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.
Sitting at a table on the sidewalk outside a coffeehouse downtown. Dylan. “How does it feel to be on your own, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone?” Feels like this:
Greenland is melting, the ocean’s a’risin’, And it’s all happening faster’n anyone knew, California’s burning ‘tween mudslides and earthquakes, Burning summer down with the end of the country blues.
We bow down to China, kiss the ring of Putin, Bribes from foreign enemies can’t be refused, That the president’s a traitor there ain’t no disputin’, And congress sings the chorus to the end of the country blues.
They’ll take whatever they can steal, come hell or high water, They’ll ruin everything they touch till there’s nothing left to lose, They’re gonna leave the planet ruined, our disregarded mother, They’re drivin’ the train to end of the line, to the end of the country blues.
Got a Hummer in the driveway, gets twelve miles to a gallon, Got a Caddy we tool around in so you know we paid some dues, If it gets above a hundred, our air is well conditioned, And with five-thousand tv stations we’ll ignore the end of the country blues.
The world order’s a’changin’, America fading backward, But oligarchs get that we’re fighting as they turn the screws, And I’ll stand out on the corner with a raised fist and a placard, Fighting for democracy, battling the end of the country blues.
So fuck you Mr. President, fuck you and all the rest, Surrounded yourself with imbeciles like there was no one else to choose, Nothing like the brightest, nothing like the best, Shepherding us to Armageddon and the end of the country blues.
They’ll take whatever they can steal, come hell or high water, They’ll ruin everything they touch till there’s nothing left to lose, They’re gonna leave the planet ruined, our disregarded mother, They’re drivin’ the train to end of the line, to the end of the country blues.
Kennedy died Tuesday night. Newspapers, radio filled with the news, A motorcade bringing the body from Hyannis To Boston this afternoon, "Leaving his Cape Cod compound, For the last time..."
This vivid day, too real, The too-bright sky filled with wisps Of cirrus clouds and cool sunlight, Strange to feel such Overpowering despondence, Anxious, jarring, awry.
Waves roll to shore, running down the sand, Two children launch a striped kite With a long tail, blue, orange, and yellow, North Hampton beach is covered With rotting kelp left by a passing storm, It's a great day For a funeral.
The cows by the Highway, cattle, actually- Who but a ranch hand Knows them as anything but cows, really. Rectangular shadows in morning sun, They arrive each spring When the rain promises to stop, A few hundred strong, slowly Moving through fields out by the packing Plant, then they’re gone in the fall. I see them every day As I roll up 5 to work, Laying in emerald grass rich after winter rains. They graze, lazily slap their tails, Drink from a blue basin By a wire fence near the breakdown lane, The din must be deafening As we roar past, but they show No sign of being bothered, Idly mind their own business, Knowing nothing of the Bludgeon, the butcher, the hook.
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.
Winding down the hill to the lowlands Of Ankeny, flanks of the coast range Whitened, a sky of broken clouds filled With portent, but rain intermittent.
There were a thousand geese at the back Of Pintail Marsh, supple shadows in dim Afternoon light. Ducks lined the shore and Traced trails across the pond, startled By eagles. In the rushes by the entrance To the channel lay one dead swan, A Tundra Swan, and in the shallows By the tracks, two more.
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.
So this is how history shifts, This turgid march to coronation day, Like a waking nightmare.
Please, don’t watch the next, last inauguration, a Vast spectacle of pomp and ignorance, We have been lied to long enough.
Rue instead the failed Republic, that we Turned over the keys to the kingdom To a sleazy chump, a cabal of cheats And thieves, megalomaniacs and zealots, Felons, imbeciles, and kiss-ass millionaires, Worst that I’ve ever seen. Worst there’s been.
But we are Americans, and it’s worth noting That in sixty-eight, resistance brought down LBJ, And in seventy-four, our government Removed Nixon from office, Due in large part to an independent media, Overturning a Landslide election.
Seven days of sanity remain. Let us build our resistance To this existential threat. The planet itself Waits.
Out tonight, after all is done, Mist rises across the valley in waves and swirls, veils the Lights out along twenty-two, running Out through the mountains To the coast, westward, sky darkens With the promise of cold rain tomorrow, Maybe for days, as winter begins, I look westward, but don’t see a future, let’s Just say I’m not making any Long-range plans beyond, say, January 20,
This is who they voted for, This is what they want.
01/01/2025
Out tonight, the holidays done, Drizzle falls through fog that shrouds The valley, obscures all lights Beyond the fortress of fir and cedar Surrounding this silent house, We retreat to our routine, but Nothing is the same, the overpowering sense Of departure, being cast off into whatever Nonsensical future lay in store,
This is who they voted for, This is what they want,
01/06/2025
Out tonight, the first clear sky in weeks, First-quarter moon settling into The boughs of deodar cedar and fir, Dazzling lights across the valley To the foothills, to the silhouettes Of mountains against starry horizon,
And it becomes clear tonight, that We move forward to an abyss. No miracle occurred today To save us, from all the maelstrom ahead, That our children and theirs must overcome. History is relentless.
He’s going to blow it up. This is what they want. This is what they voted for.
James Garland Poetry 