Posted on by James Garland

Feb 15, 1999

Written in 1999, end of the millennium looming. I was 46, with teenage children and an unhappy marriage and miserable, feeling trapped in the state of Maine, and I hadn’t written much in a long time. At some point, on February 15th, I decided I needed to start a writing project, a collection of writings, to see what would come out.

And come out it did. This is the first of the works, which went on for the better part of two years and was still being added to as late as 2005. Work that saw me through major life changes that altered my life in almost inconceivable ways: divorce, remarriage, separation and estrangement from my children, cross-country relocation; a total uprooting. And behind it all the writing went on.

And this the first. The sense of depression is apparent, but the ennui of Feb 15, 1999 seems to shoehorn onto the current situation in our country to a T.

Feb 15, 1999

My, aren't these times of avarice and larceny,
lies so sweet in the telling.
Crawling to the end of the twentieth century,
Weary, corrupt, abysmally vain.

Aren't these times of millennial stupor.
America, you're the last superpower and you're
Unwilling to feed your children or cure your sick,
Unwilling to house your homeless,
And unwilling, still, to put down your arms.
 
I am taking my grimy shoulder from the wheel.
The haves have it all now (and the have-nots have nothing,
Not even a voice).

No one asked me my millennial plans,
But just to let you know,
I’m going to climb behind the wheel
Of my '62 Thunderbird and drive all night,
Dodging gangsters and comets,
And set the A.M. dial 
To WABC out of NYC,
and dream of BB King and Pink Floyd,
Psychedelic Blues scrambling down black night
Millennial streets,
Hoping for the rise of some new dawn.

The punks were right with their spike pink hair
And vivid tattoos.
America you wouldn't listen to reason and now here we are, Our heroes
Are gone mad or died.
We're left with jaded dreams and we're refugees from the war. 
The only winners were Madison Ave,
And the few haves.

My spirit of cooperation died with my illusions.
Now I live in the America of my imagination, by choice.
America everywhere I turn 
Your face so ugly, derelict and unkempt,
The arrogance revealed,  your mean and callous disregard
Spilled from every pore,
Bleeding from screaming repulsive headlines of a butcher's wetdream newspaper.

Aren't these days of avarice.
The wheel has turned.
I've dreamt it wasn't always this way,
I've dreamt of tolerance,  civility,
And I even dreamt once of compassion, but it was  
Long ago.

Aren't these days of malicious intent.
The smell rises up unmistakable, the wafting scent
Of sheep led to slaughter,
That earthy stench of blood and sheepshit.
As the bile rises
The bleating deafens, air pierced with the shrill panicky cry
Stumbling and reeling from the scene of the crime,
And the rest of the wretched weak are buried
In shallow graves.
Posted on by James Garland

Memorial Day

Memorial Day

May 26, 2019									

Clouds run down the sky to the western horizon,
	Solid ceiling across the valley to the coast,
Mountains obscured in mist,
	Fronds of chestnut and big-leaf maple unmoved,
No whisper of breeze, it’s not quite warm,

The whine of distant mowers drift 
	From houses down below, and traffic noise
From River Road but muted, insular, 
        The big Doug Fir across the street is writhing 
With a litter of young squirrels at play, a crow
        Lands on the topmost branch of a towering cedar,
Watching over her realm,

It’s Memorial Day, but I am not remembering the dead,
	But their living, breathing selves are with me here; 
Never my mother’s protracted, agonized departure,
	But I hear her singing Ella’s scat in the kitchen, 
The smell of bacon frying and the dark warm waft 
	Of coffee percolating, as sun beams through the window
And jazz echoes in the stairwell, “Sam, breakfast!”
	And never my father’s mysterious disappearance and
Death unattended in the desolate Keys,
	But sitting in his chair by the stereo hi-fi, Camel in
One hand, trying to convince his recalcitrant teen
	That Errol Garner was a genius. It took years for me to hear it,
But he was right, and I listen now. Now I know.

And Gramp Howard lining up
	The croquet ball and wicket, not
Straddling the ball as we all did, but
	Addressing it like a golf putt, 
Left hand on his knee to support an arthritic back,
	With his right he draws the mallet back,
And how he teases, “Hey Jimmy, how’s Barbie Booth?” he’ll ask,
	Having married me off early, 
While Nana Theresa chatters on in her living room filled with tchotchkes
	And incessant non-stop tales of family and Ireland,
And Uncle Martin with a ready smile and a can of Schlitz,
	Aunt Marnie with lipstick-stained Viceroy filter and pointy rhinestone glasses,
Uncle Ed, Big Ed the sheriff, stogies smelled like dog turds
	In the back seat of his Country Squire, windows closed,
Connie in the front seat trying to keep a lid on
	The cousins fighting in the back.

And Ann in her scattershot life, rambling
	Around Europe, or North Africa, or the islands,
Awash with a strong mix
	Of hope and cynicism,  
Wisdom and sarcasm, racing through town 
	In a battered red Karman Ghia,

And Susan, so quietly delinquent, her talent
	And her understated passions-
					She picked up the guitar 
				Shortly after I, a Yamaha
			Classical with nylon strings, and
		Within a short time she played
	So much better.

And Paige and Fredora and Bob
	Drinking mid-afternoon Budweiser in the kitchen
At Gramp Garland’s farm,	cigarette smoke 
Clouding under a nicotine-stained ceiling,
Listening to Patty Page on a brown plastic Zenith tabletop radio,
	Gramp in the parlor, taciturn, ancient, 
With his corn-cob pipe and wire-rimmed glasses,
	And his General MacArthur looks,
	
And all the rest, all the rest.

And I think of all the living, all those
	With me now,
How we courageously face an uncertain future together,
        I feel so fortunate to have been
Given the grace and opportunity to have
	Lived in the world as it has been, and the 
Miracle of having had a chance to love;
        And having love returned,

And imagine, too, having had the chance
        Of taking existence, and freedom, for granted,
For such a long time,  
        What privilege, what riches.
Sunset, Memorial Day, May 26, 2025

Posted on by James Garland

The Last Day of February 2025

The Last Day of February 2025

On the eve of a clash of historic importance, a rupture of world order, and a push ever closer to a precipice, over which promises strife, and war, and plunder, and an overwhelming sense of finality. The end of the Democracy

The last day of February dawns unnaturally 
Warm, radiant skies; we took the bug convertible 
Up through the hills, past spring fields, forests of fir
And barren, mossy oak, glimpses of Cascades, towering 
Hood and Jefferson luminous white, majestic, 
Past overlooks of verdant farmland stretching miles
Across the valley to the shadowy Coastal Range,

The last day of February the President of the 
United States and his vice disgracefully assaulted 
The integrity of an ally, double-crossed the leader 
Of a country at war with Russia, historically our enemy
In the battle of Democracy against Tyranny
For the hearts and minds of the rest of the world,
And the potus and his vice broke our alliances,
Threatened world war, sided with tyranny, and
Dishonored the values of freedom, and history, and peace,
Pushing, pushing ever closer to war. We become the enemy.

Tonight, a glass of red on the balcony looking west,
Still mild, quiet almost, except roaring hotrodders racing 
Down River Road, have been since Covid, nobody stops it.
But I have the stars, Cassiopeia, Pleiades, Venus, stars
Innumerable in western darkness, dimmed only by
The lights along the highway leading to the coast,
Distant traffic passing billboards and businesses
Before becoming rural, farms and wetlands running
Out to the foothills, and I, surrounded in my fortress 
Of fir and cedar, watch from my ruins in the darkness
As we move into a grim, uncertain future,
Awaiting spring. Polaris stares down from the north, unblinking,
But I am without direction, at sea,
In a declining world. Alas.
Posted on by James Garland

Dischord

Dischord

Out with the dog tonight, surprised
	To see a first-quarter moon overhead,
Facing Jupiter, both dodging overcast through
	Barren branches of big-leaf maple
		And sodden fir,

Dripping with winter rain streaming
	From the coast across the valley, blustery, 
Traces of snow, the dog does his business,
	Gives no care for the haloed moon through
		Gauzy skies.

They can’t take that away, barbarous robber barons
	Blindly, greedily orchestrating the demise
Of the Republic, dismantling the Democracy,
	Forging a new oligarchy, of the rich, by the rich,
		For the rich.

Today was a protest in Salem, true Patriots
	By thousands, raising their voices in support
Of our country, virulently opposing the shredding of
	Our Constitution, our Heritage, our dignity, 
		At the sunset of Democracy.

Tonight, the moon disappears, rain begins
	Spattering onto the deck. The dog waits
		At the door. 


February 5, 2025

Posted on by James Garland

Adagio for Strings






Adagio for Strings





06/05/2021





Ann, you wouldn’t believe





how rancorous it’s become





            In just the ten years you’ve been gone,





In this matter of life and death half the country





            Chose death, 





And this Is just the pandemic, we haven’t even started to address





                                    What we’ve done to the planet,





                        When that issue rears its ugly head-





(Is already happening, is here)-





                        That it might have been tackled long ago,





            But we’re lazy, greedy, 





Too immersed in other things, other issues,





                                    To pay attention,





                                                Like- what’s on tonight,





Let’s stop abortion,





                                    Let’s have a war,





Let’s drive over to the corner store





                        For a beer and a snack,





                                                            Turn up the a.c., it’s hotter than hell,





                                    And the stink of smoke, let’s get a new





                                                                        SUV, my hummer is parked at the





                                                                                    Curb.





The prognosis, as they say, is not good.





Floods filled subways and basements





and rivers and streets last week,





                        And a bunch of New Yorkers died, and





                                    Cars and drivers were swept away,





            And the west is on fire again this year, they had





                                    To evacuate Tahoe,





                                                And the Colorado is running dry,





                                                            And it was one-hundred and sixteen degrees





                                    In Salem last month, hotter than Riyadh,





                        And all the plants outside seared,





                                                And leaves turned brown and started coming off maples





                                                                        In August,





            But we’re not talking about that now, not yet,





                                                                            Maybe never.





Half the country has gone insane,





                                              But maybe they always were.










                                                                                                Remember sitting around





            The thanksgiving table with cranky old Mike, arthritic





                        Knees, and taking on beer, spouting misogyny and bigotry





                                                And venom and hatred,





                                    He brought you to tears before you ran from the room.





                        Well, it’s all like that now, our national discourse





                                    Is a street rumble, sharks and jets, and





            The liars and clowns that hold the fate of the world in those





                        Rabid, grasping paws choose to do nothing





                                    Except bicker, obfuscate, and steal all they can,





                                                                        While we- streaming the shows,





cartoons and superheroes saving the day,





                                                            Buying the newest, biggest, most convenient,





                                                The envy of the neighborhood,





                                                                                    And who won the big game?










Ann, remember way back, you were home from college,





            Offered to give me a ride to my graduation,





                                                                        You broke out a joint





                                                            And we smoked on the way over.





                        It was warm in the gymnasium, my face I’m sure





                                    Matched the crimson of the robe, and I wobbled a bit





                                                On the way to the podium,





                                                                        But it all went off without much of a hitch, 





                                                            When the orchestra started to play,





                                                                        Bach- ‘Sleepers Awake’, I was





            Walloped by the beauty of it, still one of my favorite pieces,





                        Almost three hundred years old, this music, this warning,





                                    Bach tried, he tried,





but they still won’t awaken.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by James Garland											


							
Safe Harbor
					


	

	

	

		






Safe Harbor

12/12/2024

 So odd tonight, the rain abates,
	And a steady wind 
Howls through the rustling 
	Crown of fir and cedar.
Across the sodden landscape,
			Bedazzling lights	
	Herald the coming season,

			That I watch from my ruins,
	Looking westward, always, to the mountains,
		To the Pacific, to the sunset, 
Face chill, slapping, winds 
			Blowing down through the valley
 Like the future, like dread,

	And the future looms
Like an ending.
	And the coming holiday season
		A cold slap of mockery,
			Given what’s to come,

But we persevere for those we love,
		And tomorrow string lights along the shrubbery,
	And hang grandma’s glass ornaments
			On our plasticine, pre-lit, alwaysgreen tree,
		For the grandkids, just as if
			It wasn’t the last Christmas
	That we will know like this one,
				Like all the ones that came before,

And we’ll pass around presents
	And best wishes as always, 
		Delight in the children 
	As they open their gifts, listen to Handel,
				Lift a glass,
			And wish our loved ones, 
And all under threat,
		That they find safe harbor 
From whatever will come,
	Safe harbor.





Xmas tree 2024, top view






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by James Garland											


							
The Death of American Idealism
					


	

	

	

		



Sam, Phoebe, and Bob Garland circa 1939












The Death of American Idealism                                                                  12/19/19





My grandfather fought in World War One,





            My father World War Two,





And neither spoke of what they saw





            Or did in their long tours, where they went,





Who they met, who they killed.





My grandfather loved to play croquet,





            My father cards. Every Friday night





Grandfather came to our house for dinner,





            And afterwards, the old maple table was cleared





And they dealt the cards for gin rummy.





My father was good, my grandfather better,





            All the years of practice with his mill cronies,





Those nights after work honed his card-sharp skills,





            And he won time after time, and I watched from the sidelines





As my father made highballs, and there was much laughter.





They were optimists. They’d seen the worst that’s offered,





            Fought in trenches, fought on beaches, survived, and come home,





And they held some idealistic notions





            Of the importance of family, of right and wrong,





And they kept right on laughing, and smoking and joking,





            And lived their lives large, with compassion and humor,





And they loved their families, and lives,





            And their comforts, so hard earned.





 I miss them greatly, all of them now, in these





            Raucous end times, as we lurch toward oblivion,





In this rancorous world they’d not even recognize.





            Would they fight for this? Would they make their 





Great sacrifice, putting their lives on the line for this insidious





            And disjointed society?





“Gin!” grandfather would announce, laying down his hand,





            Adding up points. My father would laugh,





Take a sip of his highball,





            And shuffle the deck.





Sam and Helen, Mount Vernon, Just Married