Komivesian Poetics

Gardens of Pleasant Regret

2012-01-22T19:53:00.002-07:00

I wish to see the garden,
the gardens—the tenth of an acre around my house—
    hard surfaces I laid down,
    soft earth I dug up,
    the green,
    the hues-floral,
    successes after decades of error and trial,
    the done, undone and yet to do,
    a patch of lawn that will need cutting,
    weeds that will have erupted,
    and gifts from good seeds that dropped in.

Gardens of Pleasant Regret

on prospects of returning home
Bob Komives

I wish to smell the smell,
listen to squirrels, birds, and gate,
and I wish to walk with pleasure and companion
as I hear—with pleasant regret—
of what I missed in the days and evenings of my absence.

Fort Collins © 2007 :: Gardens of Pleasant Regret :: 0712

:: Listen to My Weather ::

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If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

2012-01-16T09:18:00.001-07:00

If twenty-miles-per-hour and faster
were proven risk for cancer,
speed would be disease.
We would attend seminars on slowing down,
preach against moving too fast,
and mourn too-many of our too-speedy loved ones.

If Twenty-Miles-Per-Hour Caused Cancer

Bob Komives

Speed limits would be posted in journals
but unnecessary along our roads.
Sixty-one would be minimum legal age for sprinting.
Health food stores would sell slowing vegetables
harvested by nearby, slow farmers,
and, as well,
they would sell speeding herbs
believed, in certain cults, to grant immunity.

If twenty-miles-per-hour caused cancer
the word “automobile” would be old-fashion,
a quaint mistake of inventive evolution
on the road to the all-weather Sport-Utility Chair.
the trendy, Hand-Made, Low-Gear Bicycle,
and, of course, the Humphrey:
Hybrid Horse-Horseless buggy
fueled half-time by stew of its own manure.

If Everybody Could Draw but Few Could Hug

2012-01-16T08:58:00.004-07:00

If everybody could draw but few could hug
we would appreciate the art in a beautiful embrace,
Michelangelo would be gone from memory
and from the Sistine Chapel.

If Everybody Could Draw but Few Could Hug

Bob Komives

We would express powerful emotions with sketches on our shirt sleeves
and buy shirts only if their sleeves were drawable.
Tatoos would be do-it-yourself and erasable.
Hugs would be flaunted by the rich who can afford them,
enjoyed by the poor who can’t sell them,
and envied by the middle class
who can’t save them.

his quiet night alone

2012-01-08T15:04:00.011-07:00

as I drink my scotch-and-soda
my good friend fights leukemia

his quiet night alone

Bob Komives

as a woman from Austin sings
                                          he loves his scotch with a splash of water
as she sings “Hush Little Baby Don’t You Cry”
                                          he prefers single-malt
as she sings “Summertime”
                                          he also enjoys good Irish whiskey
as I decide this singer is quite good
                                          he lies with his thoughts in the hospital
as I look up to order my second
                                          he, hour after hour, consumes drips of cancer poison
as I chat with the attractive waitress
                                          his attentive nurse brings another liter
as I consume music and scotch among many in good humor
                                          he lies his quiet night alone

“Cordless”

2012-01-04T23:16:00.004-07:00

Perhaps you, as I, are puzzled by the lack of clarity
in the much-used word, “cordless.”

If the word “cordless” means “without cord”
I drink from cordless beer mug,
eat cordless bananas,
write with cordless pencil.
Eve and Adam were cordless people.

"Cordless"

Bob Komives

If “cordless” means “once-upon-a-time-had-a-cord”
the rest of us are cordless people—
crazy people, if we speak of “cordless screwdrivers.”
For, I have owned dozens such tools,
but not one with a cord—
       except the day I attached a string to one
       for fear of losing yet another down the well.

If “cordless” means “empowered by battery”
I almost understand the term.
My wristwatch is cordless;
I can’t wind its spring.
And, though my camera has a wrist cord,
it too is made cordless
by double-double-A cells.
I now have several friends
       with somewhat cordless automobiles,
and one with a kind-but-cordless pacemakered heart—
But, as of yet, only robots are truly cordless people.

If, after all this puzzling,
you share my conclusion
that “cordless” means “meaningless”
we can only wish somehow to have enjoyed
       this cordless waste of our time.

If I Were Not Afraid To Be The Fool

2011-12-05T16:23:00.002-07:00

If I were not afraid to be the fool
I would play openly with children's toys,
drink cheap scotch from time to time,
eat fried Spam out of nostalgia,
wear white socks and loafers.
I would not twice-check my zipper.
I would not worry that you laugh at me,
because I enjoy helping you laugh.
I imagine I could even speak of sport in symphony hall,
and, in Lisbon, call forth my few words of Portuguese.
I would be unafraid to praise our enemy
--criticize our friend.
I would admit I still love you.

If I were Not Afraid To Be The Fool

Bob Komives

If I were not afraid to be the fool
I would dance when I feel dance,
and,
as I always do,
I would sing off-key,
--but loudly again as unharnessed child.
If I were not afraid to be the fool,
indeed,
I would be less foolish.

Click to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptychs.

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If There Were but One Kind of Love

2011-12-05T16:00:00.002-07:00

If there were but one kind of love
we are lovers;
we are friends.
In turns, we would be
parent,
child,
favored neighbor,
distant kin.
You would find me as cuddly as your favorite book
--a book that we would neither buy nor sell,
for that would be slavery.

If There Were but One Kind of Love

Bob Komives

Knowing but one kind of love
you would understand my caress of a beautiful dance;
find me jealous of your banana split,
offer equal gifts to beloved sunrise and favorite uncle.
bestow like kiss upon kitten, tulip, and lip.

If there were but one kind of love
I would feel as much nostalgia for this moment
--too beautiful and fresh to forget--
as I feel for a moment long ago,
a moment I scarcely recall
but will never regret.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2007 :: If There Were but One Kind of Love :: 0707

CLICK to see as part of a graphic and poetry triptych.

Beauty's Laws

2011-12-05T15:48:00.001-07:00

beauty's laws we partially know

by their refusal to obey our own

unwilling to be always sensible
nor nonsensical
humble
nor august
Each is silent, yet articulate
simultaneous, but free of babble
timeless and immediate

Beauty's Laws

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2007 :: Beauty's Laws :: 0702

CLICK to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptychs.

I Say

2011-11-30T17:34:00.008-07:00

I Say

Bob Komives

transliteration:

I say,
it is time to change the world,
I say it,
mean it,
as if I did not know the world does every day change.

It is time to get off my ass
to change
the way
the world changes.

I say!

But, will I?

The Dull Generation

2011-11-18T16:55:00.006-07:00

Here, the dull generation
is my generation.

At home,
I would like to think that indeed we were,
that indeed we are the dynamic generation.
We keep trying to change the world,
its art,
its politics.
We have failed as much as succeeded,
have been every bit as ordinary
          as extraordinary.
Yet, many who come along to replace us
          tell me we are special
          for decades of having been not dull
           (even if we seem quaint today).

The Dull Generation

Bob Komives

Here, the dull generation
is my generation:
too young to remember life before
          iron curtains sealed them from us.
too old to discover a new life,
          create a new life
          since the curtains have opened.

They were too young to rebel,
to inflate fully
          with excitement and optimism.
They watched as their parents,
          their older brothers,
          their older sisters
stirred up a revolution,
succeeded,
then failed,
died,
escaped,
got crushed,

They may resent the older one
who is old enough to have fought twice,
suffered defeat twice,
yet retain something heroic to remember.

They may resent the younger one
who sees them as dull,
as too far from the groove
          of cultural explosion.

They speak bitterly of retirement,
having now retired
          into a discomforting new world
          that gives back far less
          than the old world promised.

If they are not dull,
they feel dull.
They are the handsome one
and the pretty one
who is sure nobody
          will want to dance with them.
Their mirrors do not reflect attraction.
Certain of their dullness,
they tell me they resent it,
accept it,
cannot see beyond it
except to see dull certainty
and to assure me
          that my ordinary life
          has been every way better
          and everything but dull.

Ode To New Friends

2011-11-15T19:16:00.006-07:00

Old Friends,
we heap praise
upon praise
upon them
in chit-chat and great works.
Alas, this is always less praise than they deserve.

Ode to New Friends

Bob Komives

Here, however,
find an ode to New Friends,
those who did not exist
until one day
a short while ago.
Fashioned full-form from thin-air
they appeared at a table among strangers;
they stopped to pick up a few coins we dropped;
they spoke to us after months of silent nods and smiles;
they showed up at elbow of long-time acquaintance,
or at our elbow when we needed a push;
they had to butt into our conversation
or critique our gardening,
or we imposed such discourtesy upon them;
or we met them as enemies
with whom we had to keep speaking
when our shouting was done.

New Friends fill voids that did not exist.
They pour vigor into mind and spirit,
sharpen our self-image,
open a new world or two,
or make an old world interesting.

New friends go away as mysteriously as they appeared.
Many become memories,
cherished and mourned.
Many fade to the mid-ground of good friendship
until day or place
when we see them forward again,
recognized and embraced,
Old Friends.

Good Medicine

2011-11-15T16:38:00.005-07:00

Good medicine--among the best.
From able physician:
    definite diagnosis,
    prognosis of cure,
    ample prescription--long doses of rest.

Good Medicine
Bob Komives

Copenhagen

2011-10-20T08:53:00.009-07:00

Have I been somewhere if my only there is where airplanes come and go?

Copenhagen

Bob Komives

I arrive to depart,
spend two hours,
look through a few large windows
(out to somewhere-nowhere).
I buy coffee,
admire the wooden floor.
Tempted by a book and elegantly packaged toffee
I deny my urge
and speak a quiet "no" to myself,
but I speak to no strangers.
(I guess them to be not-native in my English language.)

Yes,
I am here now
but will never have been here.
(unless I return to linger)
(unless great-good fortune or disaster strikes now as I depart)

To inquisitors I will deny this moment and place,
because,
in all honesty,
this lie lies closest to the truth.

Occupy: old words refreshed by the Occupiers

2011-10-17T12:42:00.009-07:00

As more arrive each day to Occupy Wall Street and other places symbolic of the error and immorality of our economic ways, my first supportive step is to find words. I looked through my old words to find some that the occupiers have refreshed for me.

I find many :: CLICK :: and add some pleas ("please!").

My Weather

2011-09-27T18:20:00.018-07:00

In the spring,
farmer and I
conflict over rain,
as do I
with the me
in my garden.

My Weather

Bob Komives

Not in Fall.
Good wine weather
is my weather.
Good apple picking
is my weather.
Grain-harvest time
that's my weather.
Clean the garden;
walk the morning,
sun and dry.
Do more thinking;
walk the evening,
cool and dry.

Let there be one cold soak
to finish one good book
and to give the earth more smell.

Then let sun
bring back air
crisp in shadows,
warm in light,
moving by day,
calm by night.
That's my weather.

:: Listen to My Weather ::

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Notes on the 5:00AM Magnolia

2011-09-20T09:12:00.013-07:00

A Morning in Year Seven of the Fifty Years of Peace Corps

Five days and nights of rain pause as I approach--summoned to join others at El Español.

Each step is a leg-jerk extraction of rubber boot, up and forward, sounding every suck of clasping mud.

I plod erratic steps, slip acrobatic slide to bridge below.

Notes on the 5:00AM Magnolia

Rainy Season, Guatemala, 1968

Bob Komives

Clouds part.

Blackness breaks.
Sunrise glows through.

I glimpse black-wetness,
reflections on black tires turned skyward.
Yes, dammit, yes, black tires turned skyward above rain-washed blue, red and cream.

This is the 5:00AM Magnolia,
outward bound, now top-side-down, suspended nose to tail, across Creek-gully El Español.

I see broken boards rain-washed clean but for mudded tracks--telltales of where the Magnolia slipped, how it slipped, how it flipped to where it lies wheel-side up.

With me, I bring neither skill nor tool, only camera and conversation.

- - -

Through millennial expanse of sub-tropical forest El Español has risen from dry to flood on whim after whim, season after season.
These years, though, it rises faster and higher.
The sponge is gone.
Each hard rain mines more soil from the once-forest floor.
Each flood scours more land above, deposits more silt below as El Español sculpts its gully with rises and rushes, slowings and spreadings through coastal plain to estuary and sea.

People came with determination to stay:
They cleared trees, built shelters that became houses.
They planted corn, planted cotton, extracted a harvest, carried it across El Español to market,

One year, when El Español was near dry, they built a bridge; poured a concrete buttress at each bank; placed two steel beams (separate by an axles length) from buttress to buttress--spanning the bottom trough of gully. They placed planking across the beams parallel to water's flow.
Above and at right angle to these planks (above and parallel with each beam ) they laid two narrow tracks--two planks each--targets for wheels.
There would be no curb--no guard rail to cast doubt on a driver's accuracy.

- - -

Even on a good day this bridge was a test of skill.
On bad days it tested with deep-muck or deep-dust, and weather blindness.
Tractor and truck, wagon and trailer, motorcycle, bicycle, hoof and foot arrived above,
bent right,
descended
through talcum-powder-dust of dry season,
descended
through slippery clay of wet season,
until that point where each vehicle must bend left (quickly left) for straight approach onto the bridge.

- - -

Each day, the 5:00AM Magnolia carries the earliest passengers and cargo thirty kilometers to market where it waits for midday return.
Each day, the driver is Jorge--skilled, occasionally reckless, always decisive.

- - -

This rainy morning, in black pre-dawn, from remote overnight station where he had kept dry in a hemp hammock under thatched roof, Jorge struggled his Magnolia through kilometers of muck.
Above El Español he ordered his passengers off, ordered his assistant off, then disappeared with his bus.
But for occasional brake lights that diminished as they descended, and headlights that illuminated the far bank, Jorge and his bus were no more than dark, phantom rectangle.

- - -

It is Jorge's common courtesy during rainy season to stop, offer passengers the option to walk down, across, and up the other side.
On a not-so-bad day, few would accept his offer.
Yesterday, a third of the bus emptied.
This morning, Jorge gave no option: "Everybody out!"
This was not the morning to make narrow appeal to maternal care, nor to force machete carrying men and boys to choose between safety and virility.
Nor were there grumbles of complaint.
Everybody knew Jorge had reason enough to turn back--refuse the bridge.
Jorge's command relieved them of cowardice and gave them hope of getting to market.
Thus, there on the mud-hill of a road, they became witnesses who would tell me the story and tell it again and again--to themselves and everyone after.

- - -

Empty but for Jorge, the Magnolia slides down the approach.
To those left in the darkness above, the Magnolia becomes a sound, a mild roar, a black rectangle, that moves before the head-lighted eeriness beyond.
When brake lights blink on, off, on, but do not slow, disembarked passengers see that Jorge cannot stop to shift grears and take careful aim at the bridge.
They do see headlights bend left as they should.
Jorge, the Magnolia, its wheels have found the elevated tracks.
Found them,
followed them,
and then,
slowly,
as if carefully,
as if Jorge has control,
the 5:00AM Magnolia sideslips right.
Akwardly dropping from tracks onto deck, it slides onto plank-ends that break then fall under the weight of the Magnolia's upstream wheels.
Downstream wheels then catch enough to flip the Magnolia topside down,
nose down,
suspended on incline,
bank to bank,
inches into rushing but receding water which conspires with gravity to rip away market-bound cargo and carry it into downstream darkness.

Then, a feint silhouette.
It appears to appear scrambling up the Magnolia's underbelly, only to disappear down into shadows of the near bank.
Unhurt,
carrying a smile,
Jorge trudges uphill into the small, dumbstruck crowd--now slowly descending.

- - -

As I arrive,
bridge sits beside the Magnolia, twisted and broken, precariously adequate for foot traffic.
Here the 5:00AM Magnolia will lie until tonight's rain and tonight's flood attempt to float it under the bridge and take it away to estuary.

Soon arrives the bus I had planned to take to market today--the 6:00AM Ramirez.
Its load of awestruck passengers must hear the story, as must those who show up on foot.
We first arrivals convert from listeners into storytellers.
We tell the detailed story of what happened,
stories of what might have happened,
and speculations on what is yet to be.
Heard and retold so many times that today I am certain that on that morning I saw it all.

We know well the sign above Jorge's seat:
"¡Dios me guía; Yo manejo!"--"God guides; I drive!"
Should we thank a god for our safety?
Should we condemn a god for cargo lost to the river?
Should we thank heaven or Jorge (who stands among us) for getting everybody off the bus?
Should we condemn Jorge for his attempt to cross?
Lives and limbs were saved, but the river has robbed twenty-five poor families of some of their means for living.
To a man, to a woman, we thank heaven and gods and Jorge.

- - -

Now,
from outside, across the river, shining wet blue, red and cream in a burst of sunlight, we see the 9:00AM Magnolia.
It comes empty--no passengers--but we marvel to see that it carries a steel cable to this remote corner of Guatemala that has no telephones, no telegraph, nor radio communication by which accident could be reported and cable requested.
With more than enough in manpower, strength and determination, we tether the topside down Magnolia to a tree.
Tomorrow morning we will find the Magnolia floating downstream of the bridge; the taut cable will foil the water´s attempt to launch the bus seaward.

- - -

This morning, however, life must go on; decisions must be made.
A few now-cargoless passengers from the 5:00AM Magnolia and a few cargo-laden passengers from the 6:00AM Ramirez cross the damaged bridge, transfer to the 9:00AM Magnolia which takes them to market.
Thus begins the shuttle that will continue long enough to become a fact of life.
The Ramirez, stuck on our side of the bridge, will deliver us to Creek-gully El Español.
From there, the healthy Magnolia will take us to town and market.
In a month--rescued and resuscitated--the 5:00AM Magnolia will return to join its sister--shuttling us from the far bank to the world outside.
This system will last the year it takes to gather resources to rebuild the bridge--exactly as built before.

- - -

This morning, however, life must go on; decisions must be made.
Most decide that this is a bad day for us to leave.
We trudge uphill under warming sun, in thickening quagmire, then board the Ramirez for home.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins :: shareverse 2011 :: Notes on the 5:00AM Magnolia :: 1106

Valerie

2011-09-08T22:13:00.128-07:00

I joined you, dear friend,
at Valerie's bedside.
From that visit
(nine years and nine hundred miles distant)
I returned home to draft lines
for a poem that was to begin:
How well do I Know Valerie?
I know not
why I failed to finish that poem.

Valerie
Bob Komives

Perhaps it is that she recovered so beautifully,
as she had done often before,
and would repeat several times more.
I remember well
why I had to begin her poem with a question.

How can I feel so close to person with whom I have spent so little time?
How can I feel attached to her children whom I have hardly met and might not recognize on the street?
Much is due to you.
Over brief summers and a short year, you became my great and open friend.
If that were not enough,
you married a woman who embraced me and my family with old-friendship from the moment we met.
I remember that moment of meeting.
You and I and a few other young men sat in our car, stopped in traffic, nearing the football game.
Across the street, two pedestrians passed headed to the stadium.
Everybody but I recognized the tall, beautiful girl and paid no attention to her date.
For, ignoring a recent quarrel, they knew she was your girlfriend.

Valerie looked over,
recognized,
and, with coy smile,
excused herself to her date as she walked to our motionless car.
Never have I seen more adept display of warm and cool, receptivity and reserve, vulnerability and strength, friendliness and dignity.
I was charmed.
It was clear to me that this lover's quarrel must end (or, I suppose, continue lovingly indefinitely) for your sake and mine.
Perhaps we can best testify who, in the decades since that Saturday, saw Valerie so little.
So quickly a long-interrupted conversation would return to the important, difficult, and humorous aspects of life, as if there had been no gap of years.
She walked gently on a plain that seemed above the rest of us, yet she would elevate us above herself.

How well did I know Valerie?
I feel that a few times I knew her well,
but never, dear friend,
did I know her well enough.

Something Difficult Has Taken Your Smile

2011-08-27T08:36:00.011-07:00

Something difficult has taken your smile.
I need not know what,
nor need I know how nor when.

Something Difficult Has Taken Your Smile

Bob Komives

Neither must you nor should you force your lips
to pretend that radiance
when you
see me
see you.
Because you cannot see
that my pain equals yours when you try.

Nor should you question my readiness to listen
(to give silent embrace)
there
where you may summon me,
or here
where I will welcome you,
if you wish,
when you wish,
as you wish.

A Comfortable Place

2011-08-24T18:50:00.007-07:00

exotic

comfortable
familiar
strange

These common streets seemed once uncommon.
These common folk were once exotic folk.
To them it is home,
has always been home-
rarely beyond its boundaries,
never beyond its language.
To me it was far,
farther from home than I had been;
my first time out of the Americas,
my first time in Europe;
and this was Central Europe,
Hungary, near Austria.

A Comfortable Place

Bob Komives

Here I found houses with no front door,
addresses that ran upward on one side of the street
ran strangely downward on the other.

In this common cemetery
I watched clusters of people
arrange a sea of flowers by day,
light a sea of candles by night.

Here I stumbled upon a palace
where Joseph Haydn had composed
and directed his music.

At this humble store I bought good wine
at less than the cost of coca-cola.

Here I saw headscarved old ladies on large bicycles;
walked by grassless front yards and back yards-
filled with fruit and vegetables,
flowers and raked earth;
met old Russian trucks loaded with sugar beets;
got passed by horse-drawn wagons of manure;
picked up fallen pecan nuts with a gypsy.

At this gate I was greeted,
felt discomfort,
gave my first kisses to a grown man's cheek.

Here, now,
for yet another visit,
in a place that will never be home,
in a place that is ever more familiar,
much is common among the once exotic.

Again I am here, but why?
They are dying;
they are dying who bind me to this place.
They are dying,
and younger bonds seem not to tie.

I came a decade ago
and found ancestor strangers buried here.
I have come again and again to visit new friends
among found relatives who live here.
When I come back once more (as I must),
I will find nothing exotic
but much that will be strange.
As I walk past familiar houses
to the familiar graves of ancestors
I will happen upon graves of friends
and find a comfortable place to mourn.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2004 :: A Comfortable Place :: 0401

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Homestyle

2011-08-14T08:05:00.003-07:00

Quiet, patterned home,

our homestyle.

Noisy, frenetic, unpredicted home,

our homestyle.

Homestyle

Bob Komives

Worth every return--

both styles.

Home of quiet patterns

is timeless,

liveable day-by-moment;

each day down-plays its import;

each moment important in its

lack of momentary,

taste of eternity,

slow-fill of energy.

Unpredictable, frenetic, noisy home

makes memories;

gifts surprises

to expect but not anticipate;

drains energy while energizing;

crazy, yes,

but so it is.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not bore you in our calm.

Welcome to my home;

I hope we do not ignore you in our frenzy.

If our home is today a bother,

return next week for the other.

"Homestyle,"

spoken yesterday: fast-and-choppy.

"Homestyle,"

whisper it today: softly, smoothly.

Please join us,

make yourself at home;

let our style embrace your own style--

homestyle.

Spring Break, Procrastination, and Japanese Civilization

2011-07-31T19:56:00.004-07:00

written in spring,
posted in summer
lived today and long ago

Downtown,
dead last night.
I walked through and back for exercise-
to get out after day inside,
with no desire to drop in
to usual spots
but did look in
to see them empty,
did listen around
to hear no music
along silent streets
shared with the few
who looked to want to be revelers-
ducking in
slipping out
of near-empty spaces,
as if chance might find them
in one spot
at same time
to bring spot and them alive.
Not I.
Not this evening that felt like Sunday morning
at the city's resting core,
resting from nights and months of vibrancy.
This is the week we call Spring Break.
Students go away.
Old ones go together.
Young ones tow parents
or parents tow them
to ski slope or canyon across the mountains
or to a beach in Mexico or Hawaii.
We do not partake.
We seldom partook.
Each year I looked up
to notice my children at home,
my friends on the road.

Spring Break, Procrastination

and Japanese Civilization

Bob Komives

.
I I

Perhaps good things do come to him who waits
as it came to me in my Japanese Civilization class,
one class I will always remember from college.
I arrived to class as the only student
who did not know it was exam day.
Too embarrassed to speak out,
I spoke to myself:
I must tell the professor
I am not prepared.
Tell him before the exam.
Then, after the exam.
Well, next class.
Upon entering (but he is too busy).
Upon leaving (but he is occupied).
Next time.
For sure.
I will find the nerve.

But now it would be too embarrassing
I have waited too long to tell him.
There were questions from a chapter I did not read.
I should not have taken the test.
I want to apologize
(in advance)
for my grade.
I must tell him.
To hell with embarrassment!
I will tell him,
--next class.

Cowardice deserves its own punishment.
Ah, but what reward cowardice.
The test came back, marked "A"
My second "A" in 4 years.
Perhaps preparation is over sold.

I I I

I used to fear I was a bad father,
lousy husband,
for not thinking ahead
to whisk my family off someplace.
Until
I noticed I loved it.
By luck and lack of preparation
I had done the right thing
to stay home
to give and take attention
with family and neighborhood.
We ventured out onto nearby paths
over neighborhood walks
under gorgeous spring sun-
sometimes over beautiful spring snow.
Spring after spring
oddly,
pleasantly
surprised.
Destination by procrastination
--via Japanese Civilization--
indeed, I love Spring Break.

Everything Ever Asked For

2011-07-22T23:09:00.001-07:00

Excitement, sudden
in the person:
Everything-Ever-Asked-For.
Frustration, unexpected
in the person:
Once-Again-Not-Enough.

Everything Ever Asked For

Bob Komives

Gentle time together.
Hard time apart.
Perfect often.
Not often enough.
Too few days.
Too few moments.
Not enough night.

Loss came suddenly
in the tongue slip:
-All-Or-Nothing!-
-If not all, then nothing-

Absent again the sometimes perfect,
nothing remains of not enough.

Midnight Hailstorm

2011-06-09T07:16:00.012-07:00

. .
I write

. .
unnerved

. . . . . . .
under ping-ponging skylight

. . . . . . . .
bicycle helmet out of reach

Midnight Hailstorm
June 8-9, 2011

Bob Komives

Stools

2011-05-28T08:28:00.006-07:00

    on
    stools
    along
    bar
    sit
    drinker
    stranger
    lover
    friend
    strung
    together
    strung
    together
    together
    strung
    end
    to
    end

Stools

Bob Komives

Quandary, If Obvious and Necessary

2011-05-20T08:34:00.007-07:00

Quandary, if obvious and necessary,
is not quandary but matter of fact.

Quandary, If Obvious and Necessary

Bob Komives

Ponder:
how breeze be more vast than its meadow,
   yet meadow be much more than its wind;
how river be greater than valley,
   and valley greater than water within.
how mystery multiplies within and around us
   if in science we explore each nook and space.
And child, neighbor, lover, friend:
how our embrace holds far more than meaning;
   yet meaning holds all we embrace.

Will Archaeologist Dig Us Up?

2011-05-05T22:33:00.005-07:00

We inter kitchen waste in our garden where it helps us produce
        tomatoes,
        lettuce,
        and beans,
which, in turn, make garden debris and kitchen waste for us to bury where they will help us produce
        tomatoes,
        lettuce,
        and beans.

Will Archaeologist Dig Us Up?

Bob Komives

With burning banned and land fill filling, we should match production to our rate of decay. We do not. Our garden rises. Every fifth year we add three and one-half inches of timber around rising vegetables in our risen soil. Elsewhere in our yard the rise is subtle. Our house sinks without moving. Patio and walk descend to become pond and river, while culprit flowers and lawn look innocent.

I never understood why archaeologist must unearth cities, dig down, and further down through past city below, into lost civilization beneath, to disinter them, bring them up and out, from oblivion into history. I did not understand until I noticed my land grow upward at millennial pace toward burial of my home—obscuring:
        noble purpose,
        romance,
        our sense of good citizenship
        in burial of garbage
        where
        and when
        we live.
Our commandments are noble and moral, are they not?
        Live with our garbage!
        Make it useful!

        And, in turn,
        Fight erosion!
Erosion robs soil and nutrient—carries them away as spoil and pollution. I do seek to prevent erosion—have supported its prevention by others. Lately, however, as I inter bucketfuls of kitchen waste I unearth questions:
    Will archaeologist dig us up?
        with purpose?
        by accident?
    How tiny is that likelihood?
        for this era?
        my neighborhood?
    Or, is erosion the only likely future,
        humble accident,
        ignoble story
    that may keep us above oblivion?

Snow Speaks Several Tongues

2011-05-05T22:27:00.003-07:00

Snow speaks several tongues.

Each is silent, yet articulate
simultaneous, but free of babble
timeless and immediate

Snow Speaks Several Tongues

Bob Komives

I awake to be told
woman tramples ice toward distant lover
man curses love that flaunts its risk
dry earth moans in its pleasure
wheat seed slurps into reverie
and ancient new beauty repeats
    “Snow is falling”
    “Snow is falling”
as moment whispers insistence
    “Listen to me”
    “Look at me”
    “See me call”
    “Be with me”
    “I am calling”
    “Snow is falling”
    “Snow is falling”
    “I am calling”

Warm Thought

2011-04-30T23:39:00.002-07:00

Warm thought
ought
to flow
among us
when touch
must
be forgone
for good reason
customary season
necessary distance
of separation
from communication.

Warm Thought

Bob Komives

Thought
ought
to warm us through
till reconnect
at intersect
in time
at place
where we replace
older thought
with young word
and warmer embrace.

Cliché Cliché

2011-04-26T22:06:00.001-07:00

____     Each cliché is true;

____     every cliché is false;

____     always;

____     never;

____     above all;

____     whenever;

____     every other time.

Cliché Cliché

Bob Komives

Deep Embrace

2011-04-11T19:49:00.002-07:00

Times change;

Earth and Heaven move

when,

in the marrow of one breastbone,

steep ego

and

deep humility

embrace.

Deep Embrace

Bob Komives

I Used To Say Of Spring

2011-03-30T13:00:00.002-07:00

I used to say of spring
it happens twenty times
along this footplain of mountain.

I Used To Say Of Spring

Bob Komives

Now I say it happens not at all.
Winter goes away so often
we never know how far.
Summer pays so many visits
we are slow to notice it spread out to stay.
Our eager flowers give back blooms to winter.
Our wardrobe changes
week to week,
hour by hour,
never to certainty
in warmth nor snow
nor cold nor shower.

Spring is to us a foreign word
best translated as Winter-Summer Dance Duet.
Elsewhere,
they know and love their spring,
Here,
we never know
but (almost always) we love our dance.

Good Day, Passers-by

2011-03-28T09:47:00.003-07:00

Good day, Passer-by,
I watch you pass.
I am pleased when you stop.

Good Day, Passers-by

Bob Komives

You see us all around
as you build your city on our ground.
Perhaps because we do not flee
you think us to be thriving.
But we have lost
ninety-nine percent of our land,
ninety-nine percent of our home ground,
the great North American Prairie
where we build and maintain our towns,
where we built cities before your species came around.
If we look proud,
we are proud.
Wherever Buffalo roamed we built homes.
We made the great prairie what it was
and can be.
We till the land,
propagate grasses,
release our homes to burrowing owls,
insects,
snakes,
countless species
who do not know how to make a home
unless first we develop the land,
install utility,
maintain ability
of prairie to be prairie.

Good day, Passer-by.
I am pleased when you stop.
I am Prairie Dog,
a rodent with complex language,
sophisticated society,
commitment to family.
I am your good neighbor.
I know to live with you.
Can you learn and live with me?

I do not care for the eagle,
nor the hawk,
ferret,
coyote,
fox,
nor wolf.
They have taken away family
and want to prey upon me.
Yet I have learned to live with them.
They depend on me.
I am great prairie's great friend.
If you are fond of eagle,
remember me;
I am your great eagle's greater friend.

I am prairie citizen.
On the last one percent of my homeland
I can live with you.
The prairie is passing, Fellow Citizen.
It will slow as you stop,
and it will grow when you show
you can live with me.

I am Fibian

2011-03-26T13:39:00.003-07:00

I am Fibian

Bob Komives

I am Fibian,
northern leopard frog.
This place is one of my spots.
I was once so common
along Cache La Poudre River,
up and down
across North America
you did not count me for much.
But such is history.
Today,
you do not count me for many.
I am Fibian,
cold-blooded amphibian.
Relative to many of my relatives
I am fine
(though in precipitous decline)
because still you can find me.
That is hard to say of my cousin,
Boreal Toad,
supposed to live near the mountain headwater.
He is obviously and officially endangered,
while I am just Fibian,
northern leopard frog,
another amphibian
in the official state of special concern.
I am three and one half inches long.
I take well to cold
but do not freeze.
I eat insects
and other things that would upset your stomach.
Some of you say I am spotted green
to be spotted in the meadow during summer vacation.
Some of you say I am spotted brown
to be spotted in deep water, pond, and wetland.
I crisscross your roads in spring and fall
to prove that none of you is wrong.
But something is wrong
along the river,
around the world.
I am Fibian,
frog, amphibian;
listen up!
When I croak you jump!
In wetland mud I draw a line.
Hop to it and heed my sign:
    Beyond this point
    river stays open
    to song and dance and occasional rhyme,
    but valley is closed
    to amphibian decline.

Partners in Economic Development

2011-03-21T09:48:00.011-07:00

Where is the evidence

that scarcity models work?

Where is the evidence

that doing the right thing costs too much

that doing the wrong thing is affordable

that nations who follow these models become rich?

Partners in Economic Development

Bob Komives

Wealth is our preoccupation

--not our invention.

We do not create economic development

--we are its partner.

Economic development is an organized invasion

--life invades the universe.

Let us strive to be knowledgeable partner

--practice stewardship and equity

--learn

--share what we learn

--organize ourselves to foster the biosphere.

Yes,

we must know that wealth can disappear

--species, ecosystems, languages and cultures become extinct.

We must guard against the disappearance of life itself

--for only in life does this sphere know to be wealthy.

Prevent the destruction of our species

--for we can learn as we survive our poor judgment.

Stop exploiting one another

--together we partake of more wealth more quickly.

Guard against the natural and man-brought disaster

--that destroys knowledge

--leaving machines that no one can use

--books no one can read

--science no one can remember.

Yes,

we must know that within abundance there is scarcity,

yet within simplistic, dogmatic models of scarcity lie falsehoods.

Within these falsehoods lie too many lessons in fiscal irresponsibility:

Do not provide for the welfare of the many

--because resources for the few are scarce.

Do not clean and protect scarce resources

--because, well, our resources are scarce.

Yes,

we must know that between the cataclysms

(brought by meteor, plate, and super volcano)

life prospers

abundance patiently overwhelms scarcities

abundant biosphere enables civilization.

Within biosphere and civilization lie truths.

Within these truths lie our lessons in fiscal responsibility:

          Well-being requires investment.
          Good investment nourishes and improves life.
          Poor investment risks disaster.

There is no evidence

that doing the right thing costs too much,

that doing the wrong thing is affordable?

Evident, indeed, is knowledge of abundance

embedded by life into biosphere and civilization.

As better we know this

as better we become

partners in economic development.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: Partners In Economic Development :: 1102
-------------------------------------------
co-posted on Komivesian Economics

Quit

2011-03-17T11:49:00.001-07:00

Moses quit Egypt,
and Buddha quit Hinduism
before Jesus could quit Judaism,
and Muhammad could quit Christianity
before Luther could quit the Pope,

Quit

Bob Komives

so Vincent Van Gogh could quit Holland and Paris,
and Tesla could quit both Finland and Edison,
so Robert Frost could quit Amherst
after he quit Dartmouth,
and Einstein could quit Europe
after he quit high school,
so Georgia O'Keefe could quit New York
before William Gates could quit Harvard
and they could both quit to a New Mexico
that had quit from Old Mexico
which had quit from New Spain,
or could we say,
they both quit from Old Spain?
which is where this story quits
for proverbial pronouncement.

To quit is always human
and often good.

Renovation

2011-03-06T10:37:00.003-07:00

Hammer

pound

ten-penny nail.

Board

cut

paint

pail.

Renovation

Bob Komives

Pipe

fitting

duct

tape.

Dust

plaster

undo

make.

Muscle

finesse

precision

eye.

Lift

pull

screw

pry.

Order

mess

disorder

clean.

Count

draw

stand

lean.

Nuts

bits

apron

gloves.

Callous

cuts

nudge

shove.

End today

tomorrow again.

Crosscut

rip

break

mend.

Strip wire

wind tight.

Black to black,

white to white.

Climb ladder

two-by-four.

Crowbar

pencil

chisel

door.

Hangers

drivers

inches

pound.

Levels

bevels

squares

round.

Eight-penny

too many

too short

too long.

Measure twice

remember wrong.

Joist

hoist

tacky

dry.

Smoothe

moist

give-up

try.

To Frame

and sheathe

to trim

and bend.

Length

to width

to end again.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2002 :: Renovation ::0215

co-posted on Komivesian Economics

Capture Broadly

2011-02-25T10:49:00.007-07:00

Headnote: Solidarity is but

conscious expression

of inter-dependence

for inter-prosperity.

Capture broadly--
   as leaf captures sun,
      mill captures wind,
         and gatherer gathers grain.

Capture Broadly

Bob Komives

Distribute deeply--
   as leaf sends oxygen,
      mill delivers flour,
         and parent feeds child
            that teacher educates.

Recirculate densely--
   as we bake for our miller,
      who rewards our harvester,
         who buries our excess
               to reward the roots
                  who will feed new leaves.
                     to nourish grains of life.

Footnote: Community is but

subconscious expression

of inter-dependence

for inter-prosperity.

-------------------------------------------

co-posted on Komivesian Economics

Law of Anklets and Chain

2011-02-23T09:01:00.006-07:00

Everywhere on earth
(Wisconsin included)
Government is unsainted.
Unions are unsainted.

Law of Anklets and Chain

Bob Komives

business,
industry,
marketplace and mall,
friends and neighbors,
poets, pagans, priests and preachers,
farmers, foresters and fishers,
up-staters,
down-staters,
high rollers and good waiters,
Peter, Paula, Grace and Paul:

Unsainted.

With anklets aplenty but only one chain,
to hell with one
is to hell with us all.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: Law of Anklets and Chain :: 1101
-------------------------------------------
co-posted on Komivesian Economics

Theories Come, Stay, Proliferate

2011-02-22T16:11:00.002-07:00

Theories come,
stay,
proliferate.
Each unable to prove itself,
disprove the others,
or make sense of memory.
Each theory fails:
either in tenuous presumption
to when you last thought of me,
or in judgment too harsh
to be my last thought of you.

Theories Come, Stay, Proliferate

Bob Komives

It is a Decrepit Back Porch.

2011-02-21T21:54:00.001-07:00

It is a Decrepit Back Porch

Bob Komives

Squirrels live in my back-porch roof.
It is a decrepit porch that should be torn down,
but they do not wish to leave.
Their grandparents grew up there.
(Tradition is important to squirrels.)
When I complain to them
they complain to me.
They chatter at me
for the aunts and uncles I took to corn fields.
I protest,
life for squirrels must be nicer in the country.
Besides, I say,
you pay no rent and you scare my cat.
They protest that I do not spill enough cat food;
they must import peanuts
from the yard of my neighbor who feeds them.
So, why don't you live over there, I ask?
We tried, they say,
but we got lazy
forgot the skills:
climbing poles,
scaling wires,
defying owls,
climbing fences,
flying tree to tree,
limb to limb,
fence to tree to wire to porch.
Some debates cannot be won.
It seems
my decrepit back porch keeps squirrels sound,
alert,
and around.

Loud Cloud

2011-02-20T21:58:00.003-07:00

Loud Cloud

Bob Komives

Awaken!

Hear the Sound!
Look to the stage!
Are they the act or interlude?

Loud cloud over talent and beauty,
noise over music,
vibration over feeling,
as if
the talent and the beauty feel less than they are,
as if
we neither hear nor see what they are,
as if
we could not notice,
as if
they could not care.

We failed to hear their whisper.
Is that why they shout?
Is that what this cloud is about?
Did we miss the mist of genius,
as ours was missed,
as ours was mistaken
by a generation that knew too much?

We knew better then.
Do we know too much now?
Are we what this cloud is about?
Awake for our act.
Asleep for the interlude.

Belong

2011-02-09T00:18:00.002-07:00

Belong

Bob Komives

Do I belong
here
where
there is nobody like me?
Do they wonder
why someone unlike them
has joined them?
Do I insult them,
make them ponder
why
they
would want to be
here
where
I want to be?
Or,
do I assure them:
we are community?

November Trilogy

2011-02-07T19:26:00.002-07:00

November Four: Steamed-over Window

November Four.
At random point
among countless droplets
a large drop has formed.
Trailing clarity above,
consuming droplets below,
it grows,
accelerates,
descends.

November Trilogy

Bob Komives

I saw it as a dark stripe,
one among a few
in bright translucence
on steamed-over window.

Now,
I notice it to be a slit,
a narrow window,
inviting attention
into a slice of the world outside.

Looking elsewhere along the glass,
I see nothing,
a diffusion of light,
a confusion of focus,
encouragement to give attention inside.

Now, distraction,
peripheral movement
beyond a transparent stripe.
I look through to a place
that is nowhere else a place.
Something sits there,
something stands there,
something happens,
somebody passes,
something inspires a thought.

With the thought
attention turns to reflection,
back through translucence
to a place
and a moment
alone
in me.

Until,
beside me,
I notice again the glass.
My stripe has faded,
gone from transparent to translucent.
A few over-sized droplets
hint at where my view had been.

Now,
nearby,
unpredicted,
another drop,
another slice of clarity,
new place outside,
new thought inside.
Translucence becomes transparent.
Thought becomes reflective.

In these countless droplets
I find rare reflection of everyday mind.

November Five: Below The Ankles

November Five.
Alive in a long, warm autumn.
A walk across the college campus.
Feelings of being over-dressed and over-aged.
A day to look around.

Who wears his cap bill-back?
Of which tribe are he and she and they?
Who wears her cap bill-front?
Of which tribe are she and they and he?
Can I trust conclusions from years of observation?
The Bill-fronts have come back
(from near extinction)
to dominate.
Have they prospered by conversion?
in-migration?
propagation?
war?
No matter the explanation,
a more obvious observation:
the hat on my head is popular
only among dermatologists.
Conveniently too warm,
I stow hat into pocket
and join the inconspicuous tribe
(yet populous tribe)
of No-bills.
This humble act pulls my eyes down
to where I happen to notice feet,
two, three pairs of feet,
walking and standing
(to my surprise)
on the thonged sandals I know as flip-flops.
Surpised,
pleased,
these artifacts too avoid extinction-
after tenuous years of survival
inside a few shower rooms,
outside on lonely July beaches,
and, of course,
here on a warm November day
on my two feet.
They survived verbal abuse
from cross-foot-sandal tribes,
from friend and family.
During its ascendance
the cross-foot became more rugged,
more varied,
expensive-
kicking humble flip-flops from the landscape.
But today I see three,
four, five young women of fashion
wearing sturdy, expensive flip-flops.
They signal a re-born trend,
and acknowledge me as leader.

I walk off campus,
more alive,
newly aligned,
and rejuvenated below the ankles.

November Six: Indian Summer

November Six.
Closed up,
gaps filled,
steel in our resolve,
food in our tins,
ready for months of eating from pantry,
we are seduced
to go back out
open up
to the heat outside.
Overdressed again for morning.
Underdressed again by evening.

Warmth and sun after an autumn-dark frost,
we call it Indian Summer,
not knowing why,
but surely a tribute:
     we give worthy names to glorious times.
Indian Summer lingers this year,
three weeks at least.
Each day is too short to be borrowed of summer.
We steal it from winter.
And, oh, what reward for thievery!
The more we steal
the briefer our penalty.
Except,
until,
we begin to admit our winter worry.
Having postponed complaints of snow and cold
we worry about the inevitable onslaught
that must build in anger and severity
each pleasant day it is kept away.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to fear of snowless winter
confused trees,
expectant garden,
open land,
too exposed,
too dry.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to wanting a spring
that we know must follow winter.
Oh, Indian Summer:
      we love you.
      You are warm and illicit.
      We always welcome you.
      We thank you for this beautiful afternoon
      and for this perfect evening
      when you may sneak away
      and stay
      until you hear us petition
      for our seduction
      next year.

Please Take as Compliment

2011-01-21T00:22:00.003-07:00

please take as compliment
good comment on you
no comment on me
when I say
you are excitingly attractive today
more than ever
or should I never
admit to notice
confess to feel
this rush
of aesthetic
hormonal
appreciation

Please Take as Compliment

Bob Komives

Fortuitous Stop In McCook

2010-12-20T18:04:00.016-07:00

We drive east

on western high plain,

through hill-full prairie,

under afternoon sun,

into the Nebraska town of McCook.

Fortuitous Stop In McCook

Bob Komives

Room secured to pass the night

we drive downtown to look around

and naively notice:

here too is history.

The station waits

for zephyr-train to stop and pass,

but not as proudly as four decades past

when one of us rolled in at night

on the move to California.

We drive past nurtured relics

of shop and office and banking past.

Up the hill

past elegant homes from oil's boom past

we pass the home of a native son,

famous in high-plains history.

We congratulate ourselves for the fortuitous stop

and condemn ourselves for the snobs we must be

to be surprised

to be pleased

with an hour's exploration of McCook.

Yet, this past good hour

is humble preface to a better moment.

As we start down hill to look for a meal

we glance

from park on our left

to corner on our right

into an instant of recognition.

We slow to pause

for our breath of surprise

and smile of discovery.

On this corner stands a house,

a family's home,

marked by no sign,

but too obvious to mistake.

Conceived before us,

modern beyond us,

it is beautiful witness to genius past.

As a woman exits the front door,

picks up a hose

and waters the lawn,

we agree that we see

behind the spray,

in front of the sunset,

a great architect returning our smile

as if he both acknowledges our appreciation

and makes arrogant claim to life after death.

As we drive on,

we nod our approval.

For, here at somebody's home

on a corner in McCook,

here above the plain in Nebraska

where we happen to pass the night,

here still lives the architect

at the house of Frank Lloyd Wright.

:: listen to Fortuitous Stop In McCook ::

Podcast Powered By Podbean

I Speak of Memory

2010-12-19T00:09:00.003-07:00

I speak of memory,
to retell from memory
a story that has waited long for recall.

I Speak of Memory

Bob Komives

You did not request this recall
nor offer your approval.
Nor do I seek approval,
nor make claim of perfect recollection,
nor accuse yours of imperfection.
I retell this story because I want not to forget,
and because I hope you want to remember.
I know I tell no lie
and make no intentional distortion,
wishing it unnecessary to say so.
As to certainty,
when with it, I strive to be humble;
when without it, I strive to be honest.
Will my retelling be, in places, mistaken?
Likely, yes.
Will I do harm with my truth or my mistake?
Likely, no,
but I admit the risk.
From past retellings
I know that memory does play tricks
but plays no less with you than with me.
And silence is this trickster's favorite play yard.
I hope recollective voice
helps collective memory
among us
who lived
that time.
For you may wish to answer the curious
who were not there then,
or educate the ignorant
who do not care now.
You may wish to speak out from our memory,
or you may prefer to live more fully
within in the fullness of secrets we share.

And so I begin.

And so I end.

I have retold our story.
You have listened.
If you do not remember as I,
I hope you will remember why
I speak.

Lump At The Back Of My Head

2010-11-21T14:01:00.001-07:00

There is a lump,

back of my head,

top of my neck.

When I touch it

I hear again the thud,

feel again the thud,

and think again of the gravel pit.

Lump At The Back of My Head

Bob Komives

You may know the place.

Years later they built a stadium there.

Later they tore that down

to build the business park.

We played war over gravel mountains,

threw rocks at communists only we could see.

In terrible battle we fell to mortal wounds

and (to keep the war from ending)

resurrected ourselves

under new names

and new battle flags

to launch attack

or put up desperate defense.

That day,

when dusking sky and busying avenue

signaled: dinner on the stove back home,

I ran (victorious)

to the top of my gravel mountain.

I yelled, Battles over, let's go!

Then the thud.

I staggered,

reached back to the point of pain,

felt the damp,

looked at my fingers,

saw blood.

I turned,

stared down my mountain to Buddy,

my friend and fellow warrior.

I saw in his eyes

that my pain was no accident

unless you pardon a lousy thrower

for thinking he would miss

when he threw a traitor's rock.

Hurt and bloodied,

forgiveness foregone,

I chased Buddy a mile

and shouted a threat through the screen door

as it slammed between me and his mother's safety.

Crossing the alley,

past my screen door,

I said not a word to my own mother.

Later that night,

under dry blood,

I found a soft lump.

A week later

I could feel the hardened lump.

Now, decades later,

I reach to the back of my head,

hear again the thud,

feel again the thud,

think again of the gravel pit,

either to laugh again at good fun

or to fear again betrayal.

Be Rid

2010-11-20T15:04:00.003-07:00

Among the people you can pretend to be

I love not one.

Be rid of them;

be rid of them all.

Be Rid

Bob Komives

Do not let me be one body

of your everybody

seeming to want you

to act what you are not,

or to act always

as you are sometimes.

If you see me

or hear me

to not like the way that you are you,

tell me,

then listen as I claim it untrue.

If not convinced,

be rid of me.

If my gesture of help is burden,

warn me;

then watch my back-off steps.

If you find my movement false,

be rid of me;

be rid of us all for the necessary while

until,

among the people you can be,

we find you.

Second-Grade Truth

2010-10-18T17:27:00.024-07:00

Lake shore is curvaceous

through microscope and telescope.
Sword has two edges,

as does blade of grass,

as do rainy season and lover's shoulder.

Second-Grade Truth

Bob Komives

My years resemble my months

during this moment

when I puzzle

over excitement

and disappointment

in this group

in this place,

and I see a truth

that I often discover

because I often forget.

I see in a crosscut of my memory

a slice through an old group

of long-ago children,

second-grade schoolmates,

who are the like

of this group today

and countless groups,

elite and humble,

big and small,

entered and fallen away

each fresh,

each unique

until the moment of disillusion

when I see forgotten truth

in slices taken

(statistician slices)

(intuition slices)

for intelligence and sadness,

for humor and athleticism,

for effort,

loyalty,

homeliness and beauty.

I wonder if I often forget my schoolmates

because I fear life will be dull if I remember.

Am I addicted to rediscovery

of myriad truths joining present to past?

I wonder if we train our scientists

more to not forget

than to discover

leaving the fun of rediscovery to the rest of us.

This moment

I see selfishness and charity.

I notice they look the same

sliced across farmers, villagers, poor people,

across city folk, suburban folk, rich people,

across second-grade schoolmates

and graduate school colleagues.

I see lake shore is curvaceous

through microscope and telescope.

Sword has two edges,

as does blade of grass,

as do rainy season and lover's shoulder.

My years resemble my months.

A profile of my distant day on a train in Italy

mimics ten minutes in this morning's garden.

Despite these symmetries,

because of these symmetries,

beauty hides in place and moment

to find and forget,

to lose and remember

with rainy season

and lover's shoulder.

:: listen to Second-Grade Truth ::

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Leaf On My Floor

2010-07-20T09:31:00.003-07:00

You, leaf on my floor,
inside my house,
in through my door,
you, done with your work,
unwanted leaf,
get out!
out to my fire to burn!

Leaf On My Floor

Bob Komives

          <>
I, boot on your stem,
bend,
blood to my head,
stop,
kink to my back,
feel,
guilt to my heart,
smile,
time to rethink.
          <>
You, leaf on my floor,
found under foot,
blown through the door:
I know
generations of your ancestors
helped my tree
make energy from sun,
grow,
give out seeds
and give me beauty;
I know
this year's beauty included you.
          <>
I, months ago,
said to a friend,
look at the beauty in that tree leafing out.
Weeks ago,
I said, look!
look at the beauty in that tree turning red.
Hours ago,
I said, look outside!
as leaves fell beautifully in autumn wind.
Now,
some class of hypocrite am I
to treat a leaf on my floor
as clod of waste to put out the door.
If this were a just world
I would be found guilty of leaf slaughter
or reckless abandonment,
imprisoned in a cell
where I could see no leaf,
no tree,
no change of season;
in a cell so clean
it could never know you
nor twig,
nor seed,
nor speck of fertile mud.
          <>
I, blood into my heart,
guilt out through my head,
pride straight up my back,
say, come now,
dear Leaf,
dear Retired Leaf.
I take you up from my floor,
back through my door,
to beneath our tree
and set you gently to rest.
tonight.

To Enjoy Good Sleep

2010-07-20T09:25:00.000-07:00

To Enjoy Good Sleep

Bob Komives

Today,
two miles
to walk alone
to sit together,
to sip good coffee,
to talk well,
to listen too well to stop too early
to return home
to sit alone
to ponder today
and enjoy good sleep
tonight.

In Wait of Written Word

2010-07-06T10:12:00.003-07:00

unable to hear your voice
I await your written word
not knowing if it is on its way
   or near
    or long from being sent
     or if you still wait for mine
      or if you are too busy
       too angry
        silenced by tragedy
         have nothing to write
          have too much to say

In Wait of Written Word

Bob Komives

into this void
I put made-up words
made by me
   thought by me
    into angry words
     into sad words
      bad words
       that I make worse
        in laugh and curse
         as I hear you chastise me
          for spiraling into pessimism

while I wait
I pull my thoughts through your voice
until your true words arrive
   to erase my fear
    that you forgot the years
     and reasons
      and moments
       when it was inconvenient
        but always important
         to write with news to tell
          and words that say you think well of me

Silence

2010-06-08T12:47:00.002-07:00

Silence is our weak and longest word.
. . . Heard by everybody every day.
. . . Spoken everywhere.
. . . By somebody.
. . . Today.
. . .
Silence is our short and strongest word.
. . . Understood too well.
. . . Misunderstood.
. . . Too often.
. . .
. . .
My definition varies from your dictionary's.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Listen well.
. . . Silence is my strongest word.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
Listen well.
. . . Silence is my longest word.
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
I have only that . . . to say . . . today. . .

Silence

Bob Komives

Inebriation By Optimism

2010-06-07T08:55:00.011-07:00

There was to be mist and then sunshine.
but we worked dry all day under cloud.
All morning
we seeded hope's anticipation.
After noon,
weeded patches of doubt.
They predict no rain for tomorrow;
we may stand dry again without sun.
Yet, as we relax together this evening
(weary and worried for our work)
we sip from good harvest past.
We rise in lightness and confidence.
We speak of sun and rainfall to come.
With few hours to enjoy before sleeping,
inebriation by optimism has begun.

Inebriation by Optimism

Bob Komives

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Day of Success

2010-05-25T23:28:00.004-07:00

Yesterday, our day that started well,
ended better,
brought success
not perfection
but good enough to compensate for past delay.

Day of Success

Bob Komives

Today,
our day to glory
not worry,
but ponder why we chose to worry.

Success came as it had to come
by way of gift
     we did not give
     could not control,
     could not expect,
     but did accept
     from others who assumed success
     and (by their simple gift of faith)
     made success
     all
     but
     in-es-capable.

Tomorrow,
our day to try again
to be again
humble and optimistic.

A Little Matter Of Time

2010-05-19T15:30:00.003-07:00

When it was a little matter of time
you had little time consistently
to see
that river flowing continuously
(dropping imperceptibly)
is not one flow
but falling drops
each taking time from point to point
to approach and go on by.

A Little Matter of Time

Bob Komives

Perhaps a flood of arriving drops
(of passions sipped and sipping stopped)
brought fear of wet and turbulence.
For you divided time from fear,
built a dam,
museumed the past from future year,
and (by accident)
prevented a natural leveling
of one season becoming its next.
For you divided time from light,
built a wall,
denied the day that makes each night
and (by accident)
kept walled-out self
from self walled in.
For dam and wall are easier
to put up and put up with
than to live down and live without.
Nor (for the risk)
is living down forever recommended.
In a little matter of time
option constructs necessity.
That flood
(sent to be natural and brief)
(dammed up lingering)
is an artificial deepening,
every day threatening,
of slumping brick and broken wall,
of gaping crack and gushing leak,
of natural plunge to hand-built grief.

I Refuse as Your Burden.

2010-05-09T19:06:00.002-07:00

I refuse as your burden,
I accept as your friend.

I Refuse as Your Burden.

Bob Komives

Speak
if you want me to hear you;
do not
if you feel I need the favor.
Write
if you have words you need to share;
do not
if you believe I want the attention.
Tell me
because you have the right;
do not
if you think it your duty.

I refuse as your burden;
please accept me as friend.

Holding Free, 1 and 2

2010-04-14T13:21:00.005-07:00

1.

Oh, please, Mother
Take me to the fairgrounds.
I want to see those people
setting up there,
planting flowers,
moving horses,
raising tents.
…
I wish Mother would want to see
all I want to see,
but she says she must stay.
Now there is no chance
that I will ever get to see
what I could see there
only today.
…
Okay, Buddy, we ate our picnic.
At the fairgrounds
it is still early.
Let’s go!
It’s just a mile;
I know the way.
Minnehaha, right on Snelling, past the railroad,
Dad drove me right by it
coming back from fishing the other night.
…
See the cattle,
these dancing, practicing tractors,
and the rabbits,
and through the midway,
leather faces.
That was fun!
…
This is not the way we walked in.
Which way back to Minnehaha?
Thank you, mister.
…
I wish Mother could see what I saw,
but this morning she said she must stay.
I got to see there
all I could see there
only today.
…
At the gravel pit we'll stop and throw some rocks.
…
Well I hit it.
I'm hungry,
Let's go home.
…
Isn't that your Mother?
Running there on Snelling?
There's my Mom!
…
Oh, yes, Mother,
I just had to see the fairgrounds
before they opened.
And we did!
We only got lost once,
saw horse tails braided,
and stopped to play.

Holding Free, 1 and 2

Bob Komives

2.

Oh, My Son, dear,
I can’t take you to the fairgrounds.
I've got canning in the kitchen.
Please play here close to home.
No, Son.
But I'll pack you two fine picnics.
You and Buddy are big enough
to walk three blocks
to Hamlin Park.
…
I will take him to the State Fair
when it opens,
with his sisters
and some friends,
his and mine.
…
Do five children still love me this morning--
working, caring,
and setting them free?
What is the chance that I will ever be
the mother that dear Mother is to me?
…
I keep waiting to see him in the alley.
No one has seen them.
It's almost five.
…
I am frantic!
Let's search for our children.
Why did I send off five-year-olds
on a picnic?
By themselves!
…
Could my son have led them
this mile to the fairgrounds?
In the pit there!
By the crusher!
I see them!
…
Oh, My Son, dear!
I should spank you,
but I must hug you
for being safe!
…
Will five children still love me tomorrow—
holding them closely,
and setting them free?
What is the chance that I will ever be
the mother that dear Mother is to me?

Years Dissolve.

2010-04-09T15:16:00.007-07:00

Years dissolve
because I see no mirror,
because today is a place,
this moment, an emotion
this sight, a picture,
from a life that fits as yesterday.
I know I lived a life between,
raised a family,
fulfilled a career,
but today these take a parallel line,
adding no time to the line I advance
except to ponder this puzzle:
    How can it be
    (one day to next)
    that you now shield me from much vulgarity
    and show me too much respect?

Years Dissolve.

(in the field with Peace Corps volunteers--again, after 30 years)

Bob Komives

Roof Tiles Kill.

2010-04-09T15:15:00.002-07:00

(Central America .. Hurricane Mitch .. two years after)

Roof tiles kill
      they say
      who sit on their science
      of them
      who sit with heavy delicacy
      on sparse boards above our heads
kept by earth's gravity
and the friction in their rows
      but nothing else
      to retard their dance
      to the beat underground
      trembling the sound
      calling them down
to the soil from which they rose.

Roof Tiles Kill.

Bob Komives

Here Falls A Road Steeply.

2010-04-05T19:29:00.006-07:00

(Central America .. Hurricane Mitch .. two years after)

Here falls a road steeply from hillside mothers
that borrows its way from down-washing streams.
Here falls a steep cornfield to hillside fathers
that pays out its earth to down-washing streams.
Here falls a rain harshly on hillside children
that charges down slopes
and washes down dreams.

Here Falls a Road Steeply.

Bob Komives

You Could Not See Me Where I Drifted.

2010-04-04T19:21:00.003-07:00

You could not see me where I drifted,
     though I tried to float large and reflect the sun.
I could not know where you went looking,
     though you tried to sail tall and be noisy.
Separate in seas we found to be vast,
     alone we found each a good island.

You Could Not See Me Where I Drifted.

Bob Komives

Eight Lovers Dwell

2010-04-03T19:02:00.001-07:00

Eight lovers dwell in a bed of love:
two (humble)
        accept and honor gifts;
two (proud)
        feel equal in moments unequal;
two (privileged)
        relish each act of giving;
and two who are artistic
        enjoy what is tried
        and try what is new.

Eight Lovers Dwell

Bob Komives

Not About Perfections

2010-03-29T14:05:00.000-07:00

Not About Perfections

Bob Komives

'not about perfections,
   nor to be better,
     nor to better it;

but about adventure,
   for the great heavens
      and the hell of it.

CLICK to see as part of one of several graphic and poetry triptych.

Return to Playground

2010-03-27T09:54:00.003-07:00

Whine,
   groaning,
     fear and plotting.
      As spoilt children,
        we come back older
          to see you out to get us.

Return to Playground

Bob Komives

Whine,
threaten,
    buy a weapon.
      As hurt children,
        we grow up hurting
          to feed your paranoia.

Call,
beckon,
    invitation.
      To all children!
        Return to playground
          to whine again in laughter.

In Each Of My Prisons

2010-03-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

In Each of My Prisons

Bob Komives

Free me, and I find my limits;
enslave me, and I find yours.

In each of my prisons, a freedom;
within each freedom, a prison
released by the other to be held in by another
to trouble with struggles that double as my liberation.