I SEE GRAMMA IN THE BLUE-HAIRED MOON
Your belief in The One Above made us
get down on our knees and close our eyes.
The sacred heart of your faith is
a prize of prayers and praise.
By the Great Horn Spoon,
good night Gramma, and do not cry, please:
I promise by the blue-haired moon,
we will always hum and sing your lullabies.

ELEANOR CLARK

“I have decided to regard old age as something new, instead of a decline,” states Eleanor Clark, 88 years into her love of life.

Four years ago Eleanor emailed, “When I was in Arizona, I saw a moon coming up behind a mountain in the near distance that was so extraordinary that I thought at the time I was seeing it that I was in desperate need of a poem by You to honor it. It was huge, and seemed to be made of a mysterious creamy substance.

“Just any sentimental jingle by an average poet would not do. What is needed is one of your sharply seen somewhat offbeat, and the same time glorious poems. I know this is an impossible request, but I make it anyway: can you write one for me?”

SHE SEES THE MOON SHINE
She sees the moon shine
whether her eyes are
open or closed, 24/7
a creamy moon beams
in memory’s skies.

A complete surprise,
she hears her dead Dad
whisper a nickname she’s
forgotten she’s had:
“Shiny Eyes.” Shiny Eyes!

CHARLES BECK

The artist Charles Beck has changed the way I see things.

Traveling around our prairie and woodland landscapes, Beck’s pictures are everywhere I look.

Beck is supremely confident in his vision, while totally grounded and humble as only a Norwegian American Lutheran can be.

Having traveled the world and tasted worldly success, he returned to his roots in the small town of Fergus Falls, Minnesota where he was born in 1923. He decided to earn a living with his art as well as live a good life by making pictures, no matter what the cost.

He figured out how to make his own frames, cut his own mats, salvage materials, build his own studio, gallery and house. He has lived a life of self-reliance, literally living off the land. He painted signs until his woodcuts could feed the family.

I got to know Charlie a little after enjoying his pictures and sculptures for many years when I made a video called C. BECK about him.

Beck is a survivor.

PAPRIKA

Whoa! Paprika was blowing up a rainbow of balloons to publicize an art show by homeless women called I Love a Parade. I mailed Paprika a picture postcard with a poem:

Eureka, Paprika:
I love a parade
of robust red:
Slice of life.
Spice of life.
I love your parade
of robust red.
Paprika, eureka!

BAT MAN
Kirby Puckett was Bat Man.

Although I was kneeling right in front of the star while he taped his tools, he didn’t care one whit. Puckett was in a rapture, completely transported by the job at hand.

The poet Thomas McGrath wrote that work is either “play or slavery” and good work, like writing poems, is “being enslaved to play.” This work is play, and this human is enslaved to play.

The slugger’s seated in the passageway between the dugout and the locker room. The bats form a phallic visual play. The glove lies on the ground like an extension of his body; he is completely dressed.

This is the last minute before the game. It is a sacred spot of time.

It reminds of a scene in a Kurosawa film where a samurai warrior contemplates flowers in the forest moments before springing into action. Was that Rashomon or Seven Samurai?

Kirby Puckett is Bat Man.

Nicknamed The Herb Man, Jeff Adelman is an incomplete thesis short of a Phd in ethnobotany. He speaks in quotes.

“I’ve known these Brussels sprouts since they were seeds.”

“God made the garden, I just make more of it. Paradise was a garden, you know!”

THE HERB MAN
His hand rests on a sun-ripened melon.
Dirt jammed under finger nails, informed
by ceremonies of dust and mud, he teaches
“Every day above ground is a good one.”

CHASE

Chase thought a school of minnows was tadpoles.

Corrected, he was really jazzed. “Dang nabbit, you don’t see that every day. A once in a lifetime opportunity for me because I’ve never seen it before. There are trillions of minnows.”

An eight year old’s energy is divine. Roused, I pointed out more things around us. Neon blue dragonfly. Columbine flowers. Horse tail plant. The lake is 94 feet deep.

He responded, “The lake is 94 feet deep and it is all flat on top!”

Dang nabbit, that is deep.

CLEAN GENE

The late Eugene McCarthy got so sick while we were making a documentary film together, we feared he was a goner. I wrote this poem as a sort of conjuring act.

WE WERE GONNA SMASH THE BALL
We were gonna smash the ball past those who bought the park.
We were gonna listen to you play Mozart on the clarinet.
We were gonna hunker down by the Vietnam Wall and feel the pierced heart of America.
We were gonna remind the country about the tear gas in Chicago and how it still makes people cry.
We were gonna climb the steps of the Senate or the House—you said it didn’t much matter which—and talk sense about democracy.
We were gonna take your dog Punky for a walk in the country.
We were gonna talk about St. Sebastian and private devotions.
We were gonna keep death daily before our eyes.
We were gonna smash the ball past those who bought the park, and we still might.
We were gonna change the world, and we still might.

ZOE

Mark Arnold modeled a tee shirt for his new baby Zoe.

Zoe was the first baby born to good friends who were my age. It fascinated to see the baby coming, to see the baby, and now to see the baby has a baby.

Life!

This was writ as a conjuring poem at the time, once upon a long time ago.

A LABOR OF LOVE
She’s pregnant as a pistachio,
about to burst at last,
her legs grow wide as wings.
She opens her mouth,
and we hear cries
cries that are not hers:
Come out, come out!
Whoever you are and will be,
into the light, we want to see.

VALENTIN CERVANTES CERVANTES

Valentin Cervantes Cervantes was hanging out near the Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent, in Teotihuacan, Mexico. This is a true story.

A SMALL DARK SPIDER
A small dark spider crawls
out of the silvery smoke
rising from a beautiful black
ceremonial bowl, and climbs
up my sweetheart’s arm.
Carefully brushed to the dust,
I hold my breath as
Valentin Cervantes Cervantes,
indigenous Indian, points
with his colorful, heavy staff.
I pray that he will not kill it.
“It’s OK,” he says quietly.
The spider disappeared, then re-
appears like aromatic magic
as I read later about the Spider
Goddess of Teotihuacan.
A buddy calls this vu-ja-de.
Appearing out of nowhere
on the plaza of the Pyramid
of the Feathered Serpent,
an Aztec messenger, Arana,
acknowledged, and confirmed
the curious respect of the guest,
the teaching of the gentle man,
the copal blessing, blessed.

SOLI HUGHES

Soli Hughes plays the blues. When we made this picture, he was taking good care of his Mom.

THE BLUE SON
The blues man who’s dyed
his hair blue, who’s played
tunes with every big star,
poses against a cloud-
free sky, humming a sad
sad blues for his Mother.

TIGER JACK

The late Tiger Jack knew “Bad words make a bad world. Good words make a good world.”

I made a film with a class of elementary kids called MR. RESPECT.

THE BURNING BOOK
Every morning, before reading a new passage in his old maroon Bible,
before he does anything, Tiger Jack kisses a picture of his daughter,
Mona Lisa, age 4 in the small, cracked, sepia-toned photograph of her
which he uses to mark the page. 1955, the year she burned to death.
Every morning since, he kisses her picture, then reads the Burning Book.