Isolation Senryu

that which man is not⸺

we in archipelagoes

me on my island

COVID-19

during the late plague
they couldn't keep sicilians
from kissing each other

Cabeza de Vaca: an Epic Poem

I am proud to have edited Peter Rabbit’s first posthumous publication, put out by Crescent Press in 2019, and will be holding book signings for it throughout the year in the Southwest. Here is some information on it.

This galloping, hybrid poem presents readers with a gutsy new take on the indigenous source of conquistador Álvar Nunez Cabeza de Vaca's skill as a healer. Sprinkled throughout with humor and aphoristic wisdom, the tale is told in the voices of six characters, including that of the author himself. In a tone reflective of the New American style of his peers Olson and Dorn−or perhaps of jazz poet Lord Buckley− the book presents historic and transcendent truths relevant to today's world.

Poet Peter Rabbit has uncovered in C. de Vaca's peripatetic adventure the kernel of the enlightened and loving philosophy that put him at odds with the 16th century rulers of Spain and the Holy Roman Empire. Informed by the author's personal relationship with the handful of psychedelic gurus leading the underground drug revolution of the '60s, as well as by decades of expertise as a respected peyote road man and years of labor in high altitude farming that included development of a potent strain of cannabis indica, the work presents both the factual and the imaginary, disquisition and dialogue, peroration and prayer. A lapsed Catholic and a dedicated mystic, Mr. Rabbit devoted the last years of his life to completing this poem.

April Winds

Electricity went out this morning at 8:30. Snowed a heavy, wet inch last night and must have torn a line. No computer. So no sounds. Also no taxes (what I'd planned to do today). No submissions (what I should be doing). No viewing /organizing / naming / cropping / saving photos (what I need to do). No working on website (ditto). Walked down to the cove:

Eagle pair feeding babies / Cormorants whirl in flight / Clark's Grebes spike fish / Ring-billed Gulls play on the wind / Ravens and eagles tangling in the air.

When I get back to cabin the electricity has returned. Darn. 

National Poetry Month and Easter

 . . . and Earth Day. What does it signify that poetry and egg-centered creation ceremonies are concurrent?  I drive across the Tusas/Brazos Pass in the Southern San Juan Mountains on dry roads padded by softening snow ridges on the shoulders. Silvery ribbons of melt web still crusty marshes at the top of the mountain. Little rills fall downhill in rushing flush. Cold ponds are full to the brim. I see two kestrels, a prairie falcon, flocks of mountain bluebirds and dozens of deer --little packs of does and their fawns. Both gold and bald-headed eagles scoop the skies as I near the wild river canyon.

At the drying lake (a young reservoir whose status is lowest on the refill list) the bald eagles are already nesting. No sign yet of osprey, but mating ravens carve sharp winds above the dam and and north-heading geese fly in pairs over it. The chicamunks have left off sleeping and raid the leavings under the bird feeders. Many Cassins finches, pygmy nuthatches, white-faced nuthatches, mountain chickadeedeedees, packs of scrub jays, magpies, crows. Deer show up in the sideyard shy as women in purdah. They are annoyed and feel they must leave when I open the door.

And I dutifully do the taxes – returns both slippery and ovoid, require a certain sense of creativity – under bright wind sky and simmering sun streaming through large windows. Taking a break to write this. Going on a walk soon!