Thursday, October 12, 2017
Thursday, September 28, 2017
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
|Name lists arranged in the room|
Friday, August 4, 2017
The Peninsula Park at Point Defiance which is looking for a name could feature one of the metal sculptures like the Top of the Ocean Memorial, but the new sculpture could show the whole Ruston Way Old Town Industrial Complex. My first home was above the Dickman Mill in Old Town. The size and level of destruction of the harvesting of natural resources in this area is hardly apparent to people who see it today. It cries out for an explanation that is true and factual. The name I submitted is: Old Town / Ruston Way Industrial History Park -
Tuesday, July 18, 2017
And another poem from 1993: A 25-year Reunion Directory, when the catering groups for reunions were only starting up, was mailed over three months after the event...
A SERIES OF EVENTS IN JANUARY 1993
The arrival of the reunion directory
was supposed to culminate a series of four events.
I bought wool on sale
and sewed an A-line skirt,
gray plaid with a line of brown.
I biked in my black jeans for the Sunday
smelter smokestack demolition.
I stood two hours in cold on Sunday
in a clear view on a lot with many others,
until they set off charges in the stack
and a puff crawled up the base
and it began to tip, then collapsed
all in a shimmer, down, and that
was how it vanished. Then I pedaled back.
I wore the skirt on Monday for the march
when they changed the name of K-Street
to Martin Luther King, Jr. Way. It means
the area is African-American, now,
despite the Valhalla Temple. Strange,
yet not at all, to walk below the temple
windows behind some Indians.
My mother would not have winked an eye.
And would have played piano,
my father filled prescriptions
where it is now Browne's Star Grill.
When the storm woke me
on Inauguration Day
I dressed in the skirt and a pink sweater.
In the cold and dark of the wind
a panel of fresh tar paper
blew off the roof past my window,
but my radio batteries were good.
Later, when I phoned about the directory,
they explained rather riskily, already
over three months, they had been
out of power, like so many all weekend long.
This poem from 1993...
UNIVERSAL GRIND October 21, 1993
Can opener wedged into
slit and slit only a dent
across the several gallon firmament.
Folger's Universal Grind
holds the larger plant up
to the kitchen light,
the Eastern Magician
carries the stars in a row.
But the sense within it
of the useless opener
thwarted and outsmarted
tinctures the idea of it.
Deaths falls out of the glass
like snow - it fell and fell,
that box of candles
all the listed glass unwraps
tissue papers, all are crowds
of tears all balled
on the floor. Ice crackles
in the glass, ice water
down again on the mat.
I want my pieces I've salvaged.
I dreamed last night
that a man carried off
my revere ware pots, I cried
those belonged to my mother.
And after it all, all pieces,
the sorrow chases me
without a brain, undoes
my strenuous agony,
the ministry, from its carport,
cries for charity.
My mind walks
to the cemetery again
to clear a leaf off our name.