green Street … wisdom planted in center dividers out of reach of long arms of the lawless … exaggerated silence after last night’s riotous cacophony … shredded confetti remains of improvised party explosive devices scattered all around … another calendar year heralded by childish bedlam … stealthy bulldozers clear onramps to virgin freeways … Pope blesses everyone, blesses plastic statuettes of himself on dashboards of obsolete roadsters … acolytes entice foxy ladies to surrender furs for new papal capes … roving gamblers throw switches on new AC/DC solar energy stations … set purple curtains afire each night in ghostly opera houses … put frankincense & myrrh back in yule decoration box in chronological order while choirs clangorously sing new ironclad resolutions … disembodied spirits wish everyone a corporeal new year in shape-note tones … tax attorneys advise gathering rosebuds while ye may … experts warn of thorns lurking in fine stems …

© Bob Loomis
01-06-2010

Word Collage/Homage to Bob Kaufman

For my last post of the year, I’ve collected one old piece of writing and one new one. The first I dedicate to Dorothy (Dodo) Miller, who died last month at age 92. She was a true friend and source of light and good spirits. Her grand smile and always lovely greeting remains fixed in my memory.

This first piece was a word collage that I wrote somewhere around 1970, by taking books randomly off a shelf and opening and choosing random phrases from them, one after another. I had in mind the work of Kurt Schwitters, whose collages I’d seen at the old San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, and the cut-up writings of William S. Burroughs along with the cubist period of modern art. I’ll let you decide whether it works:

Collage 1

That morning’s ice, no more than a brittle film, had cracked and was floating on an updraft of politics … summer hot air as it were … slowly melting like open admiration over the countenance of Wright Diehl, the man who a dozen times in the past had explained events as the outcome of character or intentions, the personal defeat of this or that statesman … or the boom of water in the rising gorge.

Now he sat stringing himself out endlessly into the hazy noonday sunshine … Nearby Moira Mayheekana, gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, swayed mischievously in the evanescent wind, sand and stars … standing out against the edge of day while their son Form shrieked joyfully in his winding sheet.

At nightfall … with the hoarse clamor of a dreamboat steamboat barking out at sea guiding myriads of tiny flames across the ocean … came an odor of parrots, cockatoos and art dealers wafting across the hours to his ears with memories of a curious sense of relief.

“That fellow I knocked down was her brother,” he recalled absently, presently gazing at the subject. “Mine, too.”

He laughed then, a golden necklace of laughter links from his throat cast out into the gracious evening breeze like blown kisses, lusty in the true style of the old court.

“Till we have faces! Till we have faces!” he called, stooping to pick up a fallen sparrow at his feet … amazed to find it was only his shoe that had come off.

(c) Bob Loomis
---

This second piece is one I improv’d yesterday at the dentist’s office & completed this morning after earlier rereading some of Bob Kaufman’s Cranial Guitar. I dedicate it to his memory:

Homage to Bob Kaufman

used to actually SEE you pass on the street, usually Grant Avenue or in the Coffee Gallery drinking beer … listening to Young Rabbits by the Jazz Crusaders on the jukebox … drinking a beer or two … in sainted serape & tilted hat … not talking in those days … not declaiming the Abomunist Manifesto … eyes silent, too, & dark … waiting for wars to end … for legal state murders to end … waiting for God to admit his malfeasance, admit mistaken identity … give refunds on all unsatisfactorily answered prayers … return all to sinlessness …

waiting for top intellectual guns to stop misfiring … stop contracting out services to the highest bidders … waiting for everyone to learn via TV how to be gourmet chefs … cook up something grand & epiphanal … holy wafers to surpass all holy wafers … a more erudite poetry spun like fine webs of music from saxophones of jazz deities … Howard Hesseman behind the bar waiting wryly for his career to take off … thinking he’d use you in TV series … you’d be the weird guy down the street babbling sermons & host of late-night jazz show no one listens to … together you’d make avante-garde movies in between walks up & down Columbus Avenue & Broadway and upper Grant & all North Beach … & the universe ...

& back to tiny flat and wife & son & happy marriage of mind and soul … a marital heaven … or hell … or both … sinuosities of fleshy connections … check coordinates please, get location …

lunch break over, back to work, everybody has a job that’s disappeared from the Blueknighted States … everybody’s work gone to Asia … all Asia seeking bliss in factory production & export business … nobody left here with money to buy anything … except Big Boys … & god bless the child that’s got his own …

Bob Kaufman same initials as Burger King … BK the burgeria did not exist back in the day … Tic Toc Burgers up on Columbus … good place to score a bite to eat in wee hours … no worries then about cow methane & global warming … chow down in ignorant bliss ... or go get good glass of port at San Remo bar … long-gone now, all … replaced by Burger King et all … flipping gaseous patties … try the 99-cent value meal! ... as cheap & filling as Tic Toc … righteous manna from pole-axed cattle …

BK the poet unknown to me then ... mysterious cat in hat & serap' … I in callow marshmallow youth … now tops my Beatnik Hall of Fame list … spouted verse extemporaneously, then suddenly shut up … vow of silence till ‘Nam war’s end … now silent forever except in libraries … schools? … memories … books still available City Lights … maybe even Amazon dot com … maybe even China? … perhaps reincarnated as capitalistic purchaser of politicians? … lobbyist for Big Bucks & chemically fed beeves? … no! never! … no soul or stomach for sale here … no fast-food poesies … no drive-thru poetry … no metered verbal value meal … no cheap shots …

just two dark eyes brooding over glutenless breakfast ricecake muffin … humming modal songs from beyond … ghost-walking North Beach streets in search of boho hearts ... finding trendy wifi bars, cafes … adios, mofo! … keep stroking Cranial Guitar … keep serenading generations to come …

© Bob Loomis, 12-11-2009

Happy Holidays to all!

NOVEMBER NOTEBOOK GLEANINGS

I see I've almost let November slip past without a monthly post, so here 'tis:

Just this morning
it started -- brown and red leaves
drifting down
and the sun hiding out
behind distant hills.

Big full moon
up before dark
eager to be seen.

Put out
at his usual time
the neighbor's dog yips loneliness.

Quiet morning--
the autumn time change
has spread a hush
over everything.

Why now
after all these years
does her face
still appear in a dream
to haunt me?
Memory's so tricky.
Who knows if
that version's even close?

I scribble on,
still searching
for the key
to the door
of the wordmusic room.

Autumn leaves
relax out of the wind
in the wicker deck chair.

Our band Awed Ducks played its first coffeehouse gig in almost two
years on a recent Friday. Almost no one showed up, but I did find
these poems in it:

Cold evening --
three coffeehouse musicians
serenade rows of empty chairs.

Coffeehouse trio
almost as numerous
as their audience.
Outside, warm yellow
streetlights
belie winter's chill.

First night of winter
almost no one
in the trendy
plaza cafes.
At the outdoor tables
one guy sits smoking.

A small audience.
Afterwards, the manager
is gently evasive
about future gigs.

Almost no one there
but one guy
about our age
stays through
the entire show,
applauding each song.



(c) Bob Loomis, 11-27-2009