December 2008
Local Poets
Farewell to Ulooglp
by Bob Markey
The old, established Kite Factory
dreamed up a new model, “The Nightmare
Air Ship,” a new aero-tech marvel!
Much of the manufacturing work
would be outsourced to overseas to please
stockholders, reasoned the CEO,
who delighted in the dumping of
loudmouthed, bellyaching unionists
who had always built and assembled
kites here at home. Old, reliable
Asian craftsmen had a tradition
of skillful kiting. Pride in product
was high. But, unlike electronics
slaveys, they didn’t come cheap. Mister
CEO was forced to find a new
crew to exploit.
Eureka! It was almost under
his nose, way up in Ulooglp
Island in Canada’s Hudson Bay.
Inuit colonies were untapped
serfdom sources! So, industrious
Inuits built kite frames of bamboo
air-dropped from planes (it didn’t grow
well on Ulooglp). Finished product
was transported to the nearest air
strip by dogsled and kayak, a ten
week journey. Alas, the air frames did
not fit silken kite skins produced by
trained worms in Urq.
The company had to rehire laid
off union production people as
overseers at the Ulooglp
facilities. The novelty of
living in igloos and whale blubber
breakfasts soon wore thin. Overseers
demanded radiant heated homes
constructed of something other than
large, frozen ice cubes. Escalating
costs mounted. A junior bookkeeper
crunched numbers showing huge losses. He
suggested the “old ways” were better.
Stockholders agreed, dumped the CE
freaking O (with a five mil bonus),
hired the kid who immediately
closed Ulooglp.
Lessons learned: Unionists do not do
soapstone sculpture, Inuits don’t do
kite frames. Losers won’t get bonuses
… ever again.
Bob Markey, poet and Whatcom Watch delivery person, wrote this ballad about Boeing’s woes in May. It was published in the July/August issue of The Washington Free Press.
Native Shore
by Nancy Grayum
Seashore whispers on a cold bright morn
lively ripples rustle the pebbles
blending their vibrant society
all colors and sizes, shapes and beginnings
tumbling together.
There’s no rubbing each other wrong
or thrusting or haughtiness here,
just being together.
Each has some minute
affect on the others, no need to count
or note or analyze
just a golden sandy scrub here,
a flake becoming a granule there,
a surprising gleam revealed with the
harmony of mutual vibration.
Endless accord
awakens conscious moments
touching temporarily
yet forever.
Nancy Grayum, born to the temple of forests and currents of northwest Washington, saunters paths and waterways in silent reverence whenever possible. As poetess, listener and educator, she offers Time to those who are coping with the challenges of changing.
Pacific Waves
by Nancy Grayum
Distant breaking waves, like teenagers,
burst with life, rip-roar and
rear upward, defy gravity and other laws.
Stretching, pulsing, their shining currents rise
stand taut and upright,
throwing their prolific foam to the wind.
They seem to stand alone,
Yet each, begotten by
by the warmth of the sun, push of the air
and pull of the moon,
honors these ancestors in reflection.
After the invincible dance,
they surprise themselves by rolling over,
curling, mingling and finally crashing.
Dissolving into one another,
spreading, expanding,
they bequest new life,
parenting the next wave.
Maturing waves circle endlessly forward,
softened by dwindling strength.
Their reach seems shorter,
each turn ending in a longer pause.
A shallowness is becoming evident.
Yearning for depth, they are pushed from behind
Forced uphill at a slower pace.
Topped with silvering foamy remnants,
they journey onward with honor.
The earth moves for them now
in a granular way.
Deep currents of power cleanse,
rivers of sand shifting shapes.
Pebbles tremble, rocks roll,
shaken by forces swollen with age.
Quietly, not subtly, the race slows.
Gardens of sand gleam smoothly
as the sea, united across its last summit,
lies momentarily at peace.
Embracing a unique wisdom,
the weakening flow invites us to listen,
then recedes.
Its mystery touches our senses
we bow in reverence of age-old rhythms
strength dissipating, yet not diminished.
Nancy Grayum, born to the temple of forests and currents of northwest Washington, saunters paths and waterways in silent reverence whenever possible. As poetess, listener and educator, she offers Time to those who are coping with the challenges of changing.
