My wife knows what a Dobsonfly is.
She tenderly plucks him
Off my fleece jacket
And coos how pretty
His red eyes are
Indifferent, he flies away
To mate and die.

The gas can can't stay in the car or the tents,
So it stays by the post where the lantern is hung.
It cools in the shade and the vapors condense,
'til the flat sides cave in,
And the gas can goes "Spung".

Then the sun slides around, and warms it anew.
The pressure increases like an inflating lung,
'til the roiling and boiling gaseous stew
Pops out the hot metal
And the gas can goes "Spung".

The day settles out and the night does abide,
The fire burns to embers and the last song is sung.
The wind in the holler cools down the tin sides,
The pressure drops off,
And the gas can goes "Spung".

Then, late in the night when the moon shines above,
And none but the whip-poor-will raises his tongue,
The silence is heavy and the air does not move,
No reason calls,
But the gas can goes "Spung".

Blue stilt bird in a tree
On the green
Promontory.
When he tired of the view,
He flew.
I, too
Flew,
Or, so it seemed,
In dreams.

She climbs
She leaps
And crashes
And climbs again
Such energy
She almost flies
Such courage
Til a manic scramble
Across a lap
A grabbed tail
This is a boy cat
Oh.
You can get him nuetered.

On the old promenade
Stands the last elm tree
At the end of a row
Or politically correct sprouts.

Breakfast in bed,
And idle pools,
And fountains spreading rainbows in the sun,
Which mostly shines.
An hour at the mill and back
Wiping the hands on tissue
That is never seen again
Perfect hands
Soft and White
For holding flowers
An island, not in the sea,
But in tumult.
A seawall weary and straining
Lamentations bitter and loud
Not from without
But within.

I saw a Muskellunge
Snap a tiny Loon
Out of its mother's wake
Leaving her to circle
The floating down
And cry
That primal cry
That echoes
Through the north woods.

Mars was bright that year,
And reflected off the lonely lake,
As red as the belly of my upturned canoe.
I stood naked by the lapping waves,
Washing off the stale bug dope,
In the smoke from my campfire,
(The mosquitoes, too, were bad that year.)
The accusing war-god eye
Looked up from the dark water
And asked
“What if you broke an arm out here?”

With apologies to Edgar Allen Poe.

Once, upon a weekend morning, while I slumbered, loudly snoring
After many a workday of quaint and forgotten chores
While I nodded, well past napping, suddenly there came a scratching,
As if the paint was gently stripping, ripping from the bedroom door.
“He’ll stop,” I muttered, “scratching at my chamber door.”

“He’s only bored, and nothing more”

Deep into my blanket hiding, there I lay in fear abiding,
Doubting, hoping I could sleep as I had ever slept before;
But the silence then was broken, and the door way, old and oaken,
Swung open as the clever kitty, made the lock a simple chore
And then my dreams were gone as are the winds of yester-yore

I knew I should have fixed that door.

Open then he pushed the doorway, then, with padded foot and whisker,  
In he stepped,  the ebon creature who I bought that cat food for
Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
But, like he who owns the household, perched above my pillowed snores —
Perched upon the feathered pillow which my sleeping bonnet bore —

Perched, and silently implored.

Then, methought, the cat grew braver, thinking of his breakfast’s savor
Poking at my sleeping visage, poking more, and more and more.
"Wretch," I cried, "the devil’s sent thee — a witch cat sent to leave me
No respite and no Nepenthe, but only the memory of the sleep I had before!
Let me quaff this kind Nepenthe and rejoin my final snore!"

Purred the black cat, "Nevermore."    

“Be that word our sign of parting, cat or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting —
As I threw him into the darkness of the Night's Plutonian shore.
“Leave my slumber unbroken!  Come you not with purr and pokin’
Take thy paw out of my nostril, and take thy **** right out the door!
Leave no black fur as a token, you eat at nine, and not before!”

Cried the black cat, "I like before."    

But that **** cat, never quitting, still is sitting, still is splitting
The recently repaired latex on my bedroom door;
And his eyes have all the burning of a feline that is yearning,
For the cat dish full of kibbles, sitting, sitting on the kitchen floor;
As my soul rose from the blankets, with a howling, futile roar:

Sleeping in on weekends — nevermore!

Do Seagulls have kings?
Someone to settle disputes
Over choice bits
Of floating detritus?
They don’t seem organized,
Balancing on the wind,
And Laughing

The melting snow
Reveals the ruins of my city,
Fills the *** holes,
And makes the heaved sidewalks
Into skewed mirrors
Reflecting the abandoned storefronts.
And the legislature just extended
Daylight savings time.
Again.

One hot and sultry summer night,
While the trees outside stood dark and still,
I tried to get my checkbook right,
At the desk beside my window sill.

One thing moved in the heat and damp,
The whispering of a hundred moths,
Trapped around the backyard lamp.
In pity, I went and turned it off.

They flew away and left me there,
Wishing that something, likewise, might
Free me from the musty air
That gathered around my dim desk light.

My old brass wind-harp, long un-tongued,
Gave forth a single, clarion chime,
From where it had, untroubled, hung.
A neighbor’s porch gave answering rhyme.

I turned to see the heat-lights leap
Between the towering thunderheads,
Which had gathered in the upper deep,
While I nodded, working, half asleep.

The boys were throwing poles
Like spears
To see who was the mightiest
I threw a pole too.
Even little John Dinky
That twit
Threw his pole
Farther than mine
And that has made
All the difference.

It hurt too much to cry for Mom,
But I had a fat old yellow Tom
Those days it seemed I never sat
Without that furball on my lap.
When I had to leave him at the vet
I wept
A funny fat old yellow cat
The straw that broke the camel's back.

Trees, so green and reaching high,
Staples twixt the earth and sky.
The branches hold the heavens down,
Even when the winds sweep round.
The roots which we think feed the tree,
Keep the ground from falling free.
If we had not these doughty ties,
Holding down the flighty skies,
Sun and dirt would rip apart,
Each their lonely courses chart,
And we would curse the name of God,
For not attaching sky to sod.

The young crusader sat
With stern jaw set
On the old pink couch
That was all they could afford
With her dark gentle head
On his lap
And watched Jack Benny
Before her trip
To the doctor.

The dam on the Grand Coulee
Was awesome
The wildflowers on the mountain
Were indescribable
So, according to the box
Were the crackers
I had for breakfast.

My wife rolls her eyes
When I point out another wind turbine
“Bird Shredders”
“Pork Barrel for guilty Liberals”
“Don’t they disrupt wind patterns?”
But
When I look up at a stately giant
Broadcasting infrasound across the plains
I remember my nose pressed against the window
Of a 1957 Pontiac
In Wisconsin
Yelling
“Windmill”
As we passed every farm
As my parents rolled their eyes.