I got a gun

I got a gun

actually I got two guns

they been in the sock drawer for years unused

but sometimes I think

what if I have to shoot someone

what if the assault weapon people

the NRA and that lot

decide to attack peaceful people 

who want guns out of society

would i violate my own peace and shoot back

would i violate a natural instinct to defend those i love

why should I even have a gun

a little 22 lugar six shooter was my dads

and a handsome gun at that

nice to hold

nice to look at and admire

for its smooth lines and simple design

but guns are only the smaller suggestion of deeper stuff

of fear and greed buried deep in the human mind

of paranoid fantasies of being gotten

of being attacked and dominated

so what to do but attack and dominate

a gun in hand gives power

the false kind that the weak must use

gun makers cash in on paranoia

they sell guns by breathing life 

into simple fear

stoking the fires of the NRA

working for the masters: greed, fear anger

richard nichols

Jan 2013

                 we are trapped

what would it be like

the fog rolling in from the coast

fluffy clouds on a warm day

a parade of bikes

clusters of walkers

air brisk in the chill of morning

but we are trapped

like mastroianni 

clawing at the windows

suffocating

desperate to escape

the little fiat car

crashing finally

into a brick wall of reality

we are trapped

by custom

by habit

by images

by freedom

never to escape til our dying day

our hands wrapped around 

the steering wheel of convenience

the cold hard wheel

we will never give up 

until it is pried 

from our cold, dead hands

i am not scared

my old friend michael

goes way back

good times

in our foolish and fun youth

we even had the same girlfriend

at different times

pamela the lovely artist

we went to canada in my old ford

thinking to duck the draft

but canada didn't want us

anymore than we wanted 

vietnam

we smoked a lot of weak pot

drank a lot of cheap wine

read a lot of watts

and explored the cosmos 

in our own careless way

michael the poet

50 years later

laying on his death bed

disappearing before our eyes

his wife distraught

i held his frail hand

he said "thank you richard"

in a voice already from another place

only a few words left

from his poets heart

"sorry to see you go michael"

and i asked him

"michael michael what is it like?"

far off, the voice said

one last thing to me

"i'm not scared"

before leaving him for the last time

i helped him walk his frail body

back to his bed

there he raised his thin arm 

pointing to the sky

pointing maybe to the mystery

that he could sense

but that we cannot know.

hoarding the easy life

warning: rome is buzzing

full of traffic and pickpockets

pickpockets licking their lips

traffic mosquitos on the move

tourist flock just like the pigeons 

in the piazza

clustered tours 

like bunches of juicy grapes

in the crush

wanting to find every scrap 

of ancient history

a slurry of roman memories mixed into a 

renaissance sauce

caesar walked right there 

in the forum 

and died right there

constantine won the war

replace the roman gods                                                         

with the christian god

with the swipe of a sword

and the blood of warriors

then built a monumental arch

a triumphant finger to 

those old gods

how could a thousand year empire

reduce to rock and cement

remains jagged caved in

like a modern dump

scattered hidden 

under twenty feet of modern rome

i suppose human folly is the simple answer

ego and the pathology of control

the pathology of accumulation

hoarding the easy life

i suppose its us

high on a mountain

We've been there
high up on the mountains
they come in different flavors

the Sierra Nevada like
solid amber and wine
from fermented rocks

Wialualua tastes like water
wet fronds licked for fun
to taste the marsh

that old island the Rubies
rising from dust and water
tastes like ancient pine
and loneliness

San Gabriel Mountains
tastes of a people
lost to progress
and fresh air
above the melee

coast ranges
taste of salt
and dew drops
from the redwoods

Ancient Marbles
rimmed and fluted
taste like wine on a hot day

mystical Himalayas
float above reason
and remembering

Mountains everywhere
unknowable mountains
float on seafloors
and space on another planet
how many mountains are there?
what are their flavors?
who has been there?

                jesus had a mission

                nobody walks on water

even jesus had a trick

walking on a plank

just below the surface

built by his carpenter buddies

jesus needed a following

how else to build a movement

that would conquer the west

quiet the pagans

and finally even

subdue the romans

faithful waiter

we were in a rock garden

mossy and green

moist sparkles of a million 

dew drops on our wine glasses

waiting for dinner

the waiter finally came

greeting us

with laughter like a waterfall

then in a soft voice

took our order

we are not sure what we ordered

or what we would get

but he assured us it would harmonize

with soothing music

coming from the rocks and trees

bubbling up from the ground

reach beyond our expectations

and touch us deep in

unexplored territory

after a year

we were hungry

waiting all this time

for the promised  meal

not noticing really

the passing of time

the slow changes

mosses drying out

then moist

leaves covering us 

before the spring winds swept them away

the waiter stayed on

polishing tree trunks and leaves

speaking in a language

that sounded like growing plants

finally the meal arrived

the wait worth it all

waiting for the faithful waiter

ax the coppin

ax the coppin

i want to ax the coppin

it stopped me cold

last time

close to victory

taken away by judgements

lacking

feeling bereft of

essential skills

of weaving or spelling

to get though the night

how could one be so foolish

so arrogant to challenge the word

ax? axe? coppin?

shit

i lost at scrabble again!

Faithful Waiter

faithful waiter

we were in a rock garden
mossy and green
moist sparkles of a million
dew drops on our wine glasses
waiting for dinner

the waiter finally came
greeting us
with laughter like a waterfall
then in a soft voice
took our order

we are not sure what we ordered
or what we would get
but he assured us it would harmonize
with soothing music
coming from the rocks and trees
bubbling up from the ground
reach beyond our expectations
and touch us deep in
unexplored territory

after a year
we were hungry
waiting all this time
for the promised  meal
not noticing really
the passing of time
the slow changes
mosses drying out
then moist
leaves covering us
before the spring winds swept them away

the waiter stayed on
polishing tree trunks and leaves
speaking in a language
that sounded like growing plants

finally the meal arrived
the wait worth it all
waiting for the faithful waiter

the last christmas cookie

the last christmas cookie

tasted like an eon of time had past

and our tiny blue planet

a speck in a band of space

still floats out here 

one cookie among many

or maybe the last cookie

eaten by a small creature

on a large planet

the cookie speckled with blue and gold glitter

dusted with snow and sand

watered by thunderclouds

fed by glaciers

maybe it really is gods last

christmas cookie

and all the saints and holy men

prophets and sinners

are waiting for a chance to take a bite

until there is no more cookie

and we will have no more

but only the crumbs

floating in space

crashing later

into some unknown sphere

perhaps one on fire

absorbing the very last hint 

of planet earth and the humanity that used to

inhabit this little thing

this little speck 

how then is anything important

why not do what inspires

why not create

why not make christmas cookies

so that we all can have a bite

the woman in red

the woman in red - dedicated to senator rand paul

the woman in red

the woman with the blond wig

pushed down to the curb

surrounded by the flowers of kali

thugs longing for power 

their leader longing to

grab for the ring

the white shoe descends slowly

slow motion slick and innocuous

an image designed for effect

to find the neck

of the woman in red

exposed to abuse

the shoe

mashing down insistent and hard

finds the woman in red

she lies quietly violated

not resisting 

the masters meanwhile

nod knowingly

that the crushing 

of the woman in red

is only the beginning

Global Vomit

some black gooey stuff

emerged from  the bottom

under emerald water

trapping an entire civilization

in it's fragrance

it's convenient charming essence

of self propulsion and frantic travel

it fooled us all

the wealthy and impoverished alike

accepted the inevitable

oil cracking to gasoline

tranforming our lush world

addiction rules the land

now we feel the pangs of remorse

as the vomit rages across air land and sea

taking life and livelihood at will

defiling and dishonoring  everything it touches

we, back in the drivers seat

check the rearview mirror

for what is to come

radio music

radio music

the radio station

playing old vinyl

old fashioned sounding

folk from the past

then this angelic voice

fills the car

who is that we say

what modern darling of music

has this voice

who has this passion and beauty

the voice of the decade

we wonder who it is

perfect pitch

perfect passion

perfect person

the announcer speaks then

I Dreamed A Dream he says

then we know

transcending appearance

transcending station

transcendent Susan

Nevada

This poem was recently published in the Sonoma County Peace Press - my first ever published poem. I've since thought about the poem, and realize it had a lot to do with optimism, and the hope that our new president would be able to deal with very complex issues. Most of us would agree, I think, that he is up against powerful forces, and it will be very difficult for us to change the American obsession with power.

Nevada
dedicated to Dan Frank and Lynn Hamilton, who spent a month in Nevada working for the election of Barack Obama, and told me their story.

dust blows incessant into the cracks
of a nevada trailer
parked desolate
gravel and grit
huddled like a beetle
in a mound of shredded posters
and demented memories

two people wonder why are we here
a tortured man in angles of disposition
invites them into the trailer
his gun for varmints he says
I don't like that fella in washington
the one like orwell he says
the one who must leave

yes we are here for that they say
the tortured man smiles
a smile of mysterious regrets
we can do this he says
we can find the damage
we can fix it he says.

two people reach across
something uncrossable
something filled with the impulse
of altered understanding
and say yes yes we can fix this

- richard nichols

Dorothy Chases the Rainbow Over Howth Head

on howth head

by dublin bay

we circled around from south to north

the sun beating on our backs

rain spraying our faces

when the rainbow appeared

just past the lighthouse

staying with us

emerging out of mist

always receding from us

never reachable

always beautiful

dressing the sky

Dorothy, the rainbow is elusive

the rainbow always recedes

the funny people in Kansas

on Aunt Ems farm

remain to remind you

that you are who you are

and over the rainbow

is only your dream

of something you already have

buddha at the bar

Buddha at the bar

the buddha knocked one back

at the darkened bar

slapped the counter and called for another

the scotch was new to the buddha

"it tastes like the dust of many paths" he said

"paths we have followed and neglected

places we have smelled, the scenery of fallen leaves

barren trees, mountains bereft of people

cities and villages, ocean and sky

flowing rivers and polluted lanes

anger and joy

it tastes like everything"

others in the bar looked around

observing the buddha in his traveling robe

wondering what he meant

when the buddha left the bar

the other patrons called for the barkeep

"what was he drinking?" they asked

I'll try a glass"

Golf and Weeds

     how golf and weeds got me started

the day emerged 

with the usual

a round of golf 

fervently played 

with amateur gusto

then on to the weed attack

the chore for the season

the weeds free and wild

the tractor stubborn and noisy

we find ourselves involved

what ever it is we do

we do and do again year after year

we find loquats for free

come and pick ganesha said

and a computer desk

asking for a new home

african music entertains and energizes

vivid with a human beat

while the desk finds it place

loquats find a glassy home

we dive for golf balls

or write a poem

the african music just keeps coming

the images keep flowing

putting a period on a sentence

the friends of the buddha

call and ask

are you here

can you hear

do you care

high school comes roaring out of the past

flying high on mildewed gym socks 

and worn jock straps

and the glare and anger

of the boys dean

deadly serious and uncompromising

the covered walks and railings

where we sat and watched 

the world and the girls go by

commenting yet not participating

except the golf team 

a working class effort

of rusty putters and pathetic egos

the revered coach dead you found

after a search

and junior varsity basketball

you made one from the corner

everyone gasped

because you seemed so uncertain

about a shot you could make

yet not convinced

the racist teacher 

commenting on mexicans

tearing and ripping

a brain splattered on the rocks

the sea washing it clean by now

a long gone ghost

haunted maybe by attitudes and beliefs 

tainted by the habits of 

long lost monks and nuns

the flag flying on the card

in the corner and on the pole

would you ever get it

now 50 years later

baskets are easy

golf shots a breeze

the evening quiets

limbs go slack

a tree whispers breezily

a cat lurks in the weeds

buffered by the memories of birds and gophers

like everything else

it needs its place to rest after eating

a place of repose 

a place to finally call an end

of the hunt and the worry

Listen

"be open to catching bits of conversation" - advice from a writing teacher

listen

"my brother and sister settled the family feud finally"

we talk incessantly in nature

when the wind is blowing

and the voices become faint

the wind and the words

overpower the birds

and the wrestling of weeds

"it was on my chart"

on the trail up

brokeoff mountain

the ragged edge of eruption

the chart that nobody knows

and everyone guesses

the charting of a life?

or the pulse coursing

and being charted?

"the little boy died on the mountain"

lava rocks sharp and unyielding

taking a life in a jumble of confusion and terror

while hikers watched in helplessness

we talked about it

imagining the pain and sorrow

the agony of adverse nature

"stop that and get over here"

a little boy and a little girl

run free happy gleefully

through the camp among the trees

unbounded by air and sky

and the dirt of a forest floor

the parents finally stop it

"can't wait to get home"

through the central valley

back roads all the way

longer but better

we bought fruit off the tree

and melon from the vine

enjoyed the ripening fields

and the river roiling nearby

"the last leg"

we roll down the road

then the gravel driveway

finding our place the same

"it is nice to be home"

Lao Tzu

an old book

An old copy of the Way of Life

appeared on the shelf

in the bookstore by the bay

fresh from 1962

a discolored receipt still in the book

it is from the past lives

then we read it stoned and sober

strange all these years later

it means more now than ever

so simple and complex

a molecule only

a simple maze

a bump in time

a speck and less

in all of it

Lao Tzu speaks

still and quiet

the plug

the plug

the campground bathroom

set among the dunes and cypress

state park grey

quiet and serene

made refuge for two boys

plugged in and enthralled

with the electronic world 

on the little screen

oblivious to what awaited outside

the sand tumbling down the dune

the wind moving it grain by grain

trees advertising climbing 

waves beating a summons 

that is not heard

wanting the boys to come and play

freely with abandon

severed from the web that binds them

holding them in and unaware

-richard nichols

july 09