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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Friday, February 3, 2012

a life...

a life…

She is small

delicate

full of love

yet

I lose my patience

sometimes

when she cries

loudly -

screams

the top of her lungs

late into the night

yet

I understand

as an infant

she speaks in screams

whimpers and cries

whispers and smiles

and toothless grins

for what she needs

must have –

at that moment.

She grips onto my large

fingers

yet

I am still

sometimes

impatient with her.

As a father

I have grown up

two children already

I have climbed that

glorious mountaintop

seen the other side

and I know the beauty

of sixteen

I know

when I blink my eyes

it will be upon us

both of us

ready or not.

yet

there are moments

deep in the night

when it is

she and me

Marea McKenzie

and her father

alone in the dark

her angel face on

drinking the nectar

of the gods

when it is perfectly clear

that this is

the only child

in the world

and she is ours

to learn from

to grow up

to make a friend

to love

to hold close to our hearts.

I am impatient

sometimes

but yet

I love her deeply

she came to me

and us

from some other universe

a bathroom

a kitchen

I do not know

a home away

from my home

a place of some

sadness I imagine

into this place

of your great joy

great love

and our extraordinary love

for one another.

This our Rose

is a bud of life

a ray of light

for the earth

a drop of rain

a seed planted

for hope

and some understanding

I have yet to grasp completely

beyond pure love.