Por Fin - August Post Card Challenge

August seems like such a long time ago but in the world of words, it's simply part of another season. I love the postcard challenge every August and try to form an intelligible blog of cards sent and received but this year, I've fallen more behind than ever before. Yet, here they are...por fin...at last in Spanish. Sadly, this isn't all of them, due to my poor record-keeping this past summer. I bring in the new year with wishes for everyone and plans to do a much better job keeping up with my blog. 

I hope you enjoy these poems, the cards that were chosen to carry them on their journey and invite you to peruse other posts on my blog. 

Richard Novak talked me to sleep. He came and sat on the big Naugahyde chair and spoke softly, while I nursed one baby, sandwiched between me and her brother, whose back I rubbed with my spare hand. I tended to drift off to sleep somewhere in the middle of Richard's gentle words that hung in the shadows of my California sunset room. I never knew where Richard lived but at some point, he became quiet, left and went to that home, night after night. I never thanked him. I found his obituary online. Richard had so much room in his heart. 

The morning of the Sylmar earthquake (1971), all I wanted to do was sit still, and hang onto something, anything. I didn't even want to be in a moving car. Aftershocks knocked me around, just when I'd get my bearings again. A big bang started it, with bright flashing in the dark. The sun rose suddenly and we didn't know what happened. Sixty people died.

Dad would gargle his Listerine and we would laugh and laugh. I wish I could remember these things with you today. I walked by our old house when you were dying... just a street away, and there lay before me a multitude of images; our childhood. 

Frances (our grandniece, age 10, who looks so much like us in so many ways) walked with me one of those days. We sought out the handprints, initials, and dates you and I left behind in the concrete that Dad poured so many years ago. We are history, you and I. 

We used to say, in full seriousness, our mother would live to be 100. It took us all by surprise. She died at 89 after a diagnosis of brain cancer two months prior. We were filled with sorrow (and some with remorse.) She was not! At 89, she's stoically claimed she's seen enough and was ready to find out what came next.

 Pick up your skirt! Lift your knees and raise your arms! Yell out with a vengeance and a grin! It's time to win! Ring the alarms and wave the banners! Carry your pride high! Forget your manners! Tell the world we're on our way! Dammit! Women will save the day!

 I used to walk across the Aurora Bridge, up and down Queen Anne and downtown, through the market, over Capitol Hill where my bro lived on Roy Street, up to the U District. It was a mission-like walk, directionless, yet focused in an odd way. I didn't always know where I was going until I got there. Doors were always left open in those times. 1968

Living killed my brother. Years, he lived so close to the edge, Falls were inevitable, but he always managed to claw his way back up to paths with brambles and beauty. He was never hostage to the truth and has been called both a "man of few words" and a "Storyteller." I miss him.

My dad spoke highly of these guys, as if he knew them, growing up in Idaho, Montana and Eastern Washington. In the way we talked about favorite athletes, celebrities. Some say Butch lived his life out in Spokane and only the kid died in Bolivia, but my dad said it was not likely Bolivia, but Mexico. Interesting... my dad's fascination with these Crooks. He wasn't fond of movie stars at all. He hated Frank Sinatra. 

Sitting in bed, Sunshine covering me in its warm morning blanket. Reading last week's New Yorker, listening to birds gossip. Tweets, chirps, caws, wishing briefly... That perhaps there might be someone, almost anyone, who would bring me a hot cup of tea. And yet again, maybe not...

Do you feel as tall as you look? Do you feel as tall as you are? You stand over most of us with eyes that wonder in your own head, seeing things you'll never share, not with us. 

There were always laughs because that's what it was like when he was around. Uncle Russ sat at our dinner table, told silly jokes and riddles, and gently teased us. That was before before he married again. Aunt Myrtle, as we were told to call her, was shy and my mom said not really his type. When he died, Aunt Myrtle was the one I mourned for. I was a kid, 13 maybe, but she never got the chance to be a part of dinner laughs, nonsense at our house. She was all alone again, like she’d been before him. We couldn’t find a way to bring back those jokes again. 

At my brothers memorial service, I spoke to you on the phone from Portugal, where you now live with your wife. I loaned you my guitar, you said, in 1966. We chatted about music, my brother, Portugal. I struggled with images rolling in my head of you, New Year's Eve, 1966, and months later coming home to find you chatting with my mother in our family kitchen.

Sitting in bed, Sunshine covering me in its warm morning blanket. Reading last week's New Yorker, listening to birds gossip. Tweets, chirps, caws, wishing briefly... That perhaps there might be someone, almost anyone, who would bring me a hot cup of tea. And yet again, maybe not. 

It was words that made me stay in Seattle, New Year's Eve 1999. Not numbers, not 2,000 millennium scare, not weather, not fear flying, or computer crashes. Words. Words took me away again, sent me away, drove me away, pushed me away. Many words, one word, your word, my word. 

I left notes for John on the bulletin board of a Portland hang out cuz someone told me he had moved to PTown, too. One day I found a response. We were notes passing in the night. I wanted to see John and talk to him remembering our one quick historical moment of passion. It was 51 years before we would make contact again. Over someone else's death bed. His eyes of blue. They shot across the universe in the invisible ether and I felt naked again.

When we drive down Interlaken, Ewan's eyes are fixed on the ravine, leaning forward in his booster seat, straining the straps, hands gripping small armrests, skinny little boy legs dangling, swinging slightly, using his imagination, seeing things in the trees; creatures, humans maybe, moon people, samplings from the pockets of his mind.

 I was four years old when I saw a buffalo, a bison, for the first time and my Dad held me by the waist and cantilevered me over the fence and let me touch the majestic, tangled, smelly, beautiful head of what was now docile, broken, long-ago decimated; our national animal, a symbol of what we became.

She held images inside, tight and nonconforming to her other parts. She wouldn't allow her body certain sensations, less to awaken the noises she had silenced with expertise. The scent of burning corn husks could spring to action demons she couldn't personally be responsible for. It did no good to cover her ears; the hearing happened as an event she controlled with a feverish chill, a complete lack of love, A coldness as cruel as the autumn of a desert moon.

Tonight I read through all my old postcards and was haunted in my sleep as I tried to recall a street. Was it a corner? A dust road? A paved street with busy traffic? I exhausted myself battling images, memories, sorrows, and joys.

(After living in Mexico for 12 years) I've always found it interesting that white women, gringas,  are excited to meet Mexican men, dance with them, drink with them and often have affairs with them. But in the US, when a Mexican man makes attempts at conversation with a gringa, compliments her looks or makes a subtle pass, he is considered cheeky, even dangerous.

We had unmitigated hope. We thought all was right with the world. It was so short lived; it was as if we had nothing but a dream. What we've learned is that when all white people love all white people, there will no longer be a black problem.

My mother favored all of her children at different stages of our lives, and hers. She was whimsical in her favoritism; preferential treatment doled out in the same unexpected manner as rule changes and obtuse parental authority.

We must keep living life to the fullest. 

Never give up. 

Cross every possible bridge. 

Bridge every possible Gap.

Sail all the oceans. There is so much to be done and many who are up to the task.

My Bro -- September 9, 1946 - April 29, 2019

Yesterday we did a great job of remembering my brother. A memorial in Enumclaw at the VFW Hall was packed with old friends and family, some that came from afar to attend. Here is a poem I wrote about my bro, which I read:

My Bro

A small history about a big person.

My brother, the boy, wanted to please our dad when he signed up for Little League but found the fit of eighty-eight black-and-white ivory keys suited him more than an oak bat and leather glove. Report cards were low on the list of anticipated events but teachers loved my brother. My brother’s favorite-come-in-the-back-door-at-the-end-of-the-day-shout was “what’s for dessert?”  My brother was mom’s best guinea pig. Lemon meringue pie, lady-fingers, wedding cake icing, petit fours, peanut sauce and honey mustard dip.

My brother, the teenager, learned how to sweep floors with sawdust at Nelson Lumber & Hardware; turned in his push-broom for a guitar. The Ivy Three. Practice sessions late at night. The Drone.

My brother, the friend, was never at a lack of company. His friends were keepers and band-mates, fans and brothers, cousins, hermits, old, young, digital and analog.

My brother, the musician, played piano from the age of four and took up brass at ten. The only parts of the orchestra my brother didn’t master were woodwinds and reeds, but my brother would blow a tune on a saxophone if challenged. Harmonicas, accordions, trumpets and cornets, set sheets, songbooks, sheet music, late nights, dark roads, local followers, fans, messages on bar napkins and coasters, heavy loads, love letters.

My brother, the actor, had the lead role as Tully Bascomb in The Mouse That Roared, the All-School-Play in 1963. It was a quaint lesson in war that stained his naivety. My brother joined the protest in his own way; Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Woody Guthrie, Phil Ochs, Buffalo Springfield, Hoyt Axton.

My brother, the digger, was hip to Miles and Mercer, Willie and Waylon, Elvis and Elvis, Mavis, Aretha, John, Paul, George, Ringo, Stones, Animals, the Duke, Ray, Dizzy, Louis, Booker T. My brother was the clam-digger winner. Copalis Beach, annual camping corner, musty tent, open fire bacon and egg breakfast, mosquitoes, 6-12, and rain.

My brother, the Parks and Recreation Guy, knew everyone’s name, never missed a wave or hello, drove a loader, could dig a hole and use the right shovel, and didn’t take shit from no one.

My brother, the dad, was more proud of his progeny than anything he ever did. My brother wasn’t called to fatherhood but he wore it like the cloak of a knight. Overseas phone calls, road trips, Mariners, Seahawks, Avery Grace, Marin Skye.

My brother, my bro, hanging tinsel on a real pine tree, one that dad brought down from the hills; sitting on my chest and farting under my chin; hanging in the U District at Coffeehaus Eigerwand, Hippie Hill; teaching me how to use a capo; painting plastic cars with Testor’s enamel paint and letting me paint the wheels silver; sitting in front of the mirror while I trimmed his bangs; visits to Snow Camp; boxing in the basement, learning a left hook; giving me perfume for Christmas when I was sixteen; dime movies at the Roxy; skateboarding on Skateboard Hill; giggling in church, getting scolded; overnights with Grandma and Grandpa, hiding liver and onions under the table; madras shirts and cut off jeans; blue eyes, freckles; Beatle boots, Stetson hats, Rainier Beer belt buckles; old/new Mom tattoo; walrus moustache; authentic, stubborn, stoic; vests and bolo ties; books, penguins, CD’s, LP’s, penguins, coffee mugs, photos, penguins, postcards, ashtrays, penguins.

The longest journey is the one that takes you home.

Me and My Bro
On Vacation
Two Cool Kids
1950's

There were so many old schoolmates who I didn't recognize and some I did. I was so grateful to see them all and get some good warm hugs. I don't know how long it'll be before I realize JC is gone. The night he passed, I felt someone at the top of my stairs; it woke me up and I expected the phone call the following morning. I was lucky to be able to be with him that day, April 29th, along with my younger brother, Dana; his two kids, Charlie, and Rosie. 

JC, the Dad, with Charlie 

JC and Jim

I idolized my brother when I was young. He taught me a lot about many things. He was there first and I was his avid student, from babyhood, to teenage years and beyond. We shared a love of music and books. He got to make music his life; I became a mom. We had a wonderful childhood and the words and photos yesterday were a testament to that. I loved listening to his best buddy from kindergarten on, Jim Nielsen, talk about those days and though it made me feel old, it confirmed what I knew to be true: we came up in a magical time.

My brother's son, my nephew, Charlie Lenier, made a great video that I'll post here later, once I get the link. I've got some outtakes from his compilation. 1965; South Dakota; School; and Lance Romance.

Great Kids at a Grand Dam

My brother made an impression on a lot of people. He was referred to as a storyteller, and a man of few words. Obviously he struck different people in diverse ways. One thing we know for sure, he was an incredible musician, of whom Fat Domino expressed his admiration. Yesterday was a testament to how many loved him. It was a surprise when two of the Kingsmen introduced themselves and gave their condolences, having driven up from Oregon, and the remaining members of his great Country Jazz band Lance Romance were in attendance.  

JC was a collector (some might say hoarder) and he didn't accrue just one thing. He had hats, lots of them, ashtrays (someone said the reason you can no longer smoke in bars in the NW is because JC took all the ashtrays), coffee mugs and shot glasses, photographs, CD's, LP's and books. He had far more lawn mowers than a person would ever need. His most treasured collection was his penguins, hearkening back to the the time of his dear Joe, a stuffed penguin he loved from the time if was gifted to him as an infant.  

Life goes on, but there is a part of my history gone now. Once you lose someone like this and they are gone forever, you get the true meaning of "no man is an island," because you are completely aware that a clod has been washed to sea and you are lesser.

Thanks for reading. 

John Carl Rieck
September 9, 1946 - April 29, 2019

Détente

Honored to be accepted to POETiCA REVIEW with my poem Détente:

Détente

​

there was no bloodletting; only sorrow

the will to have a hollow heart …

yet all the tears that once filled an ocean

turned to salt and stood like a pillar in the land of Lot.

we stood akimbo from one another

chins of steel

elbows piercing

all the directions of earth

I write you stones

you send boulders

Happy Birthday, Mr. Ferlinghetti

March 20 2019

Today Lawrence Ferlinghetti turns 100 years old. When he was much younger and I was younger still, I walked into City Lights Bookstore with eyes wide open, browsed, and purchased Howl, Coney Island of the Mind and Pomes Penyeach by James Joyce. 

Ferlinghetti was 47 years old and I was 15. I didn’t know who I was talking to at the time, but he and I had a delightful conversation about poetry, writing, and the weather, which was sunny and warm on that San Francisco day. 

Years later, my friend Mary Jo told me it was indeed the poet himself who engaged me that day in silly, flirtatious banter. 

I’m so glad I didn’t know it then. 

At the time I was spellbound by "on a freeway fifty lanes wide/ a concrete continent/ spaced with bland billboards/ illustrating imbecile illusions of happiness." I would certainly have made a fool of myself. 

I was a big Whitman fan then, and was just growing a sense of modern poetry, not the kind we were reading in school. The words fuck and beat were kind of synonymous with not allowed.

I was on a summer trip, driving to California with my art teacher, Sylvia Neth, who wanted me to meet her niece. It was an eyes-wide-open time for my young naive self. Mary Jo and I got along much too well and were comrades in trouble. The things we did then were innocent compared to messes kids get into today. We smoked cigarettes, snuck out the bedroom window, wore very short skirts, read beat poetry, and flirted with 47 year old men. 

Thanks for the memories, Lawrence. I owe you. 

"Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." LF

Thanks for reading

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Scarlet Leaf Review

I'm very honored to headline this group of impressive and talented poets today in the Anniversary Issue of Scarlet Leaf Review. These four poems are among my personal favorites that I've written in the past decade. 

~Thanks for reading~

Down Home Girl

If Robin had girl friends who sang with her back home, this would be how she would have started.
You can have a listen to the Rainbow Girls here.




I am a fan!

Adam Garcia 4 12016

Clothing Not Optional

Amazingly, we see tourists in Puerto Vallarta in grocery stores and shopping malls wandering around in bikinis! Aside from being cold, some are simply not easy on the eye. We can say the same thing about fellows walking down streets (that are not located on or even near the beach) wearing those teeny tiny revealing swimsuits. Leaving nothing to the imagination is not a normal Mexican practice.

Mexican men may pull up their t-shirt on very hot days, exposing their tummies (certainly not attractive, and slightly offensive) but they will not go around the streets shirtless. The beach boys, surfers and fishermen wear shirts and would never dream of parading around in a speedo.

Mexicans take service very seriously and, unless one is in a fine dining establishment, it is unlikely they would ask someone to cover up, but they aren’t amused and will have some trouble communicating with a skimpily dressed customer.

Mexico is primarily a Catholic country. Until recently, women wouldn’t go into a church without a head covering and older ladies still insist on wearing a mantilla on their head. They will openly stare in disdain at young ladies who have no modesty.

Recently we saw a young man asked to leave a beach restaurant. He was treated with respect and no one made a scene but it was also clear that a muscle shirt was not proper attire, no matter how close the ocean.

As visitors, it is our job to be respectful. We can still have a good time. After all, Mexicans are not quiet. They are very colorful and love to enjoy themselves. One glimpse of a holiday calendar leaves no doubt for their penchant to party. But let’s please not offend the locals while we are at it.

There are constant changes in Puerto Vallarta; some good and some to which we need to make adjustments. This is a simple change and it can be made in the dressing room. I’ll cover for you and you can cover for me.

This article first appeared in May 2018 Boardwalk Realty PV

Thanks for reading.