See the beauty in everything

I am not a Sufi but this is one of their basic tenets and it seems to be a great notion to hold dear.

Practice inclusivity

© 2010, Donald Grube

Let each relationship grow naturally and if it becomes lopsided gently prune for new growth and balance

© 2010, Donald Grube

Appreciate

© 2010, Donald Grube

Respect

© 2010, Donald Grube

Tolerate

© 2010, Donald Grube

Two Bible quotes from Mathew and Leviticus

Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'–Mathew 22:37-39

Do not seek revenge or bear a grudge against one of your people, but love your neighbor as yourself. I am the LORD.–Leviticus 19:18

I am not a Christian but I do value the idea and practice of loving ones neighbor as oneself.

Quote from Faith and Practice, Pacific Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends

From the section on testimonies, or the set of attitudes expressed in the lifestyles of a lot of Religious Society of Friends members.

Simplicity

Simplicity is the right ordering of our lives, placing God at the center. When we shed possessions, activities, and behavior that distract us from that center, we can focus on what is important. Simplicity does not mean denying life's pleasures, but being open to the promptings of the Spirit. We Friends seek to take no more than our share and to be sensitive to the needs of others, especially future generations...

 I am not an official Friend but value many of their beliefs and practices.

Try to be impeccable with my words

A paraphrase from, The Four Agreements, by don Miguel Ruiz. This is a book about the wisdom of the Toltec Indians.

Cry

© 2010, Donald Grube

Laugh

© 2010, Donald Grube

Find my happy place

© 2010, Donald Grube

Look in a mirror

© 2010, Donald Grube

Learn to write my name

© 2010, Donald Grube

Sing

© 2910, Donald Grube

Finger paint

© 2010, Donald Grube

Play

© 2010, Donald Grube

Peace

© 2010, Donald Grube

An undercurrent of motivation

This verbal period is marked by a need to verbalize just about everything. Sometimes it isn't appropriate to say it out loud or even blog it, but I can write it in a journal entry for myself interest. By interest I mean that the thoughts grow and compound when expressed, and especially when written down.

For my blog, I want at least to be as honest as I may muster at the time of publishing. The publishing button means to me, that this post is my plainest truth or at least the best wording of a dilemma I am contemplating, stating the arguing points clearly. Perfection is for another time in life or another machine.

I want fluency and connection to my total self with language, whether it is just in my mind, or spoken, read, or written. Complexity and completeness mark this stage in my development.

The various forms of reading, writing and conversing are all parts that practice communication.



© 2010, Donald Grube

scrabble

scrabble  pump     white        toys

boil          kapenta   sing          pink

play          oral         bandana   jackfruit

basket       food        recycle     guitar

Hiked drank tea ate dinner

I just met a girl
we hiked drank tea ate dinner
and found warm friendship

the day is spilling
slowly sharing ones' heart myths
at times feeling raw

but we fall safely
into each others' strong arms
ears and lips poise for

chance to speak today's
truth we leave each others' grasp
knowing abundance.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Chart the path of falling pages

I stand alone and clap in the park at midnight and turn the crank and the music continues its qualities  are questioning appreciation notes of clarity floating softly on lines supported with breath the song goes pump blue blood in and out of my friend's heart warm and safe in my chocolate parka

it is a gift to whom or from whom I do not know but it is a gift dating from some past era when differentiation  is unfashionable or unnecessary now it is too often confused and left on the staff with many others alive, dead, and not yet conceived however this time the tune is played like a familial love drunken holiday I and it birthed in exercises before memory

compass divining rod global positioning system the blind fold that wraps my eyes from sight stacked ducks broken twigs bread crumbs strewn along the path to Gretel's future and pounding the pounding coxswain metronome even the reminder of air and trust the song it plays stirring ashen chicken bones and grooved goat hooves on my Father's ranch

please include rushes of traffic honking horns ticking pocket watches folded leather wallets unfolding with bills dispersed

and help search for its voice it is late shush I believe it is sleeping.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Note to self

Never write a poem describing a picture, photograph or other piece of artwork, unless you want to be popular.



© Donald Grube, 2010

"...in my life, I love you more." Monologue.

It was me that wanted to be the best, not someone else's vision.  

I just heard a poet, on the Poetry Show, say that a grade school teacher saved its life by giving it a library pass. This rascal would race to the Webster's and look up vagina and the Peloponnesian Wars. Wow and double wow. What pissed me off formativly, and belated my bed wetting career through junior high, was two jerks that loomed over the stall, while I relieved myself. When  I was done, they announced themselves with applause. Some potty training, huh?

I am now here alone in bed with you.

There is some sense in everything, isn't there? It's kinda like, we just don't get it, can't put it all together? Right? But someone is, or thing. The lost butterfly? Japanese...New Delhi children? And building chicken coops in Uganda? Isn't it? Or aren't they working on it right now? I just need to know for sure. Please wake me if I'm fast asleep, and jostle me, so I may hold my ears funnel to the echoing truth.

As my Mother reads to me, it's helping me to let go. No, that's crap. I'm doing it on purpose. I'm frightened and scared shitless if its not right in front of me. I need it to be alive forever. Honest. I want it to teach me how to write, so that its friend will be mine forever.

Holy crap, you scared me. How long have you been standing there? Well don't just stare. Talk. Ask me something.  Okay, that's better. Huh,  yeah, you know I'm not sure I'm ready to get on stage right now. It would parallel segments of my personal life because it's a love story and I even get to kiss the girl. But I'm also getting some joy outta writing and now talking to you. Expand? Okay. I'm developing a great kinship in this keyboard and web connection. I love corresponding with friends, one in particular and I think it knows who I mean. Ooh, la, la. Huh? Yes, I know some too, but not in this case. It's the peculiar instance of particulars. It also helps me with my typing skills. You know, I'm planning a sit down job for retirement?

Okay. Let me ask you one. Why did you come? I mean around tonight? What do you want? But isn't that the same thing? Well, if that was true then we'd be great friends by now. But I hardly think you would last and stick around til the end? And besides you're my opposite. What? Well that's true isn't it. I'm on the hunt for a life mate that is playful of mind, but doesn't create too much drama for me. Sips green tea while I guzzle my coffee and we sit together in silence for hours and hours just loving each other. Yeah, I also want it to look right through me, picking gently at the lies in my back pocket. One by one. Opening. Reading them. Refolding them in half. And then putting them back in a slightly different order. All done with a lover's expeditious prestidigitation. I don't know. Why do you always balk at my specifics? I'm not asking too much. Of course it doesn't have to be perfect,

just brilliant.

Well, I've had about enough of you too. Goodby. It's getting late and I've got a date tomorrow with a dog and a spot on woman friend. 

The same to you too, Bucko.

© Donald Grube, 2010

Jeff Tagami and Cecilia Woloch

Jeff and Cecilia at The Bookshop Santa Cruz, 3/9/2010, 7:30 PM

Jeff Tagami, Historical Poet

Jeff's reading was like pure distilled alcohol.  It was so focused, I felt like an accomplice, grand inquisitor, with my spot light peering while watching it sweat. Even after, during its answers to our questions, it told a silent story of torturous absence from popular publication. Is it happy being spokesperson to Family history?

Cecilia Woloch, Zeus with a Siren's Voice

Cecilia was flirting with its audience through out play time. It is an intelligent, more hyperactive mind that teases its body and shifts from literary labels to seductive descants. It is a world traveler searching for roots, it discovers and plants family at the same time.

© Donald Grube, 2010

Labels

Labels is a function of blogger.com. At the bottom of each post you will find them and they will link you with all samely labeled posts within my blog. An entry might be cross-referenced with more than one label.

I tell you this now because I am grouping my poetry and entries under sections or collections: 575th Lover, Grandma's Crocheted Doilies, Journal, Art Criticism and so forth. It is a handy function. 

Go blogger.com!

© Donald Grube, 2010

Grandma's Crocheted Doilies

Grandma's Crocheted Doilies is a collection of non objective poetry. The closest hint I can give the reader on performance and understanding of each piece, is to approach the poetry like a color field painting. (Please google.) Let your eyes take in the entire poem with a soft gaze and then read the first word that jumps off the page. After this first word, let your eyes roam again to the next word, and so on.

Each reading will probably be different for each person, and even consecutive readings by the same person, will be fresh and new.

These are eye poems, not meant to frustrate the reader but to free it from our standard linear, left/right reading patterns.

Above all, 

have fun!



© Donald Grube, 2010

575th Lover

575th Lover is a collection of love Haiku and Senryu. Unless there is a grand impulse to the contrary, all love images will be painted in the haiku form of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, and 5 syllables. If the love action lasts longer than one stanza it will be expressed in linked haiku, meaning one haiku (or orgasm) following another.

© Donald Grube, 2010

rugby

rugby           a                   Jean             errant


moist           warlock        strum           muslin

   
pupil             chalice         strident        ferrel          


bleached       hooker's       assassin       ingot           



© Donald Grube, 2010

combination

combination             violet





herringbone               VCR



© Donald Grube, 2010

It

I am gradually removing the pronouns he and she from my vocabulary. They will be replaced with the more contemporary pronoun it.



© Donald Grube, 2010

paper

paper        speed         blue


devour      natural      oxen            


dirty          library        vote



© Donald Grube, 2010

Advice to myself as a young poet

Write, read, select and translate poetry. These four actions will make me a better poet.


© Donald Grube, 2010

One character

It is a 60 year old man with no hair on any parts of its body it stands wearing a cloth diaper and plays a rattle occasionally white powder falls on it that is all

the rattle is a percussion instrument from Africa that makes a rain sound and keeps a beat

communication with its partners is achieved by subtle variations in the music it plays on its rattle it is mute other than this music if it wasn't absolutely keen the audience would think there was no change at all in the sounds it plays

the point is glacial modulation

it discovers acting and musical partners in every single thing moment being and sound that occurs it is steadfast loyal strong enduring and plays for love not laughs or coins although every response it receives becomes fodder for its next response and so forth

and so it plays and stands absolutely calm and plays some more from the time the first person enters the concert hall whether it be a member of the audience an usher or another actor warming up on stage it stands and plays through out the piece of entertainment and on after the amusement is complete and everyone has left the theater including the janitor

it is.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Listening to Delilah After Dark. Again?

I too need the pablum of sweet Christian nonsense

again

before it was happy
it is a memory of pain that sends a bittersweet hallelujah through my nostrils down past my pallets further south to tickle my larynx breaking down in my lungs filling my epigastrium with uncontrollable actually torturous spasms of violent laughter ending in fabled tears

I don't feel well my abdomen hurts

please not now

I crawl over to my laptop barely able to pull its cord I also find the circle with a line impregnating it press it and then almost click the okay button

dark cold Eve

wake to Delilah, again? Delilah dedicates this next song to an expecting mother whose husband is overseas protecting our rights of freedom

I stretch out my primary muscle groups to stop the cramping but oh my god am I bleeding am I losing my own child

again

I use my remaining strength to call my greatest friend Paul who talks to sooth and drives me to the hospital's

end.



© Donald Grube, 2010

After I'm gone, I wish to be thought of as the pompous ass

It is a nice, acclaimed collection of books, letters, pieces of art, and coherent journal entries that will be distracting to those looking for my voice, but if you listen for the leading tones, become the grout holding the church's wiggly woggly lines in mosaic that are fresh tellings of old traditions, the parable might be found in the broken phrases, incomplete lists, old mildewy and stained paintings, maybe even below the soot collected in my GE oven, but family, and others who by chance got to know me, please sort through my junk and rotten fruit like the expensive investigative team, sifting, lifting DNA samples and plotting to account for that one ill fitting turn. 

I wish to be read and reread, literally or figuratively, by someone who's appreciative but I know that I am nothing but

the shit that stops up my toilet.

Please find my kernels and laugh at my presumptive thought that I had anything to share with you but lies. Once laughing, rejoice and make a different choice. You don't need to search anymore, because I'm telling you it is pointless. There is nothing but incomplete and incoherent thoughts everywhere. 

Give up the search, the striving, doing your best and grab what you need. It is all that counts. Grab it. Take it. Eat it as quickly as you can!

And then run.



© Donald Grube, 2010

What Was The Motivation For Starting This Blog?

Please reread post January 5, 2010. It was to create some words to parallel my painting and drawing process.

The blog might also do these things.

• Explain some of the pictorial periods

• Create a greater understanding of words, which is important in any art form

• To journal in the freest sense and not be afraid of what the world might think or say

• To respond to the world as directly as I can

• To find patterns

• Accept patterns

• Accept myself

© Donald Grube, 2010

I Write What My Body Is Feeling

It's the beginning of spring
What else would you expect
I'm just another frisky Joe
who is single
and
enjoys journaling
my feelings

Would you rather
have me screwing
every person I run into
or spending my evenings
getting my
electronic jollies
from porn sites

At least I'm published
Any of my prospective
liaisons should google
my blog and then
interview me

I'll gladly fess up
You see Ms Blog
I've nothing to hide
I want everyone
to know the real
Donald Grube

That's what this
blog is about
to fill in the blanks
where images are too vague
In many ways
I want to know
as well
It's shocking reading
24 posts in January
and then noticing
48 posts in February
That's times two
My point exactly
and it's only
getting hotter
as the flowers
keep blooming
and soon people
begin to uncover
their skin

So look out
web crawlers
I'm still writing
and it looks like
I've plenty
more to say
on the topic
of
love
lust
and other
spring time urges



© Donald Grube, 2010

A Private Facebook Exchange Anonymously Quoted

        
          Woman Friend: 

...Here's a question that's been dogging me for a while: How is it that you are not married or committed with a bunch of kids? I have really pondered this and have no answers. You? What's your analysis?

     
          Donald:

I'm a little embarrassed to confess...I'm a dead beat Dad. I've got 7 ex-wives and 14 abandoned, foster children spanning the ages 4 1/2-15 years of age, scattered all over the World.

Just kidding. I've been slow to grow up but have managed to stay clear of pregnancy and marriage. I feel blessed by my luck and choices in earlier life. Now I am ready to find my doe in the wild and mate for the rest of my breaths and heart beats. Bachelorhood has its effect on one though. The whole Donald Grube line stopping with Donald Grube...I think that fact drives me to leaving some well worked and orderly art and artifacts as heirlooms. (Thus, my Mother's garage full of art and this blog to explain it all.) I also live through nieces and nephews. Bless their hearts.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Darting Doe

I search for it through springs' redressing. Sometimes it comes and other's not. This round however is more hopeful. I can't wait for its colors. I watch listen promote and stop projecting; how could I unconscious or awake create its fascinating motion. It needs no help; it exists. Stand up straight. Be bold brave strong yet careful to learn its primal language through pulsing morse. It just needs a quiet cavalier with which to stroll perhaps dance. Be ready to forward reverse and lift. And again. When sensed a dip a peck then help it to spin

There will be many more bands this year. Let the music lull your mind away and your heart, well hold it in your palm out in front of you as a witness to the nakedness. It will become harder with practice as you strip away the leather each layer softer than the last until it's more like un-webbing a caught humming bird. Breathe with it beat with it sit with it stare into it calm it balm it love it open and 

fly



© Donald Grube, 2010

Fragment, a poem by Dorothy Parker

Why should we set these hearts of ours above
     The rest, and cramp them in possession's clutch?
Poor things, we gasp and strain to capture love,
     And in our hands, it powders at our touch.
We turn the fragrant pages of the past,
     Mournful with scent of passion's faded flow'rs,
On every one we read, "Love cannot last"–
     So how could ours?

It is the quest that thrills, and not the gain,
     The mad pursuit, and not the cornering:
Love caught is but a drop of April rain,
     But bloom upon the moth's translucent wing.
Why should you dare to hope that you and I,
     Could make love's fitful flash a lasting flame?
Still, if you think it's only fair to try–
     Well, I am game.

The Love I Lang

These eleven words hint at our hearts:

Fantasyuniquehumorbeautyred,  

Breathsitnakedsoftcarecurvegrowthhealth,    

Irrational,

Fear,

Daydreambluethoughtgiftreceiverespectappreciate-
     listenspeakreaddoodlewrite,  

Inclusive,

Anglestrongacceptageexperienceyouthsurviveadapt,
Complex,  

Intellectrealvariableobtuseartdot,

Intertwine,
Wholesimple



© Donald Grube, 2010

Here's to Gertrude Stein

I might point out that Gertrude Stein is one of John Ashbery's major influences



© Donald Grube, 2010

Telephone Game

I've just cracked open
John Ashbery's Chinese Whispers
An incredible collection of poetry
So steady, lyrical, talks like
people I know and love
and uses tons of new, exacting vocabulary
He's created his own idiom
through language beats
strung together to make his
own rhythm of
specific non sequitur language
Some of the pieces instigate your
feeling, and side step knowing, and thinking



© Donald Grube, 2010

Just a Heterosexual Striving for Inclusive Paradigms

"I will choose amongst
the varied genders as spring
pops winter's dreaming

Humph!"



© Donald Grube, 2010

Lindy-Hopping Boogieman

I'm scared at night
I leave my touch light on
low just one touch

Sleeping without the protection of love
is becoming a nightmare
I bring my laptop with me
my books of poetry
a new one by John Ashbery
my Grandmother's poof

but nothing helps

I just wish to pass into sleep
painlessly and quickly
so that the Lindy-Hopping Boogieman
has only my fictitious dream maker
to accompany it

If it was ever to
dance by my place of work
or I to see it on a walk at Natural Bridges
with a friend
or turn a corner on the Garden Mall
and spy it talking with a beggar
that would be the end

That
became and
becomes

I've got a 5150 here
Please send back up
Over



© Donald Grube, 2010

This Moment Is Mine

He drinks coffee and eats donuts every morning. Stuffs himself on pepperoni pizza and guzzles beer for lunch and dinner. He likes to sit in his Willys Jeep on West Cliff Drive and stare at the girls, and loves to take long showers.

Or at least,  he used to. Just yesterday.

He ponders.

What did he make that second pot of coffee for this morning? And how much coffee is left. Did he turn the pot off? He thinks about last night's dinner, preheating the oven, and about the buzzer. How much beer is in the fridge? What about PG&E?

The people walking by distract him. He wonders what they're thinking.

I'm fucked for sure! What is happening to me?

I get out of the jeep and start to run along the cliff as fast as I can. My breath speeds up and makes scratchy sounds in and out. A stitch in my side. Soon I stop to catch my breath. Thoughts chase me again. I pace in a frantic, chaotic pattern. Then run. Then pace. Run. Pace. Again.

Pain in my head.

Finally everything goes black.

***

My eyes are wet with tears. In the distance I hear the waves through the rocks and an obnoxious seagull calls out. Cold, calming air passes my nostrils down into my lungs and up out again. 

I am curled up in a heap.

Live
Pulsing
Flesh



© Donald Grube, 2010

My First Letter of Recommendation, Approximately 1979

To whom it may concern;

Donald Grube has been employed by us for 3 months now. I have found him to be dependable, prompt and a very willing worker. Don is also a very cheerful person. Very pleasant to be around.

Lois Huntsmeyer

Manager

Del Taco Restaurant

2015 Mission St.

Santa Cruz, CA 95060



© Donald Grube, 2010

Dohn and Donald Blubbering by Antonelli's Pond

"Will you still love me

even after I rip out your heart

and devour it whole?"

And I say,

"Of course I love you

and always will love you,

Heart or heartless!

The two of us are

redwood saplings,

our roots ever intertwine."



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

P+F: A Jounal of their friendship and need for each other.

12/5/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Layer text in P+F/washes/lots info.



12/2/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Fix P+F plate two.



12/6/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

P+F: get back to abstraction in the images. Make up an abstract language. No real "letters" just moody marks.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

•  Perhaps Peony and Finn are on their own because of a rift.

•  Perhaps P+F can represent Joanna and me.

•  Perhaps one of my skills is combining draftsmanship, caricature, and imagination.

•  It is my job to take my unpalatable moods and find ways to express them so people can understand them with characters and pictures.

11/27/2005




© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Continue research and development through Peony and Finn.

11/10/2005




© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

•  Finish P+F drawing–allow 4 hours.

•  Two aspects of drawing from mind.

     1     Accuracy of draftsmanship.

     2     What we  know, verbally etc about the image.

•  It's the tension between these two that the chasm of art falls.

•  Draftsmanship:

     1     Accuracy of rendition.

     2     Interpretation.

•  Art lies in the dynamics between.

•  Make Peony a female bald eagle.

• I want to make each drawing and painting, regardless of time spent on it, an example of my total process.

•  Like art history from ancient to now each piece I create is also a microcosm of all art history. The process is an art history lesson.

•  Research dry point etching.



10/3/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

•  Lulu and Bubba snap shot of Leo's art process.

•  Struggle from today on to search for grounding. To stay connected.

•  Don't unintentionally give some one power to "shut me down."

•  Bubba's namesake my cousine, the consummate male: strong willed, linear.

•  I've added a new and challenging environment and time for Bubba to grow in.

8/9/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Peony and Finn/Relaxed/balanced this morning.



9/7/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Peony and Finn are from my head, therefore I must and find myself spending lots of time designing the architecture space.

9/7/2005




© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Peony and Finn playground. I noticed my signature in the last P+F was insensitively placed. Looks slapped on. And that one hidden portrait of Finn... Find a place for it in the next cartoon.

9/10/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

Lulu is all the women I have known that remind me of me. Bubba and all his friends are all the men who remind me of me. Both Lulu and Bubba represent loves, hates and fears of mine.

8/16/2005




© Donald Grube, 2010

Peony and Finn from My Journals

•  New Project:

On going–daily at most, comic strip.

•  Title:

Lulu and Bubba,

Pastimes and Enterprises

•  Lulu is built from curves.

Bubba from angles.

•  Anything can happen in terms of cells and layout.

•  On 9" x 12 " blocked water color paper only in landscape orientation.

•  Hope that the image could remain abstract and what they say and any narration could provide concrete.

•  Periwinkle and another color  F&W ink will be used with dip pen.

•  Day, date, and time each strip but order between pages is constantly shuffled to provide on going process ease.

•  Every page started is part of cartoon and will find its place in series after time. Nothing is thrown out.

•  New Years 2006 will be the first time to evaluate and perhaps depart from these simple guidelines.

•  Wild Blue Yonder and Periwinkle Prismacolor pencil colors  will be used as samples from which to mix F&W ink for project.

•  Both colors will be used freely with Lulu and Bubba images and surrounding.

•  Finger will be used for washes occasionally when absolutely necessary.

•  All drawing and borders and text and washes will be in these two colors.

ª  No white. Only thick ink and dilutions to stains etc.

•  Good title

•  Words or drawing can lead the way in creating each page of the strip.

•  Each strip is confined to one 9" x 12" page.
•  The point of the strip isn't to create a "beautiful" comic strip. It is to discover the lives and expressions of Lulu and Bubba.

•  Listen to what they have to tell me and show me.

•  White page or colored ink can also lead the strip.

•  Photographs can lead (inspire.) Readings the same. Quotations also. Things I might find on the road as well. Anything and everything should lead and be in the strip.

7/26/2005



© Donald Grube, 2010

Quote from Into the Wild

"To call each thing by its right name.
By its right name.
Christopher Johnson McCandless"



© Donald Grube, 2010

I Am African

I am African
Can't you hear it in my lips?
Born in Ndola



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

I Burn with Passions of Success

I burn with passions
of success. Each fire strikes
breathes and hacks to hell



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

Voluminous Words Compose My Latest Obsession

Sleep Dream Eat Exercise Listen Read Recite Perform Direct Collaborate Share Attend Record Research Syntax

Appreciationofallthearts

Journal

Write

Acceptfeedback

Rewrite

Select

Edit

Perhapstheorderisofnoconsequencehoweverthesearethemostworthywords 

Dream Listen

Read Perform Write AcceptFeedback Rewrite Select



© Donald Grube, 2010

Hike with Valentine's Bow and Scrutinizing Probe

Step with fine woman
through Pogonip. Behold, prod
two banana slugs

Ariolimax,

Californicus. Panting,

gunk. Hermaphrodites?



© Donald Grube, 2010

Ebtálos Trac, For John

Trac isséno mose lówal élpeep in carp.
Esenárom, nat tíllwik klaw way beech.
Ro, du stáloff étreop rédnew, sid néwfluen toctérose.
Fistub moselist: Trac ess eb!
Ew reered dárenus, nus ed noom, nin toob boos, ed durms.

***

Ro, Ee neven Trac's nayroségrity sé gri ty, yeenom so spur ednérmos yado sap!
Trac isséno terganérfid, terganérfid! Oze...

Sugs odéssuks,

Eebug



© Donald Grube, 2010

Natural Gazebos

natural gazebos
house Chestnut-backed Chickadees
as I rest below



© Donald Grube, 2010

Five Sensitive Toes

five sensitive toes
working to keep my balance
I feel the earth shake



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

Light House Field State Park

bones are under here
poison oak buds secure site
what did they look like?



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

Ed and Tom, Great Friends

I picked Tom up at 1:30 PM
We decided to walk through DeLaveaga Park
The trails were damp and shaded
But the hike warmed us

The excursion was different than Downtown
The redwoods, ferns, wood blewits and rivulets were soothing
The few dog walkers, mushroom hunters, and joggers were friendly
And we had time to talk or not to talk

After the hike I suggested we visit this cafe
Tom thought I meant another one, less aristocratic
But no, when I found it, Lemoncello was the one
The decorations were suggestive of a small fishing village in Italy

The other cafe, Café Açai, Tom had bad vibes
But my suggestion was to go to both just to see
Açai is a Brazilian fruit pronounced ah-sigh-ee
They sweeten it with agave and freeze it like gelato

The barista gave us a sample to taste, quite zippy
I suggested they got lots of business from the County Building
She said not so much, but she's working on it
I asked her the hours because the shop is right around my corner

We ended our visit shopping at Trader Joes
I bought lunch food for my first week of Spring teaching
Tom had two bags as well
We drove back to his apartment and said good-bye

I hope to get together with Tom on a more regular basis
We offer each other humor, open ears, and warm hearts
Tom is one of my Great Friends
We know each other through time



© Donald Grube, 2010

Moon Sliver

moon sliver glows bright
in the bluing southern sky
waking up the world



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

Anna's Hummingbird

Anna's Hummingbird
revs in eucalyptus trees
suckling of first blooms



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

Jabbering Frantics

jabbering frantics
we exit park to levee
re-meet on footbridge

none knowing future
but resolved to continue
she shares recipe

bound to the boardwalk
we strip our feet naked, white
quench toes in water
 
lollygagging be-
neath pier, we intuit a
restaurant. Fried fish

we linger, draw, write
run home full face in wind, chilled
drink tea, eat cocoa

I  press her feet and
she makes the bed and we lay
soon laughing eyes tell



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

No Escaping Dweebdom

I took her to the Scottish Highlands,

Just north of Santa Cruz?

I wanted to show her my daffodil farm.

We took Trisket along for the run

and on our way back, as we were facing the sunset,

it was mostly overcast, cool and wet from a recent rain,

I kissed her. 

She pulled away

and I went down.

My chin hit her knee

and knocked her down,

and we both landed in a big wet puddle. 

Trisket began to bark...

"I became a dweeb standing beside yourself," I mumbled, looking around to see if anyone else was watching.

"No. What? I'm just not ready for that, kind of,"

"What about all that wanting to say yes, yes, yes to the world? I thought you meant, something..."

We kept the ball flying around pretty quick for the next couple of exchanges, until we settled down and were both back on our feet. Then we started cracking up. We must of laughed for over 10 or 15 minutes. I helped her wipe the mud off her face and kissed a scrape on her palm.

Then as moinly as could be, she said, "you are a danger to yourself and others, you know? You could be locked up." 

After that there was no stopping us.



© Donald Grube, 2010

The Cross to Remember

When I was older than my younger brother in early life, we would dig holes. Anywhere, everywhere.

Early in the morning we would rise and quickly make our one eyed sandwiches or luftwaffes and head off to work. I approached this work like a job superintendent, making sure of location, and then depth and width, prescribing breaks at regular intervals, always training my team to exceed the low expectations of their young bodies that waited for age to teach them important lessons in life. I was patient but assumed my work seriously. At breakfast I would encourage reviewing talk to prepare them for the sometimes daunting day ahead. During the hard labor there were no gripes, only an occasional, "How much deeper?" or "When is the next break?" And I would considerately but firmly reply, "We are searching for hard pan. I am watching the clock. Do not lose concentration!"

My brother Charlie learned much in those days. He was like Psyche sorting the seeds but without help from the ants. There was no confusing knowledge of how many holes we had left to dig and whether or not there was any hard pan to hit, or what was hard pan? He had a the beginner's mind. Always wondering if a root or stone would inhibit his shoveling and demand a different approach or even more concentration. The key to his success was to love his work unconditionally. Not blaming me or the shovel or root or even the earth for lack of progress. He would simply dig with all his might.

One night I woke up from a bout of lucid snoring and found his covers pulled back and the bed empty. I wondered, was he in the kitchen for a snack, or had he crept into Mom and Dad's bed. Then I heard a sound. I followed the scraping to the back porch. Outside I saw Charlie in the hole working in his pj's. During our afternoon session he had only made it to the depth of his knees but now I could barely see his ribs. I thought, "What dedication. What a sense of determination." I stared at him for quite a while and then went back to bed.

On occasion we would stumble into an old outhouse hole and find cans and bottles. One small bottle I prized was made of triangular shaped blue glass. It was about three and a half inches tall with an owl on it. Later I took it to my youth group leader and he told me that it was an ant poison bottle and it laid on its side to encourage entrants.

The real occasion to dig for me was to find the clay that laid just on top of hard pan. There were precious rocks that filtered down to rest mixed up with this clay. I once strained the clay and made an ashtray in the shape of a mouth and my older brother fired it in his kiln. We were all surprised when it didn't explode.

Before me today I see four rocks and one marble. I see them in my pocket. I see them with the memories of time through the touch of my calloused hands. One represents my heart, one my liver. There is a black stone and a white marble to remind me of night and day. The fifth stone is a layered rock someone told me was whale bone. I carry that because I polished it myself in my rock tumbler.

These items take on different meaning at different times but they all well up at first touch the jealousy of digging with Charlie.



2002



© Donald Grube, 2010

Letter from Donald to Dohn

June 4, 1990

Dear Dohn:

I didn't mean to catch you off guard by my letter. I just wanted to give you a little support, expecially since these last couple of years have been so difficult for you.

It was nice to hear about you grabbing that TD position. It will work out well for you. Nice resumé! Sorry to hear about your showing at Café Chameleon falling through. Oh well, there'll be others. Just go out and sell yourself.

As for my overall purpose in your life, well, that's up to you. What ever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be there. You won't believe  this but you are my hero. I live to the fullest through you. So don't let me down.

As for who exactly I am? Just think of me as a young high school student with his whole life ahead of him. I could go in any direction. And don't think I don't have my troubles as well. I've been through the ringer too. We'll save that part for another letter however. The main point I wanted to make is that you will never be alone again. I am here and will always be here, and will let you know occasionally, when you forget. Incidentally, I know what a bad letter writer you are. So no apologies are necessary. Just keep trying, and living life on it's terms, and I'll be satisfied.

I want to say something profound but I'm at a loss, however, these words once did it for me:

"This is murder!"

"Your telling me."

"Your in the groove, Jackson"

Your friend,

Donald



© Donald Grube, 2010

Letter from Dohn to Donald

May 31, 1990

Dear Donald:

I just read your letter and I wanted to reply while it was still fresh in  my mind. I have so many questions to ask you. Your letter caught me totally by surprise. My memories of you are so faint. It seems like life times since we've talked.

I suppose first off, I want to know why your writing me now? And then secondly, how you knew so much about what I was doing. I must say, your letter certainly picked me up. I could really use more friends like you, if you could call us friends after being separated for such a long time. It's been about ten years hasn't it?

I'm a little embarrassed by the fact that I know nothing about you, or you recently. If you do decide to write me back, fill me in a little. Okay?

In your letter you mentioned something about me being an inspiration to you(?) Well, that's a change. Normally, it was the other way round. And how is it that I inspire you exactly? I've been such a lump on a log for quite a while. I just don't get it!

Anyway, I hope you are well. You sounded pretty chipper. Again, more questions. Where are you living? Are you almost done with high school? How's the tennis team going? Or are you still playing? I could go on forever, but I don't want to scare you off.

Donald, if you want to write again, please do. It would make me very happy. Oh, by the way, the way you signed your last letter, "your friend..." hit the spot. Well it was really nice hearing form you. Take care.

Love,

Dohn



© Donald Grube, 2010

Letter from Donald to Dohn

May 29, 1990

Dear Dohn:

I think your idea about creating a TD position at SCCAT is brilliant. It would show you off well and help the theater immensely. Also, the fact that you would be creating the position would be less stressful on you. Now you've just got to pull it off. Good luck.

The other thing I wanted to congratulate you on is your chance at having a showing at Café Chameleon. Ms. Williams' open acceptance of you and your work must feel great too. I'll be interested in knowing and seeing the specifics of the show:

• How much you charge for each
• How they will be arranged in the café
• How many Ms. Williams will allow you to show
• How you finish the backs of the paintings
• How many of your friends will come to see your brilliant work.

Thank you Dohn for being such an artistic and sensitive inspiration to me. Sometimes it helps just knowing that somewhere out there, there is someone who really does care.

By for now, and good luck.

Love your friend,

Donald



© Donald Grube, 2010

Letter home from choral tour

July 4, 1983

Dear Mom + Dad and whole family.

We are in Wien Austria (Vienna) right now. Last night I waltzed in the Wien Stadtpark and bought a 60 Schilling or $3.50 Coke. The tour is great. Every audience has asked for an encore. The churches we sing in are even greater. There is sometimes a 9 second echo. My German is helping out a lot. Oh, we are going on a guided tour of Wien (Vienna) tomorrow. These guided tours are very helpful in remembering what you have seen.

Also bis später.

Ich liebe sie,

Dohn

Poddle Wid Couple Nock

Poddle wid couple nock
Platelit scam farmers clot
Carbide sketch redwood knot
Shimmer flim cardboard mop

Shattered glib rainbow's holt
Tubers ring flat man's foll
Acreas cod plastic bowl
Tibulai pid Greenly's cold

Elequer jam wet flowla
Peter's whim bound Portola
Ficus minus slippit fud
Trim bates chad gilbbers murda



1980
Poets: Chris Grube and Donald Grube



© Donald Grube, 2010

An objective note on parental influences.

I have two editors. One dead and one alive. They both have an equal share in my gene pool: my father, burned to dust and my Mother still eating, drinking, reading and writing. I have a need to explore their different collaborations and effect on my existence and journal. In other words, I'm nearing a crises again and would like to forgo the bloodletting therapy. However I have an opportunity at my keys to uncover more substance of fact and fictitious songs of beauty.

They made me in their singular methodology of love: my father buying Rototillers and diamonds as gifts  for his wife, and my Mother breaking plates on his head and nurturing the devil out of him in return. They both loved and cared for me and my brothers and sisters. We were all lucky. I don't believe we choose the parents we get in this world's game, and it is not for us to compare and revel or dismay, but to accept and mine and share our parent as gifts, like carved onyx jewels, priceless and omniscient.

So from this journal forth I will think on both parents when either one comes to mind and be more apt to have a trialogue on every subject of interest! For memories are just like real life; they both grow fresh everyday. And for the writing artist, as is for every artist, sparking the imagination is what counts.  So there is no need to perceive these influences, dead or alive, as competing for my affections. Each has the closeness and capacity to shatter my ego if necessary and boost my morale once taken down.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Haemochromatosis Type 1

Today I am pissed
          Okay, I believe you, chill
Fuck you! Go to hell!

Fuckin' ass wipes. Argh!
          What did the doctor tell you?
That it's not my fault

That it's better than
diabites and worse than
STD, I think

Oh, fuck! Confusion
Anger and frustration. Know what?
The treatment is so

Expensive. I've or-
dered these pills from India
They won't be here for
Sixteen working days

          I'm going out to
          Get my pizza. Be right back
          Don't off yourself yet!

***

(Uncontrolled crying)
           (Turns out the lights and makes his
           move. Kissing her neck.)

          There, Mon Petite Chou

The lack of light is heaven

I am black as night

          You are beautiful
          In your pain and anguish, dear
          I can see your heart

          Fluttering for air
I can't breathe. After she told me
I hear this buzzing
Like an air raid in
England. Then walking home I
kept bumping people
Marty, I'm scared to
Death. If this is the end, I'm
Leaving. Traveling.
I'll get my van fixed
Gather some cash, take care of
Loose ends and take off!
Won't you come with me?

          I'm with you now and always
          Just need my laptop

          I'll keep you with me
          Forever. Without you I'm
          just a balloon

(They stare. The room melts
Dreams, purple times flash and tick
All unhinged floating)



© Donald Grube, 2010

Set Designer's Statement, Written as Rydell Fellowship Contestant

The design of sets and properties creates kinetic sculpture. I like to salvage materials with poignant textures and patinas. Building from scratch adds authenticity.

The design for Of Mice and Men employed hay bales tightly woven from burlap. The bales represented the tragic bond between George and Lenny. In A Doll's House, I prepared for Nora's breakdown by using surfaces of white steel, Plexiglas and mirrors–sanitary, uncluttered and breakable. And in Incorruptible, the audience was eased into the medieval church humor by actors made comfortable on a set of  recycled "fabric" stones and "lived in" funiture made of old dump wood.

Building theatrical jungle gyms is driven by the characters' needs. The use of literal or figurative surroundings helps to visually push the players' toward the defining crisis and resolution.

The connecting theme in all my work, regardless of medium, is the exploration of character.

2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

A More Romantic, Contemporary, Practical, Tasty and Overall Better Dance

My Father planted
A fiveplumgraft in our back yard
That's five! Count them please

He has since passed on
The plum tree to his children
A love/hate affair

Some years we canned plums
Others, over pruned... chaos!
Others still, neglect–

Death! Now there are just
Three types of plum on our tree
Red, yellow and prune

This Winter...
Something most unusual
Happened

"Car Makers Bankrupt"
So the family turns to art
For the holidays

Little did we know
Our quinplum reborn plumterce
Offered us a gift

Yes, after all leaves
Had fallen accept on one
Ostentatious branch

There were two plums left
Ripening slow in winter
Mud on all of us!

They were doing the
Lyndy Hop, Balboa, Jive,
The Boogie Woogie...

Having so much fun
One upping the entire
Christmas Day party!

Proof positive that
The Better Most Grand Dance is
Plums out of season!



© Donald Grube, 2010

San Lorenzo River at El Rio Mobile Home Park

I walk a new loop
wet, green, hot and dry spells to
watch our river flow



2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

La Plus Grand Danse

C'est une feuille
qui s'appelle "La Feuille Éternelle"
Son première jour est au printemps
son dernière, en automne
Elle pense on été et est juste une pensée en hiver
La Feuille Éternelle est toujours jeune
Elle est très intelligente aussi
Quand il fait mauvais
cette feuille est contente et heureuse
parce qu'elle s'attend à descendre à la terre
Ce moment est très court
mais c'est la plus grand danse
La Feuille Éternelle vit pour mourir



1983



© Donald Grube, 2010

Gott im Himmel

"Ouch! Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker." Once again Penelope had stubbed her toe. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker." This was Penelope's chant when ever she stubbed her toe, which was quite often. Maybe two or three times a week. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker," she sang out loud again and again until that immediate pain subsided into a warm  sensation.

Penelope was in kindergarten studying her ABC's under Ms. Blatz, an unenlightended teacher who required mostly memory work from her students and the silliest art projects. Penelope was headed home from school after being chastised by Ms. Blatz for writing a mirror image of the letter "b." Penelope was within one block of home when she crossed the street and slammed her right foot smack into the rise of the curb.

"Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker," she cried out at the top of her lungs.

This by-product of her physical awkwardness was enough to catch the attention of Mrs. Peru who looked up and seeing it was Penelope said, "And a fine day to you, too, Penelope."

When Penelope got home, her Father was waiting for her in the studio. "Well, hello my little Penelope." Her Father pronounced her name accenting the first syllable. This of course sent Penelope running into his arms with glee.

"Oh, fine Daddy. Is it all right if I make my 'b's' backward?"

"It's just fine with me. You know sometimes I confuse my 's's' for my 'z's"

Penelope looked around the room at the walls covered in pictures of male nudes. She finally located the new work. "Tell me about that one, Daddy?"

"Oh...I don't know. I guess it's me, accept my head is on backwards. It's kind of a state of mind piece."

"Daddy, it happened again." She sat down in the model's chair illuminated by the 100 watt, full spectrum lamps and began to untie her left shoe. "I just didn't see the bump."

"Let me see dear." He helped her pull off her thick wool sock revealing four toes with Band-Aids and a little toe with out, but the new abrasion was obvious. He went over and got another Band-Aid and said, "Well now, Penelope, you've got a complete set. You know, I'm not much for scrapes and bruises. All I can do is keep applying Band-Aids and more Band-Aids. Accept. Then he knelt down in front of her and kissed her little, little boo-boo. As far as coaching you on some prevention method I'm at a loss. But your Grandma Joan is pretty nimble. Would you like to ask her for some assistance?"

"At least we can have a good cry together. I'll call her, and you can take me over? Daddy? Keep up the good work."

***

"Grandma Joan, Grandma Joan?" Penelope screamed as Joan opened the front door.

"It's so nice to see you Pen, darling. I baked some snicker doodles right after you called. They'll be out in a minute. Come on in."

Grandma Joan's house always felt like home to Penelope. She missed a woman's influence in her life. "Dad's out in the car reading a playgirl. He thinks he needs help on his male figures."

"Is that so. Hmmm?. You know your Father's a great artist. And his most recent work, his focus on the male anatomy, he'll be remembered for that. I keep asking him for a picture to hang on my wall." Her voice trails off. "I think the doilies frighten him. Anyway, how many times this week?"

"This is the second and it's only Wednesday. I took your advice about cursing until the pain is gone. How's this?" Then at the top of her lungs. "Fuck, shit, piss, hell, god damn, mother-fucker! I collected them from school and around and strung them all together myself."

"Yes, that's quite creative of you." At a loss all of the sudden. "You know Pen, I was thinking...Would you be a dear and get that German dictionary off the shelf? That's right, the red one. Now bring it here, please? Okay, stand up straight, with your tookus in and your shoulders back. Now look off into the horizon and tilt your head forward a bit. I'm going to place this dictionary on your head. That's right! Feel proud as if your on stage and everyone is looking at you. Now walk about the room. Let your peripheral vision guide you past any obstacles. That's great honey. You know you remind me more and more of your mother everyday."

"She had blond curly hair like mine." Penelope runs her fingers through her hair.

"Okay, dear, you can take the book off now and put it on the table. I think the cookies are done. Be right back." 

Penelope sat there quietly looking at the room and decorations. The Hummel figurines and Meissen Porcelain, all the antique furniture, and the old yellowed landscapes. Everything seemed to be appropriate to Penelope. Not one thing out of place.

"Here we are. Now I want you to practice with a book at home."

"Oh, yes Grandma Joan. Can I take a cookie to Daddy?"

"Yes honey. Now run along. Oh, and Pen? Try 'Gott im Himmel.'" 

"Thanks Grandma Joan." And with the cookies she ran outside at light as a dove to the car window, banged on it and shouted, "Gott im Himmel, Daddy, try one of these."



1990



© Donald Grube, 2010

Gross Point Blank, A Review

Gross Point Blank inspires
flexible morality:

ominous fortunes!



2009




© Donald Grube, 2010

It's not a bird!

I have the desire, training, experience, products and self-knowledge, to love you.

If that love should ever fail you, I can sidestep it like that! Then with the mushy, new, green, gunk growing from deep in the ground, between my toes, up my legs and spine and out out my arms to the tips of my fingers, I will great each new pulsing, slimy, unformed mote of a love thought, with a warm  and enthusiastic bear hug! For now, I have discovered my super power:

I see patterns clearly and quickly.

Patterns in love's nascency. From one amorphous shape, dividing and multiplying into more recognizable conditions. No longer will confusion stay. No longer will I be miffed. And if I don't answer right back, feed me some tea for god's sake and let me stay a while. For maybe a conversation is needed, to stir the pot and quicken the brew!

Oh, world I do love you now!

So beware planet. Here he comes. Not a plane. It's not a bird. But...

Pattern Man!



© Donald Grube, 2010

Jump From Addiction

Run from cigarettes
It is easy to quit but
At what cost to friends

Screaming loud for help
Desire crawls deep within
Sit calmly and wait

Peace, peace, peace, peace, shit!
Breath tries to find a release
Wrapped up in coils

Will freedom be mine?
I hope and pray for the best

Black squirrel on wire



1/30/2009



© Donald Grube, 2010

The Night

The dark
night
sets still
with silent
shadows
and noisless
trees



1975



© Donald Grube, 2010

Fall

Fall is
cool
with mild
winds
And the scent
of burning
leaves
as they
crackle



1975



© Donald Grube, 2010

Boardwalk Beach

amusements quiet.
this winter night's waves clean beach
for morning's crisp light



2/18/09



© Donald Grube, 2010

A Sunday Afternoon Drive

Despite the arguing, we got the windows up in time to save us from the red, brown dust that can clog your nostrils for weeks, or at least most of us survived. Chris was sneezing. That'll teach him to get the window up faster.

It was five minutes of hell everytime we passed a truck or car. To avoid choking, it was manditory to get the windows up before the automobile passed us. Both cars had to slow down and sneak by each other, avoiding the drainage ditches on both sides. Then the drivers had to trudge through the other car's dust for about four minutes, until the fog had lifted. Even rolling up the windows didn't stop the dust from coming in, we still had to tape the hatch back shut and stuff towels in the door jams.

Then Alice, my older sister, screamed, "There's a snake in the road."

"Oh, Les." My Mom said to my Father while she grabbed her seat belt. "Slow down! There's a snake in the road."

"Oh, boss!" said Chris, my younger brother.

"God, that sucker's big," I said, "Hey, Dad, what kind is it?"

My Dad's eyes opened wide, turned glassy, and got that look resembling those times when he used to spank us, all serious like.

"Go around it," My Mom said. "Don't run over it. Oh, Les! It may come up from the bottom."

Meanwhile an African woman, with her baby strapped to her back with a piece of Java print, had already anticipated the danger and had picked up a large stick out of the ditch. My Father was just about to squash the six foot snake--ba bump!

"It's dead," he said as he pulled over.

The woman, with the eucalyptus branch in her right hand, began thumping the still very much alive snake. It was crawling awkardly for shelter in the gutter. Then the baby began to cry. A short cry, then a long silence while it breathed. Then another series, always accompanied by the haphazard beat of the club. Then a young Aftrican man road up on his bicycle and saw that it was his job to kill the already mutilated snake. He ran over to the  lady, shouting at the top of his register, grabbed the stick and started pounding the snake into the ground, giving one loud cry for each hit.

The big bloody mess didn't even resemble a snake any more. The woman, sick to her stomach, began throwing up. Gobs of muck came spewing out of her mouth and splashed to the ground.

"Start the car, Les." Mom said.

"Wait a minute," I said. "Mom, I feel sick; let me out."

1979



© Donald Grube, 2010

A Poem

Each night I start over
Morning comes a new sheet
The day inevitably wrinkles the page
Homework put aside, practicing...
I long to crawl into a warm poem



1983



© Donald Grube, 2010

Letter from dear friend and colleague supporting my conscientious objector status when registering with the United States Government so that I might receive financial aid as a student in college; Today I am still an artist and a peaceful citizen.

July 21, 1980

Dear Sirs:

Donald Grube is a man of peace and a man of exceptional talents in musical composition, and other creative areas as well. The criterion for producing in these areas is a high degree of sensitivity to the world around us. Laying one's feelings open in this manner is risky, for one becomes more vulnerable to feeling too deeply the suffering of others that one generally is helpless to alleviate. But such is a necessary component in the production of beauty.

Thus, to educate him in the fields of barbarism, and force him to commit the immoral act of murder, abhorrent to his nature, could well make a casualty of his talent and sensitivity in the process. Talent cannot be distributed by mandate, and thus should be preserved and nourished wherever it is found. For the contributions of such people enhance the quality of life we claim to be defending.

President Carter has not spoken kindly of conscientious objector status, indicating that everyone should fight for the government if called. But, as we don't live in a dictatorship, a citizen's personal convictions should not be violated by not respecting his constitutional right to object. Military might has never sustained a nation better than a nation that supports the right of its people to object. For this is part of the application of "Government of, by and for the people."

Sincerely,

Ross Eric Gibson
Santa Cruz, California

3 Bonsais Fall Victim to Her Wit, Actors' Theatre, Tuesday, 1/19/2010

The Willing Suspen-
sion Armchair Theatre hosts
Claire Braz-Valentine.

Director: Karen
Schamberg; Actors: Phil, Billy,
Wilma, and Karen.

A night of essays,
Letters, poems, monologues,
And personal ad.

A grand reception
For the poet and playwright
Famous from SC,

Where Claire autographs
Copies of SONGS OF MY HEART,
COLLECTED POEMS.

After the party,
When returning chips, bottles,
Plates, and champagne flutes

To Patricia's house
For cleaning, Pat and her son
Drove through the torn streets

To West Side Santa
Cruz, dodging fallen tree limbs and
Severed power lines.

They step past the gate,
Tread six inch deep puddles and
Notice upturned pots?

3 bonsais hurdled,
Cracked, as if burst from laughter.
Victims of the wind!

Victim to Claire's words,
ALL 80 MINUTES! Humor,
Sweat,  memoirs ritten.

Phrases flash on my
eyelids, tattooing pictures
Gently in my heart,

Forever graphed with
Favorite ink. I envy her
In green Paradise!



© Donald Grube, 2010

True Love

Warm security
Having one loved
At letters' distance

Bubbling panic
When loves truth
Moves in next door



1983



© Donald Grube, 2010

To Spread, Publish, Impart

The deadline is near
Check my source on that one fact
I can't publish now!

My editor's pissed
She'll just have to wait until
I get it correct

Latin for publish...
Vulgo, to spread or publish
That's it. I've got it!

Ms. Penelope?
Here is my linked senryu
In time to print?
                                Yes!



© Donald Grube, 2010

Contemplation

Today I attended a memorial service for Ronn, a local lighting designer.

Then I ran a tech rehearsal for  Karen who is celebrating the literature of Claire, a poet.

My heart is shaking with their
brilliance!



© Donald Grube, 2010

Rich and Scully at the Capitola Book Cafe. Tuesday, 1/12/2010

For sale that night:

Vagabond Flags, Serbia & Kosovo, Journal, Scrapbook & Notes
by James Scully

Oceania, a sheaf of poems
by James Scully

A Human Eye, Essays on Art in Society, 1997-2008
by Adrienne Rich

Both poets read poems from various periods in their careers.

After the reading when talking to James Scully and receiving his autograph, I shared with him the deep respect the poem about his Mother awoke in me. My Dad spent about 8 years dying one little piece at a time. Throughout his performance, James read with a comfortable whimsy and sense of humor.

Adrienne Rich could have been reading in the Colleseum with her grounded, robust, and metered voice. It wasn't until I was within inches of her breath, kneeling while she signed, that I witnessed her grip on life. She shook my hand! Somehow our experience gives me confidence to write exactly what I'm feeling.

It was also a fabulous evening for my Mother, Patricia Grube and a new friend Fabiola, both poets.



© Donald Grube, 2010

Technical Feats Deflate Avatar's Plot; Demeaning

No comment.



© Donald Grube, 2010

a the Gertrude come Gertrude back come a back Gertrude back Stein come a back Gertrude back Gertrude back Gertrude back a Stein please

Please come back Gertrude Stein!



© Donald Grube, 2010

A Senryu

my room is a mess
books, clothes, change... and so much more
beeswax candle burns



© Donald Grube, 2010

Reason for Blogging

The reason I finally decided to create a blog is to keep track of the verbal side of my art life. Of course I have journals teeming with appropriate and inappropriate info, but the publishing element forces me to "get it right" and share it with family, friends and professional colleagues. So here goes...



© Donald Grube, 2010