Crisp Burnt Umber Days

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Crisp Burnt Umber Days
A Poem by, James Kiester

Subject: My Porch in Fall | Date: 10/05/15 | Photographers: James Kiester & Dani Cogswell |  This picture was taken by the author of this blog. |
- Pumpkins and gourds adorn porches,
Which caress lawns of dry brown grass,
Blanketed in leaves of crimson, saffron, ochre, and burnt umber.

Crisp air stings pink cheeks, As it kisses ripe apples and pears, Making their way to cider presses and Cheddar topped pies.   Young men prepare to tote pig skins, Across fields of freshly mowed and painted grass, And peddlers bombard nostrils with salty scents of popcorn and roasting nuts.
Pleasant wives stir rich pots of soup, While peering through frost laced kitchen windows, At husbands cleaning freshly killed game hanging from trees in backyards.    Night falls as crackling fires lick, snap, And warm the chilled toes of lazily tired people, Before nestling into warm and cozy beds for pleasantly comfy slumber. -

Memories Of Things Long Gone

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My mind's eye shows me images of places which have long vanished from the physical world.

I see the chalk streets drawn on the surface of the neighborhood cul-de-sac.  Bicycle riders wove through make believe streets, only stopping, occasionally, to spend Monopoly dollars on fictional gasoline for sticker covered Schwinns and Big Wheels.

I see a wood panel in the chapel of my childhood church.  The grain of the wood looked, at least to a little boy, like God and Satan talking to one another.

I see the wide green stripe running down the center of my grade school's hallway.  One side of the hall featured a round ceilingless room, called the O.T. Circle, where occupational skills were taught.  Across the hall sat a bright yellow three sided play room, affectionately nicknamed The Mouse House for the semi-circular crawl space which lead to the school's single hoop basketball court.

I see the Orange Julius, Tower Records, and Foot Locker Shoe Store making corners of a triangle at the bottom of the mall's sloped penny fountain.

These places will exist, along with old; movie theaters, groceries stores, and video rental shops; for as long as synapses keep firing within my brain.
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Beaverton oh Beaverton

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When people think of poetry they typically think of soul stirring dramatic pieces by Frost, Poe, or Shakespeare.  However, poetry can also be tongue in cheek and silly.  In that vein, I rewrote Glen Campbell’s “Galveston” to fit my hometown, Beaverton.  Enjoy.
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Subject: Interior of the Cedar Hills Crossing mall (formerly Beaverton Mall) | Date: 07/277/2011 | Photographer: Steve Morgan | This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Beaverton oh Beaverton,
I still hear your cool winds blowing,
I still see her dark eyes glowing,
She was 21 when I left Beaverton.
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Beaverton oh Beaverton,
I still hear your beer trucks crashing,
While I watch the perverts flashing,
I clean my gun and dream of Beaverton,
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I still see her standing by the Starbucks,
Standing there watching phone app TV,
And is she waiting there for me,
At the mall where we used to run.
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Beaverton oh Beaverton,
I am so afraid of dying,
Before I dry the tears she's crying,
Before I watch your small birds flying in the sun,
At Beaverton at Beaverton.
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Metamorphosis Of The Season

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As I've said before, I'm a touch on the frugal side. Don't misunderstand, I don't hoard cash and deprive myself by limiting my diet to nightly broth and bread the way a certain Dickens character did. I like to eat well and enjoy life, but I hate to waste money in silly ways. Mass produced Christmas cards are things I hate spending money on, especially with the knowledge they'll be stuffed in boxes or thrown in trash cans just after the beginning of the new year. Yet, I feel its important to remember the people in my life during the holidays.

Fortunately, I'm creatively inclined. Thus, for the past 20 some years I've been making my own Christmas cards complete with a new Christmas poem. Last Saturday, I finished the poem for this year's card. Hope you like it.




Metamorphosis Of The Season

A tiny star once hung against an ebony night sky,
Three kings caught the glimmer from the corner of their eye.
Upon camels they followed the light to stalls of sheep,
And found a new baby lying in hay, fast asleep.

An angel came from on high and blew a mighty horn,
To let bystanders know the king of the Jews had been born.

Today crooners sing of jolly times and cold weather,
As hordes brave traffic bringing families together.
Roasted chestnuts and eggnog wait for us by the fire,
Wrapped packages sit beneath the tree for us to admire.

What began with a birth, a holy gift from above,
Morphed into a season of joy, merriment, and love.

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May The 4th Be With You

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               Photo courtesy of Amazon's Affiliate Program. 

"A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away....    It is a period of civil war. Rebel  spaceships, striking from a hidden  base, have won their first victory  against the evil Galactic Empire.    During the battle, Rebel spies managed  to steal secret plans to the Empire's  ultimate weapon, the Death Star, an  armored space station with enough  power to destroy an entire planet.    Pursued by the Empire's sinister agents,  Princess Leia races home aboard her  starship, custodian of the stolen  plans that can save her people and restore  freedom to the galaxy..."
Since first reading these words on May 25th, 1977, fans of science fiction have been enthralled with the universe of Star Wars.  The tale of laser wielding knights, bounty hunters, royalty, monsters, and villains spawned five more movies, and more novels, comic books, toys, games, t-shirts, posters, buttons, and other bobbles than I can count.  The franchise's fictional Jedi Order even inspired the formation of The Temple Of The Jedi Order: Church Of Jediism in Texas.

While most fans haven't adopted the saga as a replacement for their personal God concept, the franchise has made an indelible mark on pop culture and, arguably, society in general.  This Sunday, fans will be celebrating Star Wars Day with movie marathons and themed parties.  I even plan to "get my geek on" by digging out my Luke Skywalker t-shirt and watching a few of the films.


First recognized in Toronto, in 2011, May the 4th was chosen for its phonic similarity to, "May the Force," within the franchise's popular tagline, "May the Force be with you."  While this observance may seem to lay nerd centrically outside the box, it's actually not unique.

In England and Scotland, January 25th is known as Burns Supper, in recognition of the UK's premier poet—Robert Burns.  The celebration features a set menu of Scottish favorites, including haggis, which is touted in Burns' poem Address To A Haggis. Other poems are read, speeches of appreciation are given and, in the case of more formal gatherings, the night ends with a dance.

May 20th is recognized, by My Fair Lady fans, as Eliza Doolittle Day.  Based on the lyrics, "One evening the king will say, 'Oh, Eliza, old thing — I want all of England your praises to sing. Next week on the twentieth of May, I proclaim Eliza Doolittle Day,'" the day is celebrated with showings of  the 1964 film and lots of chocolate for fans to eat.  Wouldn't it be lovely?

Bloomsday is a celebration of the life of Irish writer James Joyce, during which the events of his novel Ulysses (which is set on 16 June 1904) are relived.  On June 16th, in Dublin and elsewhere, enthusiasts dress in Edwardian costumes and retrace Bloom's route around Dublin via landmarks such as Davy Byrne's pub. Avid devotees have even been known to hold marathon readings of the entire novel, some lasting up to 36 hours.

Title: Robert B. Parker at the Manchester (N.H.) Library | Date: 05/17/2006 | Photographer: Manchester (N.H.) Library | This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.

I personally set aside January 18th, each year, to remember the life and works of Robert B. Parker (September 17, 1932 – January 18, 2010), an American crime writer who's work helped me learn how to write fiction in the first person while including omnipresent narration. His most famous works were  novels about the Boston P.I. Spenser. Since they were known as Bullets & Beer stories, I spend the day with some beer and one of his many novels.

Fiction and poetry, when it's at its best, speaks to us in entertaining, instructive, and./or profound ways.  They can put issues into perspective, answer questions for us, impress us with their structure and flow, and provide us with a temporary escape from life.  Given the impact fiction and poetry have on readers and viewers, it's not surprising that we assign days to commemorate our favorites.  Thus, the observance of Star Wars Day may not be that far outside the box after all.
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Winter Cold

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I'M BACK!  Well... sorta.

It's been a trying few weeks.  First, my computer went to Geek Squad for a week, where it was diagnosed with 239 viruses.  I got my computer back just in time to catch a virus of my own.   I'm still under the weather, but felt the need to write SOMETHING while I still remember how.

Here's a poem I was inspired to write, in between sneezes and coughs, today.
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Winter Cold

| Title: Snow outside my door | Date: 02/08/2014 |
| Photographers: James Kiester |
This picture was taken by the author of this blog.

Outside my frosted window,
Oppressively thick snow silently covers,
The normally pedestrian landscape.
As I watch the frigid bombardment,
Of seasonal of atmospheric fury,
My body miserably expels germ ridden sludge,
From a variety of bodily orifices.
Aches and soggy tissues,
Tint the otherwise pristine winter show,
Into tempestuous shades of incarcerating weight.

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Christmas Cinquains

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The American poet Adelaide Crapsey invented the modern form, known as American Cinquain.  Inspired by the Japanese poetry form, Haiku, Crapsey decided to make the criterion a stanza of five lines of 2, 4, 6, 8, and 2 syllables.

Below are three season appropriate Cinquains I've written lately.   Enjoy.

Title: Snowy moorland west of Crawberry Hill | Date: 12/28/2009 | Photographer: Mike Quinn | This image was taken from the Geograph project collection. See this photograph's page on the Geograph website for the photographer's contact details. The copyright on this image is owned by Mike Quinn and is licensed for reuse under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 license.

Snow & Ice
Snow falls...
On lonely hills,
As small children ice skate,
Upon the newly frozen lake,
Below.

Saint Nick's Night
Saint Nick...
Slides down chimneys,
Packing loads of wrapped joy,
For youngsters sleeping in warm beds,
Tonight.

Waiting For Christmas Dinner
Roast bird,
And sage dressing,
Populate the table,
While hungry eaters await the,
Blessing.

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A Free Verse Tribute To An Abbey

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Like a ship in Her Majesty's Royal Fleet,
The abbey rests midst a sea of crisp green grass,
Perfectly kept.
Everything has its function,
Everyone has their place.
As each servant has their assigned duties,
So too does each spoon have its assigned dish.
For the housekeeper to stock the wine cellar,
Or to eat from bouillon cup with a soup spoon,
Would be equally unthinkable faux pas.
Men in ties and tails,
Ladies in gowns and gloves,
Are nightly sights over filet of sole,
And the proper wine.
As Lords, Ladies, and senior staff,
Devoutly dedicate themselves to age-old customs,
The new generation seeks to embrace modern life,
And junior staff hatch plots in back halls,
To advance their own ends.
Yet, each night when the sun sets,
The abbey endures as a steadfast monument,
To tradition and above all to,
Propriety.
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Apple Yard - A Verse

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Each evening, weather permitting, I take a thirty minute stroll to put some fresh air into my lungs and clear my head.  The following verse has been inspired by an actual yard I pass each night on those strolls.
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Apple Yard
The sharp sweet bite of alcohol assaulted J’s nostrils as he passed the chrome mesh fence.   Through the links J could clearly see piles of, what had been fresh Red Delicious Apples, now brown wrinkled corpses of neglected fruit; their once sugary juices fermenting unchecked.

Dangling above the mounds of rot, J saw bright red orbs of delectable produce awaiting their wasted fate.   Pangs teased his stomach.  He smacked his lips at the thought of  plundering the otherwise unwanted treasure.  Yet, a gleaming white sign promised prosecution of all those who traversed the fence.

J continued down the lonely road, the smell fading slowly from his weary senses.
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The Suburbs - A Poem

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Due to my battle with headaches, I haven't blogged as much as I've wanted to lately.  However, I've been taking a number of strolls through my neighborhood, just to relax my head & lungs a bit, and the following free verse poem essentially wrote itself.   

Note: this poem DOES CONTAIN 2 WORDS WHICH MAY BE CONSIDERED AS SWEARING; PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

The Suburbs

Millions of wooden dwellings,
Garnished with brightly manicured green lawns,
Rest along side common gray streets of cement and black tar.
Cars and trucks,
Too numerous to fit within their owners’ pearly driveways,
Permanently hug four inch curbs,
Blocking views of supremely loved  shrubs and flowers,
Of multiple colors and varieties.
Within the dwellings’ walls,
Common people; eat, drink, sleep, piss, shit, read, and ponder;
As the attempt to assign meaning to the mundane,
The ordinary.
Lawn mowers break the still silence of a warm Sunday morning,
While a nearby dog bristles at the presence of a stray cat,
And families busily dress to worship a deity of compassion and hope.
Meanwhile, the man next door seeks similar answers,
Within the pages of abstruse books,
Speaking of waves and infinitesimal particles of matter.
Each clings to their cleverly discovered truth,
As the massive ball of dwelling laced streets they ride upon,
Hurries around its fiery ball of erupting gas,
At 67,062 miles per hour.
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Occupy Stand Off - Micro Blog

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As I watch the stand off between occupiers & police, on 3rd & Main, I can hear the following West Side Story-esc back & forth going on in my head.
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Occupiers: The occupiers are gonna have their day, Tonight. The occupiers are gonna have their way, Tonight. The city officials grumble, 'obey us,' but if they start to move in, we'll put up a fuss.

Cops: We're gonna hand'em a surprise, Tonight. We're gonna cut'em down to size, Tonight. We said 'OK no rumpus, no tricks,' but just in case they jump us, we're ready to mix, Tonight.

Occupiers: We're gonna rock it tonight. We're gonna jazz it up, and have us a ball.

Cops: They're gonna get it tonight. The more they turn it on, the harder they'll fall.

Occupiers: Well they began it.

Cops: Well they began it.

Occupiers & Cops: And we're the ones to stop'em once and for all, Tonight.
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Whether, or not, the movement will disband peacefully, remains to be seen.

Summer's End

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Last year I posted a poem about the coming of autumn. Today I'm posting a poem of mine about the end of summer.

Summer's End

A fluffy white blanket covers the familiar blue,
Of hot lazy days spent trading comic books and sliding into home plate.
Sporadic spits of rain slowly erase streets of chalk,
Which once carried busy bicycles racing to and from make believe shops.

Naked sticks of brittle wood are all that remain of,
Fruity frozen confections of sticky juice which decorated small lips.
School books replace tales of heroic adventures in heavy
Nap sacks of students trying to find their way from home room their next class.

Sweaters hand on bodies once adorned in light tank tops,
As boots incase previously sandaled feet sprinkled in cool beach sand.
Thoughts of clear nights spent star gazing as bug zappers snap,
Morph into aspirations of full meals and rich holiday suppers.

Colored leaves smother previously soft green grass blades,
As we prepare for the cold short days and long nights which lie just ahead.

Rains of May

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Portland is gearing up for Rose Festival, the annual city-wide celebration. The Royal Court has been selected, the carnival has been erected along the waterfront, and eager treasure hunters are testing their wits as they search for the medallion. There's just one problem; roses aren't blooming because it's been too wet this year.

Portland is used to rain, and is even known for it. Iron statues decorating downtown sidewalks have been sculpted with umbrellas in their hands, raincoats are sold year 'round, and locals know it traditionally rains on the day of the Rose Parade. Yet by the end of a typical May, Portland has enjoyed at least a few weeks of dry and sunny 70°+ weather. This May, we've only had eight days without rain, and only half of those have seen clear blue skies and seasonally warm temperatures.

By now, meals should have been grilled on the back patio, produce should've been purchased from Farmers' Markets, and sunny days should've bee spent roaming city streets, with a cup of coffee in hand, shopping and watching chess hustlers pluck their pigeons in Pioneer Square. None of this has been done yet, at least by me, simply because gray skies and rain have chosen to dominate Portland's existence at this point in time.

Some have looked at the cloud laden skies and seen proof of man made climate change. Others point to they grayish back purveyors of precipitation and see a sign of an ending foretold of long ago. While I've briefly entertained both these explanations, I can't say I've embraced either theory with abandon. For all I know, this happens every 10,000 years, or so.

I will admit the gloom and sogginess carry with them a few positives. I can sit by my window and read a book as rain pats against the glass, which is a luxury typically reserved for autumn and winter. Plus, being trapped indoors gives me more time to write.

Yet, even though my time at the keyboard has increased, the quality of the work suffers. Being out among people inspires and fuels my writing in a way no book can. Just watching people, other than those in my immediate circle, interact with one another on the train, or a mall bench, helps supply me with clothing ideas and dialogue for a variety of characters.

Until this weather lets up, I'll be cut off from my academy of creativity and muse, soups and casseroles must still stand in for the grilled meats of summer, and the produce and cheeses of the outdoor markets will simply need to patiently wait for me to purchase them.

Finally, let's end with a poem, I wrote today, simply called Rains of May.


Gray clouds mask the traditional blue of spring,
Sending icy droplets pounding down on a soggy reality,
And force pedals to remain huddled for warmth.
Muddy diamonds sit abandoned,
As droplets splash up from their padded corners.
Children’s noses remain pressed against panes of glass,
Waiting for a few hours of liberty,
From a prison of water and wind and muck.

Now Is Not Forever

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I’m living in my own future,
I’m living in my own past.
I’m trapped in this painful moment,
But I know that it won’t last.

There’s a me looking back at this,
Proud that I broke free.
There’s a me waiting for this moment,
Unsure of what’s to be.

I see only this painful moment,
Full of woes and frights.
Yet the moments exist together,
As a web of lefts and rights.

My future, past, a present,
Exist together as parallel streams.
Although what I see as now,
Is an eternity it seems.

I need a way to rise above this pain,
And quench this hurt somehow.
I need to shift my focus,
And look back on the now.

I’m living in my own future,
I’m living in my own past.
I’m trapped in this painful moment,
But I know that it won’t last.

Mumbo Jumbo Updated

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The following is a song from a 60s play, "Stop The World - I Want To Get Off." The song is sung by Littlechap, who's running for the House of Commons, and is meant to mock political speeches which use key phrases amidst the "mumbo jumbo," but actually say nothing. I simply updated it for today's American elections.

Mumbo Jumbo Updated
Littlechap begins to campaign, as the Chorus sings:

Vote for Littlechap! Vote for Littlechap!
Vote for Littlechap! Vote for Littlechap!
For Littlechap!

Girl: Fellow citizens, our speaker for tonight is the Opportunist candidate for this constituency, Mr. Littlechap.

Littlechap sings:

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Tickety bubarb yak yak yak.
Mumbo jum red white and bluebarb,
Goldman Sach's on it's back.

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Nothing newbarb cha cha cha.
Mumbo Jumbo BP's spillbarb.
I think someone's gone too far!

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Voulez-vousbarb avec moi?
Mumbo Jumbo entrez-nousbarb,
Paris Hilton ooh la la!

Girl: Ladies of the Book of the Month Guild, it is my pleasure to introduce the Opportunist candidate for this constituency, Mr. Littlechap!

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Has Pakistan got the bomb?
Holy cowbarb if it's truebarb,
We'll be blown to kingdom come.

Chorus: You've got a bomb, We've got a bomb, All God's children got bombs.

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Give Bear Stearns more free cash.
Helps the nation, stops inflation.
How's your mortgage? Wall Street crash.

Chorus: We wanna be rich with money to burn.

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Housing Market can't go wrong.
APR's sky rocket,
In plans four score long.

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Here everybody's free.
Give the homobarbs their rights,
Just don't tell the G.O.P!

Mumbo Jumbo, rhubarb rhubarb,
Up your flubarb, City Hall.
And, dear friends, if I'm elected,
I'm all right, Jack--screw you all!

Littlechap wins the election by a landslide.

Autumn Afternoon

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I wrote this poem 2 or 3 years ago, was reading it again today, and felt like posting it.

Autumn Afternoon

My window frames a melancholy portrait of nature’s slumber,
Reminiscent more of Hollywood’s Halloween than of an impending Thanksgiving.
Stark gray clouds bleakly decorate the early afternoon sky,
Which hangs ominously above skeletons of dark and sleeping trees.
Their lonely naked perches extend sharply in every possible direction,
Stabbing and jabbing at the frigid air embracing them.
Leaves, once rich reds and golds, now shades of auburn,
Dart furiously within wintry wind, as if late for their final resting place.
Thickly stuffed coats are pulled up over hunkering earlobes,
Protecting pedestrians from the heavens’ promise of liquid bombardment.
Warm in my window, I soak in the drama and reflect.
Does the squirrel, foraging for deposits of acorns and filberts,
Know the sun will one day re-warm the earth beneath him?
Or, does he simply accept what comes,
Free of giddy expectation and bitter disappointment?

Slaves To Beauty

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This last Friday, Terry Gross interviewed singer/song writer/poet Leonard Cohen. That interview inspired the following poem.

Slaves To Beauty

We’re all slaves to beauty,
Yet most of us are left out.
I find myself looking through pretty windows of brightly lit glass,
At the pretty people I long to be,
Or at least make sweaty love to.
Then I laugh to myself at the absurdity,
Of such unfulfilled desires and aspirations.
Futilely,
Almost masochistically,
I continue to chain myself to dreams of beauty,
As if such dreams were food rather than poison.
I read beauty’s scriptures as I wait for last night’s supper to pass through me,
And obediently plan my purchases accordingly,
Convinced the right pair of pants will propel me toward beauty’s promise.

Something For The Holidays

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.....OK I'll pony up, I'm a touch on the frugal side. Don't misunderstand, I don't hoard cash and deprive myself by limiting my diet to nightly broth and bread the way a certain Dickens character did. I like to eat well and enjoy life, but I hate to waste money in silly ways. Mass produced Christmas cards are things I hate spending money on, especially with the knowledge they'll be stuffed in boxes or thrown in trash cans just after the beginning of the new year. Yet, I feel its important to remember the people in my life during the holidays.

.....Fortunately, I'm creatively inclined. Thus, for the past 15 years I've been making my own Christmas cards complete with a new Christmas poem. Last Saturday, I finished the poem for this year's card. Hope you like it.

A BOY'S CHRISTMAS TRAIN

Ripped wrapping paper lies discarded,

Next to the prize it so lovingly kept safe.

Young eyes celebrate upon seeing the shiny blue train,

With gleaming red smoke stacks and coal black wheels.

A thousand possible journeys flood the young boy’s mind,

Each packed with excitingly heroic adventure.

Up and over mountains, through long stretches of barren desert,

Racing from town to town,

Delivering goods to clambering town folk,

Or bars of gold past desperate outlaws.

Yet, before the heroic engineer can deliver fuel to freezing settlers,

Or soldiers to their newly assigned post deep in Indian country,

He must first endure an all too ceremonial Christmas breakfast,

And wet kisses from aunts.

Yuck!