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 "Eve of the First Day of Spring, March 2017
duendebooks open words open pictures open voice © 2012 larry goodell and updated to 2017 po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043 USA firstname.lastname@example.org
to hear these poems Eastra http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTE3XzdoWWJI/Eastra%2 01997.mp3 A Pastoral http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTIxX2pmU2FI/a%20pasto ral%202002.mp3 Easter Sunday 2000 http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ5NTM4X3lIcnA3/easter%20s unday%202000.mp3 Shrunk http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTIwX011NHBW/shrunk% 202007.mp3 Big Daddy http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NDcyX3BtVVM2/Big%20Da ddy%201993.mp3 Grandmummy http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTEzX0tWelNn/grandmum my%202003.mp3 The Truth http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTE4X25LckVx/The%20Tr uth%20Poor%20White%20Guy%201993.mp3 Easter Sunday 2012 http://larrygood.opendrive.com/files/NF85OTQ1NTA4X2RaVldq/Easter%20 Sunday%202012%20literary%20vultures.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 being 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
Eve of the First Day of Spring Oh love let us be like ducks at play together like zebras cavorting, giraffes necking willows bending over the creek & budding, emergent rosettes of primroses facing the spring. The spring is your day as you bud out every year on this your birthday first day of Spring. Let us be who we are together as we have been for 40 plus years and may the day itself be your gift as this night before brings rain what better gift to drought land as the warming of everything shifts everything northward and we dry out here as we stay put as we have for so long traveling in our minds our careful cultivation wondering what will sprout up next oh love let us be open to the new which is not a new thing to us as actuality reality of truth is a blessing and integrity rules out duds and falsehoods â€“ everything matters, the frames to the pictures the frames of poems, the backgrounds every inch every millimeter of one of your found images translates and speaks your language as the caught image of your life reveals the best of nature from your perspective, your choosing and quick eye and the sounds the words the scribbles on paper I find coming to me reach up from the page and entertain the voice being honest to intuition, being open to what you see to what hits you to what hits me â€“ love let us be as dancing as these few raindrops and as washed as fresh plants new buds new seasons new songs new sights new totemic visions new pictures of the puzzle caught and passed on as love brings us continuing together
my gift on the birthday of your life greater than anything I can ever imagine: the gift to you is always nature dancing between us. happy birthday Lenore!
Through The Trees /for Diana Huntress (1941-2017) and, many others come to mind . . . Happy risen through the trees to the truly light Resurrection Symphony of Mahler adding to the delight – yeast in bread – baking powder baking soda pitching in to do essential rising. Rise raise becoming something out of nothing like flipping a coin in the air inverse obverse which shall it be – heads it is wouldn’t you know – the 3 tulips just came out of their bulbs one red with yellow center and the orange one had a difficult time, a survivor so I watered it when I discovered it – but earlier, that wonderful sport a faithful early tulip, a species so beautiful red-orange perking up every spring – yes, survivors from more florid past years, as ravages of drought fire blight, hit the fruit trees taking them almost down – we see the life coming up through the cycle maintaining a hello in baby apples and some apricots, the breath itself rising falling filling fulfilling expanding descending entering exiting passing through, inflating deflating stimulating converting contributing releasing as outflow inflow inflow, again outflow the light particles ascending through the spring as the brain flows alive, sparks crevices its layers of light flitting all night off and on buddy to sleep, disturbing turning surreal paintings into reality, the rising charge of cinema illuminating sleep, lost to memory or sustained with the rising sun as the minister put a handkerchief over my mouth and bent me backwards into water and back up into the church air
as my father also that day did the same on my 12the birthday giving rise to the consciousness "I can take the grape juice every Sunday" I told them outside, rebuked for saying that by Daddy – as is constantly rising in memory scenes bits of this and that seemingly back to perpetuity all from hearing Rachmaninoff’s piano concerto from my bedside radio in those evolving re-evolving rising and falling sixth chords I’m in the back of a little station wagon and Jonathan Williams’ head is literally swaying back and forth jerking to the Rachmaninoff from the new radio and speakers he just had installed in the car – and in the Creeleys’ bathroom I notice a sea of pills by the mirror, all Ron Johnson’s, he and Jonathon visiting on their cycle of visits here and then down to Roswell to see Donald and Patricia Anderson benefactors of Jargon Press – as that blurred blue glimmer to the East through what used to be the bay window and the rising oboe on the radio, light by my side, all lift in spirit the spiritless spirit the unknown spiral only in inspiration in spirit inhalation the time cycles by and takes with it the life breath of man and woman who knows, billions of ants insects bees spiders all creatures panthers if there are any left the rare New Mexico jaguars the history in blood, rise and fall of the Aztec priest, their pictures of ceremonies and customs burned in their codices by competitive priests
priests preachers clerics throwing their gods against each other this day as the enlivening light picks up in lighter more definite blue and I think of the rising of the Easter egg, the baskets of childhood delights gone as parenting gets old and passes onto children and grandchildren, if any, what increases now with the light is the fabricated resurrection, why is it needed? why not accept the death flying off into space the unhanded discovery of openness as friends die, loves, past loves, past intensities – is life anything but death rising again in consciousness death assuming life in memories memories the mammaries to be suckled on as you get older, taking over – Ann, spirit sister partner disappearing in the waves, Lee dancing, in leaps and turns forever burnt like intaglio in my memory, I can’t I don’t want to list the downed, the ended the never downed but lost in flight of year after year of great and lesser, close and far and the young drugged down to nonexistence, old friends Ken, Steve Bill and just recently David and Joanne, what matters the names any more everyone has a name on their own death, the dying into the light of I remember you, and the fuller morning glowing silhouettes the hill, the window of my life looking out onto, what is left but the lease of love, the frame of living, the picture subject to change, the wealthy of the wrap of years the electricity of movement and illumination of the present letters archives books poems organizations, presses mimeo, offset, printer
turning out the writings from the heart and mind, the literary venture of life, the Rio Grande Writers the teachers, the readers, the conferences the urge of the tongue to continue as it does, all words alive coming and going in the beauty of the book or just the voice in passing at best, everything at once in full light of early morning, it came from the heart the heart of the soul, the soul of commitment the friendship of working together always from a creative base where compassion is part of the mix for any cooperation, we intertwine in reality of flesh and mind on this now, glowing toward the pure brightness through the leaves & picking up their green in salute of energy, transformation pulling me up with it and out of this bed of what was night. Sun risen through the tree leaves, pine needles, morning resurfacing, solar intensity again that open up one, beginning, laid out through the air commanding this refresh of day. larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 16apr2017
almond april2017 placitas new mexico
the tangy perfume of the almond in full bloom
apple 7apr2012 placitas new mexico
duendebooks open words open pictures open voice 2012 & updated to 2017 po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043 USA email@example.com