larry goodell placitas, new mexico
larry & cherry
cover photograph just after sunrise April 8th 2012 golden russet apple in our orchard poems recorded and links added March 2013
“Goddess of the Big Bang” added April 2014
duendebooks open words open pictures open voice © 2012 larry goodell po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043 USA firstname.lastname@example.org
hear these poems Eastra http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTE3 XzdoWWJI/Eastra%201997.mp3 A Pastoral http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTIxX 2pmU2FI/a%20pastoral%202002.mp3 Easter Sunday 2000 http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ5NTM4 X3lIcnA3/easter%20sunday%202000.mp3 Shrunk http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTIw X011NHBW/shrunk%202007.mp3 Big Daddy http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NDcy X3BtVVM2/Big%20Daddy%201993.mp3 Grandmummy http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTEz X0tWelNn/grandmummy%202003.mp3 The Truth http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTE4 X25LckVx/The%20Truth%20Poor%20White%20Guy% 201993.mp3 Easter Sunday 2012 http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTA4 X2RaVldq/Easter%20Sunday%202012%20literary%20 vultures.mp3
read by the poet
our austrian copper rose
Time tills time, makes furrows meaningful, plants present seeds, now present plants.
for the Power of the Infinite Carrier for the Power of the finite Dough for the Rising of the Yeast in the bread that is not homemade for everything homemade whether risen or not for our Easter dinner, the lamb from Australia the zucchini & yellow squash the fresh heaps of salad with blue-cheese dressing for the Basmati rice swollen to white nutty flavor for the parsley chutney from the parsley growing under our rain spout for the barley bread for the gravy of essence floating in the bottom of the glass roasting pan for the leftover red wine from the Spring Equinox birthday feast for my wife for the truth of gratitude and the gratitude that gets you forever out of yourself for our being together at this table the love & the friendship for the power we get from a feast on the holy day of the Goddess of the Anglo-Saxon East for the natural sense of the kitchen as the secret of the universe for all the plants & animals that we depend on built up stronger than ourselves for the Power of the Infinite
â€˜ that carries us into the finite present which reflects our present and future in the past of our ancestors come to feast with us in the presence of warmth I give myself over to the will of what is greater than myself greater than anything that is the largest or the smallest carrying me into the astounding present to come and to go for the infinite is tiny, and the hills valleys, for what it is, I know, what I see out our window for the comet long gone now but to come again but not for long for the North Star over the hill that is the mainstay of our life here and the distant valley of the Great River that ends in the Gulf of Mexico I canâ€™t see now anything but stars and I am carried with love through it all, the agony & the surprise and with gratitude I fall, caught, and with gratitude I fall, caught for the Power of what is, is, for the Power of what is, give thanks.
God has returned to the chapel on the hill in my left brain a quiet breeze, interlude, slightly overcast sky. The organ fills my soul, is it a marriage or celebration of Easter. Surprises by laughter from the service floating down the river to my right brain and all coalesces throwing out meaning real as real at tea, a bit of sugar or honey, and milk. A pastoral connects my two brains into one. There is no chapel, god is the reality running through my veins the pulsing throughout my body life the breeze, the door of nature opening ever opening to free me to see, the warmth that is love ever in the bell I ring and the violin orchestra and dog barking to be let back in back in to my dreams, my dreams of everything connected everything awake.
Easter Sunday 2000
It’s all gone dead dying out memories the fresh memories that live only in my mind. I relive them in flashes but the distance kills me so when I hum Stardust it’s my mother, teaching me to play the piano playing that piece as I learned it. And when I think of San Antonio Rose how it goes I think of my dad, now weak, now old. My mother is long dead. But my home family life, that home of Roswell that family–the concatenation of images sing sing through my mind faces and places and clothes. Private to me and to die with me as I die when that is. Thanks for having me over for dinner over & over, family of my youth & friends & family of friends. You are all gone now, except the fringe of what’s left. Dad, I hope you survive well this latest onset of age. May we renew ourselves by talking about the shared things in times passed.
our backyard missouri avenue roswell, new mexico ca 1952
Time has passed leaving those picnics in the backyard by the wishing well & clothesline & flowering yucca and gardens of my mother and all that ham & chicken & hamburgers & hotdogs and those iceberg lettuce salads with pale tomatoes and all those pies, apple, peach, lemon, chocolate & the memory fades.
Now my family is so oddball & strange and near and dear that it’s hard to talk about it to my dad. Are they married? he asks You have a granddaughter? I have to remind him, families are thoroughly different and were long before this new century– We didn’t have a picnic but we ate out at the Range blue corn chicken enchiladas red chile, green chile chef’s salad, ice tea, bubblegum soda and little Lyra loved her salad, good green lettuce & good red tomato & took her chicken fingers home and this is as good as we ever can do. My son & I went to Easter Sunday church together– it just happened, against my will. But when I was a kid, it was common practice. I remember I was baptized on Easter Sunday. Now, anything of the old memories that allows me to live them again is a reminder, it doesn’t all die. I think, I thank, give out love as best I can. To live in the resurrection of the moment.
My grandmother was beautiful she had an earth star stuck under her sombrero. She heaved cows for a living and the circus of her normality was taken for granted. Underneath her coarse skin was a heart she gave to all her 10 grandchildren and 20 burros. She was white on occasion and then black, multicolored. She kissed grandpa on Easter and told us stories that undermined the farmers and kept us up all night playing hookie. She was the tomato worm in the family, the dragon butterfly. We loved her although she never committed adultery. She mixed adobes and told us to stay out of the kitchen and when we sat down to eat dirt, we were all grateful. Flecked straw on the strawberry sky was a patch of turquoise that stuck in her hair, as her tooth bled misery which somehow turned into gaping laughter. We buried her, still alive, singing songs she taught us: Oh grand mommy, mummy to be, Star in the window gathering dust, may we now be free of stereotypes and lust.
The Truth (poor white guy) ) The bags under my eyes have turned into bungalows. My white hairs have turned into bald freckles. I stepped, fetal Parsifal, out of pre-Easter into the birth of the pagan world Age dropped. My youthful spirit buoyed up. I was a lost hodge-podge of America, lonely & yet Contained. How can I identify, with anything with any race, ethnic, culture, history, background check. I'm not a Protestant any more. I don't identify with wacko Christ or boring Buddha or woman-hating Mohammed. And what is there white that's a culture you can positively identify with & hold us together in a way that doesn't seem Aryan racist evil-Nazi fucked-up anything, I mean, I, am, totally, lost, & disconnected, no, publisher, no agent, hardly any demand for my supposed favored standing. (last 2 lines cry baby voice) /21Mar93#2
Oh thou my goodest god gad giddy goad Dearest goody goo-goo, go gawd-a-ful fullest Plagiarized sex-changed father fat heir fated fou fair Fool refuted booted hooted rooted tooted scooted muted fruited mein heir Hairy horrible non-hair bald daddy grand daddy au contraire Organ bassed solemn ferned Easter-lilied up pedaled horned psalmed Open-mouthed gray-haired black-bowtied artificial pearl-necklaced Rouged & red-lipped black & white against the gold-tiered columns of the tabernacle organ Dear God dog-hungry, oh God, gadooey, gadittle, gadattle, gadoatle Ga doughy ga dog-dog da gog-gog, ga gooey go dittley gazooks Gold god go gone geek 'gain gain go go go a go-go Did Dad Dig Damn Good-dig, gadooby-dooby dah bow Godot! Dear ditty doggy goddy big big daddy bod bad booty duty hog ah-gog oh gog gag gaddy geek garbanzo gaggy goo-goo gah-gah!
Shrunk Have mercy on my soul: it’s a paltry thing shriveled & discontented what happened to the breezy years when it was full of life reflecting the visage on the altar, the altar of simple prayer and acceptance of a power of salvation beng dunked in the water on Easter at the age of 12. And then my soul mirrored youth & hope & possibilities full of the goals of life, the magnificence of agnostic health even after God came crashing down & disappeared in his underwear. Then surpassing the struggle of agony when the family came crashing in accidents, dope, violence, alcohol the extremes of 90's youth you blazed back in historic sense reflecting the glitter of a new-found power good sense & equilibrium toyed with the miraculous survival was possible, experienced, the real fed me with every conscious breath Then the scalpel of age began to cut out possibilities the shine of romantic hope became existentialism of neglect weakness & tiny success - - - and what was left said “you are the one who must grow up.”
Easter Sunday 2012
someday Iâ€™ll be dead in the circle of love but will they be singing as I sink into oblivion or feeding, like vultures on the literary remains.
Goddess Of The Big Bang Beautiful as specimens of dust under the microscope of your unaided eye or the advanced stained glass windows in the cathedral of the origin of mankind dedicated to the Goddess of the Big Band forever we come up like froth like filigree like delicate strands of DNA in constant release of the first rising of the curtain welcome what you’re about to see is what you’re about to see what you’re about there’s no ending to the play of fabricating nature fabricating itself from its own inner style we are characters in surprise including our neighbors, every plant and animal and hidden creature alive in the energy of the question, we all want to live, audience and actors past in the present ever presenting itself it’s like love all around you and in and out you through and above seen in the spotlight trained on every living thing Welcome to the mystery of the unknown which is so obvious you’ve known it all along. /April2014
duendebooks open words open pictures open voice 2012 po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043 USA email@example.com
apple 7apr2012 placitas new mexico