Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sjr1000 Apr 2016
She's texting me from
old L.A.
Heading north on the El Camino Real
driving fast on 101

I'm heading west
from Paradise, Nevada
No work here
It's all shut down

Driving through
Susanville
Hat Creek
Shingletown
Redding
Across the burning Trinity Alps
the river sure is beautiful
My heart is soaring,
just missed that landslide
late last night

Meeting my life in Humboldt County

She, from the South
Me, from the East
We cross that
Redwood Curtain
Right into the heart of the Emerald Triangle

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County

They say the streets
are lined with
green gold

The family "grows,"
up in the hills
where everyone is welcome
to trim scene solutions,
the emerald gardens
with trees six feet high
Glistening buds as big as your fist,
Everyone is smiling
Everyone is high
sure I may reek
of that Marijuana resin
but two hundred dollars a day
flirting all the way
all I can eat
all I can ****
sounds a lot like heaven to me.

I'll be getting that 215
growing plants
as far as the eye can see
Another millennium
with back problems, insomnia and anxiety.
My fortune is just waiting for me.

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Like an old Woody Guthrie tune
you ain't gonna find nothing
without that dough re me

There ain't no doubt
that ****, so pure
will get you so high
you'll be wishing your still alive
No matter how high you get
There will still be reality.

Gotta get out of this indoor grow
Black mold growing up the walls
The floors are buckling
The ceiling too
The electrical is sparking
Another landlord on the hook
What's a boy to do?

The methamphetamine
The ****** machine
Trying not to blow my face off
with a butane tank
making that concentrated cannabis

Cold and wet
sleeping bag soaked on the beach,
A tent in the Devil's Playground
the  homeless encampment
behind the Bayshore Mall
that's what I met
and don't leave your ****,
It'll be gone in a quick minute.

The gardens are beautiful
good chance I'll never see 'em
The man with the ball cap
The big *** truck
holding a shot gun
"Better move on, son,
No trespassing here. "

I'm just
another dread locked kid
on the Arcata Plaza
with a dog I can't take care of

Down in Eureka
on concrete Broadway
Fourth Street
Fifth Street
Old Town
Where the fights break out
The cops they have no patience
Another Drunk in Public
drunk tank
Back on those same streets
at one a.m.

Get too crazy
5150 for an overnight stay,
second floor in County Mental Health,
walls closing in,
Psychiatrist says
"We ain't got nothing for ya,
good luck out there. "

Meeting my sweet love in Humboldt County

Once here
there is no way out
Panhandlers
Hitchhikers
on every corner
No one's giving out
No one's picking up

I'm gonna need my family
to send that Moneygram
Get me on a Greyhound Bus
haven't heard a word from them yet.

Even the police say
No one's gonna accept me,
So they ain't gonna pay.

I've been
Trying to leave a message
for my sweet love,
haven't seen her for a month,
She headed up to Trinidad
with a would be spiritual monk

The Redwoods spiral to the skies
The ranchers own the green
pastured hills
The beaches are vast and empty
The ocean is wilderness wild
waiting for the tsunami
turn your back on the ocean
you may fall in
many have fallen
few survive
on the most exquisite
blue sky day
you've ever seen.

Meeting my true love in Humboldt County.
Inspired by Bruce Springsteen's Atlantic City.
For r who told me to write this a couple of years ago. I should add that Humboldt County is considered the Marijuana capital of the U.S., lures many young kids thinking their going to find riches and nirvana.
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2013
Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."


Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,

I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *
Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?


Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,

where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA.,
friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,

of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *
Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.


even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.
1.  What makes this poem special, if anything, is the trust and confidences we share with each other, that allowed me to perhaps catch just little bit something special of each of you, where I could.

2. Can anyone explain to me why the site labels this poem explicit?
Waverly  Nov 2011
The Humboldt.
Waverly Nov 2011
We pull
the Humboldt
out of the water.

Sometimes
they eat each other,
and we pull
up
shredded hooks
clotted
with white meat.

Sometimes
they
scramble
underneath the surface
and the film of water
separating us
from them
becomes pink and flashing.

We pulled up
a black
saucer
of an eye
one night.

It clung
to a hook
by
pink strings of optic muscle.

Our flashlights
put little continents of light all over its placid, black surface,
and I felt human sadness
some type of animal-human
empathy,
it ****** me up so much
that I threw the line overboard
again,
almost hitting Nestor in the face,
with an un-baited hook.

Our hauls
are getting smaller.

The carnivores
used to jump
into our boats,
slicking
the planks with an excretion
the consistency of placental fluid.

Now,
sometimes dusk burns
as
we yank
seaweed,
seagrass,
and
toilet seats
over the prow;
our bodies tenebrous;
straining with the line
like warriors
stabbing the sea.
rough draft.
Tammy M Darby  Sep 2018
The CIA
Tammy M Darby Sep 2018
They are checking their list and checking it twice
Making a note whose leaning left or right
The CIA is coming to town.

They know when your cheating on your taxes
Checking Facebook they know when your awake
When your smoking Humboldt ****
Or chatting online with the Russians
So knock off for goodness sake

With hidden accounts offshore
Track and keep score
They know exactly who you are voting for
The CIA is coming to town.

OOOOOOOOOO you better watch out
You better not shout
You better be good
Check under the hood ( boooom)
The CIA is coming to tooooooooooooown

Dont panic........ its Political Satire folks

@ copyright Tammy M Darby Sept. 6, 2018
Meadow  Sep 2018
Humboldt
Meadow Sep 2018
White water meets white sky.

No escape from this fog bubble we call paradise.

Eyes blinded by white blankets of smoke.

We wonder what is beyond.

A white canvas to project one's desires of a far-off dream.

Thinking...
Anything is better than this, right?
James Floss Apr 2017
I am reading poems by Billy Collins:
AIMLESS LOVE, a retrospective,
A sampler, as it were
For the Books and Brew;
Our monthly selection.

Nine manly men
Meeting for monthly meals
And book-talk
And politics
And, of course, good beer.

They like nonfiction,
I like fiction.

Richard Hughes,
British writer of poems, short stories, novels and plays said:
“All nonfiction can do is answer questions;
It is fiction's business to ask them.”

Still, my repertoire has expanded:
Nike shoes.
Civil War.
Institutional racism.
Opioid addiction.
Rafting the Grand Canyon.
Climbing mountains.
With Baron Von Humboldt.

And now this:
Poetry.
Nine manly men
Reading poetry to each other
While sharing a meal,
One lovely poem after another.

You can't read a book of poetry
Like you consume other books,
Fiction or nonfiction.

The table of contents:
The lid of a box of exquisite truffles—
A map of pleasures contained within.
You look at the map,
And make a selection.

The caramel truffle
Is not the coffee truffle.

You look at the map,
Make a selection,
And bite!

The crusty chocolate cracks!
The darkness melts,
Floods your mouth with taste.

Then the rush of caramel!
Flavors, smells sloshing
Swooning with sensate memories.

What? Turn the page and read another?
Reach for the coffee truffle?

No. Linger with caramel;
Luxuriate on aftertaste.
Is that a note of citrus or salt?

I will enjoy my coffee truffle tomorrow.
Danika  Apr 2017
Humboldt
Danika Apr 2017
my favorite picture of myself
was taken in a redwood forest

I stood next to a tree
at the age of seventeen
and the height of six feet
and about 130 pounds

and for once
I felt short
and not the giant myself
4/28/17
Sjr1000 Sep 2018
Cannabis Cannabis
Are you my friend?
We've  been asking this question
Since who knows when

From the bedroom
To the bathroom
To the den,
Sitting out on the porch
Or out on the back deck
Out by the cactus
Out in the pasture with the brook running through it
Or in
The redwoods ecstatic in the moving fog
With the walls closing in
To the poetry within,
Contentment, lethargic exhaustion, anxiety, with the music moving,
self consciousness exquisite,
ego disintegrating
Remembering, forgetting,
Remembering
Back again
Oh, cannabis cannabis
Are you my friend

We've had the dance
I can't deny
From stems and seeds
To Humboldt flower dispensary
Many stops in between

You've played with my mind
Sometimes I wonder who I would have been

Cannabis, oh cannabis
Are you my friend? (Old friend).
As Traveler Tim told me many moons ago, "It's poetry, not autobiography"
Steven Forrester Jan 2011
I know a place
A place of beauty
A place of serenity
A place which offers clarity
Salmon flock here
Bears feed here
Sasquatch wanders here
...Maybe
Among the redwoods
Ample and pure
Holding centuries
Of memories
Rising high
Up into the sky
I lie in wonder
The beauty taking me asunder
And under
In a feeling of awe
Mary Jane thrives here
Mushrooms thrive here
Men live here
But one thing rises above the rest
Of course...
You know...
You"ll see...
The beauty is breathtaking
All this I've come to know
In Humboldt County
Where the tall trees grow
(c) Steven Forrester
Sjr1000 Dec 2013
The three compassions
came to me
in a moment of silence
during a dream.
Not a daymare
Not a nightmare.
But in a moment of
rare and splendid peace.

It was laid out
for me
in a single distinct vision.

Compassion for self
Compassion for others
and the undefinable innocence of
all existence.

I tried so hard
to do so good
in everything
I said and did
but
faltering, fumbling,
obsessed, and human flawed.
I had much to learn
about
acceptance,
forgiveness
and the live and learn.

Perhaps this compassion
never comes
except in moments
of melancholy
on a foggy Christmas morning.

The fire needed tending
the warmth of the glow was fading.

I looked into her eyes
I looked into their eyes
and where I looked
I saw that with a look
I turned others
into
objects, chairs, tables, rocks.
I saw a different glow
the touch of that
innocent continuity
in all of us
fragile I'ness
suspended in a holistic whole
of
joy, suffering
peace and fear
connection and love
shining glowing
light of life
within the darkness
of the universe.

The third compassion
is rather odd
a mandala.
Extending out in concentric circles
encompassing the
fantastical, magical
workings of the universe
the vast expanse
of space and time.

And my momentarily
conscious knowledge
of my glowing light
and my place
in
now.

I saw the temporary tenderness
of all existence
my heart opened
the fire surged
on this foggy
humboldt
Christmas sunrise...
coral422  Oct 2017
Grape-kun
coral422 Oct 2017
The greatest story ever told
Is a love story of a lonely Humboldt
One sided, until his time was through
Yet the world to him was his paper waifu

He taught us love has no bounds
Between penguin and a poster, weird as it sounds
He gazed upon her until the very end
Oh how strong was his love of a kemono friend

May you rest forever in peace Grape-kun
We won't forget you anytime soon
Now, every time I go to a petting zoo
I will always remember how much you loved Hululu
a Apr 2021
he comes home...
we never know exactly when...
I used to think he was cheating on my mother

maybe he always was
the liquor stole him away from us
he felt safer there
he had more fun with the liquor
as each beer went down his throat he was  more and more at home
he loved us
but the beer captivated him
it stole his attention and drove him away

when hed come home during the daylight
i can see his body swaying
I used not appreciate the fact as much that he got home safely each day in that condition
his words would slur....
each end of a word colliding with the beginning of the other...
sometimes he'd get so lost in thought
lose track of time on what we were talking about...

my mother was always mad....
I used to get mad too and never knew why
until one day
i gave in...
I gave him my forgiveness the one he never asked for
you cant teach an old dog new tricks....

I tried to support him...
but its so hard
my mom is so hurt....
just wanting a husband to come home too...
not to be drunk...
to help around the house....
to be cohesive with thoughts....
to spend more time at the house than he does at the bar....

it breaks my heart...
I dont know who to support
I love them both
w
h
y is it so hard to be a daughter of a drunk....

i have no memory of abuse ever...
just the fogginess and him coming in so late...
and the screams of my parents
I used to wish they got a divorce... just so the fighting would stop.

sometimes he was never around...
but I have the good memories too...
he truly did love me..
its an addiction you know?
maybe if he had the power or the knowledge he wouldve chose us instead of the liquor.
he is my father and I love him none the less.
He is one of the coolest guys I know. A real respectable man.
A TRUE OG FROM THE OUTFIELDS OF HUMBOLDT PARK.

who never got the healing from the childhood trauma that he shouldve
he is just a man who got trapped in an addiction so hard to run away from....
just trying himself to get away from the screams of his wife... reminding him daily of all his issues.
he is just a man who is hurt his baby daughter chose her moms side and would bicker at him too...
he has to deal with both women.
who can he turn too?
other than the bottle who would never judge him.
he is just a man who is repeating the steps of his father.
who didnt know better.
who is simply following the path he knows.
he tries his best.
he tried fighting it.
just sometimes it gets too strong.
he is just a man who didn't know about therapy at a young age...
he is just a man that feared to show tears or vulnerability.
to be anything less than a man
he is just a man who got stuck in the ******* and troubles of this world.
he drinks to forget the memories.
he drinks to not worry about the issues of daily life.

I forgive him and I always will.
This is what it means to be a daughter of a drunk.

— The End —