"humboldt" poems
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
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
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.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:26 PM UTC
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).
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
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?
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 8:19 PM UTC
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
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 1:46 AM UTC
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.
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 9:15 PM UTC
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...
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
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
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 10:21 PM UTC
He comes home…
We never know exactly when.
I used to think he was cheating on my mother.
Maybe he always was.
But the liquor stole him first.
It held him tighter than we ever could.
He felt safer there,
had more fun with the bottle.
With every beer that slid down his throat,
he was more and more at home.
He loved us—
but the beer loved him more.
It pulled him under,
blurred his vision,
made him forget.
When he’d stumble in during the daylight,
his body swayed like a boat on rough waters.
I never appreciated enough
that he made it home at all in that condition.
His words would slur,
each end of a word colliding
with the beginning of the next.
Sometimes, he’d get so lost in thought,
so tangled in his own mind,
that he’d forget what we were even talking about.
My mother was always mad.
I used to be mad too—
and never knew why.
Until one day,
I gave in.
Gave him my forgiveness,
the one he never asked for.
You can’t teach an old dog new tricks…
I tried to support him,
but it’s so hard.
My mom is so tired—
just wanting a husband to come home to,
not a ghost of the man she married.
Someone to help around the house,
to string together a single clear thought,
to spend more time here than at the bar.
It breaks my heart.
I don’t know who to support.
I love them both.
W
h
y
is it so hard to be the daughter of a drunk?
There was no violence, no bruises,
just the fogginess of his absence,
just the late-night entrances
and the screams of my parents.
I used to wish they’d get divorced
just so the fighting would stop.
Sometimes, he wasn’t around at all.
But I have the good memories too.
He truly did love me.
It’s an addiction, you know?
Maybe if he had the power,
the knowledge,
the tools,
he would have chosen us
instead of the liquor.
He is my father,
and I love him nonetheless.
One of the coolest guys I know.
A real respectable man—
a true OG from the outfields of Humboldt Park.
A man who never got the healing he needed.
A man trapped in addiction,
drowning out the echoes of his past.
A man whose baby daughter chose her mother’s side,
who had to face the weight of two women’s anger.
Who could he turn to,
other than the bottle—
the one thing that never judged him?
A man repeating the steps of his father,
walking the only path he knew.
A man who tried his best,
who fought the fight,
but sometimes the fight was too strong.
A man who never learned therapy was an option.
A man who feared his own tears,
who thought vulnerability was weakness.
A man who drank to forget,
who drank to silence the noise.
And I forgive him.
I always will.
This is what it means
to be the daughter of a drunk.
Apr 26, 2021
Apr 26, 2021 at 7:22 PM UTC
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
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 1:31 PM UTC
Frente a el Monolito Esculpido de Coatlicue:
¡Terrible Madre de los Dioses! :
Ese dia domingo en un año cualquiera de el siglo diez y siete, cuando Humboldt conmovio
a los frailes Domínicos a remover
la tierra que cubria tu rúbea y sierpa tez:
La ferocidad que tus hijos, Huitxilopoxtli y Quetxalcóatl, conocieron de ti,
pasmo al santo abate y al pensador alemán.
Cuantos siglos dormida sin beber
Tu merecido y necesitado bermellón
Liquido, aun tibio, del corazón palpitante; ofrenda a ti, ¡Oh, Madre Terrible de los Antiguos dioses Aztecas!
J Eduardo Ramos ©
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
If I were to imagine what a drink feels like
it would be the rain in Humboldt County.
A blanket of cold falling upon me,
eventually making its way to my ears
never letting up, my vision is fog.
Hazy, unrelenting
until the glass becomes a mug
of hot cider, releasing me from the
reality of a stone-cold winter.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
am i so wrong for wanting to feel right?
am I so wrong for wanting to feel right--
to go without an ounce of distress, to feel
like the corner of a couch was a cove and
not a prison, or that the slope of his nose
were the side of Humboldt and not a cliff
edge I want to throw myself off of
because i feel trapped.
because I feel trapped--
i alluded to a rabbit in a cross-hair
when my mom asked. The rabbit knows.
The rabbit knows it's been caught, it doesn't
feel right. She freezes. She tenses. She's unsure.
She's grounded amongst the long weeds and bulrush,
is he waiting? is he watching? When he touches her
shoulder, what is he saying? When he stands between
her and the door, is he a threat? Is it presumptuous to
think he can enter without invitation? how many
doors in a house require a request to entry?
just the front? the bedroom? the heart?
I feel small.
I feel small, like my body has shrunk and consists of
significantly less matter, less much, less stuff
which is scientifically impossible, matter can neither
be created or destroyed--but I can certainly be rearranged
in space, so I melt into the backboard, become one with
the paisley pillows, find solace in holding my own hand
solace in my unassuming nature, in my rapid bunny
heart--
and
therein
lies
the
problem.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
Emily dropped out of Humboldt State,
22 years old.
She paints fences
for money and
takes the train into the hills-
finds fireflies,
sleeps on the sand,
empties wine bottles,
can't pay her rent. It's 345.
Her apartment is small,
400 sq. feet.
Had a guy sleep over last night
in the kitchen on a blowup mattress.
She wrote about it in a journal,
the one I gave to save her
from rain, fog, and moments
like this.
Flickering sky,
distant glitter of valley stars.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 10:51 AM UTC
I believe I have forgotten how to cry
The pressure builds in my chest
But nothing comes out
I can feel the frustrations going
As quickly as they came
The indifference sinks in
And I wish I could go back to the time
Where I was okay
But the more and more I think about it
I don't know if that time ever existed
I have always felt left out of everything
I have never been in the loop
I have never felt like I belonged within all the groups
I wish I could drop it all
And leave without a trace
I don't want these toxic feelings
I don’t want the toxic waste
I wish I was back in humboldt
Where I could go days without trouble
Everything was so much easier
But everything was not much better
Why cant I be happy?
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 2:30 AM UTC
The hearth had yet
to warm a toe, an hour
before the paling
The rain had gone
now comes the cold
profound, inactive ,cold
Assumed a duelling clarion
across the mustered aerials,,
slung, humboldt in the jangled dark,
inanimate
Jan 20, 2024
Jan 20, 2024 at 6:32 PM UTC