God in threes A Poem by Daigneault

God in Threes

A Poem by Daigneault

Throwing Angles at the rain

It’s …

Yes

No

There

These words that cannot say

Of soil and song and joy and truth

Water knowing water

That tree thinks of time

And I live with words

A current a vale

Or light and God

At some point

I am the land and sky

Where are the words

Evading me but all around

I want the words

I need the words

Where are the words

Where?

Why not?

When?

It moves through me

All around

The warm breeze loves the autumn leaves

One but not

So I wait

A hope a prayer

Yes a prayer

Wordless, together and yet just beyond, so close, one but not, tangible, but not

Un-said un-known

Other

No we

Know we

Caged locked I see the door

You dry cold worn

She has lost so much and we can’t find a path

Old now is this the last few pages of that book she wrote

Of a life of fantasy he was on the road on those women but where was she?

I cannot look as the fire grows dim as she grows dim this bright lonely light

Was this her truest lie this life she almost had

And I on the sidelines alone throwng angel at the rain.

I cannot find tears or pain that can see this error in our basic makeup

We calmly watch as our families burn to ash

Less than ash for ash can be touched at least it has the heart to leave us filthy

They just leave and that that is left behind is not them in any way

My father called it garbage but I think it is less

How can a life end in so little

Where is true sadness

Where is the mind going why how

Please help me to find my way back to the surface

The light

Blood and fire and pain and deep pounding breaths

Beautiful breathless muscles pushed beyond their limits

Life fresh soil and sweat

Please

Please

Awake

Am I

A cross between sight and pain

The horizon I see it

And I feel it sees me

Knows me

Once again I am alive, If only for today

I come to this cross road again and again

This light is out there and I feel my mind working again and again

But I fear that monster that is just out of my vision.

His breath wet and putrid

Just a round that next corner

Always taking

A thief

But the fight goes on

I know that all is there if only I can extend my grasp

Just become strong enough to reach once again

I can see that thing that I wish to call light

But that is the wrong word

But I can see it and feel it

God in Threes.

Who Are You?

Who Are You?

I was going through my Blog Stats. This tells me who is reading my blog and where they are. Below is a long term breakdown of the eleven thousand times one of you have dropped by our blog. Historically most of our readers are from the good old USofA. Next it’s The UK, then Canada, Germany, Malaysia, Australia, Slovenia, Russia, and then the Netherlands (which I’m sure is from my friends Sabina and Roland).

Okay, once again, I’d like to know who you are and where you are from, so if you have the time and the desire to help. Please tell us a little about how you ended up at our site and where you are from. I write on everything from food to low cost building design, with crime stories and poetry thrown in, along with stories about our ongoing bread project and cooking school. What was it, that drew you to our site? This will tell me where we’re serving you and not just practicing our writing. Just go to the bottom of this posting and click on comments.

United States	7,761
United Kingdom	388
Canada	306
Germany	234
Malaysia	185
Australia	174
Russia	117
Slovenia	104
Netherlands	87
Latvia	84

Through the breach A poem by Daigneault

Through the breach

A poem by Daigneault

Through the breach

a misty gauze

Distant language

her tender hands

Words float like cotton

And taste like cream

Yes cotton

and cream

This fragrance

All her own

Funny how

the drip seams

It hums a little

in the line

Then sings

Soaking into flesh.

The tune the words

Known

But the song

Yes a fragrance all her own

This God a Poem by Daigneault

This God A Poem by Daigneault

Not wanting to join

They say, “I’m spiritual”

Mom and her folks

Believed every word

My education tells me

The world is more than 5000 years old

And I man cannot live

In a fish for 40 days

A written text

Handed down for generations

Christian, Muslim and Jew

Claim this god

But deny love

To their brothers

As our world burns

With murder, rape and greed

Chasing the unholy

In pursuit of possession

This God of my father

So distant

In the hours of pain

When all looks lost

We turn to this god

Who’s name we’ve lost

To find him close and new

Hurricane a poem by Daigneault

The devil had a party

Tuscaloosa rides rotting, gnashing teeth

A few short minutes

All held dear, shredded trash

Timbers and TVs, babies and board games

A living city took to flight

A few short minutes

The monster howled, lives and memories were lost

Everything, that is every thing lost

Hopes and worries and tomorrows plans

A few short minutes

This quintessential crime

And standing in the wreckage

a stranger with a camera

This ultimate pornography

Served with America's morning coffee

A shattered woman, more than alone

Knee deep in shredded sorrows

“I don’t know how to do this”

She said, with her voice shaking

Well be right back

after a word from our sponsors

Back at The Bread... Pilot Error

Meanwhile back at the bread… Pilot Error!

Take a look at this bread. It’s color is great but it’s a failure! The reason why, I made a mistake. I made this in a Ditch Oven and forgot to drop the temperature from 500°f to 450°f for 20 minutes with the lid on.

Then I baked another 25 minutes I tested the internal temperature it was 209°f, just 3 degrees short of the target temp. At 212°f the steam is released and the bread is perfect along with the maximum crust tention.Because the oven was too hot the crust developed nice and brown but too quick. Notice the cuts in the surface did not develop ears or deep tears. The flavor will be fine but this is a 9 not a 10. My advice make sure that your oven is not too hot or the crust will cook too fast. I’m baking in the wood fired oven tomorrow and I’ll post the results.

The bread is cooling and Kathy and I are going to have tomato, basil and Parma butter sandwiches as soon as it cools. Life is good!

Warmly,

Mad coyote Joe

Home A Poem by Daigneault

I woke again this morning

Our home was still the same

Yes we had our clutter

Our address had not changed

And though the trees still knew me

There was something in that air

A joy rose with the morning

and old things now seemed rare

My years now more than fifty

with dull eyes became clear

That this is all I’ve needed

Our home the people here

With luck as I walk forward

With Kathy through the years

We’ll have all we’ve needed

In our little home right here

Kathy's Mother Died Today

For Zalem

A Poem by Daigneault

Forged in the dark earth of Kansas by a preacher and his wife

She was an educated woman in a time when such was rare

Never much for foolishness she worked hard and watched the money

Then one day when the kids had grown he said he was leaving

For a while the tears and questions kept her down

But she did her own time and found her own way

So through thirty years of solitude, hers was a life of books and antiques

watercolors and brushes and time with the children, but she lived alone

She watched movies every Christmas with Ila and loved “Frosties”

Reading everything, she had knowledge where others had only opinion

As her twilight approached she quietly cut the lines that moored us together

And started on her way, leaving us grateful in the bedrock of her example

Like a glacier, quietly, gracefully, moving to the sea of her memories

We watched as she finally wondered back home to a Kansas of an earlier day

In the end she was as light as air, giving all, even her body

Leaving behind only a few precious strands of her beautiful white hair

Thank you Kathryn

Open Mic a Poem by Daigneault

Open Mic

By Daigneault

Every Tuesday night they show

Like Vikings gathering for a battle

A battle void of spoils

Except the next chance to fight

Pulling at their guitars

The music is a longboat

Moving

through frozen waters

Straining on the oar

A pick keeps time

The left hand

Clearing the shallows

The voice calls out

Their ancient tune

As the villagers

sit watching

Knowing these Vikings

Are a breed apart

With their own view

Of heaven!

A Note to Our Readers

A Note to our Readers

For those of you that are new to this blog or not familiar with my history, it may seem a little confusing. One day we are discussing southwestern cooking, the next a cowboys funereal, or chapters out of a crime novel and then it’s barbecue cleaning videos or a discussion on how to make a building out of a shipping container, all of this is followed up with a few days of my poetry.

Let me explain. My personal history starts out with me being an Iron Worker, living and working here in the Arizona desert. Next I started a spice company, which led me into a television, cooking career. That took me into a series of cookbooks; from there it was live cooking demonstrations and playing music at least one night a week. After my show went off the air in 03 I had a baraitric procedure and over the next few years I had nine additional surgeries. While I was convalescing I went back to school and studied both, Creative and News writing. All of this shows up on my blog along with my love of green building and the plants of the Sonoran desert.

What drives me to write on a particular subject is either I just happen to be working on something, or a situation like the recent death of Micha McGurrea occurs and moves me to write, or my statistics page tells me that I’m gaining readers on a subject. In the last month most of my readers are American, over 70%, next is Hungary and here’s the odd thing. The Hungarians are reading my poetry and nothing but my poetry. There are about 15 other countries that have someone that is following my blog and they read everything both old and new, but when I launch a poem I can go to the Stats page and within a few minutes Hungary pops up. If you are in Hungary and following this blog Please leave a comment and let me know what is drawing you to these pages. That goes for all of you nice people, leave a comment and let me know what you like and what doesn’t quite do it for you.

Thanks

Mad Coyote Joe

If Heroes be Illusion A Poem by Daigneault

If Heroes be Illusion

A Poem by Daigneault

If heroes be illusion

The heroes as we say

Can true men then be heroes

In deeds of everyday

In stories facing giants

without a flinch or fear

Standing straight and solid

with will so true so clear

If men like that be fiction

and yet great deeds are done

The myth is calling fearless

The men that fail to run

For heroes are not different

from ordinary men

With fear and hearts a pounding

They stay to fight to win

Worm Holes and Root Canals

As a writer I often look back through old pieces that I have started, some have been put aside due to a writing myself into a corner. Others are suddenly fresh again and I find myself enjoying the craft of writing, as I watch the work come to life.

This morning I found the curious title, "Worm Holes and Root Canals," which I assumed somehow referred to a recent trip to the dentist. But in reading it I found the effects of pain medicine... and... well... maybe you should have a look.

Worm Holes and Root Canals

Today I had the experience of a ‘Root Canal.’ Then I came home and took heavy does of opioid narcotics (I used spell-check on opioid and it chose copious, hmm provenance, I think not! ((Just when I thought I was on to something, I noticed the next word was Poodle))

The 1987 movie Sergeant Pepper’s Hearts Club band was on, while my body was telling me that I’ve been neglective of so much. At one point I was watching the Bee Gees butcher some of the greatest music ever written while looking back over a life of waste and sin, wondering why I hadn’t done the work to bring my art to life. My mouth was throbbing and my head was swimming. Steve Martin is doing his worst work, and arguably the weakest song in the movie and I can’t stop thinking about my writing, poetry and painting.

But why did you kill John Lennon? What could you hope to achieve? The affect of your work is trash. The effect of your work is trash.

Hmm, well there it is. I think I'll go make some coffee now... uh... er... well, goodbye.

The Norman Midnight (a poem) by Daigneault

The Norman Midnight

By Daigneault

Vacant congregation

Standing in line

Desolate perversion

Inflation of the soul

Sexless

Lifeless

Property of the Penthouse

Caught in a two olive pontification

Amateurs at sin

of this Norman midnight

Begging for burden

And lies and sordid definition

With headlights off I too am speeding

On a dead-end street

Glutinous fools

At this baneful banquet

Not of Rockwell

Nor of Saxons

But the withered fruits

Of Slavoda’s nightmare

Upon which

We now feast

Manifest Destiny a Poem by Daigneault

Manifest Destiny

(Rorschach sideways, views fifty-five)

By Daigneault

Late October

Two AM Rodriguez’s sighting

The executioner hails

Land Ho!

Celestial diva

Stands watching from the bow

Priests and pirates

The rotting stench of Europe

Fetid feet

Pollute pristine paradise

Angel bleeds

Tears of a thousand Aztecs

Naked children

An aperitif

Eons of agrology

Grist for their perverted mill

Ancient gods and history and magic

But a putrid bilge

Discarded by servants

Of a god, void of earthly soul

The Beat

The Beat

I wrote this a few years ago, it's one of my favorite works. Let me know what you think!

The Beat

A poem

By Daigneault

Unspoken words

take wings tonight

Aromas dance

and rise

Piercing tones

reveal true heart

The brush carves

wood, cuts ice

Colors mixed find

notes not seen

Gracious hands

yield truth

Spade finds

earth, desire and flesh

The supple

muse of youth

And in the sky

beneath the waves

The beat,

the grain,

the stone

Unspoken words

take flight tonight

From gods these

gifts, on loan

Life here is good!