Monday, June 29, 2009

When the River Sang

When the River Sang

I followed the verdant forest path,
Because magic was near the brook,
And strung and dressed my line,
And attached a mayfly to a hook;
And when the fly was in the air,
And the sun's rays were peaking through,
I saw the trout rise in the pool,
And softly mouthed a small prayer.

When I lifted it to the bank,
And almost had it in the net,
It flipped off and my heart sank,
But I wasn't ready to quit yet.
To my surprise, I heard a song
rising from the rivers flow,
A sacred song, a song of love,
Serenading me from below.

Although I'm slowly fading,
And my flies seem old and tattered,
The mermaid's song will lure me on
Until my ashes lie scattered,
And float among the fish and fowl,
Drifting in the stream until I'm done,
And sing and dance to the Osprey's cry,
And warm my soul in the setting sun.

Plecoptera





Plecoptera

An ugly bug the stonefly
A brief time to live and die
Prized by trout and fisherman
An ugly bug the stonefly

One to imitate and tie
To put fresh fish in the pan
An ugly bug the stonefly
A brief time to live and die

Saturday, June 27, 2009

Enough Said

Enough Said About Lovely Hills and Dales

I can’t make a fuss about the clouds
They get enough attention as it is

To explore the least among us, the
Downtrodden forgotten souls,

dreams crushed, hungry for love
in cold cities, remote farms,

dank dungeons and empty nests
yield enough material

for a tome the size of a chocolate
cake, big enough to feed a million-

man march celebrating in a frenzy
as the sun erratically spews gases

whimsically rearranging the climate
of the world with its perilous rays.

Friday, June 26, 2009

Poet's Corner Perspective

Poet’s Corner Perspective

Lush, verdant, a small spot tucked
away in the woods, The Poet’s
Corner a hidden gem amongst
the ordinary plethora of words-
forgotten, unappreciated in a world
of commerce, befuddlement, baseball.
A nugget concealed deep in the veins
of a dark mineshaft awaiting discovery.
A poem, supple as a mother’s breast
to nurture the child within.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Come Along With Me

Come Along with Me

I want to take you home
Where we can make love like
Howling wolves under big sky
And hear the blue heron’s song
From the mighty Missouri

I want to take you home
And eat huckleberry pie
In the Bitterroot Valley
Or explore the trail of Lewis
And Clark; inhale fresh pine

I want to take you home
To visit places of my youth-
Emerson school, Sun River,
Augusta ranch, the white church,
Gibson Park- my beginnings

I want to take you to home
Where the buffalo roam
And the skies are not cloudy
All day- home on the range-
The treasure state; Montana-
My treasure

Vanishing Act

Vanishing Act

I have always lamented the slaughter
of the great bison. Massive herds
like raisins on white cake once
dotted The Great Plains.

I have never understood the paltry
salmon runs that once filled Rivers
as gnarled traffic in LA at commute-
time.

I fail to fathom diminishing rain forests,
which once covered massive portions of the earth
like thick hairs on the head of civilization,
filtering impurities, sustaining life

I cannot conceive of a world without
flora and fauna, trees and animals
speaking in mysterious tongues,
whispering my name.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Montana Guy

Montana Guy

Drinking two six-packs a day,
counts as almost abstinence,
in Montana, the cowpokes say,
(Although that’s utter nonsense),

but it’s true they like to chew
and brag about their favorite stew,
and hunt deer in deepest snow,
and ride broncos in the rodeo

and they’re rarely heard to whine
(Even in the dead of winter)
or when crippled from a splinter
or hung-over from cheap red wine),

Hard to pigeonhole a Montana guy
who lives his life under the Big Sky.

Patsy's Surprise at Thirteen

Patsy's Surprise at Thirteen

Girls steeped in blackberry winters
like decorous snow women smiling
from frozen firs

Proper girls, obedient, asexual
groomed from girlhood for
matrimony; docile and compliant

populate Our Lady of Lourdes
school yard amongst the sisters-
stern-faced penguin women,

pallid creatures of the cloth,
doling discipline and dogma,
mathematics and music.

"Where are the boys?" Patsy asks
on enrollment day. "It's an all-
girls school dear", Pop said.

"OMG, I think I'm gonna die!!"

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Dim (A Sonnenizio)

Dim (A Sonnenizio)

“But how shall I improve the
swiftly-dimming hour”…George Johnston

Headlights grow dim in waning hours.
Dying dimwits dull bright senses.
Wilted lettuce dries dim-gray decisively.
Our dimmer moments fade with despair,
diminished we clutch and grasp old truths
in the dim light as we deteriorate amid
bucolic dreams with dimming memories,
gather in our fate, dimly seeking respite,
grateful to be lucky during dimmest days,
knowing what we now know, diminutive
our significance in a grand dimpled scheme.
Our world now spins on a dime,
less inclined to rage against dimming light,
contented, one-dimensional without much fight.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009

Bloomsday in Dublin

Bloomsday in Dublin

Irish dance a jig on Bloomsday
Joke of doomsday
Speak Ulysses
Over kisses
Swig sweet Red Breast Irish whiskey
Act too frisky
Ape Leopold Bloom
Sixteenth of June
Honor great Joyce
Sharing his words with brogue-bound voice
And lilting tongue
Beloved native son

Sunday, June 07, 2009

Seventieth Birthday Appreciation

Seventieth Birthday Appreciation


Your selfless gift is unsurpassed
I’m left aghast
My place is clean
It is a dream
I could not ask for any more
Kisses galore
And a big hug
A heartfelt tug
My gratitude
Because of you my attitude
Smiles like a boy
Filled with joy

Friday, June 05, 2009

Impulse to Silence

Impulse to Silence

Rendered mute by what he saw-
a tongue frozen by the trauma,
nerves honed, sensitive, raw-
muddling through his inner drama.

The soldier's life becomes surreal,
an un kept promise, a broken deal.
Images of death, destruction, pain-
a steady playback in his brain.

Memories of blood and gore,
lapses into a world of silence,
shuns questions asked of war,
an inner voice suppresses violence.

It's "post traumatic stress" they say.
He wishes the voices would go away.