Bio Note:
If you ask me how long I’ve been a poet, I would answer “All my life.” If you ask how long I’ve been writing poetry, I would say “Most of my life, off and on.” I’ve made no secret of my non-MFA and lack of formal training in writing, though I do pay attention to the things I read, and I ask questions about forms and references all the time. And I keep writing. That’s how I came to my present, quite unexpected status as a published poet. I have 4 collections and a number of chapbooks to brag about, which I do every chance I get. Languages appeal to me. I speak English, French, Spanish, and have studied German, Latin, Greek, and Navajo, but sarcasm is my native language. Aside from my writing, I have a widely varied background that informs everything I do. Born in New Mexico, I lived there until I graduated high school. In no particular order, I’ve been a dishwasher, waiter, cook, pipe insulator, lapidarist, silversmith (read that as Navajo-style silver and turquoise jewelry), Indian Trader, Registered Nurse, Family Nurse Practitioner, Psych Nurse Practitioner, missionary for two years in France, computer programmer, web designer, singer/songwriter, church organist, choir director, amateur photographer, and maybe most importantly, husband to one wife, father to five children, and grandfather to seventeen grandchildren. You can find more of my photography, computer art, music, and poetry on my website, as well as links to my books. And there's the touch of insanity that led me to and keeps me in my role as the editor of this unique journal and community. Notes on the poems: "surgical mass" started as a pun, but became a more serious poem, and was the springboard to being published. "Crotchety", like many of my poems, was the result of a conversation and the epigraph was the prompt. I thoroughly enjoy the challenge of writing to a suggested topic. "navajo weaver" is an observational poem, based on my interactions with the Navajo during the time I lived on their reservation. "polyphemus sings the blues" is just an all out silly retellling of an ancient tale. |
surgical mass
quiet hovers in this sacred place the last vestiges of uncleanliness scoured away this morning before dawn a priestess enters unspeaking spreads the utensils of the first sacrament with practiced ease across the twice blessed stand saving for last three basins of consecrated water a second priestess enters nods and sets about preparing the altar draping it in layers of holy cloth reverent attention to every folded corner a heavy door groans open as cardinal and claustral converge hands raised in traditional deference to those who sanctified them for this work in a flurry of activity they are robed head to toe in heavenly blue every element of the common world covered against the chance that some small sin may yet cling to them and falling unchecked defile the offering the sacramental emblem arrives prepared and positioned precisely with an upward glance at the clock high on the wall the priest grips his blade brow wrinkled in concentration "nine o'clock" he incants "midline incision xyphoid to umbilicus"
Crotchety
—I am turning into a crotchety old woman who talks to her cats and
lives life on the page of a poem and I don't want any man's shoes
under my bed or words in my heart wreaking havoc again.
(Em, 1997)
Have you noticed, he asks,
That woman in the house across
Who talks to her cats
As though they were human?
One day last summer
I heard her reading to them —
POETRY for heaven's sake,
And matching the rhythm of the verses
To the twitching of their tails.
Made my hair stand on end
And my spine run goosebumps.
Do you believe, I still recall
Exactly, every line?
Here, let me say it for you
It was meant to be repeated:
"Come kitty, kitty, kitty
Where art thou hiding now?
Art seeking mice, or scratching lice,
Or cleaning off thy brow?
If thou art under my bed yet,
I swear thee one time more,
There are no man's shoes there to find
Not there, nor by the door.
Come kitty, kitty, pretty please
And I will read thee verses
To free us from our wounded hearts
And broken love's harsh curses.
We are alone, dost thou not know
He'll ne'er to us come home?
Come sip this wine of words with me,
And let the bastard roam."
Does it make you shiver too?
She slammed the book shut,
Closed her eyes, leaned back
And said (I thought to ME),
"Well, did you like the poem, my dear?
Would you leave YOUR shoes lying,
Lying insincerely under a bed of LUST,
Let them gather the dust of broken dreams
While you carelessly break your pledges?
What hedges would you skulk behind,
What games of hide and seek
With her poor heart, poor heart.
He's torn mine all apart I fear,
Irreparable damage. Damn my age and immobility.
I close my eyes and see the gate
Swinging empty as he walked away
That day, that wretched afternoon.
To never love 'til kingdom come
Would be too soon. I rather prefer
Blood in my veins to his rhyming deceit."
She opened her eyes, saw me staring,
Shouted some obscenity
And drew the curtains.
navajo weaver
her loom is handmade sheep handraised wool handsheared handcleaned and handcarded plants for dyes she handpicked with her cousin when the color of the evening sky behind the starkness of spider-woman rock hung hazy muted lavender like russian thistle blossoms dried and steeped for hours the water waiting only the yarn of what would be for her another labor of need need to pay a bill feed a family grandchildren too young to be of any help children gone here and there some to work some to drink one to california the pattern grows row by row mind to hand to thread... it was a full winter ago this thread was spun when the snow was too deep for even their horse to challenge the snows had caught them unprepared and except for emergency food and hay helicoptered in they would have grown very thin but would not have complained would not have dared offend the earth, the gods, the elements by seeming ungrateful for life however harsh she never draws her patterns simply conceives them and weaves them into something she hopes will please the trader... she pauses thinking ahead how they will bargain politely (she taught him the art) and she will feel she has won if she takes home an extra bag of flour the twenty-five-pound bluebird brand and cash enough for gasoline doesn't worry past that or wonder who will own her latest work and will they understand the "ch'índii trail" the purposeful imperfect line woven in to let her spirit out today she wonders only why the child in california is so silent
polyphemus sings the blues
hear that, brother? the blind man at the microphone singing his pain and passion like tomorrow isn't coming name's polly femus or something close to it yeah, giant of a man story, oh yeah, there's a story got all the ingredients too woman, wine, and wagers she kept his house, kept him fed kept his bed smoking hot up to the day a sailor came to town polly likes his drink and challenges the stranger same old 'last one standing' bet when femus wakes up, woman is gone the foreigner's ship has sailed and there's a roar that breaks every window in town well the giant is on his hog in seconds flat and hauling ass down the highway now the woman had told the sailor a pack or two of lies about what femus had done to her and would do to him when caught so sailor-boy sets a trap and when polly comes around a corner bam! he runs right into a branch strung over the road took his sight, but not his hearing and the last sound that day was the laughter of the only thing he ever really loved left him with nothing but the blues which he sings here every friday pretending if he waits long enough his lover will return brother, ain't that some kind of patience