Vernal Equinox

sunrise Kupeke fish pond

The vernal equinox is officially March 19, 2020, but today March 14, 2020 in Hawaii, night and day are equal. The sun rose at 6:38 AM and set at 6:38 PM. Thus today, I will write my quarterly blog post.

First I need to take care of business:

My new address is PO Box 482139, Kaunakakai HI 96748

I have not moved, just a different box number

change comes slowly

on Moloka’i for sure

in cre men tal ly

My little home and I are well, but I’m very upset by Maui County closing our pool, well all the public pools. I need that exercise to keep fit. The forces of historic pandemic are not going to bend to my preferences. The state library has canceled all events, but remains open. I can cocoon through this with books and walking.

I started the year with a wonderful book of poetry, “An American Sunrise” by Joy Harjo, our current national poet laureate, and a member of the Muskogee Creek Nation from Oklahoma. If you like poetry be sure to read this. She also wrote “Crazy Brave”, her autobiography. It records a life of struggle and persistence. I have high regard for her and her work.

heron in harbor

I’ve read a number of books of personal struggles recently: “The Latehomecomer” by Kao Kalia Yang; “Girl, Woman, Other” by Bernardine Avaristo; “News of the World” by Paulette Jiles; “Death Is Hard Work” by Khalid Khalifa; “Kartography” by Kamila Shamsie. I’d recommend each and all. These books remind me of what an easy life I’ve had. I feel grateful and indebted. I am attempting to give back to the world with my art. It feels meager, but honest.

And if you like sci-fi check out N.K. Jemisin. I totally enjoyed her book of short stories “How Long ‘til Black Future Month?”

sunset Kaunakakai 

Last year I wrote this little poem

this May

may be my last May

or maybe not

Just playing around with words, but it’s been a good prompt to keep me working — both painting and writing. I did complete a short memoir, and currently working on a large (22” x 30”) painting.

Here is another of my poems, again, just playing around with words

NO WAY

Lead the way

get out of the way, 

show the way, 

my way, 

the only way, 

one way,

through way,

be the way, 

find a way, 

wrong way, 

in the way, 

see the way, 

highway, 

the long way,

the lonely way, 

on the way,

roadway, 

every which way,

walk away

this poem was waylaid

moonset Kaunakakai 

Winter Solstice

Happy Winter Solstice!

The harvest is in
persistence and patience grown
Another year told

My favorite photo of the year I took last month at dawn, off the wharf at Kaunakakai -- it shows five islands from left to right: Moloka'i,  Maui, Hawai'i, Kaho’olawe blending into Lanai. Yes, the "big island", over one hundred miles to the south, fills the horizon between Maui and Kaho’olawe. Both volcanoes on Hawai’i are visible, Mauna Kea is under that squiggly cloud, Mauna Loa to it’s right.

This Google Map shows the channel from green dot where I am on Moloka’I to Mauna Kea on Hawai’i

Entering the third decade of the twenty-first century I've been reminiscing more and more. Looking back I find that connections are vital to me; connecting with people, connecting with ideas.

One symbolic act of connecting was attempted in March of 1964, when my friend Judy and I crossed the Atlantic on a Norwegian freighter. Midway we wrote a message, sealed it in a bottle and tossed it into the sea. We were told the current would probably take it to Africa.

I feel these quarterly blogs are the same, never knowing what effects they might have, where they might land, or if they are just tossed out into a vast ocean.

I haven't stopped trying to connect. I've made friends with repetition and persist.

Like deaf composer,
blind artist, mute story teller
Find a way to connect

Fall Equinox 2019

19" x 22" Untitled (The Good Enough Life)

Mixed Media on Paper by Ruth Ann Howden

This is the only painting I’ve done this year. I do have a piece of wood that will one day be a block print, when I get around to it. That task hasn’t even made it to the To Do list, but I’ve left it sitting out where I see it everyday. The artist of good intentions . . .

my good enough life

nearing the last soft hurrah

scattering of whims

 My paternal grandfather was a poet, musician, wanderer. When he lost his farm during the depression he was already a widower twice. I knew him in the 1950's, as happy, playful and great fun to hang out with.

He had eight children and when he could no longer work as a hired hand on other people’s farms he did the family circuit and stayed with one of his children and then another. He slept on our living room sofa when he stayed with us. I remember him playing banjo and we would sing and dance to She’ll Be Coming ‘Round the Mountain, Clementine, and my favorite, Red River Valley, which was very sad, filled with his longing for home.

He taught us to braid four strands of leather into lanyards, and how to make slingshots, both the forked style and the sling that you spun around your head. He built a swing for us in an old oak tree up on the hillside. An all-around delightful companion. Grandpa used snuff and to cover the odor he would eat sen-sen, little bits of dried licorice from a tiny box. He would share some of his sen-sen with us kids, and though I don’t think I cared for the taste, licorice still hits a nostalgic spot when I smell it.

While he was living with us he self-published a chap-book of his poetry, 49 of his poems plus one anonymous poem titled "The Deadman's Journey" that is three pages long. He apparently had memorized that poem. Grandpa worked with the local newspaper to get the book type set and printed. Titled “Thoughts Along the Way” by S. G. Howden, subtitled Prairie Poems by a Pioneer with the price of $.65 on the soft cover but no date. Clues within the poems indicate they were written from the 1920’s to mid-century and give an idea of what his life and his world was like almost 100 years ago.

I am impressed by his effort, but as I recall he was not successful in selling them, and my parents were embarrassed by his trying. A box of these books were found in my uncle’s basement after he died. I am very glad that I have one. For a couple more samples of his work see my blog dated spring 2019.

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I have been reading my grandfather’s poetry again, seeing that he survived very difficult times and that he also let out a rant now and then, but he kept his sense of humor as seen in the following poem.

THE RUNT OF THEM ALL by S. G. Howden

My eldest boy found pleasure and joy

In wielding the gloves with me,

When he was yet small, I, being too tall,

I then would get down on my knee;

But the last time I tried I had to decide

That he was too much for me.

Now I used to play on the fiddle – –

My daughter she plays the violin,

She doesn’t play in my old fashion way,

She holds it up under her chin; 

She stands when she plays, fixes her gaze,

On notes that are Latin to me. 

I do not object – – she must be correct – –

For she plays so much better than me.

Well I remember one December

Of teaching the boys to skate,

For the last time I tried

I had lost that stride – –

I found I was twenty years late.

Children have kept an old record,

Their markings are there on the wall – –

Now when I step under that chalk mark,

I find I’m the Runt of them all.

  S.G. Howden on right, North Dakota ca. 1945

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This year when I try to write poetry it often comes out as rants — skip this if you wish to avoid negativity

Madness

The one-man militia comes to our festivals

He comes to our churches and schools

He comes to temples, offices, shopping centers and bars

Multiplying the grievers and also deceivers

Politicians claim they care but do nothing

The Second Amendment was a promise for security

With a well regulated militia

Now a loophole for arms dealers

We scatter and hide

Parents die on top of their children

Nowhere is safe

Marketers already sell bullet resistant backpacks

Slip into a crevice and hold your breath

Cower into nonexistence

Leaders who flaunt the law send

Messages that an individual’s belief and desires

Outweigh the unknown victims right to life

Random mass killings, more than one a week

Madness to accept this equation

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Summer Solstice 2019

June Dawn

Bonus haiku

Besides the perfect

climate are wonderful friends

my fortunate life

High Tide at Dawn

I was recently asked what I have learned in my many years.
I did not have an answer, so I have been thinking about that
question. Maybe I could have answered that
‘questioning everything is a way of life.’

"It's better to have questions you can't answer,

than answers you can't question."

Yuval Noah Harari

Low Tide at Dawn

One of the things I have been questioning is the concept
of fate. Is choice an illusion, is believing in fate
avoiding responsibility?

And what do I believe?

I believe we are all connected.

I believe we can all learn from each other.

I believe we have a mutual responsibility to share.

And I also believe I need to question all my answers.

My head is a colorful cocoon

I try to write a poem as precise as a Sudoku puzzle
To be complete every row will add up 
as will every stanza.
A new age haiku 
each syllable counted.

Before I can complete this poem 
two syllables join into
butterfly wings, pulling along an article

or punctuation mark.

Following in random order

all the syllables rise up gracefully in pairs
Lifting off the page in silence.

I stand surrounded

as the butterflies light on my head and shoulders.
They enter my heart and mind and come back out
as infinite poems.

Spring Equinox 2019

          Consistent C

Competitiveness I cannot claim
Consistently a C, content
Could say complacent

Compulsory contrition could be credited
Consolation citation craved
Complete convergence to chaos
(Our new normal beyond the facts)

Collusion or conspiracy
I am caught in alliteration of the C
“Collusion is not a crime,” said Chris Christie
Contrary to dictionary
Conspiracy: ​secret plan to do something harmful or illegal
Collusion: ​secret cooperation for dishonest or illegal purpose

Campaign claims complex complicity
Contrite
Could couldn’t, can can’t

Compassion constrained
Caring commitments clouded
Catastrophe complete
Condolences

Moving Nouns

A noun -- the name of something

Naming a day makes it appear to be a noun.

A Monday isn't a thing I can hold, it demands action

return to school or back to work.

Nor can I hold a Monday back --

It presents a new state of being as the sun rises.

The alarm is a noun I can throw across the room

to no avail

Monday moves like a wave pushing us into the week.

The days follow in ritual order

If they were nouns I could mix them up.

Thursday would come first, a reflective state of being

Pulled from deep in the week.

To-daying into Thursday smiles

Humming the scarecrow's lament

Knowing

Why the ocean is by the shore and

Why where I am is always here

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Last month I retrieved a book of poetry from storage that was written by my grandfather. His family migrated  from Canada  to North Dakota  in the late  19th century. The book was published in the 1950s covering poetry he had written from the 30s, maybe before, to contemporary -- including musing on missiles siloed in his beloved prairie during the Cold War. Very few pieces were dated. 

He wrote about his love of family, home and neighbors, the problems facing farmers - drought, economic depression, war - and he balanced this with delight in music, children, travel and friends. I wonder if there were more poems that didn't get printed. I am grateful for all he chose to share. My grandfather, Samuel George Howden, died in 1960. He is buried on his prairie home. 

The book begins with a memorial for a friend then goes to this lighter tone:

EVIDENCE 

"Stranger can you guess my calling?

I have gotten discouraged and blue;

Don't care to get up in the morning, 

And don't give a ding what I do."

"Why," said the stranger, "that's easy; 

I need only give you one glance 

To know you're a cow milking farmer, 

That has only one pair of pants."

And here are his thoughts on his life:

TAKING STOCK OF MY EFFORTS

Out on the rolling prairie, 

     I have spent the most of my life. 

I chose the profession of farming 

     Once blessed with an honorable wife.

We worked and planned together, 

     Shared in both troubles and joys, 

Well knowing the cares of a parent - - 

We having four girls and four boys.

The mother has gone to be rewarded, 

     In that place we all hope to see. 

And now when I think of her unswerving faith, 

     Those thoughts are a guidance to me. 

I used to have hope and ambition, 

    A purpose, a will and a plan; 

But now, taking stock of my efforts, 

    I find I am just an old man.

Winter Solstice 2018 -- Three Poems

Artist of Intent

I have a basket full of good intentions 
Teasing out one strand is goal for today
to-write 
to-sing 
to-day -- also a verb

Setting: dark stage single spot on wash tub

Hesitantly mime appears
peeking over rim of wash tub 
fearful tentative movements 
peering and ducking 

Excruciatingly slowly mime emerges
finally in a graceful bold step 
leaps from tub 

Sudden cringe ducking as if -- what 

Nothing happens 

Then stepping with determination to discover ankle chained to tub
humiliation anger despair anger frustration 
investigation of chain 
puzzlement discovery 
opening link of chain 
triumph elation 

Striding away only to look back 
hunches over 
creeping return
re-gathering chain around leg 
crawls back into tub 

Spot fades

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Vertigo

One crystal with improbable charisma

takes my body out on wildcat strike

with no demands or path to settlement.

Motion impossible, sight skewed,

stomach in turmoil
I surrender immediately.
But no matter if I resist or not, chaos overwhelms.

At last I find a train of thought,

mostly negative,

but coherent.
Three days lost.
Today, the fourth, late afternoon,
I pick up pen and start to negotiate.

************************

Binary Paths

Alternating patterns
The on-off of clock ticking, water dripping
dappled shadows traversing the yard
defining time passing.

Moment by moment
either marking time
or finding a holding pattern until the end

Or? Rather? Perhaps?
Looking with philosopher's eye
living in the moment
aware of the subtle and fleeting

Seeing an image of a vase or
am I looking at the profiles of two women
both are there
alternating possibilities

inevitable movement towards the invisible
Cassandra tells and we do not believe

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Reminders of limits and mortality keep pushing me to create --  memories are mined and up-cycled. A mime performance 30 plus years ago, Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken" revisited over the years, and a severe case of vertigo experienced this last October all give me motivation. Writing poetry is my answer to everything.