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By Carl Kopman
I keep my time with old things these days, poems and stories, diaries and journals, photographs and a lampshade; a rescued trove of writing held to the worn and fading light of journey and memory and another day; the chaos of a crazier mind, the energy of taxi cab dreams, the callings of a younger man, fishermen off the Albion shore.
By Carl Kopman
My dog looks up at me expectantly
carrying her leash in her mouth.
By Carl Kopman
When you ask me how to do it
How to make it make sense
Break the words in a Poem
So as to make them less dense
By Carl Kopman
By Carl Kopman
Why a poem I wonder
is the place I need to be
within a clarity…
without thought
but sometimes rhyme…
By Carl Kopman
Prelude
To A
Mendocino
Suite
By Carl Kopman
While searching for the mortuary box containing Robert Levin’s ashes in the basement of my Berkeley home I found in an anonymous old carton, amongst other things, a poem I’d written back in my day, Gypsy No Eyes!
By Carl Kopman
We sat in my car parked by the beach at Todd’s Point smoking a joint; this was Mendocino after all. I had brought Robert the book of photographs we’d produced after he’d moved into the nursing home. He was pleased with the quality of the photographs.
By Carl Kopman
I was sitting on a wheelchair parked in the atrium of Peaceful Springs tearing at leaves on a potted Philodendron when my wife approached cautiously. I was expecting the visit but in a daze from the voltage they were zapping through my brain.
By Carl Kopman
Hi Kiko,
It’s September in the year 2016. I am 75 years old and you are not yet five and a half years old. You’ve just started kindergarten. I pick you up on Tuesdays and we go off to the YMCA for an hour of swimming in a shallow heated pool. You like to dive-bomb off the tiled edge splashing me with a spray of water and laughter twice your size. We also go to the gym where you arrange, climb upon, and jump large leather objects you move about to suit your purposes. They are bigger than you, but you heft them about and play wild for a time.