Ubiquitous Lily

 

The Ubiquitous Day Lily of July

by David Budbill

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
everywhere around these parts right now. Common.
Ordinary. It grows in everybody's dooryard—abandoned
or lived in—along the side of the road, in front of stone walls,
at gas stations and garages, at the entrance to driveways,
anywhere it takes a mind to sprout. You always see them
in clusters, bunches, never by themselves. They propagate
by rhizomes, which is why they are so resilient, and why
you see them in bunches.

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
ubiquitous right now. The roadside mowers mow a lot
of them, but they don't get them all.

These are not the rare and delicate lemon yellow day lilies
or the other kinds people have around their places. This one
is coarse and ordinary, almost harsh in its weathered beauty,
like an older woman with a tough, worldly-wise and wrinkled
face. There is nothing nubile, smooth or perky about this flower.
It's not fresh. It's been around awhile and everybody knows it.

As I said, it's coarse and ordinary and it's beautiful because
it's ordinary. A plant gone wild and therefore become
rugged, indestructible, indomitable, in short: tough, resilient,
like anyone or thing has to be in order to survive.



Dear Daddy

 

Fifteen

By Leslie Monsour

 

The boys who fled my father's house in fear

Of what his wrath would cost them if he found

Them nibbling slowly at his daughter's ear,

Would vanish out the back without a sound,

And glide just like the shadow of a crow,

To wait beside the elm tree in the snow.

Something quite deadly rumbled in his voice.

He sniffed the air as if he knew the scent

Of teenage boys, and asked, "What was that noise?"

Then I'd pretend to not know what he meant,

Stand mutely by, my heart immense with dread,

As Father set the traps and went to bed.



Look Up

 

 

When I Heard the Learn’d Astronomer

by Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,

When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,

When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,

When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,

How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,

Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,

In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,

Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars



Honey Peas

 

I eat my peas with honey.

I’ve done it all my life.

It makes the peas taste funny,

But it keeps them on my knife.

Table by the Window

North Bootlegger Creek

 

At the mouth of the creek. 

 

Tumbleweeds on the lake.





Please Plant This Book

 

"Please Plant This Book" was first distributed on 20th March 1968, 1st day of Spring festival in Golden Gate Park.

6000 copies were made, funded (approx $500) by band Mad River out of their advance from Capitol Records. Richard Brautigan had collaborated with them on spoken word/music tracks, also had helped feed and support them when they first moved to San Francisco and were broke and struggling.

Happy Birthday Richard Brautigan. He took his own life after giving it to us in his words.  

When I got home...

 



For Mr. X.

4/17ths of a Haiku

The Pill Versus the Springhill Mine Disaster

When you take your pill

it's like a mine disaster.

I think of all the people

lost inside of you.

~ Richard Brautigan

"The Pill Verus the Springhill Mine Disaster"