living in the moment

a few minutes before light
equator sun comes out of hiding
flickering below steamy hills
of southern thailand

a perfect quiet
on sri's face
as she makes tea in the urn
we whisper each others' names
so as not to wake
sister and toddler

the street of chongkasem surat thani
is a dozen
rolled down steel door storefronts
a row of light colored stone
and concrete houses
gutters running close
to the front door
a few bicycle pull carts
parked on the sidewalk
the hum of early traffic in the distance
a taste of curry from last night's meal

my memory is the flow
of the river
deep brown green
.....free

--- e b bortz

earth note 154

a robin sitting
on a steel railing
of a fire escape
looking side to side
like as if someone
was coming
to pick him up
too late for work
maybe they were going
to the racetrack
or city hall
confer with the pigeons
(not the stools)
about what the hell can be done
about this heat wave
and the assholes
looking for a sand pile
to stick their heads in

--- e b bortz

earth note 153

there's no running
from the drought
dust storms
wildfires
that eat through
torso & limbs
clearly
the continental shelf
is teetering

appian way models
embody all the pavements
yet to come
severing hands & organs
once connected
in common space
a dark new aura
of ego static & feel-good prophesy
the new gold standard

while the anasazi
built reservoirs
dug out caves cool
in the mountains
designed calendars
from the sun
paths from ancestors
respect
we have yet to learn
  
--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 14, 2011)

it may have meant something

to wake this morning
with sad-eyed lady of the lowlands
playing in my head
(don't often have that kind of clarity)
but there it was

"...streetcar visions which you place
on the grass..."
and every recovery
becomes a lesson
a renewal to sing

there were many broken times
when the blood
left its path
when the drug-fired veins
lost all direction

until the inner voice
declared a refusal
to bow
to drown in the pity
of authority

thrift store clothing
lets the colors blend
their soft texture
shouts
survival

--- e b bortz

vile jokes of voyeurs

tell me
that murdoch's implosion
is just beginning
to bore the underbelly
thought to be invincible armor
forged with favors
in high places
and every wall street dollar
that once had
the old & new veneer
is now
just plain junk
hand-jobs replacing what
they used to sell
as ecstasy

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 14, 2011)

just before the rocket's red glare

a cloudburst thundered in
& washed out
the sunshine patriots
playing soldier
wooden rifle shadow dance
m80s and roman candles stashed
between shiny reenactment buttons
& the blah blah blah
of a drum major's recruiting pitch

the rain moved on
as quick as it came
the new normal resumed
stage props retooled
for the unexpected

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, July 5, 2011)

metaphors mixed before sunset

off-highway gutters
have become proxies
for capital accumulation
to be written off
just below spent emotions
half-cooked dreams
rustbelt sewer runoff
shakes a menu
of macjob fairs
stolen song riffs
.....a plagiarized phony two-step
.....won't fool yah

watch the on-highway traffic
looks to be moving
smooth and in control
with next year's shiny models
purportedly against each other
we pick up each other's backpacks
unleash the mustangs
to keep our bearings true
in time
get a whiff
of dusty empire
.....last go round

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 16, 2011)

we don't always need words

to raise awareness
it was a steep climb
down to the montreal river
northern wisconsin
in water above the knees it was easy
to feel how the river mouth merged
with lake superior
enough to wake up
a young unrehearsed spirit
though i wouldn't have called it that
then

it was too late for the smelt run
i'm happy to have missed it
somehow nets are incompatible
with what i understand
now

sky over herons
spoke
without words
gray and blue
rhythms
iron tinged rocks
the clash of tide & river outflow
a twinkle in the old man's eye
pointing to the upturned leaves
their sign
of rain coming
my sign
.....uncharted

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 9, 2011)

puerta del sol

doorway to the sun
more powerful
than truckloads of campaign dollars
imf bribes
neoliberal neofascist oligarchs
spreading poverty landscapes
anesthesia
tongues without collateral
bankrupt excuses
mass graves still hidden

your shoulder to mine
we touch our heartbeats
or as my father / quince brigada
would sing
.....no pasaran

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, June 2, 2011)

when was the last time

you looked away
ignoring the pain
sometimes
a flood
is more than a rush of tears
streets spatter
even at midnight
& the constant hum
of grotesque machinery
chews what's left inside
burrowing deep
at the core principles
some regard
as sacred

--- e b bortz

offering

sri scooped up
a handful of rice
into a red bowl
then up to the altar
a golden glow

--- e b bortz

earth note 152

surat thani province, thailand

when the sun rises
near the equator
heat wakes the bodies
limitless imaginations
with a delicate song
as if to say
you have arrived
in this place by chance
will continue by chance
every being
flora and fauna alike
soil and water
surviving only
by equilibrium
an interdependency
of no excuses
no space
for negotiations

listen for the forest call
land and river
will answer

--- e b bortz

don't seek consensus

with your oppressor/abuser
evil or lesser evil sideshow illusion
acid reflux disappointment
in the morning

authentic flowers
bloom
without directions
& chemical stimulants

it has nothing to do
with feeling good or bad
moaning an idyllic history
that never existed
or finding the buried gem
or magic of 'correct framing'

sweep out the clutter
stop waiting for the perfect moment
you are real
& beautiful
in your original
being

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, May 11, 2011)

earth note 151

water on the roof
collects a mirror image
green maples
shimmer along the avenue

--- e b bortz

earth note 150

weathered leathery face unravelling
rich brown lines
of age and of wisdom
of the land and of yesterday
when men and horses ran free
across the painted deserts
up over the snow capped peaks
voices of
hopi
apache
navajo
hualapai
havasupai
yavapai
spring from the belly of the canyon
do we hear them?
do we love the land enough
to listen?

rocky buttes stand straight up
bold and open mouths
as wind and sand
beat them down
carving signatures
harsh and jagged
across their torsos
are we as brave?

scruffy patches of piñon pine
hug the hillside
make their claim of water rights
elegant ponderosa spacing themselves
in the coolness of the mountain pass

only the cottonwoods
hog the wetland washes
squeezing bullying surviving
are we cottonwoods?

an orange sun burns on the edge of a dust storm
without fear or malice
tempting us to follow its course
and learn

--- e b bortz

(previously published as "wisdom" in Voices of a Wanderer, 1993)

earth note 149

wild ferns lunge over & up
spread the canopy floor
buds shift across an opening
woodpecker alone hides
green silence falls
to rapid staccato
hollow echo

--- e b bortz

an end to angst

the most elusive
promise to myself
will join forsythia
breaking out
freeing all prisoners

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, April 24, 2011)

Orange Horizon

[Maybe it was my passport renewal application...or maybe because it's Earth Day...I've decided with some uneasiness to republish this old story.  It was first published in 1993 in my early collection of poems and stories, Voices of a Wanderer.
Email ebbortz at gmail dot com if you're interested in getting a copy of the book.]



Orange Horizon

by e b bortz



I didn't feel like a foreigner landing in Surat Thani, Thailand. The bus ride from the airport through rivers of flooded roadways, tropical heat, and grassy isolated hamlets was a shock, but for some odd reason, I didn't feel like an outsider.

Maybe there was a connection between those clumps of farmers and water buffalo teetering at the edge of isolated patches of high ground that I saw from the bus window, and my own predicament at age forty-one. Maybe this was the time and place for me to break out of my own isolation.

The work on the power plant project which brought me to Thailand offered unique technical challenges as I buried myself into the tasks at hand. Designing, testing, and debugging computer-based control systems, particularly on-site, has a way of twisting your brain in a knot, pressing you to your mental and physical limits. It made the short periods of time away from the job precious episodes of complete escape.

My days off were spent cranking out as many kilometers as my bicycle would take me. Every turn in the road seemed to bring me to another spectacular bluff overlooking a strip of palm-lined beach, or another remote river hamlet lined with men, women, and children fishing, washing, and swimming away the hot afternoons. The vibrancy of the land and the people sparked my sense of adventure and compassion for my surroundings. There was no way I would settle into the mediocrity and arrogance of expatriate hotel life.

It was a hot Sunday afternoon as I cycled across a muddy, slow moving river in the Chaiya district north of Surat Thani. A noisy group of teenagers were carrying on a lively game of water tag as a voice darted out over the water.

"Hello. Tarn yoo tee nai?" Where do you live one of them yelled as he treaded water near the bridge.

As I stopped and got off my bike, the natural sun-baked young faces, one by one, emerged from the river to see who the stranger was.

"Surat Thani," I answered and proceeded to tell them I was on my way to Thachana, a small beach town to the north.

It was clear that the group was puzzled but curious by my presence: appearance, language, age, bike, destination, even the secondary route I had decided to use to avoid traffic. But I was equally anxious to find out about life in this remote river hamlet with its wooden stilt houses hugging the winding, silty riverbank.

We mixed our Thai and English phrases until heads nodded with acknowledgment as they told me about the road getting very rough just up ahead. So when I was invited by a sixteen-year-old boy named Chang to go down to his family's house and relax for a few minutes before moving on, I gladly accepted.

The river water nearly splashed up through the front room floorboards as a bright-eyed two- year-old crawled over to mother who was at her loom weaving what appeared to be a small orange and earth toned rug. Her thin brown hands flew over the loom with the grace and speed of a harpist as I felt awkward entering the room and interrupting her music.

"Sawadee kawp," I near whispered as she turned and said "Sawadee kha," through a cautious but genuine smile.

Her name was Srimorn. Chang, her son, motioned me to sit on the thick orange and yellow rug near the wall. The wall was covered with an assortment of colorful woven fabric segments, some cascaded together in a series, others hanging alone and mysterious against the weathered slab board interior.

Srimorn was thirty-eight, widowed a year after her baby daughter Dorkmie was born. Another daughter, Wan, was eighteen, living and working at a textile factory in Hatyai, far to the south near Malaysia.

As we sipped slowly away on the Chinese tea, Chang proudly interjected his Thai and English translations freely. Our circle of conversation abounded into the lives and stories of some of the people who purchased the fabric art of Srimorn. Some were wealthy entrepreneurs from Bangkok who had ventured down in their pickup trucks and hauled away hundreds of square meters of immeasurable beauty for resale to even wealthier Western entrepreneurs and tourists.

And then finally, there was the story of the father of the house, Duang, who had drowned with the eldest son, Korn, the previous year while fishing in the Gulf of Thailand. A sudden monsoon had taken them by surprise before their small open fishing boat could bring them to safety. Exhaustive searches were conducted, but only remnants of the wooden boat and fishing nets were found. The bodies were never recovered.

The unsettling loneliness of their loss flowed into the room and touched me by surprise. The eloquence of the weaver, her gentle lament rolling to and fro between the tapestries, embodied an honesty I was not accustomed to. Her story floated out with images of youthful love, sensuality, creativity, toil, the pain and joy of childbearing, the fear of the future, the fear of being alone. And as we parted company with promises to meet again soon, the small orange and earth toned fabric was removed unfinished from the loom and placed in my hand for safekeeping and future finishing.

In their moment of openness, I felt the essence of the human spirit.

I finished my ride into Thachana with the fabric buried deep in my backpack, and then proceeded to catch the last bus of the day back to Surat Thani for another approaching week of work.

I was still dazed by Srimorn's narrative when a colleague named Bill startled me in the hotel lobby with his raspy voice, apparently under the influence.

"Bob Benjamin, where the hell you been today, looking for something strange?"

"No, nothing strange at all," I answered without elaborating.

There was an unspoken agreement between us to minimize dialogue and thus avoid inevitable confrontation. We disagreed on everything: music, politics, technical issues on the job, you name it. Bill hated living in Thailand and I told him on more than one occasion not to let the door hit him in the ass.

The following week on the job dragged along rather uneventfully. My thoughts were consumed by the previous weekend and the plans I had for the upcoming weekend: a trip to the island of Koh Samui.

The following Saturday morning I cycled anxiously through the busy marketplace down to the Surat Thani pier along the Tapi River to catch the cruise boat to Koh Samui. The boat was alive with Thai, Swedish, Italian, French, and English tongues mingling freely from the lower deck seating up to the jumble of luggage, backpacks, and bodies crammed together on the outside decks. I found a spot on the upper deck to stretch out on, and as we zipped through the blue-green waves on the Gulf of Thailand, a combination of light ocean spray and morning sunshine drained the week's tension right out the bottom of my bare feet.

Arriving at the island pier of Na Thon, I quickly rolled down the breakwater ahead of the scurrying crowd of luggage toting passengers.

As I rode south, even the distinct sweet smell in the tropical hills along the ring road couldn't mask the hollow feeling that came over me as I gazed out at the small fishing boats bobbing in the glimmer of the Gulf. I couldn't help but think of Duang and Korn, and of Srimorn and the unfinished weaving tucked away in my backpack.

A jagged coral reef poked up out of the water abruptly to meet the deserted, sandy and pebble lined shore at Lamai Beach. The view and spicy smell of curry drew me into a bamboo and leafy roofed restaurant near the water. I was savoring the last of the kai lae khao (chicken with rice), when a couple of motorcycle taxi drivers stopped suddenly in the driveway in a whirlwind of dust and noise.

"Pai nai?" Where are you going they asked me approaching the table.

"Chaweng Beach," I answered.

Looking over my bicycle and realizing that there was no fare at hand, they ordered some Singha beers and grabbed the empty chairs at my table.

We exchanged the normal "where do you come from", "how do you like Koh Samui", "how long are you staying in Thailand" stuff before I moved the conversation to another subject.

"Where do the fishermen take their catch at the end of the day?" I asked without explaining.

"You want to buy fish? I know a good place," the round faced driver Khon enthusiastically offered.

"No, I just want to see and maybe photograph the fish warehouse or dock area."

As he was giving me directions to a warehouse a few kilometers north of Na Thon, I began to think about my return trip the following day that would include a stop at the place.

Our chat was interrupted by the loud sputtering of a couple of tuktuks (pickup truck taxis) as they raced down the road empty in a mad dash towards the pier and another load of tourists. My friends quickly finished the last of their beer, and as we said our goodbyes, they hopped on their motorcycles in one continuous motion and sped away in pursuit of the new arrivals.

I stopped for a moment at the top of the last hill overlooking the five kilometer beige sandy shore of Chaweng Beach to soak in the last of the round, orange sun before it dropped off behind the palm covered hills to the west. A lone sailboat was struggling to tack through the gentle winds in the bay as a few sunbaked body surfers floated off the water and were deposited in the sand.

It took a few tries to find the kind of bungalow I was looking for at the edge of the beach. The bed was clean, the thatched roof didn't have any holes, the windows had shutters and mosquito netting, and the bathroom had a squat-toilet, shower head, and sink. One hundred and fifty baht (six dollars) a night and no frills.

Dusk crept up on me as I floated aimlessly in the mellowing waves, reflecting on what life had been like before coming to this place, before venturing out from the security and walls I had built around myself. Here I found myself stripped to the flesh with the basic emotion of rejoicing just to be alive. I was alone, but not lonely, distinct and unique but in accord with a living earth around me.

My mind and body were still drifting when the wailing sound of Bob Marley's "No Woman No Cry" burst out from shore. A flickering rainbow of faces strung loosely around a crackling fire looked warm and inviting. Tentatively, I waded over in their direction and in a sudden moment of confidence, walked up to the group without introduction and crouched down near the fire, rubbing my hands together somewhat nervously.

A downunder twang jumped across the fire, "Getting a little cool, eh?" a rugged blond-maned, surfer-looking character shot over to me.

"Yeah, seems like the wind is picking up," I answered.

"You from the States?"

"Yeah, and yourself?"

"Australia."

Jeremy was in fact a surfer, doing odd jobs on the island to get by, always looking for the perfect wave. He said very matter-of-factly that he couldn't stand a steady job, it was too expensive to live on the beach in Australia, and that he would keep renewing his visa in Thailand as long as possible.

"Might even decide to get married and stay," he said giving a soft squeeze to his petite Thai girlfriend Noi, the manager of the bungalows. At this point, Noi half-laughingly initiated a Thai conversation with her friend Phlawy that seemed to question Jeremy's ability to take such a bold step. They obviously had some things to talk over.

I turned my attention to the discussion raging at the other side of the circle about uncontrolled timber harvesting in the fragile hill country of southern Thailand.

"The floods we had this year have been the worst in our history," Nak, a student from Bangkok explained. "The hillsides have been clear-cut, the rain water rushes down without being absorbed and everything gets flooded."

Nak indicated that it was still dangerous to organize public opposition on this issue in Thailand, but several of his fellow students were doing it anyway. Katerina, a social worker and Green Party activist from Germany said she had friends in Malaysia who were concerned with deforestation there as well and that an Asian conference of environmental activists might be a useful forum to coordinate the many separate indigenous movements. Oblivious to their surroundings, Nak and Katerina immersed themselves with plans and details.

The reds and yellows from the fire created an aura that made the flashing eyes in our circle jump out in the deepening darkness. The beach was calm but with a light mist that rose up from the south seas in the east and limped on to our shore in a quiet, unobtrusive way.

Phlawy's dark brown eyes sparked over to me with a curious, adventurous expression that became captivating as the night progressed. We sat together and talked as I held her warm, moist, gold-brown hand, prodding emotions in me long buried away and thought to be gone forever.

Phlawy had lived on Koh Samui her entire life, and in her thirty years had seen the island evolve from an unknown paradise to its present state of tourist enclave. She had been married in her early twenties, but when her first child died at birth, her husband panicked and ran away to Bangkok, never to be heard from again. She was alone, working as an accomplished gourmet cook and supporting several of her siblings.

We touched each other with gentleness and sweetness as a light, moist breeze from a grove of mango trees on the hill unfurled and blanketed our bodies. Forever young, it really is just your point of view.

By the time I went in for a morning swim, Jeremy was already riding the two meter waves as far in to shore as they would carry him. He stopped and talked for a few minutes about sailing from Australia to New Zealand the following year, maybe settling down there. Noi and Thailand seemed to be slipping away from him. She was looking for a more dependable relationship than he was capable of offering at this time, but he wasn't ready to give up. There was still time to make amends. He was tired of being a drifter.

"Kin khao," let's eat rice, the familiar Thai expression for eating any meal yelled Noi from shore.

Breakfast conversation in the leafy open-air dining room centered on the new air strip that had just been built on Koh Samui. Daily flights were bringing droves of tourists to the island, pressuring the government to relax building regulations for new accommodations. Large scale hotel projects had thus far been resisted in order to maintain what was left of the remote atmosphere on the island, but the speculators and foreign business interests were relentless.

I soaked up the clean ocean breeze and quiet simplicity of the moment --- a fleeting moment at that. A year from now, everything may be quite different --- the cheap bungalows gone, the traffic heavier, maybe my newfound friends each going their own way. And where would I be? Back in the States or on another overseas project? The future was unclear. But not the present. A warm touch and smile, curried rice and eggs for breakfast, an endless orange horizon of coconut, mango, and rambutan --- this was our present, our moment, our dream tucked away on a small island sheltered from the tension and apathy of the outside world.

"I work here with Noi next week. Are you coming back?" Phlawy said to me as we were finishing coffee.

"Yes. I'd like to come back."

Joy and pain erupted inside of me as I reluctantly secured my backpack, hoisted my bicycle on to my shoulder, and walked up through the sand from the bungalow. Phlawy was standing in the driveway near the road as her soft eyes carefully searched mine for the honesty we had been touched with the night before. We burned inside, clinging to each other, as we rocked ever so gently in the approaching noonday sun. It was time to leave.

I rode through the rocky hills to the north with the stamina and speed of a racer on a mission. The deserted beach and high rolling surf at Mae Nam Bay spurred me on to the point of exhilaration. Who knows if this moment of love will continue, will have the opportunity to grow, much less mature? I learned long ago that dreams often hit the wall of reality and shatter, but that the dreamers nonetheless let the essence of the dream grow inside of them, carry them through the lonely times, contribute to their sense of worth, keep them honestly in touch with their innerselves, help make them whole human beings capable of emotional commitment. Love grabs you when you least expect it.

The fish warehouse was a large steel sided building at the edge of the water with a short concrete breakwater and several rows of wooden docks adjoining it. The smell of saltwater and fish filled the air as a few small boats were unloading their catches onto scales, then into large wooden crates that were hauled into the building with forklifts. I watched for a few minutes before quietly walking over to the docks and snapping a few photographs.

In my uneven Thai, I asked a couple of weathered, seasoned looking guys in their fifties how well they did. Good day they responded. Not too hot, the Gulf was quiet, no storms in the area, a good catch of prawn.

On the other side of the breakwater, a gaunt, dark brown skinned fisherman was struggling alone to bring his open eighteen footer carefully to the unloading dock. I came over and grabbed his towline as he bobbed into position near the dock.

"Khawp khoon cup." Thanks, he said quietly, possibly a little embarrassed.

His catch was also good for the day, but considerably less than the first pair of guys. Maneuvering the nets around alone probably had some impact on how successful you'd be. Then again, there was probably some luck involved.

Since my understanding of the Thai language was much better than my ability to speak it, I was relieved to let the fisherman do most of the talking while he waited for his catch to be weighed and hauled away. His name was Nokinsee and he had been fishing this part of the Gulf for twenty-five years, usually alone. He used to fish with his son once in awhile, until a year ago, when his son was killed in a motorcycle accident. His wrinkled brown forehead and lines beneath his eyes showed the many years of squinting into the sunlight and salty wind across the water. I was surprised when he said he was only forty-three.

He asked me about my job and what I thought about his country. I spoke my words slowly and as carefully as possible. The wrong emphasis on a syllable of a particular word and the meaning becomes lost, or even insulting. His question made me think hard about what I was doing in Thailand. The power plant I was working on would soon provide electricity to the remote river and hill hamlets in the south. The possibility would then exist for massive economic development: tin, rubber, timber, tourism. Nokinsee worried that the days of the independent farmer and fisherman were numbered, and that the land would be plundered without regard to the future. It was a legitimate issue for all of us, in all parts of the world, from the Rocky Mountains to the Amazon to Koh Samui. But I uncomfortably rationalized my own role. I reasoned that when you came down to it, it wasn't the capacity for economic development in itself that threatened the traditional ways of life of nations, but rather the priorities that those nations set for themselves, and the powerlessness of their peoples to control or set those priorities.

From my reading of Thai history it seemed clear to me that these people would never sit quietly and let the beauty and grace of their land be destroyed. They were in tune with the living world in ways that we, the descendants of Europe, were not. They, like the original peoples of the Americas, had much to teach us about living, if only we would open our eyes.

Nokinsee spoke hesitantly about his family as if there was a much larger story to tell. He invited me to go with him to a nearby cafe filled with fishermen coming in from the Gulf for a few hours rest before heading back out to sea.

He found it difficult to speak about his son who had died the previous year. As he pulled a woven handkerchief from his backpocket to wipe away the perspiration of his narrative, I could sense his need to tell the story in spite of the pain. The son had died as he entered manhood, with the excitement of first love and higher education before him. His son had things that he only dreamed of as a young man: a good education, a modest but secure homelife, the goal and dream of a profession as an architect. He had everything going for himself, except long life.

We sat in silence for a moment as my eyes drifted over and fixed themselves on the woven handkerchief clutched in his hand. Something was very odd. The handkerchief was an orange and earth toned one with a familiar signature. Was this a coincidence? My hands trembled as I dug out a woven fabric from my backpack and laid it out on the table before us. The unfinished orange and earth toned tapestry of Srimorn.

Nokinsee's eyes opened wide with astonishment. He knew the weaver's signature better than I.

And as he caressed the unfinished tapestry, I told him the story of Srimorn, of her love for her husband and son, and of the beauty and music of her work. Nokinsee was moved as he looked at me directly and told me of his helplessness in seeing his son go down in the raging waters of the Gulf. It had not been a motorcycle accident. It was shame that kept him alone and in turmoil. His inability to save his son or to give his life in his son's place was shattering. He couldn't bring himself to rejoin his family as Duang the fisherman from the Chaiya district.

Duang felt relieved that he had told it all. His eyes were reddened and wet. Orange sunlight bounced off the blue-green waves of the Gulf and beamed through the open windows of the cafe. The sun was beginning to set as a prism of colors jumped in and crossed the deep brown lines on his weathered face. We talked about Srimorn, Chang, Dorkmie and the future. He would return. He would lie with Srimorn in mounds of golden fabric in his house along the silty riverbank. His family would be whole once again. He was still holding the unfinished tapestry as I put my palms together, brought them up to my chin, and with a slight bow, turned and walked out of the door.

I rode through the darkness up to the pier at Na Thon for the last boat of the day to Surat Thani. The evening mist soaked and massaged my skin as a humid breeze of coconut, mango, and rambutan suddenly crossed my face and sweetened my lips.

********

(first published in the collection Voices of a Wanderer,
Out There Publishers, copyright 1993, e b bortz)

earth note 148

bright western wind today
strong enough
to push
ohio river whitecaps
upstream

it all changed again
within a half-hour

even the geese
paused crapping
long enough
to clash
with a nor'easter

--- e b bortz

dance over the barricades of your mind

before the sun whisks

beneath darkness

and you lose

that serendipity spark

a thought

jumping between last night's dream

and the abscess barriers

growing in our midst

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, March 29, 2011)  

is it even possible to have penance

for fallujah haditha gaza?
when the tyrant finally falls in libya
thank goodness
the healing will not include amnesia
for those of us
who survived
maybe sanctioned
occupation regimes
cost/benefit power politics
oil futures
apartheid walls
bulldozers that murder

but penance it must be
and for once
without preconditions

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, March 25, 2011)

earth note 147

grey sky meditation
a forum for cardinals
unpredictable crows
sparrows building nests
spring wind hesitant
and without the force of commitment
if there were lessons to absorb
maybe i missed them

the sound from the avenue
speaks louder than words
an unfortunate consequence
of the assembly line
whatever comes
when the bluejays arrive
can be regenerated
& dispersed

there's murmuring in the flats
floods on schedule
deer and groundhog
stepping quiet
light without sinking
high noon might be
a grey moon
hiding

--- e b bortz

there are the gentle ones

who speak with their eyes
hands
vibrations from their cajun instruments
words sprung from soft moist lips
of life and dance steps
that touch
every movement
of a body
crying out with a spirit of
sisterly brotherly love
passionate love
a love of the beauty
within our grasp
drinking in without hesitation
the joy and pain
of anonymity

for others
the morning brings
violence and death
a refrain as human
as tears

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Mar 7, 2011)

if silence was a new snowfall

there would be a secret
and finally a melting
that would give voice
and direction

by late afternoon
the crows get impatient
the sky fills
with sound

but this is not about
the species
or
looking for excuses

a blue ridge
near the sun
is only
one perception

bare maple tops
dance
crow wings
a background

there are
no revelations
in any
of this

open the window
for any answer
you think
you're missing

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Feb 27, 2011)
(published in earth notes and other poems, Least Bittern Books, 2015)

no one said breaking conventional wisdom would be easy

first find a flotation device
another body and/or a kayak
then leave the glamour addiction
(publishers clearinghouse lost your address)

mainstream news insight
has the regularity of a good bowel movement
(reluctant hurrah for polyethylene glycol)
ignore them all

empty the mindless comfortable mindset
official lies jargon schemes
to confuse and dismember
if necessary where headphones

find others reaching
throw them a line
grab their hand
we'll all tow together

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Feb 22, 2011)

there were reasons

not understood then
but clear now
of how it was
to be alone
so alone
even mute
among peers

at risk
was my well hidden
teenage vulnerability
a pinsetter with quick hands
hopping between the lanes
squeezed between
turnpikes & freight trains
coughing acid smokestacks
i looked at the many roads
as invitations

we hitchhiked one morning
& crashed one saturday afternoon
in akron
found some couches       unitarians
& upper middle-class trappings
i thought everyone
but the thin man
was missing the obvious
it was prettified as needed
but there were
no truths

and the soldiers
on their way to death
knew by instinct
how the lies
were constructed
to save the bigger lies
& it became plain
that my body
would never mesh

ben got off work
at j & L steel
& brought eleanor
and hash
& zucchini
to my frying pan
and we laughed
at the idea that
friends last
through mornings
& revolutions
even when
(especially when)
no one has
any answers

ben tried his dissertation
in the soot
on the window pane
eleanor went back
to westchester county new york
the summer heat
broke
like an unexpected monsoon
waking up the voices
lost & found
trailing off
neath fires
seeded by clouds
& restless bodies

and what burned away
only
were the phony words
of gray shark-skin suits
the renaissance had speared its own
edifices
seen for what they were
& soon forgotten

but the coal barges kept pushing
heaped on autopilot
past the abandoned and forsaken
sewers overflowing
new models of the same vintage
deconstructed blooming mills
left only with riverbanks
of willows
breathing
speaking
for us all

--- e b bortz

don't reveal your muses or sources

after all we live
on the edge
of that deep dark
fault line
from whence all
words
become categorized
co-opted
by authoritarians
gasping the stale air
of historic irrelevance

let them starve

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Jan 31, 2011)
(published in Trumpet Call, Green Panda Press, 2012)

riding the blind wave

are just words used
(even after a lot of thinking)
to do nothing
but ride

not that there's
a case for optimism

what looks bleak
(after the inertia)
is the motion
that cleverly disguises
submission

don't take my crooked metaphors
you can do better

inquire within

--- e b bortz

sorry things got so dark

i'm no kind of "ist"
"crat" or "can"

don't ever take my word
for anything

no need to be a snoopin
my secrets are your secrets

leave that search warrant
in the trash

when we wake tomorrow
i expect the only surprise
will be snow...i'm just a
patriotic shovelin s.o.b.

hand me the internet
on a platter and i might just
eat it

i wanna start over with
new bygones

--- e b bortz

violence in our bowels

we own it
it owns us
color it
every conceivable
shade of omission
yet it chews like a tapeworm
believe
your gut

football or fatigues
rationalized uniforms are prayed to
the west was 'won'
in fiery
'sacrifice'
destiny becomes
destiny

be honest
those innermost images
are a predictable story
bloodstained heroes
whitewashed cowards
when in doubt
attack & hide
in the gospels

the way forward
becomes cliché
our backs are turned
from history
unclaimed demons
come between us

--- e b bortz

for the democrats who repeatedly vote for the corporate parties

i blame you for the wall street bailouts
for the drones and carnage of afghan families
for the millions of homeless and jobless
on our own streets
plains
imaginations
for the impoverished students
dropping out
remember the fakers who still occupy
the altars of legitimacy
in unions
community organizations
on city councils and in congress
the sell-outs who feign
justice
courage
solidarity

they all hide but you give them cover

if a reckoning is coming
it will surely wipe
every ass-kissing smirk
off your face
strip all the tv-juiced-cosmetics
& hair enhancements
away
i'd love to see your real face
you can look at mine as well
spit in my eye if that
satisfies you

i'm ready to walk the pain
with you
plant a tent
in lafayette park
asylum exists
when we take the first step

--- e b bortz

(published in opednews.com, Jan 2011)

have i finally crawled out or in?

for Aung San Suu Kyi

from every identifiable place
darkness lifts or not
inconspicuously
or scarring
every marking has a point

where the colors
have collapsed
a common blend
becomes a stain

rationales
have ended
most without
scrutiny

there are no final judgments
in fact judgments are not germane
a mouth is a circle
is a chant
is a spirit
all its own

--- e b bortz

counterculture

plays a rhythmic washboard
before every honest voice dies
     let the drumbeat lead
inhale the fire of the earth
& use the word culture
as it was intended
to open every pore
release the heat
begin again

--- e b bortz

earth note 146

rivers have a way

of getting even

with those who would

harness & bleed

their very being

an icy smile gets smacked down

wiped off the face

of the 40th street trestle

--- e b bortz

lowell george little feat & dawn

dusty tucumcari
makes the sun work that much harder
and every speck
needs a place to rest
even before
giving thanks
the chicano chef
slices the turkey
and pumpkin pie
so we're tempted to ask
the waitress whether
willin
was in the radio queue
because we were thinking
of dawn and how she passed
from our grasp
as the dusk
came up fast
and it would have been
grace
to have another slice
of her voice
gravelly thru mesa redonda
the empty backroads
leave her messages
in dry canyons
& the old towns
turn their backs
on the interstates
just to survive

we put her faint smile
in our pockets
roll the road
that comes
when the signs
are taken down
& the taste of honey
awakens our lips

--- e b bortz

earth note 145

only the dark surf
raging on myrtle beach south carolina
seems real
against the empty streets of ocean boulevard
ripley's is haunted all to themselves
a plastic kingdom
decidedly more irrelevant
than even what passes
for the daily news

a black dog finds
a dead jellyfish
the sky misleads
in its brightness
if there was ever a season
to consider what's coming
you'd have only to look around
at the thousands of empty motel rooms
each one of them with a pastel story
but certainly no answers
for deadpan poets
plowing deeper
deeper
than beach sand compactors
fixated metal detectors
stop & frisk agents
.....generation paranoia

--- e b bortz

earth note 144

elephant butte, hot springs, new mexico

the dark rock foreground
with the lighter sandy background
gives the elephant
(or elephants from my angle)
the whole plain
a range that includes
a cold water lake reservoir
and no predators
'cept humans

hot springs sounds
so much more inviting
than
truth or consequences
like who the hell would want
to be named after
a silly defunct tv game show?
anyway
name aside
the town includes many
who have broken down
(vehicles and human alike)
deciding that
this would be home from now on
and i fully understand
the spontaneity of all of that
and kinda envy those free souls
besides

so
if you're looking for good thrift stores
warm dry climate
enough water if you're very frugal
and your social security
or scarce income potential
can get you through
check out
hot springs / truth or consequences
maybe that second name
should become our nation's
new mantra
(after so much war and deceit)
'cause the sun is usually shining
almost everyone is poor & struggling
and isn't it better to be
in a place
where the pretentious
turn up their noses
in their hundred-dollar sun glasses
and the freeways leave you
as an exit sign
in the desert
of life?

--- e b bortz

for every former or present radical catholic i may have known or read about

when he died
jc (juan chacon) may have been the last desolation angel
silver city new mexico
heroic zinc miners strike of the early 1950s
the movie salt of the earth still an image in my fifteen-year-old mind
it was a bit unsettling to walk the streets of silver city
today
though i found a bookstore that knew the story of the women
and men who put down their tools and picked up their pens
to tell the truth (not truth or consequences)
about brown and red (in all senses) and black and white
workers facing down the vengeance
racism and wrath of big money
the old mine mill & smelter workers union
(later swallowed by the usw)
still stood today in the art galleries and natural healing boutiques
though healing isn't always the best medicine

sh checked on a used bookstore in silver city
for a copy of desolation angels
(lost years ago)
but there wasn't one
i believe kerouac knew about the zinc miners strike
even if he had other plans
and every word he wrote from every lookout mountain
in the great northwest
told stories of anti-heroes only a radical could love
which isn't much different from the story of the miners strike
or other gospels still unspoken
and i so love sh for thinking about that and looking through
the shelves for the word

father jack would tell albert elena and the rest of us
that the grape boycott would win
if we kept the picket lines going
and so the kroger store on the northside (long gone)
would need to feel the heat
until they removed the nonunion grapes from their shelves
and they did

it's been a decade since we uttered the name of ll
of quebec (as we spotted quebec texas on the map)
sh said she wouldn't be there waiting for me
and of course that's true
but if there's a root there's a flower or a thorn or a cactus
that's ready to bring you back
to those cold quebec winter trips
onto her hot gentle round hips
a mind that refuses to accept the inevitable
is one worth feeling

it was getting dark as we came out
of the mogollon & black range mountains
gila national forest
steep cliffs and a stray black angus bull
cold winds
but enough sun to reflect off the light brown rocks
orange and blue shadows in the distance

at 5am this morning
a car horn signal
brought together a few men
gathering themselves together
to go to work
no questions asked
silence
solidarity in the eyes
jc would have done the same

--- e b bortz

earth note 143

big bend national park, texas

fierce free wind above the rio grande
a circular voice
echoes off the chisos mountains
sierra del carmen

the river struggles through rock & sand
a steady flow
unexpected hissing rapids
hot springs sometimes heal

one two
many coyotes howling
break the night
half moon rising

the peaks speak
with a brown desert stare
leave as you came
breathe touch taste

remember the pitted rocks
brave
standing straight up
morning homage
shouts & whispers

--- e b bortz

earth note 142

angelina national forest, texas

great blue heron
just past
my desire for a long long
line of sight
a point where
i could be sure
it was like the great ones
of spider lake minnesota
six months earlier

the reservoir water
seems low
like there's
an expropriation in progress
from the water line
it looks like five-six feet
have been stolen
so much for sharing
what little we have

hornets swarm
if you have a sweet tooth
crows dodge
caw past
fifty foot pines standing still
making an easy leap
for scrawny
almost frail
local squirrels

blue heron
returns with two others
for one last dive
just before sunset
by 6pm
all is dark
hours have passed
perfect moon shadows
begin

--- e b bortz

finding malaise

at every plateau
like the color gray
is a process
impossible to describe

are we climbing up & out
is there light over the hill
or just another dark bare orchard?

nonetheless
stand outside the circle
see the empty euphoria
for what it isn't
release the decades past

subservience
is a prerequisite
to status quo

comfort-strength a calm ocean
makes immediate pain a little less

til the next storm
til the next dream deferred

--- e b bortz

the abyss

is not at the edge
or further down the road
but among us
when we look
where the fire escape last stood
(sold for scrap years ago)
or a fast car
or a fix
or a stickup gun & ski mask
running across the high desert
billboard landscape
a broken down caustic runway
poisons my boots

it wasn't always that way
even from the bleak
war table debates between
round and square
there were words inside
to send on
to the next
an ear of plenty
even in a wasteland

when the minds were blown
sometimes there came
revelations
only to be exposed later
as idol worship
or bottomless dreamscapes
'course nothing mattered then

but now the blown minds
are by design
just enough manipulation
to be convincing
your shoes can be cleaned
you need not remember your past
and you can view the morning after
from a better vantage point
.....embracing the abyss

--- e b bortz

earth note 141

cicada trees
answering each other
along the ridge
each in unison
as if to tell us
sing it out if you mean it

one cicada stands alone at the backdoor
leaves a message

--- e b bortz

death of a key west poem

even in the early sun
when the water wakes
a new surf starts up
the earth stays dark

i look back years
to find the perfect truth
dharma image

synthesis
accepts every character
having synched
the past with the present

each year
the light fades
a little more

so i go back to the lovers
on si surat stupa
to liven my legs
for the climb

listening for the voice
of every pelican
still flying

--- e b bortz

save me from your messiah

and messiah complexes
poetics and poets who
insult the trees from whence
the pages come
and always with the word
me me me
sandwiched between
a luddite east cleveland levy
and a hyper-text delusional stream
of ego
fame

those oil-suffocating sea birds
in the gulf of mexico
are now the quintessential images of
america the corporate
sucking on carbon assholes
until it kills us
so
forget the poets who can't
reach beyond
their own pricks
and gated habitats

words will not make us clean
though maybe
that's all we have

--- e b bortz

The Great Awakening

http://seminal.firedoglake.com/diary/51965

The Great Awakening

by e b bortz


We need to really think outside the bounds of mainstream U.S. culture and media to find the great awakening...which is most definitely in progress.

By the time you read this, Antanas Mockus, Green Party candidate for President of Colombia will be heading into the runoff round. And no, the specific issues of the Mockus campaign is not really the issue...ideological dogmatists: heads up! What is important to see is that the Green Party program and constituency represents a historic and fundamental surge towards grassroots democracy, against repression, an end to corruption, the beginning steps for economic justice, peace, and ecological wisdom...yes, the beginning of a new Colombia. Antanas Mockus and the Green Party have put together a coalition capable of electing the planet's first Green Party head of state. What is most significant about this is not the "how and when", but in the fact that millions of voters believe in the possibility.

After years of Green Party representation in every major European parliament, a breakthrough was finally realized in the United Kingdom. A rising environmental consciousness and a well organized grassroots new politics propelled the charismatic Caroline Lucas to victory as the first Green MP in the UK Parliament. Something is indeed afoot.

A collapsing economy in Greece, and previously in Iceland, might in fact be a harbinger of the future. How and to what extent the Greens and their allies prepare programmatically for these kinds of crises (more national collapses are possible), could very well determine how successful they'll be in future elections. Millions of people losing their jobs or having their wages and benefits slashed, will have little patience for political leaders "going slow" or treading about with 'solutions' that don't address their immediate and long-term pain and sacrifices. A creative and sustainable green economics, uncoupled from the dictates and volatility of global financial markets, is no longer a futuristic pipedream...the future may be upon us sooner than we think.

At this time, the British Petroleum oil gusher is still spreading it's poison in the Gulf of Mexico. Added to this has been a U.S. government sanctioned reckless deployment of chemical dispersing toxins against the encroaching oil mass. This ecological catastrophe is the direct result of decades of corporate political rule in Washington and in state capitals across the country. By buying their favorite Democrat and/or Republican legislators and the deregulation terms of their endearment, corporations via their de facto representatives have bought the elections by dominating the media, the agenda, and in many cases directly limiting the voter's choices. Today, we are all paying the price for corporate politics. Recent mainstream polls have indicated that only 30% of the U.S. electorate are in support of political incumbents...the voters are obviously fed-up and may be open to new ideas...let this be the beginning of our own awakening.

The wars of empire grind on...the loss in human lives and maimed lives is morally indefensible. Yet, it might be a faltering (bankrupt) economy and an outraged public that actually brings millions back into the streets. Continuing the wars in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Iraq will never bring us closer to a secure or sustainable future...only more pain and financial ruin. We leave behind a battlefield of unexploded cluster bombs and other munitions along with depleted uranium contamination. This will guarantee more generations of resentment both at home and throughout the world. A Green foreign policy based on nonviolent constructive engagement with the rest of the world is a positive new way forward. It's time to put away all of our weapons of mass destruction and extend the hand of true friendship to all who will take it.

The tide of rising expectations might just be the catalyst for real change in the United States, even within the seemingly all-powerful corporate political state. It wouldn't be the first time outdated political parties were shattered under the weight of their own irrelevance and replaced with new political forces: younger, bolder, visionary yet practical. Our watchword should be: stay active...the manifestations of "a change is gonna come" have yet to be written, much less realized.


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

no explanation needed

a poet's tools can't be sharpened
unless the skin is in decay

even a gasp
can mark a turning point

direction zero
is the best roadmap

when you lift
bend your knees

wear your pen
like a revolver

listen for the agony
& leave clarity for mathematicians

travel light
on multiple planes

don't worry if you're wrong
you'll have the last word

--- e b bortz

earth note 139

a couple of alberta spruce
giving a hand on the hillside
are joined today
by two hetzi column junipers
dark green & dense
looking toward eighteen feet
standing against the slide
civil disobedience of a sort

when the cones fall
they'll be painted
in the tradition
of a famous painter
arranged around a circle
a circle we have yet to understand
celebrate nonetheless
& carry on

--- e b bortz

(published in Three Rivers Bioneers, Oct 2010)

karma

rolled down the ramp
from the commuter speedboat
in na thon thailand
bicycle wheels following my instinct
island ring road south
still a few hours daylight
big orange hangs
like droopy eyelids
the heat is unique
approaching sunset
the air dries a bit
before the evening mist
makes landfall
off the ocean

a few farmers were picking bananas
on the interior hills
i could see them under big hats
carts filling along palm-lined pathways
their work a tender touch
fused with small yellow skins

lamai beach
coral jagging up
a mix of sharp black rock
rough shore
piercing for the unfamiliar
i spilled my blood
on occasion
knowing the pain was warranted

descriptions come up short
on the last hill
above chaweng beach
drawn like a long necklace
free from the body
it sways with each wave
then releases you
anonymously to karma
runaway doubts
having been liberated
by the weight
of another

--- e b bortz
january 1989

earth note 138

forty years of earth days
& a slow waltz

if we were dreaming
there'd be an excuse

corporate smiley face
drools a nasty overbite

someone's awake

most every politician
auctions green credit cards

fracking rigs & access roads
where do we make our stand?

--- e b bortz

finding nirvana

at the end of my index fingers
as they rest over my ear openings
a solid pressure to quiet the pounding
.....off the page
& make space for longer days
yet wail the days past
every pulse a new angle of detail
long forgotten landscapes
smell sweet
a liquid green road
comes home
each night
in time for curry

and we always spoke
only in the present
tasted the spice
each moment drawn
out toward the sea
and the mermaid
of songkhla
motionless but watching
for the misstep
& excuses
for choosing the rational
the ego of self-destruction
we knew to be hollow

but now we're past the boundaries
long abandoned
.....the eardrum sings back
.....calling out a last blue streak
.....of day
.....
--- e b bortz

earth note 137

diesel locomotives
coal cars & squealing brakes
wrap thunder around a steel bridge
primed black
and if the earth answers
it might be an echo
or a shaking
like fire & brimstone
roaring itself up woods run hollow
with a murky river vantage point
the clapboard houses & prison walls
search for a steady current
for a flushing
of the old ways

--- e b bortz

we are the perennials

the overlooked ones
unconventional
a natural tongue
& a ram's horn
become the witnesses
every ear becomes a speaker
every tear an eye of reason

--- e b bortz

(published in Three Rivers Bioneers, Oct 2010)

second sun in the last seventy-two days

finally broke thru
almost unexpected
like a veil lifted
an orange cat in heat
came to the door
shared the leftovers
with the other stray cats
of the back porch

it seems just when things
seem the most down
(o.k. it's a personal view)
nature curves the cosmos
works its way
bold bursts
thru barren limbs
a thawing within

--- e b bortz