Granny's Advice

Granny's Advice

By the side of my bed,
an antique old bible,
a gift from my granny,
long dead and buried.
I held it to my heart
and could almost hear her words
pulsing through my veins.
Remember, something told me,
remember, and keep reading.

BirdSong

Bird Song

The leaves shimmered like diamonds,

each with elegant ice crystals

woven into their branches,

as the wren skated around the forest

searching for seeds, singing hello

to winter in high soprano.

To The Father Who Never Returned

To The Father Who Never Returned

It has been a lonely world without you here.
Your shadow was long. Nobody to follow.
There was no one to teach danger and pitfalls,
to warn of lurking demons.
I cried while the smoke trailed behind you,
puffing goodbye to a frightened boy.
Montana was always being thrown away.
Watching the Kenworth
I crossed my heart four times-
once for you and our mom-Inez,
then Myrna and me.
You never heard the words that I whispered,
a prayer that you'd return soon.
You, in your truck, made the world mine.
For sixty years, I have lost your face.
Its shape, a vague outline
mouthing words, "See you soon".

Night Out at the Theater

Night Out at the Theater

The curtain falls across the vacant stage
  the lonely crowd drifts slowly through the isles.
The actors backstage soothe their seething rage
  and leave the world with fantasy and smiles

Now dims the glimmering spotlights from the view
  and in the air a saddened spirit holds,
save where the stagehand hums his tune anew,
  and sleepy stirrings remind the tale as told,

far from the annoying crowd’s empty life,
  and empty dreams that never yearned to fill
the void, we feel the thrill, without the strife,
  the theater-a cozy fire from winter’s chill.

Brushfire

Brushfire

A half-life our ephemeral love
disintegrates before chosen time.

Incomplete, incongruous inchlings, as
saplings downed in brushfire. Half-

grown conifers unprotected by the majesty
of adjacent redwoods, stark-naked, virginal

seedlings, sap-filled, untested urges slowly
seeping under a searing solstice.

We burn into blazing night- ashes, remnants
of what might have been:

a lush forest.

New Orleanss Wake (A Paradelle)

New Orleans’s Wake (A paradelle)

The beat’s engrained in your brain, drummer boy
The beat’s engrained in your brain, drummer boy
Always tapping paradiddles on parking meters
Always tapping paradiddles on parking meters
Your engrained paradiddles beat, always parking in
The engrained tapping drummer meters, boy brain

You refuse to snooze behind cool blues, jazzman
You refuse to snooze behind cool blues, jazzman     
You incomplete with no beat of thumping feet
You incomplete with no beat of thumping feet
Thumping behind blues cool beat you refuse,
You snooze jazzman, incomplete

Katrina awakened a soulful sound, horn blower
Katrina awakened a soulful sound, horn blower
Bluesy riffles rocking, rolling Bourbon Street
Bluesy riffles rocking, rolling Bourbon Street
Rocking blower, bluesy horn, street rolling
Katrina, Bourbon Street sound, awakened riffles

Rose the dead in the wake’s wake, grim reaper
Rose the dead in the wake’s wake, grim reaper
Improvised tunes of French Quarter moons
Improvised tunes of French Quarter moons
Tunes rose grim dead in the reaper moon
Of improvised wake in the French Quarter

Cowboy Up Pard

Cowboy Up Pard!

Ride’ em cowboy! Get’ er done!
You’ll have to ride the meanest one.
An ornery, stubborn cussed bull-
Get ready, yer hands gonna be full

Ride’ em cowboy! Get’ er done!
You’ll love this mean son-of-a-gun.
He’ll snort, jump, twist and turn,
Jerk yer hands until they burn

He’ll shake yer ass from side to side,
Let you, feel his wild ride
Then he’ll turn the other way
Toss his horns, as if to say:
Eight seconds longer than a day

Yer rump won’t stay upon my hump,
Better cowboy up old chump.
Ride’ em cowboy. Get’ er done!
Eight seconds more until you’ve won!

Cabin Dream

Cabin Dream

Chipmunks frolic in the wet snow
Smoke trails from chimney fire,
I, to my warm bed retire
and listen to the north wind blow.

I hear your voice, sweet and low
and feel the memory of desire.
Chipmunks frolic in the wet snow.
Smoke trails from chimney fire.

In dreams I cry “Please don’t go!”
I hear the crackling funeral pyre-
ascending ash, a murky black crow
dressed in sorrow’s grim attire.

Chipmunks frolic in the wet snow

Sonnenizio from a Line by Charles Wesley

Sonnenizio from a Line by Charles Wesley

Where shall my wondering soul begin?
No comfort to wander in darkness
through wondrous bolts of lightning
through wonderments of the soul’s labyrinth,

lost in a wonder of purple haze.
Should I begin-an explorer with wanderlust
through the wonderful world of bawdy nights,
a flying wonder-boy of reckless abandon?

Or must I wander cautiously, on tip-toes,
leaving small footprints, wondering if life
will crush my wondrous spirit sooner than
later? I wonder, I wonder, I wander-

a wunderkind searching for the Holy Grail.
I wander far, wide. My path long, frail.

The Morning After

A Rondeau After the Morning After

Hon, it was nice to feel your warmth today.
You stoke me like blazing coals. I play
tunes, drink ale,  resistance of my nerve lulls
the deepest feelings from within. It pulls
like taffy. I shall cast aside dark thoughts,

embrace light. Live, laugh. Sip sweet draughts.
I drink away remnants of my desire.
I need: a warm bagel, hot coffee soothing my lips,
Hon. It was nice

pretending to be unchanged, you, same-
lying there, (You really have no blame
here) My last sip washes away the fire.
I pray that I once again feel your warmth
without sorrow- that tomorrow I’ll say,
Hon, it was nice.

Upon a Midnight Clear

Upon a Midnight Clear (A sevenling)

To him three gifts they bore:
frankincense, myrrh,
chests of gold ore

From him three things they took:
conscience, peace,
goodwill towards men

…and then they crucified him

O My God (A fib)

O My God! (A fib)

Om
Om
Om om
Om om om
Om om om om om
Om om om om om om om om
Om Mani Padme Hum chants the monk, to break of dawn

O My God

O My God! (A double fib)

Om
Om
Om om
Om om om
Om om om om om
Om om om om om om om om
Om Mani Padme Hum chants the monk, to break of dawn
My feet are killing me cries the girl, whose shoes are gone
Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch
Ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch
Ouch ouch ouch
Ouch ouch  
Ouch
Ouch.

All in a Days Work

All in a Day’s Work

Stealth fighter.
Black invisible ghost.
Death-bird of Hell
hard-wired for lethal strike,
electronic eyes a perfect 20-20 vision-
tearless orbs scanning from cold, dispassionate deep sockets.
A voracious vulture scavenging above fields of innocent brown mice-
rice farmers oblivious to the smoke, thin vapor trails snaking through cloudy pockets
rockets raining like sleet, an effusive hailstorm of unnatural disaster.
Deux- ex- machinas, surreal specters like fallen Icarus,
unseen by ordinary mortals. You’re metallic
justice dispersed deep within
bowels of Cheyenne Mountain
obliterating the unseen.
Stealth fighter

Amuse Me Oh Muse!( A minute)

Amuse Me Oh Muse! (A minute)

Thirty lumps of durable coal
thirty days toil
we chip away
throughout the day
to satisfy urgent poetry whims.
We seek bright gems
small rough diamonds
some magic bonds
a small reward in which to bask
is all we ask
a poem that sings
to wear like bling

Glacial Solitude

Glacial Solitude

Midnight. The sky is completely clear.
Ice squeaks beneath my boots, settles in the snow.
I rest at the mountain’s rim, gaze staring out
over the vast basin, over the multitudes-
in pain, stoned, loving, nursing sick, babies,
lonely, restless, as the world spins in turmoil.
A shooting star falls from the crystal sky-
over the jagged city of Jerusalem
the ice lolls, transparent and silent
sheltered within blue glaciers.

Christmas Memory

     

Christmas Memory

Yes I adored them, the holidays of early winter,-
The pine cabin, children with rosy faces,
Fragrant smoke rising from the chimney,
The cozy hearth, red with radiant yuletide warmth
The piercing joviality of your Christmas tales
And the last hopeless and desperate days we shared.
,

Cody Got Stomped in the Head by a Bull

Cody Got Stomped in the Head by a Bull (a minute)

Soaring through clouds his passion-
jet fashion.
Current rider,
soul provider
riding on the luck of the draw.
Bad bold outlaw,
poker player,
soothsayer
jerking on a wild Brahma’s hump.
Old rodeo chump
now you’re dead,
and all is said.

Sodium Pentothal Miasma

Sodium Pentothal Miasma

Ectomys and ostomies- actors
of the sterile theater bow under
the surgeon’s scalpel, encores

of life or death –precise incisions
to be or not to be, measured
decisions playing God in an

absurd theater of precisions and
revisions-diseased visions; seconds
split between dark and light.

The white metastasis of red space
disappears in cauterizing smoke, and
for now I see the sun’s curtain rise again.

Blue Love Letter

Blue Love Letter

Fat pink clouds hover in the sky
In the green going of afternoon
Your blue letter makes me cry
I pray we’ll be together soon

Wheat sighs yellow in the field
Crimson tears flood the sad moon,
brown face behind silver shield
I pray we’ll be together soon

Each enfolded in  pyramidal mystery
the golden ball, square in the room
love triangle, our peculiar history
I pray we’ll be together soon

I taste red lip upon red lip
And hear the call of liquid loon
Await return of your black ship
I pray we’ll be together soon.

Lady From Mass Limerick

Lady From Mass Limerick

It seems like a lady from Mass.
Who oughtn’t have passed foul gas
Struck a match on the plane
So they put her in chains and
Said we’ve now grounded yer ass!

Homeless

Homeless

In an abandoned mine
gold dust
adorns the walls

The One Ghazal

The One Ghazal

Too elusive am I? Too illusive? Too much a feared one?
I attribute the moon. I’m an exceptionally
weird one

The songs I sing are symphonies: blue codas wrapped in truth,
but lying I become an ever more
endeared one

Prefix, pronoun and amphetamine was Prometheus with fire.
awesome was his wrath rendering him a
Seered one

Sheep in low meadows suffer like sun-stroked sunbathers,
separated from the flock,  I become the
sheared one

Jungian mandalas , whirlpools of consciousness
emanate from green dreams seeking the
revered one

Embrace the Wind

Embrace the Wind

Arctic flatulence shakes the eaves
Snow falls like frozen leaves
We cuddle beneath our blanket warm
Hibernating bears avoiding harm

Deep in our den hot flesh stirs
Shielding against cold winter brrrs
Snug in our bed, we work our charm
Hibernating bears avoiding harm

Your lips, your hips, your furry coat
Stoke the fire and make me gloat
Ignite my body’s smoke alarm
Hibernating bears avoiding harm

I pray this wind will never end
It’s chilly breath became my friend
A love- ally on our little farm
We, hibernating bears avoiding harm

Navajo Blankets

Navajo Blankets

They have been thoughtfully designed
with the shapes of animals
to tell us tales of ancestral venerations ,
bison and eagles,
howling wolves and spiked antelope,
like the shadows of spirits in memory,
hand-sewn with sinew blended with gut
many bloody moons ago
by the flickering firelight of ancient night,
nimble fingers dancing through time,
honoring the sacred.

The Deer on My Lawn

The Deer on My Lawn

An orphan fawn
Meanders tearfully at night
An orphan fawn
Half -dead rests on my front lawn
Eyes glowing in manger light
The plastic Jesus a welcome sight
To an orphan fawn, this christmas night

Scavenger Hunters

Scavenger Hunters

I find them at garage sales
and flea markets, old people
and young couples, curiously caressing
blue bottles and cast off clothing
worn during thin or fat periods.
I meet them behind rows of 25 cent
used paperbacks perusing titles
never read. I see their bargain-hungry
eyes scan for authenticity of turquoise
ceramic water jugs as if simple vessels
of the past contain dreams of the future.
I watch as they scamper off,
treasures in hand, competing for fame
on the Antiques Roadshow. I smile
as the appraiser asks “How much did
you pay for this piece of junk?” I cry for them,
as their dreams are shattered again.     

Meth Report

Meth Report

Report of National Methamphetamine Awareness Day.
Attorney General Gonzales reports today that math labs
produce toxic waste.

She-Walks-Through-theDo

She-Walks-Through-the-Door Loves Moon Dog
     
Her face is looking towards us, her soft eyes
mysterious in the painting.
Bright feathers, hair braided with dyed beads.
Before her the wise elders hunker,
The lodge is quiet, tense and smoke-gray.
She knows their words, the long puffs drawn
from the pipe, like the wolf’s baying, will
seal her fate. They speak. With wry, moist  lips
she smiles her way into the yellow of moon dog.

Red Ants

Red Ants

Red ants
Bold and pushy
Marching steadily
Like Napoleon’s army
Across the countertop

Pestilent soldiers
Swift and hungry
Seeking pizza
Like Italian laborers
If only I’d put away the leftovers!

The Day Begins

The Day Begins

I’m awake
I’ve already had my coffee
I read the morning paper
The snow gathers softly outside my window
It’s cold this morning
There’s some frost
I turn on my laptop
I arrange my ideas
Today will be busy
I have no time to waste
I write


El día comienza

Soy despierto
He tenido ya mi café
Leí el papel de mañana
La nieve recolecta suavemente fuera de mi ventana
Es fría esta mañana
Hay una cierta helada
Giro mi computadora portátil
Arreglo mis ideas
Hoy estará ocupado
No tengo ninguna hora que perder
Escribo

Suspension

Suspension

Snow
gentle
down
floating
white feathers
powder
tall
forest
evergreens
as the chipmunk
hordes last
acorns
and
prepares
to dig in
for a
long
frigid
spell

Street Poet

Street Poet

He attempts to wrap his words around
callous streets- raw lullabies stripped

of urban decay to bare meanness. Murky
lingo of  black argot, rhyming doggerel

of booties and bitches drawn to bling,
gold teeth and basketball paraphernalia.

Head bobbing, shoulder-rolling, crotch-
grabbing street poet. He struts like a lottery

winner, pimps his ride, shows his ass garishly
as young suburban girls, eyes closed, sway

and scream to words and rhythm that only
the father he never knew would understand.

Tribute to the Goat Lady

Tribute to the Goat Lady

We made fun of her- the goat lady
reclusive in her tar paper shack
like the witch and her gingerbread

house, luring neighbor kids-
Hansels and Gretels of  surrounding
suburbia to her sand hill haven.

Pot boiling, voice cackling, abracadabra-
Words enchanted from parched lips
conjuring dark spells from hell.

Envisioning the smelly goats-
sacrifices to chthonian gods
deep within earth’s bowels

burning in bleating flames.
Mesmerized like Pan’s flocks
we couldn’t stay away-couldn’t,

wouldn’t leave her alone.

A constant barrage of rocks, bb’s,
Firecrackers- pelted, shot, exploded
On or around her humble abode.

Miniature Salem witch hunters- we
drove evil spirits from our playground
in the dunes.

My grandchildren,
tantalized by this tale of terror
tremble by the crackling fire.

Reading today’s news from my
armchair, the obituary pays tribute
to Maude Gresham for her generous

contribution to the UNESCO Children’s
Fund and the Christian Coalition of
Worldwide Children’s Charities.

Days Marked on My Calendar

Days Marked on My Calendar

Check marks on the calendar, cemetery crosses
x-out hours of slow, agonized silence
fanning the flames of my fears from the front line
As I read new names;

youthful names from Akron, Boston, Chicago,
Darbyville, Eagle Point-an alphabet soup
of America’s place names, a litany droning
deafly in my ears

magnifying the hum of death’s dismal dirge.
Each day a lottery, a lethal game of chance,
Baghdad’s unending shell game, impersonal,
randomly choosing,

slovenly selecting young souls for slaughter-
Fathers, mothers, sons and daughters-defenders
whirling dutifully in the desert of history
like dust in the wind.

Each anxious day, petrified, expecting your
number to appear, imagining life without you,
imagining an unimaginable stark whiteness
spinning through darkness.

The final mark, the last cross, the terminus of
your duty penciled out this November ninth
when you landed on Fort Carson’s black tarmac
body and mind whole.

My calendar, now a souvenir, a keepsake-
A reminder, a cicatrix on my being.
Scars of war, etched-out crosses, in memory
of  fallen soldiers

The People Speak( November 7, 2006)

The People Speak (November 7, 2006)

O ideologues of this great nation,
haven’t you learned the truth by now?
Shun your foolish avocation,
ease the stiffness of unbending vows,

the maniacal, overzealous preoccupation
with religion, ocracies, isms and sacred cows.
Exit quietly if you will, and take your long bows.
Oh ideologues of this great nation

time to rest, please take a vacation!
Wipe the sweat from your nervous brows.
The train awaits you at the station.
Haven’t you learned the truth by now?

The people have spoken, their roar is loud,
throughout the land renewed sensation,
a change of course to make us proud.
Shun your foolish avocation!

Gracefully concede, resist temptation,
the ship of state will right its bow
on waves of peace and redemption
and ease the stiffness of unbending vows.

America’s seeds, rooted in moderation,
grow well in fertile soil beneath our plough,
eschew the cankerous grounds of  other nations-
defy your smothering dogma and disavow.
                                                  O ideologues!

Christmas Goose

Christmas Goose

A chevron of geese feather the gray sky,
trumpeting winter’s frigid love song,
circling the hunter’s watchful eye.
A chevron of geese feather the gray sky.
Below, unseen, unheard- the hunter’s sigh.
His Christmas bounty arrives in throngs
A chevron of geese feather the gray sky,
trumpeting winter’s frigid love song.

Spelunking

Spelunking

Like a spelunker entering a cave
hesitant, surfeit , hard-spored,
I cast my lot onboard
and thrust my throbbing package like a knave
into your Charon’s weeping waters.  
Doomed to wander banks a hundred years
searching for resolution to my fears.
Your petals, threshold of sons and daughters,
fiery, disappearing and reappearing
engulf me like a summer’s flood,
never dreaming love could taste so good
and send my helpless heart veering
through a cavern of gracious gold,
hidden pleasures, stories untold.

Commander-in- Chief

Commander-in Chief

Commander-in-Chief: blood drips on your hands.
Our youth are dying in desert sands.
They perish in battle without a cause
as you unravel America’s trusted laws
one by one like cotton strands.

Never, you say, will we cut and run,
we’ll stay the course until we’re done
and fight the “enemy” to bitter end,
the “evil-doers” We’ll not befriend-
Commander-in Chief: blood drips on your hands

The people speak words you never hear,
demagoguery has no fear
Of hearts and minds that dare dissent
as sons and daughters lives are spent.
Commander-in Chief: blood drips on your hands

Payback

Payback
     
Everyday he stands on the corner, holding
his sign up.” Will work for food”, it reads.
I’ve tried to ignore it, but he needs
some aid-and gathers his gaze towards me, old and
weary his face. Pock lines, Years of weathered disgrace,
substance abuse, hardship and troubled days revealed.
I see myself some years ago, dying on the bloody field,
the Angel of Death caressing my ashen face,

plucked from darkness by the peasant poor
on a rain-drenched field in Viet Nam.
It must be my time to settle old scores.
I ask him his name, he tells me it’s “Sam”,
I wave him towards me as I open the door.
“Thanks mister” he says, “Thought no one gave a damn”!

To Osama

To Osama


Terror builds
a life
of its own.
Meaning: once
you’ve tasted
the blood
of lambs
and virgins
you can’t
go back.
It gets harder
not to also
worship power,
not to embrace
darkness, not to
rid the world
of all the evil,
but yours, not
to examine what
blindness can abide,
once you’ve begun.

Maria Missing Juan

Maria Missing Juan

She falls apart and feels her heart divide.
She cries alone, weeping in her room.
She thinks of those days with pride,

recalls happy times, a young bride.
She hears his voice calling from the tomb,
falls apart and feels her heart divide.

Cooked his favorite food the day he died.
Hung their new son’s photo in the room.
She thinks of those days with pride.

Longs for loving moments by his side
before the wreck, the awful gloom.
She falls apart and feels her heart divide,

tears flowing, a sad, incoming riptide,
grieving loss of life ended too soon.
She thinks about his life with pride;

chokes at likeness in the son’s eyes,
the shape of his face, a soft moon.
She falls apart and feels her heart divide.
She thinks of those days with pride

Lighting the Way

Lighting the Way

at night
each lamp
lights its
own globe
against the dark
and then
one by one
like fireflies
lighting and
relighting
till there’s
an ambience
radiant
with its
own glow
and sense
of purpose
filling each
obscure corner
with hope.

Baseball Dreams

Baseball Dreams

The one-armed soldier has removed his prosthesis
and rose out of bed to greet the morning fog
He stares at the mirror until an arm appears.
Behind the screen, a smooth curveball dances
but he puts his own interpretation on the scene.

A catcher’s glove, two arab boys, and a green grenade
inhale his suspicion of sliding fastballs in haze
fogging the mirror between him and home plate.
But he doesn’t worry, or at least not much:
he still hears the crowd’s loud roar.

To the Old Man in the Rocking Chair

To the Old Man in the Rocking Chair

As you rock, an old hound leisurely
shits, staining the grass
ecru,

and as you rock, circus clowns
grimace at children: painted faces
are distorting tomorrow’s reality,

and as you rock
soldier’s blood is tarnishing the white sand,
tarnishing
the white sand.

Winter Regions

Winter Regions

Frigid, still as a grandfather’s funeral
The winter regions, the light
Settling and unsettling. Snowcaps
Extended wide over the hills, drape
Settled and unsettled in white sheets:
The sky a short mourning, the mourning
A sky, its time lucid and silent
As crystal, glaciers, blue gel.

As if heaven spoke in tongues.

And the whole earth draped sacred
In sheets and crystal, the still earth never
And always virginal and day erupts
Into the first day, dropped
Patches of first snow over
The wide hills. It was
Both sky and mourning, and the sky
Was shrill and ubiquitous, like trumpets.

wats up

Waiting Game

The interval between your question
.......... and my answer-the pause
that coolly ponders deviance of inquiry
..........like a suspicious mouse
sniffing cheese in the jaws of a mousetrap.

I think of days when my foot dangled
..........from a gaping lower lip
as I answered the obvious only to be snared
..........in the naiveté of my own ineptitude.

Today I wait, as you- a noisy impatient spider
..........dangle from a thread in your web
demanding a response that might not, just might not, if
.......... I hold my tongue, ever come.

Pondering the End

Pondering the End

When the end comes
like the final snow of winter;
when the end comes, and dials the number of my cell phone

to call me and quickly hang up;
when the end comes
like smoldering ash;

when the end comes
like a bullet between the eyebrows,
I want to enter the gateway devoid of fear, curiously:
what am I going to find there, in the house of shadows?

For that reason, I see the whole picture
as a fraternity and a sorority,
and I envision time little more than a concept,
and I believe infinity as another likelihood,

and I think of each person as a tree, ordinary
as mountain aspen, and as particular,

and each face a familiar visage in the mind,
seeking, as all faces must, a final destiny.

When the end comes, I want to say: always
I was an explorer seeking new wonders.
I was an adventurer, embracing the world with my arms.

When the end comes, I don’t want to doubt
that my chosen life was worthwhile, and true.
I don’t want to wake up trembling and afraid,
or filled with torment.

I don’t want to end up as a passing ship, forgotten.

An Ostrich's Conundrum

An Ostrich's Conundrum

Truth
Tricky and illusive
Hiding surreptiously
Like a sneaky spy.
If you only knew what I know!

From 5 Times a Week Down to Three

From 5 Times a Week Down to Three

Waning like a weak tide
the libido at 70 isn’t
what it use to be.

Not sure when things began
to change. Perhaps it was St.
Valentine’s Day, craving chocolate

more than your heart-shaped ass
or the sudden interest  in the red
hourglass on the black widow’s

belly as she wove her silken web
waiting for her man to come home
for their final meal together.

Or perhaps it was the naked girl of my
dreams running through fields of grain
calling out my name, over and over again.

Standstill

Standstill

I can’t live in this place
And I refuse to leave
Or let you dismiss me

The old dog lives, the computer
My cell phone, this chair
I’m going nowhere

I shall write my songs-
Open, a poet, discomfiting
Like tight pants, like bad manners

Like Disneyland.

My Angry Girlfriend's Voice Message

My Angry Girlfriend's Voice Message (Found poem)

Some
people
are like slinkies -
not really good
for anything,
but they still
bring a smile
to your face
when you push them
down a flight of stairs.

World Series Report

World Series Report

Nothing new today to report Sir! The villagers keep
Lobbing those damn bombs like baseballs and we keep catching em!

Baghdad Burning

Baghdad Burning

He hears the droning in the desert sky
again, quickening his heart again-sweat
pours from panic, suppressing silent cries.  
Again , petrified,  he craves a cigarette.

Damn planes! Like a swarm of cicadas,
they crescendo closer and closer
to the core of his fear
as cigarette ashes smolder

like residue of the crematorium
separating souls rising in black smoke.
He awaits his fate. (The funeral pyre?)
He hears the droning in the desert sky.

Oxy Dealer

Oxy Dealer

High
on dope
her
slurred
words sound like
dolphin
chat
under
bubbles of
sea water as
she rides on
mellow
waves
searching for
innocent
sucker
fish
in the
deep

Pecker Tracks

Pecker Tracks

Pecker
tracks on the trunk-
telltale markings on bark
keep score in time with the tapping ,
the rat-a-tat-tat of
the woodpecker’s call
for love.

Arousal

Arousal

Something always reminds of past things,
Preserves memory like taxidermy art
A face, a sound, a smell, familiar rings

Those things that tell again our hearts to sing
Uncommon words, unknown in every part.
Something always reminds of past things

A mother’s gentle touch, which to hope clings.
A father’s gruff voice, that gives sudden start
A face, a sound, a smell, familiar rings

Which bind and tie with childhood’s strings.
Dreams held steadfast within the hurting heart
Something always reminds of past things

The sudden surprise each new day brings
Restores the senses so long broken apart-
A face, a sound, a smell, familiar rings.

The moon, a bell, some perfume, magpie wings
Reflections in dreams of the sweet and tart
Something always reminds of past things
A face, a sound, a smell, familiar rings.

Adam´s Legacy

Adam’s Legacy

No más!
End of the road!
Shards of broken promises, fallout litter
clutter the orchard where fruits of our trust
once thrived like apples in Eden,
bestowing God’s blessed bounty.
No más!

Jealous Rage

Jealous Rage

Your eyes
glaring and penetrating
frighteningly flashing
as in a horror movie.
If only I could change your channel!

Beginnings Ad Infinitum

Beginnings Ad Infinitum

Sleep cut short, and I awaken aware
again to fatherhood’s ongoing traumas,
nightmarish images of a lost son
wandering through sleazy shadows,
seeking solace, crying out
in pain: I read the letter before me, written
words scrawled on a dirty napkin, reaching
from a bottomed-out soul. A struggle begins
with a gentle tug, your pulling away
bringing only momentary escape
from the bonds of medicated misery this time.
Now, days of torture punctuate withdrawal.
In dreams I envision the healing;
My hands reach out, but never quite grasp you.

Trusting

Trusting

Telling treacherous lies
To those who
Trust your words
Tramples the very
Truth of the heart
Throbbing to
Take you into loving arms

Meeting the New Neighbors

Meeting the New Neighbors

I hear their moaning through my bedroom wall.
Tonight, restless my dream tonight-their heat
rocks the roof’s rafters, disregarding all.
Tonight I am exhausted, and without sleep

Hey neighbors! Even
though interrupted by pounding,
angry fists against the wall,
they hump on.

Unsettled, I pace the floor, supposing not
a peaceful bite of breakfast before work
tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.
I hear their moaning through the bedroom wall.

Ancient Wind Advisory

Ancient Wind Advisory

Singing to his aging horse, old Baldan
the Mongol, slowly rides back home
from the top of nearby Steppe Mountain

lighting incenses, making offerings,
worshipping nature. Steppe carpet
slowly rolling under hooves as his

sleepy-eyed mount hobbles on stiff,
old legs. Suddenly she lifts her ears
and softly whinnies, warning about

the gust of wind that keeps prayers
from reaching heaven.

Papa's Rage

Papa’s Rage

The children upstairs hear
the uproar. The yelling
reverberates the din back towards their room.
His wife is pleading with him.
Like mice, small tots scurry under the bed
Everyone hides in the shadow of their shame.

Montana

Click link to here reading of poem

Montana

I feel your rugged face,
coarse lines of aging grit
reflected in your somber eyes.

I feel your mountain tops,
jutting through the clouds,
silent peaks and valleys.

I feel the call of wild game
through the white woods,
the eerie howl of mating wolves.

I feel barns and silos, abandoned farms.
Strange smells of unknown flora,
the surprising flutters of pheasant

I feel the touch of the morning dew,
caressing your beauty every sunrise;
the sudden warmth of healing sun

I need your grassy fields Montana,
take me in your arms again,
An eagle, soaring in your big sky.

An Appeal

I Know

That the journey of my dream never quite abandons
deep hunger or thirst. That no oasis in the desert
can quench it, Not even the shade
can wrap its arms around. There’s too much emptiness.
There’s too much to need, crying to possess.
That the cerebral roadmap rises up through the distant
path that I long for, that I’m never too paralyzed
with fear to trek on: for the heart grows wearied
of wrestling with the moon. That the quest never ends,
each new step a journey, each voyage transcends,
each footstep carving new existence
from the earth’s fine loam. That the neurons fuse
together as a compass, plotting out the course
feeding my hunger.

The Son Also Rises

The Son Also Rises

I am from the Big Sky,
from ghost towns and silver dollars
I am from the fumes of the smelter smokestack
(proud, towering
it stood like a phallus)
I am from the succulent bitterroot,
the meadowlark
whose wake-up songs like reveilles
set summer mornings in motion

I’m from beer and billiards
             from Emerson and Paris Gibson
I’m from Black Eagle Falls
              from Anaconda Copper
from coal mines and hard winters
I’m from the glory of the west
              where they love me best
               and still know my name

I’m from Myron and Ines’ tree
pot roast and russet potatoes
from the orphanage of my grandfather
                In Twin Bridges
the pain of my father’s sudden leaving
Beside my bed is a shoebox
bulging with old photos
a blur of past faces
that drift before my eyes
I am from these visages-
sepia tones taken before my dawning-
progeny of proud pioneers

Waiting for Your Answer

Waiting for Your Answer

Night
sullen and unfriendly
breathing heavily
as on a respirator.
If only the walls could talk!

From Tee to Green

From Tee to Green

The hole
tiny and round
sloping gently
liked a cocked head.
If only golf were basketball

The Purple Devil

The Purple Devil


Interrupted by incoming mortars
Our messenger chat hesitates,
Holds its breath,  
Listens to silence
The turquoise pawn
Blinks its burning eyes
Waiting for the knight
To reappear announcing
An enemy’s demise

This war, a first
Where instant messages
Reach moms and dads
as rockets explode overhead-
a technological war
a war of blinking cursors,
messenger chats,
battlefield dialogues
of Civilians and warriors
This is a war
where e-mails detail
yesterday’s close calls,
dead comrades, bloody gore

The orange rectangle
flashes, signals return
a “Whew almost got us”
neatly typed
in the blank box
followed by a smiley face-
a purple cackling devil. We
chat of Notre Dame,
The Raiders, Tiger woods.
Our time is up.
I pray
at the altar
of the blank screen
another Sleepless sleep,
waiting for
The cackle
of tomorrow’s
purple devil

The Gift

Click here to listen to poem


The Gift

In quiet moments
He cocks the hammer
Of his brutality

Waiting for the target
To rest before
He pulls the trigger

She obliges, off-guard
A rabbit caught in crosshairs
Of his cruelty

His words penetrate
Her heart
Like a sniper’s bullet

The thirtieth anniversary
She buys his gift
From the gun shop

The River

Click link to hear reading of the poem


The River

In spring
over the jetty
the bright fish
brawl the tide’s
muscular wave
avoiding
adroitly
the current’s undertow,
the pelican’s pouch,
the sea lion’s jaws,
to spawn
new life.
I don’t know
if they know
their destinies.
I don’t know
if they know
their final fate.
Up the river
the pools and the dams
give a brief respite.
Up the river
the osprey cries out.

Up the river
the osprey cries out.
The fish know
this is the osprey’s river,
this is river of death,
this is the river of suffering
where you swim and swim,
where you live by tides of the moon,
where you end on the beds of gravel
and they cannot feel your flesh
where life has no meaning  
and is neither just nor merciful.

Where life has no meaning,
and is neither just nor merciful,
it begins
to decay,
it begins
to shed like the casing
of a snake.
At the gash of the gills
the old skin rots.
The fish shudders
but does not falter.
She rolls over.
She releases her red eggs
like bubbles.

Totem Poles and Watermelon Rinds

Totem Poles and Watermelon Rinds


Never caring enough
to cry, They did
what they always do,
pigeonhole skin, every
skin a color
black watermelon rinds,
yellow dragon kites,
brown sleepy sombreros,
red totem poles, all
contained within a canvas
of the white space
in the pale painter’s world
a canvas divided by
degrees of intolerance
arranged on a bias
a particular slant of light
a diagonal, avoiding
sharpness of right angles
Not caring enough
To cry, they do
what they always do
paint with the same brush
from the same angle
shading their particular
slant of light,
avoiding sharpness.

Chokecherry Picking Time

Chokecherry Picking Time.

My cousins pick wild
Chokecherries. Baskets full of the ripe ones
The others are left to mature on the bush
.
Finishing the harvest, they return
While my aunt boils water and sterilizes
Jars on her old wood stove

We had to pick em quick
Before those critters came, she tells me.
She’s right. When the first frost comes

Black bears lumber down the mountain
Seeking succulent jams and jellies
To spread on pancake dreams.

Bill Clintons Ways

Bill Clinton’s Ways

Bill Clinton’s ways
Deserve no praise
With “that woman I did not do
The nasty thing, though I wanted to”!

Bearings

              
        
               Bearings

           My thoughts float out of their caves
   Into the blinding light of sun. Why do I cry?
   Words tell me what to do. I see and I am blind.
    I fill my heart with food and my heart sings.

So Much Depends upon a Broken Windshield

Click here to listen to the poem


So Much Depends upon a Broken Windshield

Nightmares awaken, and I remember
again my father’s goodbye,
Vivid images of exhaust smoke
trailing an old Kenworth, diffuse
as wisps of black clouds, a gathering
storm of gloom circling my fear. Before
leaving he forgave me for tossing
the ball through a windshield, for
disappearing after school one day, and
for those things that 6 yr olds somehow
manage to get into when they shouldn’t.
Only fathers can absolve these sins. Like
Jesus, his hand placed upon on my head, he
exonerated with a promise to return soon.
A broken promise.
With a new life, a new wife, new children the word
disposable became meaningful long before
aluminum cans, paper diapers, plastic bags.
Forty decades after forgiveness, forty dark years of denial
he reappeared one Easter Sunday
during resurrection service.
A sad old uncle seeking exculpation for lost years
I the son became the father.
We embraced, dined and played with grandchildren,
said our goodbyes, promised to reunite.
A broken promise
Maybe   just maybe
if I hadn’t shattered that windshield
he might    just might
have stuck around.