Tuesday, August 7, 2012

reflections on a muddy puddle…




The rain falls today
like questions
mostly untenable
unstoppable
continual
unanswered
reverberating
in my thoughts
some troubling
still bubbling.

The intensity
varies with
the moment
answers
lay in dirty puddles
where true
or false
don’t matter
they float
together –
reflecting a rainbow
of light
on the surface
on the edge
of believing
knowing
and understanding
to be netted up together
washed off
hung up to dry
closely observed
by some of us
discussed
or not
by others.

Many questions
and answers alike
are ignored.
A great many
are tossed back
into the muddy puddle
or pond
not unlike
the questions
about the world
being round,
or about women
being equal to men
before they demanded equal rights
or racial equality issues
argued over years
as blood spilled
into rivers and ponds
similar to this one.

They each came down
as drops of rain
in a raging storm
of questions
ideas -
falling on a pond
or puddle
only to be
scooped up
laughed at
thrown back in
for seventy five or
a hundred years
to gather dust
simmer and smolder.

And now perhaps
the rain falls again –
as black rain
this time
and the questions resonate
on the pond
as they are corporate
money questions
effecting all sentient beings.


Global warming
on our round
atmosphere punctured planet,
hydraulic fracturing
safe clean drinking water
the extinction of coral reefs –
and the food, fish and economic health
they provide world wide –
all tied to the extinction of
the human race.

Shall we just toss these questions
back into the puddle
for a hundred years
or provide the glib answers
the over paid CEO chides

this time perhaps -
it may be too late.










Doug Claybourne – 08.07.12 – for Marea & Signe 
Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.

a disaster…




The house is a mess
the floor’s a disaster
toys, stuffed animals
books and smiley
faces replace
the normal unassuming
household apace – ugh.

Letters, numbers
half inch foam pieces
of pink and brown
cover our once beautiful
hard wood floors -
and this is just
the beginning
of the change one
should expect
with a new infant.

No sleep, no sex
no late night romance
not many movies,
and fewer dates
and the ways of old
have closed their doors –
gone for the time being,
at least till baby sitters
might stay for a night –
without fretful tears
free of babies’ deep anxiety
separation it seems
and we can breathe again –
that we might regain
our solid footing -
taste the taste
of our old love.

Until then
it’s me whining
and complaining
it is bottles –
putting out dirty diapers
full of poop
and wet wipes,
with all night wake ups,
and one of us
sitting with patience
running thin
under fans in our darling’s room
on hot summer nights –
rocking, rubbing, soothing
sympathetically
and waiting for sleep to come.
It is pacifiers,
spoons, bowls and plates
loading and unloading
our dishwasher
with bottles, nipples and more
bottles it seems -
naps, formulas, creams, juices
booster seats,
spitting up on Mom and Dad.

It’s funny –
after all this
the lack of sleep
and the late nights -
just observing
her two toothed grin
just listening
to her funny little laugh
reveling in her innocence -
while staring up from dark young eyes
It seems to make up
for all those rocky nights
of whacky sacrifice -
and when her tiny hand
grips, holds tight,
she speaks the nonsensical words
the “dada” “cat”
the who knows what
and her eyes light up
and my night turns
upside down to day.

When all the dirty diapers
dissolve
and simply - go away.





Doug Claybourne – for Marea.
Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved

Miss. Firecracker…



Lunch with my daughter.
Screaming
yelling
grabbing
kicking
screeching
all out
full vocal
mind boggling
crying –
ear piercing
brain numbing
psychologically excruciating
tear bringing
fear bringing
anger making
hair fraying
all decibel spraying
never ending –
no never ever ending
crying.

Indiscriminating
incredible
unstoppable
and the most amazingly
effortless
crying -
nine month twenty five day old
crying.

This is insistent
independence seeking
discovering herself
kind of crying
perhaps -
finding the teenager
early
kind of crying.

Yet, as I am blinking
now shaking my head
thinking –
wondering
what could this be -
I try pears,
peaches, prune juice
apples, yogurt, bananas
then finally –
before committing
hari kari -
before throwing
my hands up
in desperation
in complete frustration
in Absolute vodka drinking
exasperation –
I try
a diaper change
and a bottle of  formula.

Aha – and
immediately
as if turning
off the water
quiet is restored –
blessed, sacred quiet.

The angel face,
the tiny hands and fingers
of the Princess appear
and the darkness parts.

Tiny Rose now sleeps –
ten month birthday
arrives this week
delicate
endearing
her wishes now
finally imparted.

Our roman candle
now burned out,
beautiful and mysterious
when flaming into a night sky,
hot, multi colored and insistent
fury departed -
No doubt, a vision of pure delight
in this moment unobtrusive and
in quiet respite.




Doug Claybourne – For Marea – 10 mths – Sept.21, 2011 – Philly Girl Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

I remember rockets...

I remember rockets…


I remember rockets
there is no red glare
tracer rounds flashing
yellow, white - hot red
into the black night air
the cool spring rains
of March 1968 –
an “old man” of twenty one
among mostly younger kids
fate falling to each his own
arriving on ships
by sea
or by jet via Saigon
most unknowing
the urgent answers
to the important questions
unasked
right or wrong.

We arrive
on our “tour”
so called –
for a year
some stay forever
others leave
free and clear –
many return home
in pieces
broken hearted
deserted by lovers
held dear.
Still others are crushed
by the lies,
the promises not kept
by those
that should be
waging these wars –
our politicians, so inept.

But they are never in country -
as their bullets are words
piercing our hearts through the back.
Their explosive devices are their fake smiles
and the laughter attacks
at bad jokes -
the well staged handshakes
blowing up in our
children’s innocent faces
with wars fought
and the bills adding up
from unpronounceable places.

And all this for what –
all this to promote the greedy few
staying in political office
with the well paid jobs
and the perks to support corporate profits.

So it seems to me – Marine
father, simple citizen that I am -
our wars are fought
in the wrong countries.
We veterans must tweak our sights
- on politics for the real fight.
Aim your well earned words
at those that
hide in the high tech jungles of Wall Street
and Washington -
we must put black under our eyes
again and enter into their dark
tunnels of terminals.
We must find them one my one
hiding behind ivy
league educations
and false reputations,
follow the bloody trail
of our brethren lost in combat
to the money they hoard.

This jungle trail is littered with dead
and scarred Marines
foreclosed homes, unemployed vets –
ghosts of the 100,000 suicides from Vietnam.
Prepare your streets for Iraq and Afghanistan
veterans. They will all speak.

Army, Air Force, Navy –
how many senators sons
or daughters serve
this country – let us count
the few and let them stand
and be recognized.

I remember rockets
landing in Chu Lai –
and I know this –
things must change
in America –
and veterans must be the change
they wish to see in this
new America – this prouder America
this ethical America
this people’s America.

That no man or woman
shall be sent to sudden
sacrifice of death or loss of limb
when not every man and woman must
serve.

When you send my son Mr. President
then you send your daughters – when
you vote for war in Iran, Mr. Senator, Mr.
Representative – then you send your son
or your daughter.

It is only then –
that the decision you make
is weighted equally – and has integrity,
but until then -

I shall turn my metaphoric sights
upon politics – upon politicians.
And one at a time – we shall review your records
with Veterans. I turn my sights
on bankers – on corporations
knowing that as long as your profit reigns supreme
and not our country, not our people
and not our highest ethical conduct – then
we veterans shall not support you.

We are fighting in the wrong countries -
we need be here at home.
at once in an ethical war with politicians and corporations
daily firefights of heated words and actions of discontent
- this is our country, we fought for it.

Veterans – we must fire our fifty caliber rounds
of truth – words aimed relentlessly and purposefully
our succinct words must pierce these corporate veils
“people are most important – not profits.”

White hot tracers, tracks of truth
must ring into the political jungle – leaves must fall.
Our words war is here in America
not in Iraq – not in Afghanistan
those are political wars – not people wars.
The people war is us – what are you doing
for veterans in America?

Veterans – what are we doing for ourselves?

I remember rockets
there is no red glare
only tracer rounds flashing
yellow, white - hot red
into the black night air.


Doug Claybourne –  Chu Lai – 1968-69 – Memorial Day – for Wayne Claybourne – 9th Marines WWII and A.B.Brudvig - Quang Tri 68-69.
Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.

For Wang Wei, Li Bai and Du Fu...

I

for Wang Wei…After Deer Park

Light fades, only the sound of the crowds remain,
traffic on Beach Boulevard, the honorable sushi guests
overtake the crashing waves in strains,
a cacophony of noise made, while purity of vision rests.

Cape Town

II

After Wang Wei…Birdsong Book

He talks on his mobile phone
while all around him is God
So much consciousness –
lovers on the beach –
a sailboat passes by –
couples walk hand in hand
surfers are downed by waves
in every human being – a full life exists.


III

After Wang Wei – Autumn Nightfall..

The lighthouse stands empty,
silent along beach boulevard at sunset.
Only my loneliness is loud,
as the restaurant where I sit writing.
Suddenly, a green light goes on
in the lighthouse turret
and I notice an attractive woman alone.
The twilight burns with wonder.



IV

 

After Li Bai – off to Yangzhou


I know you have said goodbye
yet – the sorrow is still mine
to caress – to love – to hold
until it is all a dream.
and the sake is gone -
then I go home alone in sadness.


V

 

For Li Bai…Listening to a Monk from Shu Playing the Lute


I will get drunk tonight on sake –
and celebrate our years together
now finished
watch the ocean go black and gray
here on the southern most continent of Africa.
I will kiss you goodbye -
and think myself to sleep.


VI

After Du Fu…A Fine Lady…in Cape Town.

It’s black night -
as my heart is dark this night.
my last in Cape Town.
as once, sometime long ago my
heart was full of hope –
not now –
night is watching
and the sea stretches out
like eternity.

J.E. Dorsey – aka Doug Claybourne
Copyright © 2005. 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Sadness...


Sadness
stands
perched
on my shoulder
waiting
for one of us
to move;
the bolder
of the two
I assume,
so, I listen
attentively
for the sound
of light footsteps
knowing
that when she leaves
I can
laugh a little,
live a little
for a while
until
I am too old
to whisper
her name.








Doug Claybourne - Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.  For GGD, Friend #2 per Odysseas Elytis quote: "A real poet needs an audience of three. And since any poet worth his salt has two intelligent friends, one spends a lifetime searching for the third reader."

Speaking in Tongues...



Sunday morning
you are
speaking in tongues
inexplicable
words
babbling
but words
no less
to you
some kind
of loving
five month old
communication.

Before
we close
our eyes again
you laugh
your silly infant laugh
pull my chest hair
and grin
your toothless
innocent grin
at eight am.









Doug Claybourne – for Maria. Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne All Rights Reserved.

She wakes…

She wakes
eyes squinted
six thirty am
after cries
softly at first
whispers I hear
from where
we sleep
escalating
if I wait
too long
occasionally
to piercing screams
near terror
it seems
but it is only
hunger –
one might think
starvation
if not for knowing
this occurs
every two or three hours
twenty four hours a day.
Her infant eyes
Are now open
blinking rapidly
as the tiny hands
rub her petite chocolate face
palms out
forehands rubbing
covering long lashes
as she blinks against
the light
with those almond dark eyes
sparkling black orbs
poured in pure white porcelain
looking out
on this mysterious grand world.
Six fifteen am
crying out again
as I stand over her bed
comforting her
my hand covering her chest
rocking gently
she is
whimpering out loud
or smiling
sometimes laughing.
She is
lifted up
in a bundle
out of her borrowed crib
then laid down again
for clean clothes
and a dry diaper.
Moments later,
I crack the blinds
allowing a blue morning light
to illuminate her explorations.
Feet kicking
curling up
grinning or crying
alternatively
she is navigating her own
hands –
finger by finger
feet – toe by toe,
latching onto anything
close by.
Snaps are undone
and resnapped again
then –
gas drops inserted
into her bottle
formula measured,
vitamins added,
and iron,
Aveeno and hydrocortesone 1%
rubbed and applied,
for one week only -
or nose drops
if necessary
but always a mirror –
reflecting
what we want to see
revealing what
we want her to be
cooing or crying
pacifiers lying close by
singing
if required
for calming the wild animal
in the babies’ body.
Most any lullaby
or melody will do,
but particularly
she quiets at Cat Stevens - “Harold and Maude” soundtrack
“If you wanna be you be you,
if you wanna be me be me,
cause there’s a million things to be…
..and ya know there are…”
I sing,
I change her,
we chat
she and I
we understand one another
for those few moments
in looks – without words
but it is
a communication
unknown to those
without children perhaps,
a deep resonant
understanding –
of safety and belonging.
I am slow sometimes
waking from a deep sleep
she is hungry
she cries out – even
screams
louder still
“I will never eat again”
I call it – and I
move more quickly
or put a pacifier
in her mouth to soothe her
then –
instantaneous quiet arrives
gratification sets in
and the cooing begins.
The diet of infants
is perfect at four months
the slow change from formula
or breast to soft foods
and by four and a half months
ever more changes.
At eight am it’s peas
and apples and pears
in tiny glass ware jars
the small bottle warmer
the alarm clock charmer
and the plastic baby spoon
become your new best friends
and the dishwasher
is indispensable – it seems
yet -
I wonder about the families
the children in Mumbai slums
at the edge of the airport
existing on crumbs.
How do they survive -
when the fierce crying from hunger
comes so often -
I wonder about the muck
how do so many stay alive
the pluck – the grist
to thrive on nothing.
At five months
she not only finds her hands,
but every finger,
she discovers the ability
to hold a pacifier
I see the amazement on her face
she explores every side –
gives complete attention
then throws it away
eyes light up in a way
making every thing new
in this seemingly
advanced civilization.
Our nights are ever inexplicable
our sleep still unattainable
yet the crying and laughter
are all one and the same
at times – a celebration
for me and my love
as when a prerecorded lullaby
comes on without warning
at five in the morning.
Bleary eyed
without sleep –
I push buttons
to stop it
and as monitor skips
one lullaby to the next –
we burst out laughing.
in a moment of joy
as our exhaustion is shared
there with the tinny sounds
of an unwanted lullaby.
Doug Claybourne – for LD. Napier – on her Birthday 03.16.12
Copyright © 2012. Doug Claybourne .All Rights Reserved.

Being a parent again...





Being a parent again
is a poem
I have to write for you
later tonight.
It is a complete challenge
a delight
a fright
and quite amazing
a wonderful ride
in spite of the nights
of sleepless hours
the towering job
in front of me
but the purity
in my arms
the bottles
the baby
the spit
the poop
the tears
and the crying
all together - don't even
add up to the joy
the absolute thrill
of my lady
who's wide eyes
and laughter are
more than anything - 
a splendid reminder
an in the moment
reward -
for being a parent again.

I must write a poem
but later
as our daughter is awake
eyes wide
tiny hands reaching out
grabbing everything
smiling
dark obsidian eyes
saying yes
and I understand
why I took
that extraordinary leap of love
again.

As I look down
at her tiny dark face
it is perfect
in every way
an angel face - glowing
quiet and at ease
all concentration
eyes closed – then reopening,
eating ferociously
while the field of her curly black hair
stands on her head
at attention
in a kind of Mohawk center
yet soft – childlike and
covered with coconut oil
she sits perfectly still,
groomed with her Mother’s
devoted care.

Occasionally
she glances up
the whites of her eyes
reveal a question,
“Is he still there?”
and I am – observing,
listening, working to take
a long deep breath
and not let the fear of falling
off this dangerously steep cliff
take me completely away
from this important moment.
Yet, even falling
I would likely sprout wings
and fly
as even in this fitful state
of grace
I am in
I can see a faint light shinning
in the dark night
it is a light of love
as dawn arrives on soft tip toes
bringing all mystery
into clarity with the new day.









Doug Claybourne - Copyright © Doug Claybourne 2012 All Rights Reserved.