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Spring Poems

larry goodell
placitas, new mexico
larry & cherry

cover photograph just after sunrise April 8th 2012

golden russet apple in our orchard

poems recorded and links added March 2013

Goddess of the Big Bang added April 2014
"Eve of the First Day of Spring, March 2017

open words open pictures open voice

2012 larry goodell

and updated to 2017
po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043
to hear these poems
A Pastoral
Easter Sunday 2000
Big Daddy
The Truth
Easter Sunday 2012
read by the poet
our austrian copper rose
Easter Haiku

Time tills time, makes furrows meaningful,

plants present seeds, now present plants.


for the Power of the Infinite Carrier

for the Power of the finite Dough
for the Rising of the Yeast in the bread that is
not homemade
for everything homemade
whether risen or not
for our Easter dinner,
the lamb from Australia
the zucchini & yellow squash
the fresh heaps of salad with blue-cheese dressing
for the Basmati rice
swollen to white nutty flavor
for the parsley chutney from the parsley
growing under our rain spout
for the barley bread
for the gravy of essence
floating in the bottom of the glass roasting pan
for the leftover red wine from the Spring Equinox
birthday feast for my wife

for the truth of gratitude

and the gratitude that gets you forever out of yourself
for our being together at this table
the love & the friendship
for the power we get from a feast on the holy day
of the Goddess of the Anglo-Saxon East
for the natural sense of the kitchen as the
secret of the universe
for all the plants & animals that we depend on
built up stronger than ourselves
for the Power of the Infinite


that carries us into the finite present
which reflects our present and future
in the past of our ancestors
come to feast with us in the presence of warmth

I give myself over to the will of what

is greater than myself
greater than anything that is the largest
or the smallest
carrying me into the astounding present
to come and to go
for the infinite is tiny, and the hills valleys,
for what it is, I know, what I see out our window
for the comet long gone now but to come again
but not for long
for the North Star over the hill
that is the mainstay of our life here
and the distant valley of the Great River
that ends in the Gulf of Mexico

I cant see now anything but stars and

I am carried with love through it all,
the agony & the surprise
and with gratitude I fall, caught,
and with gratitude I fall, caught
for the Power of what is, is,
for the Power of what is, give thanks.

A Pastoral

God has returned to the chapel on the hill in my left brain

a quiet breeze, interlude, slightly overcast sky.
The organ fills my soul, is it a marriage or celebration of Easter.
Surprises by laughter from the service
floating down the river to my right brain
and all coalesces throwing out meaning
real as real at tea, a bit of sugar or honey, and milk.
A pastoral connects my two brains into one.
There is no chapel, god is the reality
running through my veins
the pulsing throughout my body life
the breeze, the door of nature opening ever opening
to free me to see, the warmth that is
love ever in the bell I ring and the violin orchestra
and dog barking to be let back in
back in to my dreams, my dreams of everything connected
everything awake.

Easter Sunday 2000

Its all gone dead dying out

memories the fresh memories that
live only in my mind.
I relive them in flashes
but the distance kills me
so when I hum Stardust
its my mother, teaching me to play the piano
playing that piece as I learned it.
And when I think of San Antonio Rose
how it goes
I think of my dad, now weak, now old.
My mother is long dead.
But my home family life, that home of Roswell
that familythe concatenation
of images sing
sing through my mind
faces and places and clothes.
Private to me and to die with me
as I die
when that is.
Thanks for having me over for dinner
over & over, family
of my youth & friends & family
of friends.
You are all gone now, except the fringe
of whats left.
Dad, I hope you survive well
this latest onset of age.
May we renew ourselves by talking about
the shared things in times passed.

our backyard missouri avenue roswell, new mexico ca 1952

Time has passed

leaving those picnics in the backyard by
the wishing well & clothesline
& flowering yucca and gardens of my mother
and all that ham & chicken & hamburgers & hotdogs
and those iceberg lettuce salads with pale tomatoes
and all those pies, apple, peach, lemon, chocolate &
the memory fades.

Now my family is so oddball & strange
and near and dear
that its hard to talk about it to my dad.
Are they married? he asks
You have a granddaughter?
I have to remind him, families are thoroughly
different and were
long before this new century
We didnt have a picnic
but we ate out at the Range
blue corn chicken enchiladas red chile, green chile
chefs salad, ice tea, bubblegum soda
and little Lyra loved her salad, good green lettuce
& good red tomato
& took her chicken fingers home
and this is as good as we ever can do.
My son & I went to Easter Sunday church together
it just happened, against my will.
But when I was a kid, it was
common practice.
I remember I was baptized on Easter Sunday.
Now, anything of the old memories
that allows me to live them again
is a reminder, it doesnt all die.
I think, I thank, give out love as
best I can.
To live in the resurrection
of the moment.



My grandmother was beautiful

she had an earth star stuck under her sombrero.
She heaved cows for a living
and the circus of her normality was taken for granted.
Underneath her coarse skin was a heart she gave to all
her 10 grandchildren and 20 burros.
She was white on occasion and then black, multicolored.
She kissed grandpa on Easter and told us stories that undermined
the farmers
and kept us up all night playing hookie.
She was the tomato worm in the family, the dragon butterfly.
We loved her although she never committed adultery.
She mixed adobes and told us to stay out of the kitchen
and when we sat down to eat dirt, we were all grateful.
Flecked straw on the strawberry sky was a patch of turquoise that
stuck in her hair, as her tooth bled misery which somehow
turned into gaping laughter. We buried her, still alive,
singing songs she taught us: Oh grand mommy, mummy to be,
Star in the window gathering dust, may we now be free
of stereotypes and lust.


The Truth
(poor white guy)

The bags under my eyes have turned into bungalows.

My white hairs have turned into bald freckles.
I stepped, fetal Parsifal, out of pre-Easter
into the birth of the pagan world
Age dropped. My youthful spirit buoyed up.
I was a lost hodge-podge of America, lonely & yet
Contained. How can I identify, with anything with any
race, ethnic, culture, history, background check. I'm not
a Protestant any more. I don't identify with wacko Christ
or boring Buddha or woman-hating Mohammed. And
what is there white that's a culture you can positively I-
dentify with & hold us together in a way that doesn't seem
Aryan racist evil-Nazi fucked-up anything, I mean,
I, am, totally, lost, & disconnected, no, publisher, no
agent, hardly any demand for my supposed favored standing.

(last 2 lines cry baby voice)


Big Daddy

Oh thou my goodest god gad giddy goad

Dearest goody goo-goo, go gawd-a-ful fullest
Plagiarized sex-changed father fat heir fated fou fair
Fool refuted booted hooted rooted tooted scooted muted fruited mein heir
Hairy horrible non-hair bald daddy grand daddy au contraire
Organ bassed solemn ferned Easter-lilied up pedaled horned psalmed
Open-mouthed gray-haired black-bowtied artificial pearl-necklaced
Rouged & red-lipped black & white against the gold-tiered columns of the
tabernacle organ
Dear God dog-hungry, oh God, gadooey, gadittle, gadattle, gadoatle
Ga doughy ga dog-dog da gog-gog, ga gooey go dittley gazooks
Gold god go gone geek 'gain gain go go go a go-go
Did Dad Dig Damn Good-dig, gadooby-dooby dah bow Godot!
Dear ditty doggy goddy big big daddy bod bad booty duty hog
ah-gog oh gog gag gaddy geek garbanzo gaggy goo-goo gah-gah!



Have mercy on my soul: its a paltry thing

shriveled & discontented
what happened to the breezy years when
it was full of life
reflecting the visage on the altar, the altar
of simple prayer
and acceptance of a power of salvation
being dunked in the water on Easter
at the age of 12.
And then my soul mirrored youth & hope
& possibilities
full of the goals of life, the magnificence of
agnostic health
even after God came crashing down &
disappeared in his underwear.
Then surpassing the struggle of agony
when the family came crashing in
accidents, dope, violence, alcohol
the extremes of 90's youth
you blazed back in historic sense
reflecting the glitter of a new-found power
good sense & equilibrium toyed with
the miraculous
survival was possible, experienced, the real
fed me with every conscious breath
Then the scalpel of age began to cut out possibilities
the shine of romantic hope became
existentialism of neglect weakness &
tiny success - - - -
and what was left said
you are the one who must grow up.

Easter Sunday 2012

someday Ill be dead in the circle of love

but will they be singing as I sink into oblivion
or feeding, like vultures
on the literary remains.

Goddess Of The Big Bang

Beautiful as specimens of dust

under the microscope of your unaided eye
or the advanced stained glass windows
in the cathedral of the origin of mankind
dedicated to the Goddess of the Big Band
forever we come up like froth like filigree
like delicate strands of DNA
in constant release of the first rising of the curtain
welcome what youre about to see
is what youre about to see
what youre about
theres no ending to the play of fabricating nature
fabricating itself from its own inner style
we are characters in surprise
including our neighbors, every plant and animal
and hidden creature alive in the energy of the question,
we all want to live, audience and actors past in
the present ever presenting itself
its like love all around you and in and out you
through and above seen in the spotlight
trained on every living thing Welcome
to the mystery of the unknown
which is so obvious
youve known it all along.


Eve of the First Day of Spring

Oh love let us be like ducks at play together

like zebras cavorting, giraffes necking
willows bending over the creek & budding,
emergent rosettes of primroses facing the spring.
The spring is your day as you bud out every year
on this your birthday first day of Spring.
Let us be who we are together as we have been
for 40 plus years and may the day itself
be your gift
as this night before brings rain what better gift
to drought land as the warming of everything
shifts everything northward
and we dry out here
as we stay put as we have for so long
traveling in our minds our careful cultivation
wondering what will sprout up next oh love
let us be open to the new which is not a new thing
to us as actuality reality of truth is a blessing
and integrity rules out duds and falsehoods
everything matters, the frames to the pictures
the frames of poems, the backgrounds
every inch every millimeter of one of your
found images translates and speaks your language
as the caught image of your life reveals the best
of nature from your perspective, your choosing and quick
eye and the sounds the words the scribbles on paper
I find coming to me reach up from the page
and entertain the voice
being honest to intuition, being open to what you see
to what hits you to what hits me

love let us be as dancing as these few raindrops

and as washed as fresh plants new buds new seasons
new songs new sights new totemic visions new
pictures of the puzzle caught and passed on
as love brings us continuing together

my gift on the birthday of your life greater than anything
I can ever imagine: the gift to you is always
nature dancing between us.

happy birthday Lenore!

Through The Trees
/for Diana Huntress (1941-2017)
and, many others come to mind . . .

Happy risen through the trees to the truly light

Resurrection Symphony of Mahler adding to the delight
yeast in bread baking powder baking soda
pitching in to do essential rising.
Rise raise becoming something out of nothing
like flipping a coin in the air inverse obverse which shall it be
heads it is wouldnt you know the 3 tulips
just came out of their bulbs one red with yellow center
and the orange one had a difficult time, a survivor
so I watered it when I discovered it
but earlier, that wonderful sport a faithful early
tulip, a species so beautiful red-orange perking up
every spring yes, survivors from more florid
past years, as ravages of drought
fire blight, hit the fruit trees taking them
almost down
we see the life coming up through
the cycle maintaining a hello in baby
apples and some apricots,
the breath itself rising falling filling
fulfilling expanding descending entering
exiting passing through, inflating deflating
stimulating converting contributing releasing
as outflow inflow inflow, again outflow
the light particles ascending through the spring
as the brain flows alive, sparks crevices
its layers of light flitting all night off and on
buddy to sleep, disturbing turning surreal paintings
into reality, the rising charge of cinema
illuminating sleep, lost to memory
or sustained with the rising sun

as the minister put a handkerchief

over my mouth
and bent me backwards into water
and back up into the church air

as my father also that day did the same
on my 12the birthday giving rise to the consciousness
"I can take the grape juice every Sunday" I told them
outside, rebuked for saying that by Daddy
as is constantly rising in memory scenes bits of
this and that
seemingly back to perpetuity all from hearing
Rachmaninoffs piano concerto from my
bedside radio
in those evolving re-evolving rising and falling
sixth chords
Im in the back of a little station wagon and
Jonathan Williams head is literally swaying
back and forth jerking to the Rachmaninoff
from the new radio and speakers he just had
installed in the car and in the Creeleys bathroom
I notice a sea of pills by the mirror, all
Ron Johnsons, he and Jonathon visiting on
their cycle of visits here and then down
to Roswell to see Donald and Patricia
benefactors of Jargon Press
as that blurred blue glimmer to the East
through what used to be the bay window
and the rising oboe on the radio,
light by my side, all lift in spirit
the spiritless spirit the unknown spiral
only in inspiration in spirit inhalation
the time cycles by and takes with it
the life breath of man and woman
who knows, billions of ants insects bees
spiders all creatures panthers if there are any
the rare New Mexico jaguars the history
in blood, rise and fall of the Aztec
priest, their pictures of ceremonies and customs
burned in their codices by competitive priests

priests preachers clerics throwing their gods against
each other
this day as the enlivening light picks up in lighter
more definite blue
and I think of the rising of the Easter egg, the baskets
of childhood delights
gone as parenting gets old and passes onto
children and grandchildren, if any,
what increases now with the light is the fabricated
resurrection, why is it needed?
why not accept the death flying off into space
the unhanded discovery of openness as
friends die, loves, past loves, past intensities
is life anything but death rising again in
death assuming life in memories
memories the mammaries to be suckled on
as you get older, taking over

Ann, spirit sister partner disappearing in the waves,

Lee dancing, in leaps and turns forever burnt like intaglio in
my memory,
I cant I dont want to list the downed, the ended the never
downed but lost in flight of year after year
of great and lesser, close and far and the young
drugged down to nonexistence, old friends Ken, Steve
Bill and just recently
David and Joanne, what matters the names any more
everyone has a name on their own death, the dying into the light
of I remember you, and the fuller morning glowing
silhouettes the hill, the window of my life
looking out onto, what is left
but the lease of love, the frame of living, the picture
subject to change, the wealthy of the wrap of years
the electricity of movement and illumination
of the present letters archives books poems
organizations, presses mimeo, offset, printer

turning out the writings from the heart and mind,
the literary venture of life, the Rio Grande Writers
the teachers, the readers, the conferences the urge
of the tongue to continue as it does, all words alive
coming and going in the beauty of the book
or just the voice in passing at best, everything
at once
in full light of early morning, it came from the heart
the heart of the soul, the soul of commitment
the friendship of working together always from
a creative base where compassion is part of the mix
for any cooperation, we intertwine in reality of flesh
and mind on this now, glowing toward the pure
brightness through the leaves & picking up their green
in salute of energy, transformation pulling me
up with it and out of this bed of what was night.

Sun risen through the tree leaves, pine needles, morning

resurfacing, solar intensity again that open up
one, beginning, laid out through the air commanding
this refresh of day.

larry goodell / placitas, new mexico / 16apr2017

almond april2017 placitas new mexico

the tangy


of the almond

in full bloom
apple 7apr2012 placitas new mexico

open words open pictures open voice
2012 & updated to 2017
po box 571 placitas, new mexico 87043
Spring Poems


larry goodell

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