Speeding in Idaho

Speeding in Idaho

Walking down the road at ten below,
the children were lost in deep deep snow.

Let out of the pickup and told to walk
by a meth-crazed father who couldn’t talk.

“Git to your moms” this scraggly fool said,
little did he care if they were alive or dead.

At the two mile mark she could go no more,
laid down in the snow, frozen to the core.

Brother kept walking, only eight miles to go
along that icy road in Boise, Idaho.

Lucky for him a stranger passed by
and took him to emergency before he could die.

Little Jim lost a leg, a home, a sister that day
while the old man snorted their lives away.

The Book of Me

The Book of Me

Sixty-nine pages,
one for each year.
Some are smudged

vague, unreadable;
others deliberately concealed,
cloaked in secret.

Sixty-nine pages,
each leaf a fragment
of works and days

shrouded in mystery
between mundane chapters
beyond ordinary understanding.

Sixty-nine pages,
years of battles, scars,
memories, tribulations

cataloged in the library
of life, awaiting a fresh chapter
a new beginning, a seventieth page.

New Year, New Trails

New Year, New Trails

The first day of this year
we wipe the slate clean
of last year’s failings, prickly
like cacti of the Nevada desert
or nettles clinging to empty
purses of losing gamblers,
and while migrant birds
open their melodic mouths
like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,
the two of us peer through the window
shouting “Hallelujah”!
From the rooftops
of all the ancient shrines
holy men sing the year’s
praises above the grateful throngs,
voices clear as footprints in the sand.
January’s message, the first
hint riding on the icy wind.
Snowplow blades churn the drifts
of last year’s significance.
December departed, a give and take
of memories, then November,
October, traditions and leaves
changing colors like our thoughts.
The summer months, oppressive
and delightful in heat waves
across the arid sand.
We biked the Zion path
in that rocky terrain,
our self imposed barriers
knocked down, our silver
strands of hair
blowing like bliss
in the breeze.

It's All About Them (a holiday rant)

It’s All About Them (A holiday rant)

Insensate stones, devoid of feeling.
They don’t acknowledge the gifts.
Neither wisdom nor material goods

penetrate their shallow world,
gratitude a foreign tongue, so
much gobbledygook to suffer;

so much bother to reply with courteous
give and take, a simple thank you,
a small gift or a peacock feather.

Expectation without reciprocation,
without mutual interaction crushes
the spirit’s civility, the spirit of love.

Caring is sharing, living is giving-
the letting go of the “I”, the self;
freeing the caged bird within.

Grandma's Pie

Grandma’s Pie

The tree extinguished
Presents gone
Dinner leftovers-
Christmas spirit wanes
Family stupefied by gluttony,
Dazed by the TV’s glare
Sprawling like discarded
Gift wrapping in Grandma’s
Living room: Matt. like wilted lettuce.
Luke, like a tired runner, Paul with
Head on a pillow, eyes half-closed-
The three magi after a miracle,
Weary and sated, praying they left
Some room for apple pie.

Winter Solstice

Winter Solstice

Under the lids there are mountains jutting up
Small outbursts at the ridges,
And eagles hovering in the current of milky cataracts.

It is December. The nation has slept for eight years.
City streets were paved with half-truths, the Capitol
Was full of blind pigs, and minds that embraced every scam

Now we stir, and open our eyes. And drink coffee!
Sun shines through the crest of the cornea,
Fog and ashes rising, the whirring of chainsaws in the forest.

Now we dance and sing love songs by the crackling fire,.
Our entire being like a slave that’s been freed;
We know that the dictator is leaving us for good

Guided Shoes

Guided Shoes

Shoes, contemptuous beasts
dissing enemies, foreign
presidents and irksome neighbors.

Shoes stinking, dirty, filthy rascals
tromping around in dog feces,
waiting for a head to bash in.

Shoes surreptitiously covering
terrorist feet, ticking time-bombs,
fanatical weapons of mass destruction

Shoes lying in ambush on nasty toes
licking arches of radical heel-chuckers,
anticipating the Evil-Doer anti-speech.

Shoes the guardians of the state,
like guided missiles, ready to launch
at a moments notice.

On Cloudy Days

On Cloudy Days.

When you are sad and tired and full of woe
And dozing in your chair, wake up and write,
And softly sing, and ponder the bright light
Your smile once gave, and of its brightest glow

How many adored your shining happy face,
And adored your look of hope on troubled days,
But I have adored the rebellion of your ways,
And adored the warmth of your embrace,

And sitting here under the rising sun
Whisper, a little sadly how time passed
And vanished into the clouds at last
And left its print on everyone.

Christmas Morning

Christmas Morning

There were many gifts
sleeping under the tree
still as statue.

And many ornaments,
round and oval,
multicolored and square,

Strands of silver tinsel,
candy canes and shepherds,
stars, miniature animals.

An angel that could save
a soul perched majestically
atop the fragrant pine bough.

The oak manger lighted,
its plain and humble stable
surrounded by gifts of magi.

Christmas stockings hung
over the crackling hearth, their
fine woven yarn-names,

intricate as the threads of history,
leading us through the confusion
of this year into the next.

Streamside

Streamside

From the middle of the forest,

Where the moon rises. Where the moon sets
On the treeline that blankets the woodland floor

From the roaring waterfall. From the clear river

Beside the worn deer trail. At the edge of the road. By the cabin,
the woodcutters home, the useless rusty chainsaw, the stacked
redwood logs

You thought I'd succumb to rejection.
But here I am. I look in my heart. And my heart is strong

Having a Bun in the Oven

Having a Bun in the Oven

I do not fully understand my poem.
It doesn't belong to me now. Like
A gestating fetus perched in the womb,
It arrives in its own time, fully developed-
A child of the magic of creation

Letting the Mind Wander

Letting the Mind Wander

these days, these times
of upheaval, and uncertainty
requires a certain style,
a letting go, an immersion
into fragmentary diversion
like a stargazer captivated
with heavenly bodies flickering
in far off space.

Letting the mind wander-
a task for dreamers, disillusioned
idealists disenchanted, disenfranchised
dodderers doodling in inner space
mulling over esoterica, the secret
arcanum of hidden ideas shared
with brothers and sisters of like ilk,
Masons of the mind and spirit.

Letting the mind wander
panning for gold in cold streams
like the Forty-Niner’s, like gamblers
playing the lottery, hopeful aspirants
seeking a new day, a new life,
sifting through the miasma of fool’s gold
in the great vein of the brain’s mine.

Letting the mind wander
over the plains, the vast emptiness
stark and startling, a blank slate
staring straight into one’s soul,
interrogating the interstices of grey
matter like a secret agent unlocking
furtive ideas of a hush-hush culture.

Letting the mind wander
reborn a child without preconception
or prejudice, flexible, pliable as heated
glass blown into tiny unicorns.
Malleability requisite to fix a broken
world. A planet made of peanut brittle.

Let the mind wander.

Lets Get Us a Few Camels Mate!

Lets Get Us a Few Camels Mate!

Feral, Camelus Dromedarius
like soldiers on a million-man
march, wolf down the outback,

ravaging quandong, native peach,
scarfing succulence from sweet trees
like starving bears after hibernation.

Plentiful as America’s former(Now extinct) bison,
camel hoards chew away Austrailian
plains, suck juice from indigenous plants,

ravage the land. Imported from Las Islas
Canarias, mangy critters, stinking from their
own piss, avenge man’s stupidity.

Too Many Hobbies, Too Little Time

Too Many Hobbies, Too Little Time

Passion burns-
Interest wanes-
Passion burns-
The fires cool-
Passion burns-
Winter arrives-
Passion burns-
Eclectic horses
Galloping full
Speed ahead.

Delaware Day

Delaware Day

Were they hoisting tankards of Sam Adam’s
Winter Ale when they congregated at Batell’s
Tavern in Dover on that frigid day?

Did the fife and drum band play till closing?

Were raucous barmaids tickling bawdy chins,
Coaxing the old boys into misbehaving?
After the ink was dry, did they swagger down
The cobblestone street, arm in arm beneath
The gas lamps singing and shouting “America
The Beautiful?”

Could they have foreseen fireworks in Pearl Harbor
memorializing the occasion’s anniversary
on the same date? How about the wars, the uncivil Civil,
wars one and two, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf-chapters one
and two, Afghanistan, and the myriad of other battles
lost in the interstices, between the cracks of history?
Were they prepared for the carnage?

Did it turn out as they imagined when they signed the
ratification? Perhaps they were having a Monday night football
moment, steeped and pickled in happy ale, floating between
the goal posts.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like

Red nose
Red cap
Red sleigh
Red lights
Red star
Red suit

Dress rehearsal for the big night
Fly to the east
Fly to the west
Fly to the south
And back to the north

Practice, practice, practice

Fill the bags
Fill the stomach
Fill the sleigh
Feed some hay

Time has come
To fly away

On Dasher
On Dancer
On Prancer
On Vixen
On Comet
On Cupid
On Donner
On Blitzen
On Rudolph

With your nose so bright
Guiding Santa’s sleigh tonight.

Christmas everywhere I go.

The Blind Horse

The Blind Horse

Moved by your friendship, I feel like
the blind horse I owned as a boy in Montana
that a farmer had abandoned and somehow
left to suffer in my uncle's pasture.

I don't mean to say that I'm a derelict- broken,
discarded or deserted. In reality, I'm unsure
of just where my life stands. I'm more than
that old orphan in the pasture who knows
it's blind, wandering from corner to corner.

Perhaps I'm a thin shadow of my former self.
But caressing me, I know you are the good
hand moving across its tangled mane.

How can one describe that feeling when an animal,
Even with its clouded eyes, begins to neigh again?

Shopping at the Peshwar Bazaar

Shopping in the Peshawar Bazaar

Shadows rush through the old city
Greetings from brass peddlers- ah salaam alikum…

Too early, we wait by the chapatti-maker's tent,
Search through the faceless silhouettes

Then in the near distance, the Tonga horn blasts its warning;
We gather our booty and take off running.

Through the bazaar, past the fruit stalls,
Sandaled feet crunching on loose gravel,

Exhausted hearts pounding
We dash towards the horn's blaring cacophony

Huffing and puffing, we yell wait at the Tonga driver,
His sagging nag gives a welcome whinny, just for us-

We smile, welcome words filling our mouths,
The wagon moves on, hooves clicking on cobblestones

The Song

The Song

When the darkness comes,

I will be in a cool stream,

When the darkness comes,

I will be at Trail Creek Tavern
on Saturday night.

When the darkness comes,

I will be a bright light.

When the darkness comes,

I will be smoke from a cigarette.

When the darkness comes

I will be the loud voice heard
over the choir,

And will sing like the
tenor at the Metropolitan

And I will sing like the frog
kissed by the princess,

And I will hum, the world will hum
also,

And I will chant, the people will chant
also,

And I will drink, with vestiges of light
seeping slowly through the cracks.

It will be Saturday night

And I will leave in an old car,

My head eased of pain,

My thoughts free-falling,

Free as a puff of smoke
from the smelter stack,

Identical now to the smog
and clouds,

As the tide turns and recedes,
back to the beginning,

The music fading away,

And the streetlight, on the corner,
waiting for sunrise.

O Say Can You see

O Say Can You See

I like touching here and there on you,
I like gently rubbing the, heated ions
of your atomic skin, tracing the
perimeter of your voluptuous labials,
tasting the now, the how of you,
inhaling the drink of your liquor,
gulping your essence more and more.
I like holding this and that of you,
I like, mostly feeling the, red rockets
bursting in air of you.

Biggie Spice

Biggie Spice


I’ve grown so big

I feel like a pig.

I think that I might explode.

I’m more than twice,

maybe thrice

the man I used to be.

Sometime, somewhere

in the past seventy years

I began to grow

rather than shrink,

and now here I sit

in this monstrous chair,

just a blob

of fat and bones.

I have grown so large

in no time at all,

I almost don't miss

the slender waist,

the thin firm butt,

I once so proudly possessed.

And now here I sit

like an old twit

who will fly

like a balloon

from the chair

to the moon,

disappear in a cloud

and float above

the endless crowd.

I’ll visit awhile

With other big things:

Jumbo, the elephant,

Hannah, the hippo,

and Mack the huge truck.

Then I’ll soar through the sky,

very far, very high,

to find

a new beginning.

Cowboy

Cowboy

Cowboy likes to go to his ranch.
At the corral he can disregard
The problems of a troubled world.
He almost gets it,
Musing over the range at the cattle.

He loves to daydream.
“We’re pretty far away” he says
To his Secret Service man.
“I wonder if we can get further away.”
His entourage looks puzzled.

Back in the East, the Market plunges,
A Suicide bomber blows up a school,
His cohorts are convicted.
How much better it is at the ranch!

Too bad January is so far away
Too bad the everlasting war goes on
And some crisis or some republic
Awaits your intervention,
Your solution to problems
Of your own creation.

“Why don’t we ride a while longer?”
Cowboy would like to say to them.
If you live on a ranch, nothing goes on
You don’t even hear the footsteps.
He almost gets it.

Synergy

Synergy

All night long, wind
whips nightmares
through the hazy glass,
sleep succumbs to terror,

half-ripe apples cling
hopelessly to broken trees,
sirens wail and scream,
But what matters?

Let autumn disappear.
let the weary year
shrivel to the length
of a holiday,

old people haggle
in their constricted worlds,
and every last leaf
on the aspens redden,

wither and rot.
I need no one
today, but you
Peaches,

caressing the shape
of my face. Sadly
poor us, neglected
like lost children.

How wealthy we are,
growing away from all that,
one door closes and another
opens.

Fall Colors

Fall Colors

An October day, and guys my age
all over the world
are trying to recapture lost youth

by foolishly riding bikes up slopes,
running in neighborhood hills,
hearts pounding beyond the safe zone.

Aged, overweight men who feel the need
to prove that they still have it-
the magic exuberance of adolescence,

the liveliness, excitement and energy
that once dominated their very beings.
All over the world they are dying,

fighting the apathy of sedentary living,
Courageously they fight themselves,
warriors waging a losing war against time.

Home Again

Home Again

After it’s over, it’s just begun.
A trick of nature, this parenting

thing. Just when we exhale
with a deep sigh of relief

the phone rings and once again
we’re comforting a crying baby,

intervening in a sibling crisis,
explaining bad behavior to

the school dean or pacing the hall
at the hospital awaiting the worst.

Whether we know it or not, want it
or not we’ve signed on for a lifetime

of upheavals, crises, responsibilities-
infinite turmoil, a world without end.

They return and leave, return again
like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides.

New problems, like fresh sea urchins
wash ashore with each incoming swell,

leaving us exhausted in their wake.
Our lives forever controlled by the moon.

Lost at Sea

Lost at Sea

Diminutive the deleterious heart
of the downtrodden sailor
shanghaied in a bar in Spain.

Ghastly drunken visage, paler
than the gypsy’s thighs
the night he tried to set her

adrift in a morass of odd lies
through waves of his hallucination
amidst the moans, the groans, the sighs

distorted storms of intoxication.
The bell tolled twelve, he disappeared
in a clamor of vivid creation

lost among unfamiliar sneers,
lost at sea in a drunken trance,
too hazy to confront his fears,

forgotten yesterday’s lively dance
the ghostly ship carried him to sea,
sunk to the bottom without a chance.

His chosen path, straight and narrow,
his dying words, “Yo Soy Marinero

A ride to the Park

A Ride to the Park

Like a Dolphin in the sea
the blue helmet undulates
over the rolling bike path.
Freedom beams from her bright
smile as her inner child inhales
the joy of re-kindled youth-
a brief respite from the pain
and woe that accompany
most days and nights.

The Modern Bazaar

The Modern Bazaar
Sunday at the flea market
Pasty-faced elderly sellers in Monday work clothes
Sweating under the bright umbrellas of their booths
Stoop over goods they've gathered from everywhere
They gawk out onto the throng of potential buyers
And point with gnarled fingers to today's bargains
They shout out in loud seller's voices, hawking
Their wares as those wares were hawked in ancient
Exotic bazaars among the smells of spices
Beside caravans of wondering nomads in forgotten lands
That only the history texts serve to tell again
Reaching out to a time long forgotten
Where nobody remembers now

None of us has winced at the sight of
a slave auction
young girls for sale
none of us after arduous days
on smelly camels
and moving through hostile lands through dark of night
have been recognized by the hordes of huns
that were bolder than anyone living
so in the market, we mimic the style
that has long been forgotten
we barter in booths for the midden of others
turning trash into treasures like primeval wonderers
connecting to a time that no one remembers.

Charades

Charades

Nothing is clear, straightforward
When family is involved

Always twisting and turning
Putting on a tragic mask

Spinning tales beyond belief
Innocent faces shrewdly

Manipulating the truth
Of the latest dilemma

Time and again they return
To the nest, birds of prey,

Scavenging bits of carrion
From the elder bird’s larder

Unwilling to fend alone,
Like independent hunters

A dependent generation
Lost in self- fabrication

Neglecting the Obvious

Neglecting the Obvious

Today it rides in on a full moon
Appears suddenly without warning-
Takes away the dreaminess of my dream

Exposes me to the truth of the morning
Leaves me afraid and unprotected
An unexpected apparition, adorning

the pangs of pain that I've rejected
Fills my thoughts with dread and fear
Reminds me of what I've long neglected-

The deterioration of my aging gear,
Tenderness, soreness, throbbing pain
The downward spiral throughout the year

That goes away and returns again
A messenger of great persistence
And messages with the same refrain

Listen to this simple tune
Today it rides in on a full moon.

Winter Ground

Winter Ground

All the necessary fine points
of harvesting and
churning the fallow ground
are completed.
Crop-free the bare earth
hibernates in a deep
winter's sleep.

The Perimeter of My Prayers

The Perimeter of My Prayers

I have sung the praises of the Lord
I have ventured into belief—and out of belief
I have out prayed the deepest religious soul

I have listened to the saints from deep grief
I have walked by the pauper begging alms
and looked aside like a common thief

I have raised doubts and felt my sweaty palms
when distant sounds, unfamiliar voices
floated in the air like ancient psalms

uttered not to save or give redeeming choices
or to once again forgive my sinful soul
with melodic refrains while the heart rejoices

glorifying some inner heavenly chord
I have sung the praises of the Lord

Sonnenizio (On a line from Wyslawa Szymborska)

Sonnenizio (On A line from Wyslawa Szymborska)

Maybe there are no fields other than battlefields
Forgotten fields of Cro-Magnon wars
Remembered fields of Gettysburg or bloody
Battlefields of Million-Man marches
Maybe the violent fields fertilize the future,
Forecast the folly of battlefields to come
Recapitulate fields of history, repeat
Stages of evolutionary battlefields
Persistent codas of adeste fideles
Maybe the field generals of tomorrow
Will figure out the battlefields of peace
To be whole or sole is not to be torn asunder
There are other fields than battlefields
Time to stash away the swords and shields

On Times I'm Not Myself

On the Times I'm Not Myself

I whiz down the mountain path,
a young man cycling boldly
on the old rail-trail, former
route of the Great Northern rail,
home of grizzlies, mountain lions,
trout-laden rivers and streams.
I crank over trestles bearing
old bridges like an ancient
steam engine chugging away
through old-growth forest redwoods.

I draw beautiful images
and paint exotic pictures
imagined from the comfort
of my seaside artist's lair.

I stride the final fairway
at Augusta with Tiger Woods
one stroke ahead for my first
Master's championship as I
inhale the fragrance of
fresh magnolias, consume
the buzz of the maddening
crowd cheering me to victory.

I write nonsensical verse
meant only for private eyes
and ears, discovered after
I'm gone to make some sense
and published after the fact,
etching my name in the book
of immortal and forgettable
bardic scribblers and sages

I catch and release the fish
of my dreams- old iron head
to spawn again, release genes
into the genetic pool-
ontogeny recapitulates
phylogeny, evolution

I stroll with you hand- in- hand
young lovers on a country lane
seeking a hide-a-way, our
secret spot, where desires find
fulfillment and dreams become
reality. Where trouble
disappears and what might have
been comes to fruition.

I become myself again
capable of inventing
dreams, escaping the now
reveling in imagination
celebrating the mind-
a most enchanting thing,
bright, like a rock star's bling.

Oops!

Oops!

I've come to realize
that most happy days are fraught
with fear interspersed within
our joy; jaded angst beneath
a smiling surface, the dread,
the trepidation of change
like a small rock pegged through
a kitchen window by an
unseen mischievous boy
shattering the tranquil bliss-
control beyond the reach of
human capability.
Just when things are going well
Shit happens in bunches.

3.14 Times the Radius Squared

“This ramshackle, this unwieldy, this jerry-built assemblage,

this unfelt always felt disarray: is this the sum of me,

is this where I'm meant to end, exactly where I started out?”…C.K. Williams

Alone, wending my way, seeking something

unguided, without a compass or a map

drifting parentless, an odd orphan out of step,

out of tune, out of luck, out of breath.

A wilderness trek to nowhere.

In my beginning is my ending spews

the sage. Full circle, my personal mandala

connecting the dots of one existence, one

small life, a speck of sand in a vast desert.

The circumference of a journey measured

in more than pi formulas, measured in sweat,

blood, tears, joy, laughter-a short jog

around the track of my being and I’m back

where I’ve begun.

Copenhagen Cycle Chic - Streetstyle and Bike Advocacy in High Heels

more about "Copenhagen Cycle Chic - Streetstyle a...", posted with vodpod

Dear Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. Clinton, et al

Dear Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. Clinton, et al

Trysts of politicians
Like those of day laborers
Are testosterone-driven
Not a betrayal of constituents
But raging libidos gone awry
Pheromones prancing like ponies
Easily enticing alter egos
Eager to ejaculate erratically
And deny ever having sex with
"That Woman".

Dolphins Will Sing

Dolphins Will Sing

Strong winds will come, and the breath of the sea,
and seagulls squawking with their voices off-key;
and fish in schools jumping around,
and untamed waves with a roaring sound;
dolphins will sing their favorite tune,
meeting their mates on a high-tide moon;
and not one aware of the war, not one
will care of a dying daughter or son;
not one would notice, neither fish nor sea
If human beings ceased to be;

All-Knowing

All-Knowing

The life my children lead
A hidden life-
Separateness I cannot share
Slightly underground, unaware
That I am here and there
Fully tuned to their despair
Omniscient parent in the air.

Jackson Lake/Tetons

Jackson Lake/Tetons
Originally uploaded by hombreciego

Jackson Lake with the majestic Tetons in the background is too breathtaking for words. God must vacation here!

Camping it Easy

me
Originally uploaded by hombreciego

Just about to enter Yellowstone NP from Grand TetonNP. Nice young couple took my pic and I took theirs.

In Midstream

In Midstream

I am thinking of rivers.
They are one of the things that I love
most in this world.
Many of them I have fished,
though many of the ones I have waded
produced nothing but memories.
The icy water of Yellowstone’s
Fire Hole River flows around me now.
Tomorrow she’ll be a memory like
the memory of the Rogue, the Madison,
the Missouri or the Deschutes- all waters
that have felt my waders, tasted my fly,
lifted my spirits, and sung to me.
Tomorrow the swift current
of another river will bless me,
baptize me in her roaring riffles-
connect me to all that have flowed
before and after her.
I listen to her tenderly.
She calls me with her music

Fireworks

Fireworks

Bursting in air
At the county fair
They give us pause
With oohs and awes
Wide-open eyes
And deep surprise
A lump in the throat
A chance to gloat
Bombs bursting in air
At the county fair
Rockets shooting high
On this Fourth of July
Light up the evening skies
Like beautiful fireflies

Aquarius, the Water Bearer

Aquarius, the Water Bearer

Haunted by waters, I
sense the spirit of life
lingering in each riffle.
Freedom to flow over
mainstream impediments
I am as the Chinook-
both fish and wind- thawing
the frozen pathways,
seeking warmth and sudden
death and renewal- “Rise
Up O Spirit, baptize
my soul with holy water.
Heal my pain, make me whole.
Cleanse me for the new run.
Warm my blood in morning sun.
Melt the frozen sea within me.

A Wild Plan (A Sonnenizio)

A Wild Plan (A Sonnenizio on a line from Mary Oliver)

Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Perhaps you will gather wild mushrooms,
ride the bulls in the Wild, Wild West,
travel the rails over the wildest landscape,
or chase wildebeests in the Kalahari.
Do you hear The Call of the Wild,
urging winds wilder then raging fire?
The vast wilderness of possibility,
a wild stretch of terrain without
civilizing influences. Wildness rages
like a roaring river in a wild, fertile mind-
flooding its banks in wildest splendor.
Do you embrace the wildness or simply surrender?

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.