Ode to Summer II & A Poem by Jim Morrison

Oh Saturday, what a gorgeous day you turned out to be (although this morning was so cold, self nearly froze while walking around the Redwood City Farmers Market, because she forgot to bring her jacket)

How self adores the apricots and cherries she saw at the market, just bursting with sweetness.

Oh beagles, how self adores your barking friendliness, your wayward tangle of leashes, your swaybacked walks, and even the way your tongues hang out, the closer we get to home.

Oh Stafford Park, this afternoon you are full of children and birthday parties, laughter and noise, and you remind self of the times when she celebrated son’s birthday here, and of all the memories the one that stands out is his sixth, because that was when self outdid herself by ordering a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cake from Goldilocks, and when she took it out of the box, all son’s classmates went “Ooooh” at the sight of the three buildings made out of hard candy, tiny Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles clambering down their sides.

Oh hubby, who refuses self’s invitation to take a stroll along Laurel Street (where self secretly hopes to stop by Chocolate Mousse and buy some slices of carrot cake) and all because Jason Bourne is on flat screen HDTV, and it’s coming close to the scene where Matt Damon and Franka Potente encounter punk-haired assassin in Bourne’s Paris apartment, and Matt achieves maximum lethal effect with a letter opener.

Now, both dogs are sprawled on hardwood floor, tongues hanging out. Breeze wafts through orange tree, laden with fruit. Student papers sit next to self’s laptop. The top one is a paper about a poem Jim Morrison wrote when he was in high school, “Horse Latitudes.” Self’s curiosity is aroused. She picks up the paper and reads:

“Horse Latitudes”

A poem by Jim Morrison

When the still sea conspires an armor

And her sullen and aborted

Currents breed tiny monsters

True sailing is dead

Awkward instant

And the first animal is jettisoned

Legs furiously pumping

Their stiff green gallop

And heads bob up





In mute nostril agony

Carefully refined

And sealed over

Hmm, self thinks: Not bad. Not bad at all.


  1. carrot top said,

    June 2, 2008 at 12:19 am

    […] Market, because she forgot to bring her jacket How self adores the apricots and cherries she sawhttps://anthropologist.wordpress.com/2008/05/31/ode-to-summer-ii-a-poem-by-jim-morrison/Falcons open in Lafayette tonight Hammond Daily StarLAFAYETTE??If the St. Thomas Aquinas Falcons […]

  2. June 2, 2008 at 2:19 am

    Can anyone tell me what the above comment means ???

  3. Mog Rhod said,

    June 6, 2008 at 10:00 pm


    I have no idea. But Morrison is a good poetry read/experience. Hey, just came across your page today, am acquaintance of Leny Mendoza Strobel, and ocassionaly correspond with Paul Kekai Manansala, Though am Kano, my wife and I are going to vallejopistasanayong.com tomorrow.

    Morrison was obsessed with death, the mystics always contemplated death (Shaiva ascetics in India meditating in the charnel grounds covered in ash, in Judaism the seven days of mourning is called “sitting Shiva”, shiva being the feminine meaning for “7” in Hebrew).

    Unfortunately in the West we have kind of perfected a materialistic spirituality and the daring hero always in jaws of violence and close to death, we rarely see open caskets here and so have an unnatural fear which makes grasping/insane stories such as Jason Bourne so captivating.

    The true hero is slightly crazy, and fully contemplates death and the freedom which the knowledge of impermanence implies.

    The Visayan (Sri Vijayan) martial art Kali, represents this. Kali is the ancient goddess of death and in Southern india the Dakshinamurti (shiva) temples always face south, the direction of death.

    When Jesus talked of SHEBA the lady of the south will take this generation it was shiva/kali, for death takes every generation. The eternal youth culture of cosmetic surgery west and spiritual materialism is but a house of cards waiting for the next wind of destruction/regeneration.

    The important words are

    Utang na loob

    All this other crap, and interesting process…

    Morrison, Son of the Morris Dancer
    Jesus was a pagan, trying to tell the secret of the 7 branched menorah (shiva), and they got him, of course he sweated blood, but as faith can get crammed to a mustard seed, there is an explosive quality to truth (and nonconceptual love and compassion) which is how big bangs, and universes are created.

    Bows to a poet, and anthropologist

    Om Mani Peme Hung

    Mog Rhod

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