No Longer Confined to Our Heads

No Longer Confined to Our Heads

The private you within
secret place of fantasies
hidden from public view
all things considered
unspeakable passions
titillate the fancy

The semi-private you
at home- family man,
hausfrau, controller of
some things considered
beyond the castle moat
We are not what we eat

The public you- member
of a thundering herd
out and about, good Joe
church deacon, a beacon
of the community
We are not what we seem

Enter the internet
confused distinctions
the private you mingles
with the semi-private
becomes semi-public
We are like what we seem

Fantasies become public
become real, duality of
man's nature on exhibit
like Smithsonian dinosaurs
reconstructed from bones
We are what we are

No longer can we commit
fantasy adultery
be kinky with the wife
sing praises in church
keeping each separate
We are visible now

We search, research, blog,
Google, Yahoo, chat, forum,
pornicate, Face Book, My Space
let it all hang out confusing
imagination reality
Big brother knows us now

Good Company

Good Company

Alone by the river,
my place in the woods
enjoying solitude,
listening to nature’s
heartbeat. Being alone
does not mean I’m lonely.
I’m not in bad company.
The birds, the fish, the deer
visit often and remind me
of the grand scheme of life.

Here They Come!

Here They Come!

This time of year the tourists come
to smell where bison used to roam,
to wade cold rivers until they’re numb.
This time of year the tourists come
to see the tepees, to hear the drums,
to escape the hum drum of their homes.
This time of year the tourists come
to smell where bison used to roam.

They come in droves from everywhere
with homes on wheels to sleep at night.
Invade the west without a care.
They come in droves from everywhere
in search of Yellowstone Grizzly bear.
Their flowered shirts are quite a sight.
They come in droves from everywhere
with homes on wheels to sleep at night.

They photograph their great expedition.
Show the folks back home their daring.
Exaggerate with endless repetition.
Photographs of their great expedition
with a brave, bold and colorful rendition.
Times like these are meant for sharing.
They photograph their great expedition.
Show the folks back home their daring.

At summer’s end the memories fade.
All the kids return to school.
Time to end the masquerade.
At summer’s end the memories fade.
It’s time to draw the window shade.
put away the maps, cover the pool.
At summer’s end the memories fade.
All the kids return to school.

They took a great vacation West.
They spent a lot of dough.
The locals suffered quite a test.
They took a great vacation West,
a longtime dream, fulfilled a quest.
Montanans put on quite a show.
They took a great vacation West
The locals suffered quite a test

The Cats of Abu-Simbel

The Cats of Abu-Simbel

Four thousand years ago
Egyptian ladies
mummified and deified
their striped orange pussies,
wrapped them in swaddling cloths
for the afterlife. They wanted
to be certain their royal
husbands would have a purring
pussy waiting in the next world.

Lover's Song

Lover’s Song

She treaded lightly on his dreams,
tiptoed quietly through his trance,
for heaven above inspired his dreams,
and the Lord himself induced the trance
to sing his praises all night long,
to tug her heartstrings with his song,
and soothe the passion held so long,
to breathe the fragrance of his song.

Living is an Action Verb

I was thinking today about the ennui so prevalent in today's culture. If you are looking for something to complain about, you are absolutely certain to find it. It requires some effort to achieve a happy outlook on life, and most people don't make it. Most people take the path of least resistance. Far too many people today don't make the steps to make their life more fulfilling one. I wrote the following poem about living:

Living is an Action Verb

This is a world of action,
not for moping and droning in.
Not a world for the fat
And inert, the lazy,
The slow and apathetic,
Indifferent, neutral,
Sluggish, soggy, torpid
Stagnant languorous slugs.
Build a house, Plow a field,
Write a song, catch a fish,
Bake a cake, ride a bronc,
Run a mile or a marathon,
Make a difference. Join
The human race today!

Grown Men as Children

Grown Men as Children

Oh sister, sister, where is your husband?
They took his sorry behind off to jail,
left me weeping. Now I cannot stand
that I must do a sinful deed for bail.
He'll soon be coming home, sick and pale.
Some day he'll meet his end, but, this I knew
when he came knocking, lovingly, full of ale.
How my sweet man would always be untrue,
would always be a fool. Would have to risk
elusive life, whose fickle behavior,
slippery fingers and bloodstained fists
can make strong men shilly-shally, waiver.
And he will be the one to utter, "Help"
Sister, sister, time to fetch your wayward whelp.

A Contorted Life (A nativity poem)

A Contorted Life (A nativity poem)

It's Kama Sutra time-
The time of positions
One for each year of life
Like old missionaries

We face each other prone,
prayer-like. Hip to hip
then in the canine style
loud barbaric yawps

I've slithered lustily
over generations
of contortions-twisted
shapes, oddball positions

and survive today for
my age of Kama Sutra-
magic number sixty
nine-my sexy birthday!

Stationary Schwinn Bike

Stationary Schwinn Bike

That behemoth of pain,
torment. Sleek as a steed-
or the sleeve of armor
round a steed-iron horse

it’s dark weight of cast iron
and the deep impression
on the blue rug. It stays
silent by the window

while sore muscles awaken
in the bedroom- tortured
prisoners. How it holds
back all raw emotions

with its sterile silence-
like ancient sins hiding
in closets, or microbes
beneath frozen tundra.

Speak Anyway

Speak Anyway

I may not be heard, but I’ll speak
anyway. I’ll raise my voice above
the deafness, defend the silent, seek
ears willing to listen to my love.

I may be a one-man band, but I’ll play
anyway. I’ll blow my horn under
the red sky, listen to dancers sway
and clap in the dark like rolling thunder.

I may be an old man, but I’ll count
anyway. I’ll cast my vote beneath
The silver hair of destiny. I’ll mount
A campaign and lay a laurel wreath.

I may be losing the war, but I’ll fight
anyway. I’ll fire my canon into
the cold hearts of the night
I’ll protest tyranny until my lips turn blue

I’ll speak my peace defending me and you
For freedom’s sake I’ll always be true

Post Traumatic Stress

"This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow-

First chill, then stupor, then the letting go."… Emily Dickinson

Post Traumatic Stress

Great pain comes after a foe's been downed.
First a formal feeling and self-denial.
A dead enemy without a human sound.
Another terrorist killed, a bloody pile

upon the sand, a corpse of bone and bile.
A young soldier gapes at the lifeless mound
frozen and numb of an act so vile.
Great pain comes after a foe's been downed

and seeing a person dead on the ground.
A husband, a father, a man with a smile-
an entity like himself pound for pound.
First a formal feeling and self-denial

and days and nights of turmoil and trial,
of anguish and suffocation like a drowned
man thrown overboard in the murky Nile.
A dead enemy without a human sound

haunts nightmares and dreams. Around
each corner, in every supermarket isle
ghastly grins, ghostly visages abound
of other terrorists killed, bloody piles.

Home again, nerves on edge, easy to rile,
a lost soul waiting to be found.
A life ticking away like hands on a dial
Great pain comes.

I Wish You Love on Your Birthday

I Wish You love on Your Birthday

With wonder I feel your passionate skin
I see the love shine from your eyes
And desire to kiss you once again
With wonder I feel your passionate skin
And feel revived as the light goes dim
And birthday candles turn to sighs
With wonder I feel your passionate skin,
I see the love shine from your eyes

A Deep Sadness

A Deep Sadness (A Rondeau Redouble´)

There’s a deep sadness when I look at nature now.
My children will never see what I’ve seen,
and their children will never experience the wow
of American wilderness- deteriorating, picked clean.

There’s an elegiac quality in losing the mythic dream,
American frontier, our own timely tale of how
we came to be and what to others we intend to mean.
There’s a deep sadness when I look at nature now.

Almost a betrayal of our forefather’s sacred vow
to protect and preserve the quality, the bright sheen
of America’s heritage, the luster on the nation’s brow.
My children will never see what I’ve seen,

crystalline wild rivers rushing through forests green,
unpaved paths meandering like a ship’s prow
over uncharted waves. The vision of America is lean.
My grandchildren will never experience the wow.

Nature’s modern transformation I do sadly avow.
Through my tearful eyes her lost grandeur is plainly seen
I shall never become accustomed to the now
of American wilderness-deteriorating, picked clean.

I dream of decades past, lush, verdant, serene-
days long before the highway, bulldozer or plow-
un-crowded days where life was less obscene.
There’s a deep sadness now.

Fish Tales

Fish Tales

Oh fish that tease our lines, you who swim
Through every rippled corridor we cast,
We’ll hook your greedy gullet, once again-
Your freedom we will spurn and end this fast

And will you resist and fight to the last?
Along the banks are mossy walls where dim
The beauty that all dying might outlast
Oh fish that tease our lines, you who swim

And we mistake your life surreal, a whim
Of what we feel, or how the time is past
With rod and reel extended from our limb
Through every rippled corridor we cast.

We do not know what lies beyond the mast
And wish our hook sets to be on the rim
But whether they be substantial or hold fast
We’ll hook your greedy gullet once again.

And sometimes when in thought, deep within
The natural world, we hear voices of the past –
Urging us without the guilt of sin
To spurn your freedom and end this fast.

To recount old fish tales again and again,
Each behemoth grander than the last-
Ginormous creatures with gargantuan fins
Jumping like dolphins with every long cast
Oh fish that tease our lines!

Angry Old Girl

Angry Old Girl

Earthquakes in China

Typhoons in Myanmar

Volcanoes in Costa Rica

Wildfires in Florida

Tornadoes in Georgia

Rampant death and destruction.

Mother Nature has her game-face on today.

Nightfall

Nightfall

the dark
of near nightfall
eases through the window
magnificent clouds of shadow
swirling

tonight
almost as if
we have been here before
we pluck stars from the sky
and more

tonight
thinking of you
I almost remember
all that you have shared with me
these days

how our
hours of loving
leave me longing for you
beyond any sense of pleasure
I see

just now
the simple deeds
of a man and woman
who have grown to need each other
in time

Talking Heads

Talking Heads

Like ravens gathering over yesterday's
fresh road kill, talking heads chatter
nonsensically ad nauseum. They dine
on the carrion of dead souls, pick clean

the bones of putrid flesh with special glee.
Cocksure, pompous, they crow shallow words
in chorus-mimes of each other's thoughts, words
and deeds. One is all, all is one. Perfect clones.

Once a victim is devoured, the birds move on
seeking another, an unsullied idealist, a person
of principle ready to die for the cause. Preen
their bloody feathers waiting for a train wreck.

Weeble heads bobbing in the Impala's window.

Night Out at the USO

Night Out at the USO

Sailors went to the dance with high expectations

Loftus found a girl with black fingernails

Dancing around a boiling cauldron and

Heard unintelligible incantations bathed in moonlight

Todd tangoed with a gypsy in a candlelight cave

Covered with hieroglyphs- hovering hallucinations

Undulating unconsciously in an underworld

Kampsnieder clung to the known- a pretty thing

A blue dress with large breasts; a sweet breath

A clone of dear old mother and home sweet home

Sayre sidled up to the bar, antagonized the local

Anesthesiologist and spent a bloody night in the alley

Dreaming of dolphins in the deep sea

Williams wept at the widow’s tale- the wrongful

Woe suffered at a murderer’s whim

He made her forget in a welter of mists

They boarded the liberty launch after the bash-

All that is except Todd, who succumbed

To the gypsy’s spell and became a flamenco dancer.

Mind Streams (Work in Progress)

Mind Streams (Work in Progress)

Mind streams-
small tributaries
of life's large river
appear independently
two hours before waking
each morning. Some days
only a solitary stream flows;
other days they all flow together
like a choir of morning meadowlarks.

Today the war tributary
A chaotic canal
invades my dreams.
Shattered glass,
Strewn corpses,
Burned-out buildings
Weeping widows
Fallow farmhouses disturb
My peaceful R.E.M. sleep.
Apparitions of bearded men
Turbaned in white pajamas
Like the ghosts of Ramadan past
Swirl like clouds over a golden dome

Her Vote Counts

Her Vote Counts

Like most grandmothers, she is afraid.
Afraid of terrorists, communists, snakes,
taxes, Mormons, Muslims. Mexicans, Negroes.
Fearful of creaks, shadows, strangers and queers.
Ripe for demagogues and politicians, she
votes her fears. Often without blinking
she marks her X in the blood of others.

Neither Famous nor Infamous

Neither Famous nor Infamous

They’ll never make a movie starring me.
Cantankerous, overweight, out of step
I don’t fit the star mode as you can see.

They’ll never name a school after me.
Non-conforming, impolitic, invisible
I’m out of tune with social philosophy

I'll never get the treasured Nobel Prize
or win a Grammy for my musical art
or cause tears to well-up in admiring eyes

as I receive a gold medal for my sport.
I’ll never be the most rich or famous or
listed on the FBI’s Most Wanted report

or celebrated for my great invention
or crowned a king at a coronation
or be the center of world attention

I can only settle for who I am,
a proud father and a man with
a stand living under God's plan.

Hot Sauce

Hot Sauce

Awhile back I lived in Mexico

studying language and culture,

learning about food, visiting

ancient ruins, becoming worldly.

Then I met her and ate her eyes, her

lips, her hair, her skin. Now I lie

awake at night with a heartburn

craving the sting of chipotle sauce

and jalapeños.

Hiking the Hatchery Trail

Hiking the Hatchery Trail

On the path to the salmon hatchery
beneath the canopy of the green
Douglas fir standing like tall
foot soldiers—water rushing. Beyond, the
peaks of lofty, mountain passages
white with late snowfall, fallen and decaying

sections of old growth forest
the ghosts of giant sequoias
whisper in the gentle wind
brownish, pronged, scattered, bits and
pieces of history- remnants of an early age
with lifeless, agéd fossils in the ground;
embossed timepieces—

embedded for eternity, slow-moving
the foggy path advances —

we penetrate this novel world wary,
bitter, unsure of ourselves
unlike the wild salmon . Everything about them
the cold, familiar water—

then the gravel, next
the green moss of spawning beds
little by little matter is distinct —
It vivifies: lucidity, outline of the origin

But now the reality of the season
eternity—yet, the intense transformation
has come upon them: deep-seated, they
now deposit new life and begin to die.

Airport Scan

Airport Scan

I have been observing a southwest roadrunner
hunt in the desert, chasing lizards
with the intensity of a single girl seeking a mate,
ravenous eyes searching and green
as they scan and scan again, as they gaze and gape.

Imagine that she's an ordinary girl working
at an airline booth. Her sweet smile fits right in.
Endless hours churn behind the Plexiglas window
of the ticket counter, every hour the same. On the brow
of each day, perspiration trickles.

Unaware, the passengers don't see her, scanning
for a prospective victim. Her eyes are fixed
on a certain man like a bird of prey.
She would ingest him whole if she could,
subdue him, take him to her nest.

The Village at Sunset

The waning days

at Sunset Greens

are not your ordinary days

none of your

busy days like the city

The waning days at Sunset Greens

are slow days

dawdling days

and days of leisure

dozing in warm sun

drowsing at noon

around plush fairways

sitting in the village square

and then the early cocktail hour

after the sun goes down

when lanterns illuminate adobe walls

like fireflies dancing in darkness

their tiny lights flickering

making the square look like

an old Mexican village

but fatigue arrives suddenly

for residents here

long retired from the ebb and flow

and then another day

when another sunrise

eases in

and in those rays of warmth

the old folks smile

waiting for sunset at Sunset Greens

An Easter Ballade

An Easter Ballade

Resilient as seasoned hardwood
Defeat never in his regal plan
Never one to sit and brood
Always first to take a stand
A man to lend a helping hand
A friend to those in dire need
A leader of this human clan
Destined on a cross to bleed

His fate bound to moral good
Nothing like an ordinary man-
He died upon a wooden rood,
Was interred in a cave of sand
Arose again as God had planned
And suffered for our sins and deeds
A martyr in a decadent land
Destined on a cross to bleed

Enduring pain as best he could
Rusty nails pierced his hands,
Body gaunt from lack of food
Dying was the Son of Man
His blood dripping upon the sand
Defying all the roman creeds
And flames of hatred that they fanned
Destined on a cross to bleed

Everlasting life God’s plan
Jesus’ sacrifice our need
Our lives are in his loving hands
Destined on a cross to bleed

Changing of the Guard Ballade

Changing of the Guard Ballade

The time has come your term is done
Eight long years you’ve ruled this place
We’re sick of you; you’ve had your fun
So please no more of this disgrace
Or shame, humiliation, loss of face
Long we’ve suffered, now we’re through
The winds of change we now embrace
Somewhere, somehow you’ll get what’s due

You’ve always been your father’s son
Twisting, turning with a smirky face
As if war and famine a jolly pun
A family joke, a trivial footrace
Today’s the day we change our pace
No more your governance do we rue
You, gladly we will soon replace
Somewhere, somehow you’ll get what’s due

On parched earth under the Texas sun
Or perhaps a victim of the rat race
Or rotting blindly in a Baghdad slum
Or you’ll disappear without a trace
We wish you no ill for your disgrace
Just that you boil in your own brew
For the sins that time can’t ever erase
Somewhere, somehow you’ll get what’s due

So be on your way, you’ve made your case
We celebrate and start anew
Again we join the human race
Somewhere, somehow you’ll get what’s due

Renewal

Renewal

First day of spring
Sensual sap flows through the veins
First day of spring
A chevron of geese takes to wing
Easter brings the cleansing rains
God’s work evident throughout the plains
First day of spring

The New mesquite

The New Mesquite

Every transformation becomes more than a mere face lift
Fields and lives forever changed
Sand dunes are interspersed with grassy fairways
Snakes slither into outer space
This desert surreal
As a powdery moonscape or an alien-infested
Wal-Mart at a midnight sale
Desert tortoises, arid wasteland
Easterly eco-explorations
Into the dry, almost desolate desert
Along a corridor of washes
A vast flood plain
The Virgin river that begins at Zion-
Symbol of perfection
The scampering roadrunners among succulents
A place that I call home
Where I awake to the brawling of bulldozers
After a long and restless sleep
Cultivating cacti in my dreams
The grinding teeth of change gnashing in my ears
Every barren acre will turn into housing
Hills become golfing meccas
Casino lights overshadow the stars and planets
Hordes escape Wisconsin winters
They race past the serene past
The Hopi hieroglyphics on sandstone walls
The adobe-brick Mormon barns
The thirst-slaking way-stations that give
Respite from dusty roads
The present an inevitable metamorphosis
From there to here, from then to now,
From east to west, from heart to head.

At the Trail creek Tavern

At the Trail Creek Tavern

A row of Harleys line the hitching post-
tired horses this evening, road dust
settles on their black manes.
A hound sleeps and barks at the moon
from the cedar porch

The antique cooler, chock full of iced Budweiser’s
and frosted mugs, burbles along.
A bunch of loud bikers on the barstools
grisly and gregarious…
I order a mug from Orbie the barkeep

Loggers arrive like salmon on the spawn.
Janie jingles coins in the juke box
recollecting her innocent days as she
plays The Heartbreaker’s “Free Falling”.
Yes, she was innocent once.
Albert enters, inhales a beer quickly
and tells of the drowning on the river,
tells about the guide’s poor judgment.

The tavern is tumultuous. A cacophony
of roughnecks opening the pressure valve,
allowing steam to escape while the old hound
sleeps on the cedar porch and barks at the moon

Hum Drum

Hum Drum

Predictable
Change is inevitable
Predictable
Aging wine is delectable
Four seasons are dependable
Life is short and expendable
Predictable

Paseo Verde

Paseo Verde

A green going
a quiet path through the garden
a green going-
flowers, fertile ground for sowing
a small pond with Dolly Varden
Mary’s icon granting pardon
A green going

Too Late

Too Late

Growing old is hard to do
After years of gross neglect
Past laxity we cannot correct-
No secret potion or magic brew

To whisk away a life so cruel
When Time his due he must collect
Growing old is hard to do
After years of gross neglect

Too late to extricate from stew
Too late to win or reconnect
Too late to begin life anew
Too late to save our dying necks
Growing old is hard to do

A River Rondel

A River Rondel

Down the river in an old canoe
Far away from the everyday bustle
Where wild trout play and aspen rustle
Kissed by the sun, hugged by the dew

We glide downstream refreshed anew
Rejoice at the soreness of each new muscle
Down the river in an old canoe
Far away from the everyday bustle

Our winding course natural and true
Distant from the crowd’s daily hustle
Just you and I among the few
We paddle on without a tussle
Down the river in an old canoe

Through Clouded Eyes

Through Clouded Eyes

The melody of morning.
Black-throated desert sparrows
chatter in the palm fronds:
chirr…chirr…chit chit chit .

The sunrise, a glaring cymbal
crashing over the near mountain peaks
like a golden flood without
a ripple or murmur –

a great awakening light
warm and serene
shines into the heart and mind
radiates through every fiber.

Each precious moment entails
every other. Sacred places
suggest all places. Each man,
each woman exemplifies all others.

The challenge to keep the fire going,
The conversation and music alive,
the melody of the morning
to survive and thrive.

Ginormous

Ginormous

Ginormous yesterday’s urge –
no hyperbole or gross exaggeration
this surge. The newness of this nooner
was ginormous; came sooner than expected
like a spirit resurrected or a wakened,
long-neglected sleeping giant.
Ginormous a word not often heard-
a coinage, a portmanteau that seems absurd
to exaggerate the flight of extraordinary birds
when “gigantic” or “enormous” nicely fits.
I must admit it was a hit when she cried
“that’s it” hollering like a miner striking
the mother lode with a bit. Not “Eureka”
that I heard, but that strange new word; “Oh
Daddy tis ginormous”!

The Surge

The Surge

For fat politicians mired
in smelly muck like overfed
hogs wallowing in Washington waste,
“The Surge” is working.
A solipsism that anything outside
of the pigpen exists- no faces
behind the soldiers, or hearts beating
within families or children lost in
loneliness or wives woefully neglected
or Christmases forever past or arms, legs,
minds and lives eternally shattered.
I’m certain that if Dante were alive today,
he would reserve a special ring in the hellish fire
of his Inferno for these fat fuckers to roast
on a surging spit in their own juices.
Damn the politicians! Curse the lies!
Denounce the porkers! Send their sons
and daughters to Baghdad! We all can share
in the supreme sacrifice of “The Surge”.
Any volunteers? (Silence exits stage left}.

The Final flight

The Final Flight

Gus the yellow lab
has been dreaming in
dog heaven
for a while now
of wild geese
that will not
land there
but fly by with
outlandish honkings
northward to
where white clouds
swirl around
a flyway pond.
This is bird heaven. The
flight ends here
just beyond
the lusty eyes
of dogs and hunters
dozing in their blinds.

A Morning Moment

A Morning Moment

This morning as the sun begins to raise its brow
clear thoughts appear for a second and it seems like
there has been something greater than I ever thought
possible
greater than anything I’ve considered before
not mysterious nor silent not even brighter
than the rays themselves that awakened me today
with every blink and stayed with me silently
something that gave me serenity solace at this hour
of a day an entity without a face or name
a single ray crystallized in that moment arising
disappearing leaving a gift for my gratitude

You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

You’ll Miss Me When I’m Gone

Seems like we never learn.
We only give in to love
When someone’s dead or gone.
Always we fear being smothered
By an overbearing family; freedom
stifled in a ground squirrel-gray
cell of our own making. We find
reasons not to call or excuses for
not stopping by or pathetic pretexts
for our neglect. Only after the leaving
does love rear it’s lovely head and shed
its callous, cold cocoon.

Hard Lessons

Hard Lessons

He was a child who was never satisfied.
You hear what I’m saying. Something
about him yearned to eat the big
enchilada, so he created his own world.

Before too long, he chose
to wrestle a giant.
He knew he couldn’t win, but once
the match began, it was too late.

It’s alright to take on the impossible.
It takes time to negotiate a labyrinth,
To freefall from a bad dream or to learn
The lessons shared by the elders.

People will usually listen.
They’re like the still water,
but one must dive-in head first.
Perhaps it was those silly untruths.

Maybe the broken promises
never honored. Tomorrows
that never came. As the
saying goes “It floats”!

and that’s it. He surfaces
gasps for air and yells
for the rescue boat. “It’s
about time,” his father answers.

The Train Station

The Train Station

Trees are swaying
In silent hills
Where wild deer graze
Seeking solace.

The silent lives
That mimic us-
These lives we want
But do not share-

Walk in the woods
So gently
And disappear,
So gently…

And the sun sets
Leaves letting black
Shadows hover
Dark treetops, dark treetops

We carry on
We carry on
Like brave soldiers
On night missions

Or like armies
In dusty fields
Cold and tired,
Waiting, waiting.

Thinking of Granddad

Thinking of Granddad

Known for his oatmeal cookies,
Bohemian phrases,

extra-sharp wit and snowplow
blades, Gramps- the county blacksmith

shod his final horse, sharpened
his last edge, plowed his way

back to the old anvil, the hearth
that molded his soul’s metal,

where shaped tongues sang out,
forged by heating and hammering

in frigid Montana winter.
Furnace coals- fading embers

of a fearless life in frozen snow

Wednesday Lottery

Wednesday Lottery

Green dreams in the dry desert,
imaginings of emerald
rivers roaring in my ears

Waiting for Wednesday’s
Megabucks Millions-my
chance perchance to dance

the music of my musings,
to escape this escarpment-
the protective embankment

that keeps me here, lifeless as
a parched perch out of water
shriveling in radiant sun.

Insipid the inspiration,
hollow the hope, trite the theory
of a simple stub, a ticket

of chance to enhance my life.
When today’s numbers are drawn
my green dreams will go on and on.

If Badder was a Real Word

If Badder was a Real Word

Sometimes we just lead very bad lives,
like bad teeth, they hurt bad. We have
bad backs, bad knees or bad hearts.
We get caught in bad storms, eat bad meat,
and our bad luck, like a bad penny
catches us off guard.
Occasionally we want something so bad
we can taste it.
We make bad choices of friends and movies.
Smoking is bad for us and we breathe bad air.
We make bad impressions with our bad attitudes
and habits. We get bad report cards and bad reviews
at school and work. Bad news comes in bunches
like bad headaches. We have bad dreams and
our pay is bad. Even our light is bad for reading.
It is the middle of the night
and all the bad ghosts
are eerily circling my dreams
and getting badder and badder
and badder.

Demise of a Brew Station

Demise of a Brew Station

I am waiting for the coffee to finish.
I sit and listen, eyes closed
for the gurgling sound of water
and the aroma of fresh grounds
to waft through my senses.
Hurry up I say inside,
because I badly need a morning fix.
I sit and wait, and wait and wait –
nothing. No music, no sweet aroma,
no signal ritualizing daily expectation.
I get up and like a doctor with a tongue
blade, stick my finger in the throat
of the Hamilton Beach Brew Station.
Ugh! Cold water like congealed blood.
No pulse. Heart has stopped. Patient
Is dead. Gotta get to Wal-Mart.
Morning tea is for Englishman and
Chinese merchants.

Doubts

Doubts

Always on her guard, wary
is my love. “maybe you can
find someone better than me”,
she reflects, although she’s like
like an appendage to me, an arm
or a leg, or a stream that brings

fresh krill to feed a hungry fish.
I feel her uncertainties: things change,
people die, mountains get blown away
by volcanoes. But the bad is that the
past always seem s to repeat itself,
broken relations so easily discarded

somewhat justify her insecurity and bolster
thoughts of impermanence. “Hi daddy”
she sings as she comes through the door.
“I’m here”. One learns that
dread of future catastrophe
is a suffocating carefulness that

spells doom and gloom. “Listen, my
mistrustful one, it’s too late to undo
what’s been done. Instead let’s make
breakfast-some bacon and eggs, and chat
of things that make us smile and laugh.
then go back to bed and cuddle”.

Envy

Envy
Why should the young have all the great fun,
The dances, romances and musical treats,
The playing and happiness, beach days in the sun?
Why should the young have all the great fun?
Do they deserve to have the best of the run,
While creaky old souls rock in their seats?
Why should the young have all the great fun,
The dances, romances and musical treats?

Reflection

Reflection

That face reflected in the wine,
the look of love arranged by candlelight.
She cannot know her heart is mine
that face reflected in the wine,
so soft, so fair, so genuine.
Hers are the gifts that light the night:
that face reflected in the wine,
the look of love arranged by candlelight. .

Super Heroes

Super Heroes

She is an ass, a gluteus.

Indeed she is the gonads of a
ghoul and the galls of a
gremlin; she is the cat in
the Kremlin near the ghoul and the gremlin;
she is the
lemon in the deal and the
hemline (or the feel) of das
grass in German :

Indeed she is the voice of
the vermin and the noise of
the voice and the vice of
the voice of the vermin
the virtuous virgin in das
grass in German and the
whine in the wine and
the virtue of the virgin the
surgeon and the sturgeon.

Thus with her I am wretched.
For she is a clam and I am
Superman in old
Pakistan with a breeze in my
caftan and a sword in my
left hand. She is Robin and I am
Batman.

Indoor Life

Indoor Life

I’m the editor of Indoor Life- a magazine
without sun, without streams, without trees
or wind or rain or snow.

A periodical of people behind closed doors
peeking at neighbors from cracks in a blind;
a jailhouse journal

filled with stories of forgotten folks, old fogies
and disenfranchised crackpots-those crazy
relatives who always say weird things

or wear funny hats, or smell bad.
A bold bulletin that banishes the
once best among us to solitude.

A daily diary of retired empty-nesters
numbly facing flickering screens
like undead corpses hungering

for living flesh, discarded by family-
insensate stones of the now tribe,
devoid of feeling, animation.

A chronicle of cloistered souls
sans light, earth, wind or fire
waiting for the end; or perhaps
the beginning.

Border Crossing

Border Crossing

Throughout the night
wind howls
from the deep throats
of hungry wolves,
rises,
circles the moon
like a bat’s shadow,
like a symphony’s silhouette,
like cigar smoke,
like the raging dream
of Latinos
crossing the desert,
clutching their possessions,
desperate arms
grasping the wealth
of their lives.

A Letter after the Rain

A Letter after the Rain


I have tried many times
To tell you some things
and have failed: how life
can be like a child-simple
and uncomplicated. How
with its wounds, it
scales mountain after mountain
on slick ice;
how the warm evening, gray
like a breeze, has persuaded
our old tired bodies
to protect each other. How
when we try to believe everything
the believing muscles
of our minds soon tire,
and make us weak and we
don’t believe the simplest
true things then. Simplicity
is our survival.
I made coffee this morning,
and it rained last night. Today
along the palm-lined street
a southwest roadrunner-
wet-feathered
but intent on its prey
zooms along the asphalt
like a frantic tourist
afraid, so afraid
without a roadmap.

The Woolly Bugger

The Woolly bugger

This morning I was staggering numbly
around the brown carpet of my apartment ,
stumbling like a drunken clown, from bed to bathroom,
from computer to bookcase standing in the corner,
and I found myself staring at the cover of a fishing book,
where my eyes fell upon the words woolly bugger.

No tennis shoe lost on the beach by a child
could launch one into dream more suddenly —
a dream where I hunched over a fly vise by a stream
in a deep green forest-covered setting
imitating caddis, cutworms and crawly things
from fur and feathers, a gift for my uncle- a woolly bugger.

I had never seen anyone tie a woolly bugger
or fish one, if that's what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from wrapping
thread over thread again and again
until I had made a buggy-looking
black and olive and woolly bugger for my uncle.

He left me character and strength from his teaching,
and I gave him a woolly bugger.
He took me to many a ball game,
remembered my birthday each June,
came to the hospital during my tonsillectomy,
and then took me out for ice cream to soothe the pain

and taught me to fish and swim,
and I , in turn, presented him with a woolly bugger.
Here are the endless summer days, he said,
and here are my shoulders to lean on, and friendship.
And here is your wooly bugger, I replied,
which I tied with my own two hands.

Here is a friendly nature and a smiling face ,
sturdy limbs , strong will and good genes,
and one fine mind to comprehend complexity , he whispered,
and here, I said, is the woolly bugger I made by the stream.
And here I want to tell him now
All things are not equal or fair

that one can never pay back such kindness ,
but I must admit that when he put
the fuzzy woolly bugger on his line,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this revolting, repulsive bug I tied
by the stream, would be enough to make us even.

Honeysuckle

Honeysuckle

Lying under the bush he breaks
the slim stems of fragrant honeysuckle,
squeezes the milky juice, squirts
sweet nectar into her yearning mouth.
A tiny taste of hope on the tongue.

She dashes home at dusk. The aroma
of chimney smoke, thick country odors abound.
The cabin buzzes and shakes with the chainsaw.
He coaxes a large pine log into the fire.

He stops, looks at her, reaches
to pick a spike of ragweed from her hair.
“Be a good girl”. He picks up the saw
and yanks the rope on the motor. “Won’t you”?

Notes From a Nest

Notes From a Nest

On this river’s edge
too quiet for my thoughts
to pick up and carry
the echo downstream
are the faint high chirps
of a nesting chick, an osprey
calling among the pines.
One small bird of many, the water’s
sound reaching its nest
arousing primal hunger
like the moon urging the tide.
The same urge again and again
to one bird alone in a tree
or to many such birds,
each solitary chirp calling
a mother, in this forest
which is theirs and theirs alone.

Bedsprings

Bedsprings

strewn by the river’s edge, they
crawl like creepy caterpillar carcasses

twisted and torn , rusted by rain,
impressed by lovers, lifeless or long gone
withholding their secrets
A riverside tribute to sleep and sex

a memorial to ecstasy and joy,
the chronicles of lives
spent loving in the shadows.
Aching steel springs might still be of use,

but never in the tall weeds of the river bank,
naked among thistles, remnant
of some wild creation, witness

to the innate miracle: the instinct to be close,
however it blemish and bruise.

Soldier's Wives

Soldier’s Wives

These are the wives of soldiers
sent off to war;
brave wives, highly prized
and living alone again
like cloistered nuns. These are the wives
left to cope in the light of the dawn,
their eyes still damp,
the children sleeping safe in their beds.
See how the light
Casts gray shadows on the edge
Of the tarmac etched in their thoughts.
These are the wives that keep hope alive.

The Polarbies (A parody of a parody)

Today I decided to write a parody based on Edward Lear's poem the Jumblies. Thought it would be a fun exercise.



The Polarbies

I
They went to fish in a Gale, that night,
In a Gale they went to fish:
regardless of the weather report ,
On a blustery day, a final resort
In a Gale they went to fish!
And when the Gale turned hard and fast,
And sea birds squawked “You’ll never last”
They laughed out loud , “This Gale ain’t grand,
But we don’t fear monsters! We don’t give a damn!
In a Gale we’ll go to fish!”
One and only, one and only,
is the place where the Polarbies sail;
their skulls are shaved, their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

II

They blew away in a Gale, that night,
In a Gale that howled so strong,
With only a rugged seaman’s barge,
rowing arms so stout and large,
guiding away from the throng.
And all the doubters who watched them leaving,
“O won’t the widows soon be grieving “!
For the sea is black, and the night is cold,
And come what will, it’s tremendously bold
to fish in a Gale at night !”
One and only, one and only
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved, their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

III

The tide it soon came in, like mad,
That tide it soon came in;
So to keep them aloft, they lashed their arms
to a scarlet ibis away from harm,
And they told each other their sins .
And they rode the storm in a garbage pail,
And told each other fabulous tales,
Though the sea be black, and the night be cold,
“Yet we never can think we were reckless or off beam,
While of fish in a Gale is our dream”
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved, and their beards are red ,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

IV

And throughout the darkness they fished away;
And when the sun arose,
They laughed and lurched into a looney tune
To the fading light of a silvery moon,
In the mist of the ocean’s throes.
“O Shitagua! How great we sail,
When we fish in a Gale and a garbage pail;
And forget our woes in the blue-green sea ,
We float away like the birds and bees ,
In the midst of the ocean’s throes!”
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail;
Their skulls are shaved and their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.


V
They sailed in the ocean blue, they did,
To an island all lush with fruit,
And they found some plums , and a paradise bird,
And a bed of yams, and a buffalo herd ,
And a pond of snowy geese.
And they acquired a goat, and some red armadillos ,
And some goose feathers for soft downy pillows ,
And thirty of blocks of Tillamook cheese,
And endless treasures to do as they please
One and only, one and only,
Is the place where the Polarbies sail ;
Their skulls are shaved , and their beards are red,
And they went to fish in a Gale.

Westward Ho!

Westward Ho!

These are the new houses
of civil servants
retired from their tedium;
adobe brick houses, on golf courses
sunning themselves in the desert
like leathery lizards.

These are the palaces
dreamt about in the snows of Minnesota,
the icy winds of North Dakota, the white
plains of Montana.-beneath the palms, far from
harsh living, seasonal extremes.

These are the neighborhoods
where flowered shirts and white
belts adorn the graying masses
like tourists on a perpetual vacation

living in towns with names like
Mesquite, Palm Springs, Taos and
Sedona, where they migrate like
spawned out salmon seeking
sanctuary in natal streams,
in the silt of decaying carcasses.

A Noel Coward Poem

Today I decided to post a poem by Noel Coward Called "Nothing is Lost" to remind me of the influence of ideas, thoughts and emotions that other poets and writers have upon my own life and writing. Every so often we read a poem or a story that has a profound impact on us. This is such a poem:

Nothing Is Lost

Deep in our sub-conscious, we are told
Lie all our memories, lie all the notes
Of all the music we have ever heard
And all the phrases those we loved have spoken,
Sorrows and losses time has since consoled,
Family jokes, out-moded anecdotes
Each sentimental souvenir and token
Everything seen, experienced, each word
Addressed to us in infancy, before
Before we could even know or understand
The implications of our wonderland.
There they all are, the legendary lies
The birthday treats, the sights, the sounds, the tears
Forgotten debris of forgotten years
Waiting to be recalled, waiting to rise
Before our world dissolves before our eyes
Waiting for some small, intimate reminder,
A word, a tune, a known familiar scent
An echo from the past when, innocent
We looked upon the present with delight
And doubted not the future would be kinder
And never knew the loneliness of night.

What's in My Poems?

What’s in My Poems

Strange things, like an old bicycle. Country
things, dilapidated barns, cows, kerosene lanterns.
Some mountains also. A disposition for being compassionate.
Thrift store hand-me-downs , exotic
castoffs. Room for hand-tied flies, and for
Oregon.. Grounds to jail me or sanctify.
Fragments and hints that never connect
the dots. Calculated confusion , the kind
that befuddles. Gaps in credibility.
Thunderous blunders. Evenings that weep over
an unnecessary war. Ideas you know exist
but you can't find them. A person’s fantastical
dreams, probably mine.

Life on the Edge

Life on the Edge

You came back disheveled
and haggard, your eyeballs red
from gazing at the bright lights
of a week-long bender. Somehow
out in that fog-ridden seascape
the tide came in
and brought you home. We seem
like an island, but the bright lights
keep calling your name, the same bars
keep obscuring the sun
high over our austere atoll
and the sundial in the graveyard
turns round upon its small pedestal,
where, sheltered in rows of cold marble,
a stone statue of the Blessed Virgin
kneels in prayer.

Wheeling Into the City at Rush Hour

Wheeling Into The City at Rush Hour

My bike floats down the hill
into traffic, where everyone seems
so much busier than I am,
but no, it's not the people
who are busy, it's the vehicles,
the multi-wheeled iron animals,
the autos with windows of shaded glass ,
the trucks rolling on smoky side streets.
The people resemble you and me:
their eyes don't see very well,
their expressions are doleful,
and they're always shaking their fists .
But their cars are new and well-built,
and even the ones that aren't,
the ones that have bent fenders
and loud mufflers and odd parts
hanging on the frame, even these
seem to be trying like crazy to placate me,
to say something to me in plain English,
clearly, in words I can understand.

Migrations

Migrations

North of Seattle, the icy glacial rivers
shimmer at night like wet seals.
The sound of the water cleanses the air.
Fresh salmon seek their natal beds
in the fine bedrock of mother streams.
They decay and cry out to the osprey
to take them all. The tracks from the sea
roar with the clack of their train.
They keep their schedules on time.

Fishing Partners

Fishing Partners

The lust that bought the boat
just wasn’t small enough
to keep control, so the boat
just grew and family funds
fell flat in a world of
more power, shinier trinkets
and electric downrigger
thing-a-ma-jiggers. The bankers,
creditors and lenders
always sit fore and aft
as he pilots the shiny craft
to fish and relax in the
splendor of the ocean deep.

The Decider

The Decider

During Mr. Bush’s speech, he pounded his fist
To punctuate a stance he was taking. I don’t remember
Exactly what he was saying, but as he talked
He looked at the crowd as if they were
extraterrestrials, and his voice cracked and slowed,
as if speaking to a deaf person, or a roomful
of schoolchildren, and he looked at his fist
and raised it high in the air, like Hilter
in an old newsreel, and told us not to
worry, he was “The Decider”.

Morning Coffee on My Deck

Morning Coffee on My Deck

Along my block
birds sing
from the stages
of green palm fronds,
trilling,
hitting high notes
like wind chimes,
like angels,
like the fine tuned accents
of opera singers
prancing on stage,
eyes towards heaven,
rhapsodic voices
greeting the day
with their songs.

Winter Slumber

Winter Slumber

Somewhere this winter
a bear is growling,
crystal beads of sweat
drip down its thick fur.
Nothing is there
beyond the dark den,
nothing to growl at
except, perhaps, the dream
of some bright fish
leaving an imprint,
leaping over clear rapids,
from a gene pool
comprised of generations
jumping gallantly
into his hibernating jaws.

Trendy Fly Fisherman

Trendy Fly Fisherman

Today he's wearing his new shirt
drab and olive like an ominous cloud
rising over the mountain peaks,
and as he wades camouflaged like
a stealthy warrior, the sleeves speak
to each other, warning the bright fish below.
His waders are neoprene, green and warm, as tight
as Danskins on a prima ballerina, or gymnast.
(They leave him wrinkled when he sheds them).
He's got on his felt-soled wading shoes
in pond-scum green and a fishing vest
that matches his new shirt, but bears the signs
of eons treading this water. His hat is ragged
and floppy, like a torn flag in the wind, and it shades
the sun from his eyes as he searches
the riffles, casting about in a dead drift.
The fish are rolling and laughing under
this olive cloud of fishing fashion.

New Year's Visitor

New Year’s Visitor

The rain’s an old friend
to this desert; the cacti
have been inviting
the moist clasp of his hands
since the beginning of time.
Now it’s a new year again
and again that old pal
comes to visit.
He’s slicked down his hair
with his spittle. He’s washed
his face, then disappeared
in the evening
toward the mountain, and returned
refreshed at first light
dancing in the wind.
In the afternoon, you can find
in dry desert patches
his drowsy face
Reflected in small pools.

To Be Happy

To Be Happy
you do not need to be
psychoanalyzed
rolfed
estered
altered
spayed
neutered
fixed
mooned
acupunctured
meditated
massaged
cayced
yogied
new-aged
astrocharted
holisticized
computerized
megatrended
therapized
androginized
evangelized
converted or even
reborn

Trust your senses-
Your common sense
your innate sense
Of justice.

Be loyal to your family
Your clan, your friends-
Your community (Let the
Nation-state go hang itself!)

Defend the stupid, the crazy.
Love the earth, the sun,
the animals. Avoid endless
disquisitions of suburban

hocus-pocus, Toyota dealers,
self –loathing intellectuals,
male predation, lesbians
in bearskins-embrace Jesus-

Oppose injustice
Defy the powerful
And speak for the voiceless.
Follow your star.

Benazir Bhutto, In Memoriam, December 27, 2007

Benazir Bhutto, In Memoriam, December 27, 2007

In Rawalpindi her ashes glow
The dying embers burning low
To mark a martyr’s final breath
To serve her country to the death
Her spirit survives this fatal blow.

She is gone. One short day ago
She lived, smelled flowers, was the main show,
Adored and was adored, and now she’s dead
In Rawalpindi

Carry on her war against the foe:
Wherever freedom needs to flow
Her legacy yours, hold it high.
Her death must be your battle cry
You must not slumber, while ashes glow
In Rawalpindi.

Faux Pro

Faux Pro

Nowadays he wears a cap-
always with "Titleist" above
the flap. Each day a different color; coded
like a drawer full of lady’s inscribed panties.
Mondays are green, Tuesdays yellow, Wednesdays
Red, Thursdays blue, Fridays Orange,
Saturdays mauve and Sundays purple {for
the Sabbath). His shirts match his caps.
To look the part describes his art. He fools
some of the people, some of the time. His
is a supreme sublime, his colors always rhyme.
He’s a sycophantic mime

Chicken Dinner

Chicken Dinner

She placed it flat on an old tree stump
after wringing its neck.
Limp, it flopped around like a
beached trout. Whack! Grandma’s
ax chopped the young rooster’s head.
clean off .“They don’t feel
nothing,” she said. Still twitching
she dropped the thing in a boiling pot
of water as I ran into to the farmhouse
bawling like a baby. Got no sympathy
from granddad who told me not to worry,
dinner will be ready pretty soon. Besides
“They don‘t feel nothing.”

Memory of the Mint

Memory of the Mint

When I visit the Russell museum
Where Charlie’s paintings hang,
I become ten again, selling the
Great Falls Leader to the cowboys
playing poker, puffing cigars
in Central Avenue’s Mint Bar,
“Waiting for the Chinook”
to thaw their hearts before they
die like the starving antelope
In the smoked-stained Russell
painting hanging crookedly
Above bottles of whiskey, gin and
vodka. Passed out at the end of the
bar an old Blackfoot sloshes
through the snowy mountains
on his painted pony dragging
a deer carcass, dreaming of the thaw.
I can hear my child’s voice calling out
“Leader Fall’s paper, read all about it,
Paper mister?” I hear the curator’s voice,
“Closing time” and like frozen ice in the
warm Chinook wind the memory disappears.

The Old Man's Advice

The Old Man’s Advice

Grandfather said, follow your bliss
Don’t be afraid of snakes in the weeds
A golden rule that can’t miss
Grandfather said, follow your bliss.
Don’t be deterred by that and this
Be happy in thoughts, words, and deeds
Grandfather said, follow your bliss-
Fulfill your wishes, dreams and needs

A Holiday for the Rest of Us

A Holiday for the Rest of Us

Today December 23rd is Festivus
A holiday for the rest of us
A relief from times that get the best of us
far away to the east and west of us.
Trying times that create a test of us
that zaps the vital juice and zest of us.
Today, December 23rd , we celebrate Festivus.
Please make no demands or requests of us.
Today we walk among the blessed of us.

A Fish to Remember

A Fish to Remember

Drifting the float at first light,
half asleep when a bright steelhead
mouths the jig and violently
dunks the bobber and lunges
clear out of the water. Walks, it seems
across the riffles, then splashes and disappears.
Line limp, I stare into the water as if
a ghost had just appeared. Well, it did.
And it occurred without witness.
I take this apparition with me everywhere,
Wherever I go. Even in my dreams at night.
Even out here in Nevada,
in the great, arid southwestern desert- my
home now. When I contemplate the river
and the loss decades ago, I’m amazed
how vivid the memory of a singular moment
of a fish flashing furiously then disappearing.
At night, asleep I listen to the river
and the splash at first light, over and over again.

Playing

Playing

He played in the dirt.
In the sand.
In the weeds.
Or in someone else's grounds.
He played in cars, buses, in merry-go-rounds.
Played at night.
Played in the farm yard,
Played in Hussman's Billiard Parlor.
He played by the river.
By the falls.
In the A&W root beer place.
Played in a Cadillac, and in an old truck.
Played in churches.
In prison.
In girl's hearts.
He played in rail cars, and once, in Madrid.
Played in the snow.
In the freezing sleet, he played.
On snowshoes.
He played on stairs, brothels, sleazy hovels.
He played eccentric music all of his life.
Now he plays in a wooden box.
Plays on and on.
Like a naughty boy

Christmas Memories

Christmas Memories

Tears fall and the river rises.
Today the memories warm me rather
Than break my heart.

Years and years of memories,
all my loved ones past
come together at Christmas.
Tiny children opening presents.
Oh the joy! How to possibly
recreate that, now that I am old?
I know! I'll have kids again! Not!

When the tears fall and the river rises,
I remember the reason for the season.
It’s not about me or my memories-
that soothing life-saving force.
What is Christmas all about?
Fear not, and think on this!

-And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold,
I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven,

Christmas Week at Squaw Beach

Christmas Week at Squaw Beach, Agness Oregon

We followed bear tracks
through the snow
to the fishy green
water’s edge
and found them there-
the first winter steelhead,
lice-laden, ocean-fresh,
Kamalopsis wilderness
Rogue natives unaware
of the lurking lures. “Tis’
the season to be jolly”,
my partner whispered.
“Ho, Ho, Ho”, I replied.

December 2007

December 2007

December, and everywhere the first
of the Christmas spirits
have arrived again.

Snow fills the sky with coldness

What’s missing here? Sleds, children’s voices,
and the yellow lab not far from my easy chair.
A hearth warmed by Douglas fir. And even now
ringing in the memory, invisible faces
inexplicably appearing .

Bing Crosby’s “Silent Night”
plays on the radio.

I listen with my mind far away.

Grandma Always Said

Grandma Always Said

December is fruitcake weather
time to crack a bowl of nuts
and have a little get-together
lollygag in shopping malls
decorate the walls with heather.
December is fruitcake weather
when all the nuts gather.

A Page

A Page

Life is simply a page
a brief stage- markings on
the gauge of time
which neither rhyme nor
Supreme Sublime ever elucidate.
In the wait, the questioning
of great minds always fails
in the details of swirling wind-
strong gales, questions of belief,
blindness without relief, like
a thief in the night
undetected, without light
A slight silent awakening.

Confusion

Confusion

On the coast there's fog
Always wet fog, not just today.
Uneven whitecaps endless misty
Waves in the ghostly vapor spewing breath.
Rain is still falling at the end of May.
Fish begin to spawn in early July.
And here am I, alone by the tide pool,
Searching and searching, but I can't find myself.

Salvation Army Donation Box

Salvation Army Donation Box

When the SUVs pulled up
to the Salvation Army
donation box at Wal-Mart
I felt proud of Americans-
generous people, caring
folks, sharing abundant wealth.
Unselfishly bighearted
liberals driving shiny new
Toyatas, Escalades, Jeeps,
Humvees, Navigators-
all manner of high-end
expensive flashy rides.

Then weirdly, I noticed that
most would take instead of give-
rummaging like wharf rats
through piles of donated stuff-
clothing, electronics, cookbooks,
broken dolls, space heaters, an
array of eitchen midden-
a mound of domestic refuse,
a muckheap of human waste
passed on to the needy.
Like scavengers in a Tijuana
landfill, they’d quietly steal
away their new- found treasures
in the bowels of their shiny
cars and sneak away. I guess
the rich have always stolen
from the poor at Christmas time.

When the Neighborhood Bully was Sentenced

When the Neighborhood Bully was Sentenced

If we’re patient of ordinary things-
like a baby’s cry, or elderly ladies
slowly blocking the supermarket
isles, or deaf old men needing repetitions
of simple words or directions, or wives
burning our Sunday dinners, perhaps there’s
hope for us yet.

The patience of ordinary things is not
a given, a birthright; it is an art
learned at the apron strings of a kindly
grandmother, or in a fishing boat
listening to the gentle voice of a dad
guiding us through worm-threading
lessons. It’s a gift that not everyone
receives.

The patience of ordinary things is
intricately tied to words like kindness,
consideration, love, courtesy, reverence-
boy scout kind of words, words never thought
of in my neighbor’s household. Theirs was a
house of the impatience of ordinary things-
rudeness, yelling, bullying, arguing. No one
was surprised when John went to prison for
crippling Martha- his wife over a shirt stain.

Working for the Old Man

Working for the Old man

Today it rains, the old man’s snoring
Dreary day, cold and boring
Just sitting, staring through the glass
Time to get up off my lazy ass

There’s much work to be done
Forget about last night’s fun
And the beautiful red-haired lass
Time to get up off my lazy ass

The pub last night a raucous crowd
We drank; we danced, stomped out loud
Got a little drunk and full of sass
Time to get up off my lazy ass

Dreaming of Shirley, Alice and Anne
Won’t put bacon in the frying pan
The old man’s waking, passing gas
I’d better get up off my lazy ass

Sunday Flight to Baghdad

Sunday Flight to Baghdad

Forty-eight hours before your flight
Two long days, two long nights
We wait in silence before you go
Denying what we already know

Pretending life is as before
As we pace across the floor
And hear the wind loudly blow
Denying what we already know

Never easy this wartime leaving,
Always on the verge of grieving
We try to keep emotions in tow
Denying what we already know.

When duty calls you have no choice
Your life represents America’s voice
We wait in prayer before you go
Denying what we already know.

An Epistle for Paul as he Prepares for the third Iraq Tour

The armor has been shipped
Humvees, tanks, ambulances
readied for round three of war.
Shoes shined, camos pressed
almost ready for the door.
Minute details attended to
letters written, messages sent-
prepare last will and testament-
Every soldier knows the drill.
but yet the heart won’t be still.
The road ahead long and sad,
children alone without dad,
wives without the man they love,
no respite from travails of war
life goes on just like before,
or does it? How many times
must we be called to serve
for freedom’s sake? Leave our beds
for cold bunkers of Baghdad?
Be away for Christmas Day?
The list goes on and on and
on, but I will not say what
is in my heart and thoughts this
day as our son departs to
a distant land, rifle in hand.
God speed our boy you’re
in our hearts, thoughts and prayers.
Our faith is in the man upstairs
To keep you in his loving care.

.

Stream Full of Redds

Stream Full of Redds

Red
Gills are
Like fresh wounds
Moon-shaped cuts
Openings on the salmon’s
Throat allow cool water
To propel the silver-side
Upriver like a speeding freight train
Accelerating down the mountain-
Its final destination certain death

Restlessness

Restlessness

How are you now? What lies under your shell tonight
What will your thoughts dispel tonight?

And I The Coach only am awake to tell thee-
Eve sobs in my arms. You can hear my bell tonight.

Autumn rains fill up the old cistern well.
Asleep, she tosses and turns in her hotel tonight

Rabid television evangelists sell prayer-
Transfixed masses under a spell tonight

From the Abbey of Gethsemane, voices yell
Thomas Merton and compatriots raising hell tonight

Discombobulated, Keith’s life is like a ground swell
His love’s away and the earth is pell-mell tonight

Sonnetina for Solace

Sonnetina for Solace

Some days good, others bad for you and I
Most days filled with kindness and love
Usually those when you don’t think of you

And the times that I don’t yell at you
Angry days, misunderstood days when I
Feel like you doubt and question our love

Lonely periods of impossible tough love
Where all roads and thoughts lead back to you
With little room or time for you and I

Simple are the caring words I love you.

Savage Rapids Dam (On the Rogue River)

Savage Rapids Dam (On the Rogue River)

Passage obstructed
by blocks of stones, turbines
tame savage rapids
in sedimentary pools.

Providence said in
darkness at low tide only,
passages-obstructed
by blocks of stones, turbines

The salmon’s side
of access, sin barriers, or locks, barricades
lost signs of right, of gallantry
in sedimentary pools
Passages un-obstructed.

The Caricature Drawing Above My Bed

The Caricature Drawing Above My Bed

I awake and stare at the smiling face
A cartoon caricature drawn at the mall
A celestial light shining from space
My love beams from her place on the wall
Her eyes like beacons that light the way
As if to say “follow me to the sunshine ball,
Please get up I say, come out and play!”
Each day her happy visage a wake-up call

The days seem empty when she’s away
Like bleak, cloudy times with endless drizzle
Shrouding ghost-like ships on the foggy bay
Or when one’s fondest dreams begin to fizzle
Her presence fills each day with love
While smiling from the picture above

Grandma's Tattoo

Grandma’s Tattoo

Tattooed ladies like weathered billboards
knit from creaky porches, pearling afghans,

their bodies-sentiments of a bygone era
adorned with wrinkled art like old Burma-

Shave signs or painted ads on ancient
red barns- a grand display of body colors.

They flaunt their asses, wave their arms-
cackling old hens on a Sunday afternoon.

Puget Sound Nursery Rhyme

Puget Sound Nursery Rhyme

The Sound- large ocean inlet, deep bay habitat
harboring hoards of silver-sided salmon
eerily shrouds our anchored vessel, thick-sponge-
soggy-fog soaks us,

evoking womb-encased primordial images
through a miasma of tall Seattle skyscrapers
jutting upward like erect phalli, waiting
to fertilize the day

Anchor lifted, ghost-like, we navigate through
a welter of mists, blips on a radar screen
chopping through rolling waves,three men in a tub
Oh! rub-a-dub-dub

It's Heating Up

It's Heating Up

Some there are who say that the finish is near
and the white bear is a display of evidence;
some, glacial melt; some would say smog, but I say
none of these matters

to troubled masses. Time is a ghost that hides
in the light, blending into a crowded market
like a shy child hiding behind a mother's skirt
waiting for a treat.

Stewardship is difficult, ignorance easy-
simply overlook the signs, bluff like a blind man
or embrace immortality like a God
with olive branches

Night Thoughts

Night Thoughts

Usually the thoughts recur at night, when
dreamers
freed from the intruding schemers,
toss and turn in welcome familiarity on a feathered
pillow, alone and weathered
dark dreams speaking to you in the night. Perhaps the ideas come before
sunrise, when the imaginary seashore
seeps from an ancient space; maybe the dream is the bed of
origin, where you wonder, instead of
knowing. Whatever the reason, you will sense it—in visions
deep within the psyche , or by decisions
silently wrought out in the dim shadows, or by lurking
thoughts of danger, or working,
alone with a view, in a cavernous mind. Soon, though, the sleep
ends to shatter all your deep,
awake and aware with the fear and fright given to you .
How you handle it describes you.