Tuesday, January 30, 2007

What I'm Trying to Do at 6 a.m.

What I’m Trying to Do at 6 a.m.


I try to mirror the mud and leaves.

Show the darkness of honeybees,


the brightness of black holes

and light fires for the cold


where the graying ash that gasps its

last breath upon the fire grate and


the graying ember that hears its sizzle,

re-kindles and shines its light into


the dark corners of obscure night.

To release the laughing grass


and boisterous clouds and bury

the dead in living shrouds.


I try, try, and try to hear the shoe

in the closet licking its wounds.

Ms. June's Daydreams

Ms. June’s Daydreams

Librarian

Shy and bookish

Stacking books

Like cords of firewood

On dusty bookshelves


A girl scout once

Brave and loyal

Selling cookies

Like tokens of love

If only he’d light her fire!

Monday, January 29, 2007

Coup d' Oeil

Coup d’ Oeil

Today,

a cricket chirped

On the baseboard

right under

my sleepy pillow

and a song

of Pinocchio

entered my dream

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Yahoo Advisory

Yahoo Advisory

Today the screen
advises

Smoky the brown
bear

against eating
burritos

from Taco Bell
trash
Bear 2

Thursday, January 25, 2007

Widower

Widower

After the passing
his way of life fell
into drink, the golden
years, and that which should
accompany an aging man
as respect, love, agreement,
scads of friends, he couldn't
look forward to; but instead
torments, not shrill, but deafening.

Great Falls Elementary Schools

Great Falls Elementary schools

At Emerson all the children have

Transparent Eyeballs


At
Whittier they are snowbound, cheerless

and gray; December days are brief


At
Lowell they wait for rare

perfect Junes with golden spurs


At Longfellow They sing of Hiawatha

with simple and fresh hearts


In
Montana they all ride the yellow

school bus with poetic winter spirits


to bardic-named schools, appellations

carved in granite like tombstones.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

In the Name of Love

In the Name of Love

Hair in rollers
Antennae atop curly dome
Hair in rollers
Gone the way of silver dollars
Archaic as the afro comb
Your hair tonight is like a poem
Hair in rollers

An Alphabet Anthology

An Alphabet Anthology

The N's use the N-word
to describe their own
entities and jive jokes
using the H-word
in the name of comedy
to speak of my sister.

A Texas mayor in Hicksville
wants to make a new law-
a law of no N-words in the
H-tonks of the dusty bowl
of no N-lovers.

Senator Macaca forgot he
was a J and denied ever
Using the N-word at a frat party.
After all Jose was an S not an N.

In May all the N's, H's, J's, S's,
And even the G's grow in my
garden in perfect harmony and peace.

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Fear of Discovery

Fear of Discovery

All my life
up to now,
I've played the game
without much gamble

pretending to be a player,
a risk-taker
in the arena
of daredevils.

All my life
up to now
I've been afraid
I'll be found out.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Caught in the Act

Caught in the Act

The deer smell me.
They twitch their button noses
into the gentle breeze
of night air. They sense
probable danger. I am
encroaching on sacred ground.

The thoughts in my mind
are to lie still under the canopy
and position the scope of my rifle-
to catch something by being quiet
a little while, but with a sharp
eye of focused attention.

But the deer hoist their white tails and slip
away silent as the night.
And I must leave now-
they've recognized me for what I am-
No lover,
No friend bearing gifts.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Night on The River

Night on the River

At the Rogue’s edge

the moon falling

bumps its yellow nose

on the cattails

and brown frogs

spew melodious echoes into

the deep pools

beneath the ripples.

A blue crane is perched

like a blue cloud---

or a mood of remoteness

in the grasp of some odd power

while all around me the red salmon

are splashing upstream again

from the bubbling beds

of black gravel.


In a while, I’ll think about

what I’ve observed---

what it could mean---

what poetic thoughts I might

write about it, and so I think

I will go sit before my keyboard ---

I shall rest in my thoughts ---

I will reflect

into the vast nightfall

in which I am swimming now,

like a silver fish,

so easily,

so gracefully,

I am almost the salmon ---

almost the crane fading over the river

on black clouds of night.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Sixty-nine

Sixty-nine

The good news is sex remains alive.
Thought it would be over
at the fading age of sixty-five.
Simply a hazy memory, like
the chocolaty taste of a Snicker bar,
or an Uncle Sam poster declaring
"I want you" or the mellow sounds
of Paul Desmond's sax soothing from
the nickel jukebox at the A&W.
Gone like Scarlett's wind or Elvis'
pink Cadillac.

The bad news is sex remains alive.
thought the end a given
as I celebrated number sixty-seven.
Now approaching sixty-eight I can
hardly wait to hear your footsteps,
the soft patter of feet, slipping quietly
through the garden gate.
Last night was divine. If I keep
this up, I surely won't reach sixty-nine!

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

In Praise of Ms. Moore

In Praise of Ms. Moore

Their voices sound

like replicating memes-

dissonant as barnyard

roosters competing for crumbs

of stale bread, envious of free

pheasants foraging in fertile fields

beyond the fences.

Better to be a chicken

with ones head

cut off than to be

derivative, unintelligible.

Autumn Pastoral

Autumn Pastoral

Lowing Angus in the valley

Lend excitement to the fall;

The brilliant colors of autumn leaves

Flood the black pasture.

Within a portrait such as this

I still feel your soft thighs.

Rousing

Rousing

Without eyes, the forest is dark

Without voice, the lake is silent

Without love, my heart is stone

Without that spark, my life is bleak

What compelling power in the stars

ignites us before we wake up?

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

Doggerel Days

Doggerel Days

More childish than philosophical
An imbecile among the wits
Irreverent, somewhat agnostical
I'm prone to awkward rhyming fits

You say "cheese" I say "sneeze"
Tomatoes soon become potatoes
An ass for assonance ,I please
The ear, rather than the likes of Plato

I'm insignificant and trite they say
Unable to control my strange addiction
I wish it were some other way,
Perhaps a foot-fetish predilection

Collecting stamps a bore, dead insects gross
I refuse to monger among the whores,
Or suck on pretty ladies toes.
Alas! My doggerel ingrains, evermore!

Sunday, January 14, 2007

It Ain't Over Til it's Over Baby!

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;…Shakespeare

Henry V

It Ain’t Over Til it’s Over Baby!

On the flattop’s deck

Bowing his neck, George

Said “Heck, it’s over!”

As helicopters hover like

bees in clover overhead.

Declares victory, “They’re dead”

The terrorist dread done

The task won. Wars

are fun. Silly grin

upon his chin amid

the din of cheers,

mugs of beers and

loyal seers shouting praise,

hallelujah-hands raise high,

a maze of American pie

as mothers sigh relief

and cry with joy,

while hoi-polloi-common

men enjoy the win,

the smug sin of pride-

the thin red line

grapevine of cold, lucid

premium wine from dross

Like a true boss

No loss of flavor

But to savor inexcusable

Horrific behavior while dead

Strewn about, lead coffins

On beds of sand

honor a band of

brother's dance to a real end.

Friday, January 12, 2007

Abreaction

Abreaction

They went too fast that fateful day

The car sped over clay and rocks

I saw her pray beneath the wreck

and pick glass from his neck. Sliver

shards , bloody specs like ladybugs

mixed with tears and hugs spackled

the tire’s lugs. Beneath the crush

a soft moaning, a flush of air, and then

the siren’s rush above the spill

the penetrating chill of fear,

certain thrill from death’s allure-

a gruesome guided tour of circumstance

like some poor pilgrim’s first sighting

of a scalping, bone-biting fear,

transparent lighting that reveals

oneself in dark that heals panic

against turning wheels of self-doubt,

glad when able to shout, It’s

not me!. It’s about the living-

alive, among the dead and dying.

The Resident Dissident

His words become cliché

with each day, promises

shaded gray like clouds-

obscure shrouds blurting

out loud –false alarms

voodoo-like charms, curses

of harms way. Content,

a politician’s bent, his

time spent spinning tales

and covering trails avoiding

strong gales. We present

The President- the resident

dissident of the house

that Thomas Jefferson built.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

On Edge

A bell rings from the distant church; it seems it’s in the trees.

Is it above the mountain and clouds, maybe below the earth?

Something sends a pall of haze. I will not listen to the bell.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Emptiness

Emptiness

Heartsick

wrenching pain

tightens

its vise grip

lovingly

around

the dying

soldier’s

final sip

of fresh air.

Frozen

the hard ground

resists

the gravedigger’s

cold shovel.

A void

replaces

the heart

once filled

by the dawn

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Food Chain

Green eyes glare like lusty lasers,

fangs like razors,

keen curled claws,

hot panting jaws,

the mountain cat awaits its prey.

A gentle deer

approaches near

with fawn not far

behind. Leaping, roaring, ripping,

daylight slipping.

A fat black crow

feasts on red snow.