Frogs croak against the growing dark;
Loons call loneliness into my soul;
Chill invades me in sudden falling dew.

Time has rounded in the world of men;
The winds blow hard toward Anarchy,
While raving sailors hoist their leaking sails
To gather, jubilant upon the floods.

Howlers peer into the burning winds
Seeking ****,
Spread indignant fire,
Seeding hate,
Burned with desire,
Drowning protesters
Die between tides,
No chanters chanting peace,
No aspirant hope of love,
The baby's in the gutter with the bath;
When mobs exhibit wrath.

Tear old history from dusty shelves,
Forget true hymns that honored God,
Forget the tired Truth,
Or rather Truth of which we tired;
Rules now only Chaos,
Fervent fuel of howling mobs.

Riot in the streets;
Ride the lawless swell,
No plan for reconstruction,
No lessons from the past,
No vision for the after glow;
Discordant voices chanting
On the ****** road to hell.

Yeats proclaimed the Second Coming
Must surely be at hand between World Wars,
Yet still the Second Coming holds its fire,
While ranters tear the old ways down,
Dictators ratchet missiles toward the skies,
And our leaders twitter platitudes and lies.

"If it rains
While the sun shines,
It'll rain again tomorrow,"
Dad said,
Toting a post driver
And a steel post on his strong shoulders,
"Might as well finish this job."

I groaned under his tirelessness,
Grudgingly admired his grit,
Unwillingly followed,
Lugging posts and wire
Down gravel cactus slopes
Into green poison ivy ravines.

June sweat replaced the summer shower,
And black flies plagued us.
I can still hear him sputtering, "Jupiter!"
Can see him under the sun, leather gloves flailing
Clouds of gnats or mosquitoes,
His brown skin glistening.

I would have given nearly anything
To have been away from there,
Roaring down a gravel trail,
Motorcycle spewing clouds,
Carrying me away from chores,
From Dad's incessant stories,
His impromptu songs,
His admonitions about money,
About weather, about cows,
About anything but fun.

"If it rains while the sun shines,"
And all I could do was look for excuses
To be away,
To run away,
To hie myself away....

All those years are gone,
The work in the rain and the sun,
The exhaustion of following a man
Who never seemed to tire,
Wishing I were away.

He's not here or there or anywhere.
His ashes lie a couple of feet down
In a prairie grave marked  by granite,
Set in concrete my brother and I hand mixed
Beneath a hot June sun,
No rain in sight,
Nothing but high clouds and a steady wind,
Ready to ******* back East,
Away from these gravel hills,
And I am reluctant to leave.

Have you ever committed a sin
Again and again and again

Where it becomes a part of who you are
Scar upon scar upon scar

You started out asking forgiveness
Feeling sorry like nobody's business  

Until it knocked on your door once again
And you let it come waltzing back in

Hating the time that you give it
Wondering why you can't quit it

You battle it so many times
Is this fast forward or is it rewind

Like a comfortable recliner set up in the den
You start to relax around the same sin

Thank goodness there's no film at six
Showing the shame of this over used sin

Like a cancer that clings to the bone
A sin that won't leave you alone

Wretched man that I am
Who can save me from this over used sin

Thanks be to God, who delivers me
Through Jesus Christ who sets me free

In final autumn heat,
Two weeks after apple picking,
The bushel baskets sag,
Laden with the summer's pickings.

Growing sadness clings to me.
I sort the dead and dying
From the thinning lot,
Fearing loss of all to rot.

The first to go,
Soft and brown,
Nearly fall apart,
Require gentlest touch;
Dripping cadavers
Leave healthier neighbors
Wet, in danger of early death.
In separating them,
I hold my breath.

On spotted skins I then
Must concentrate;
Look for inner decay:
Sagging indentations,
Fallen stems;
Hollowed caverns
From bird bites and beetles;
The evidence of worms'
Varicose trails, faintly brown,
Just visible beneath the skins,
Revealing company within.

My eye looks inward first, then out.
I know what this malingering's about;
The cankers that I seek may find me out.

Hesitation clouds my separations;
I wonder what a paring knife might do
To save some portion,
To spare the summer work
Of apple trees.

I wonder, does the apple
Dread the knife, considering strife
As much as I, when I confess my sin
And writhe beneath the penance
My sinning puts me in?

Classes start today; summer's met its end,
The books lie waiting once again upon the shelf
To share the lie that education is the path for everyone
To happiness and wealth.

Those who will and those who won't succeed
File in and settle down, day one,
Segregated, aggregated in their rows of need,
Stamped by labels and by scores.

The gauntlet lies before them:
Papers, deadlines, speeches, tests
To find the laurel winners.
And to **** the needy rest.

"Success is counted sweetest by those who ne'er succeed,"
Old Emily once said, and she'd be right to say it once again
About the battlefields in every school I've been.

This fall I'm taking time to hear
My students' goals and dreams,
Their challenges and hopes,
To say "I see you with my eyes."
I hope to see their hopes arise.

The race is to the steady, Aesop said,
The plodders beat the plotters in their way,
If we who have the gate keys in our hands
Encourage strugglers to stay.

Invades the finite,
When IMMORTAL
Usurps the mortal,
When OMNISCIENCE
Hovers over finite sentience,
The mortal man I am senses
TRANSCENDENCE,
Stirs uneasily,
Shudders uncontrollably, or
Rises, silently in bliss,
Unable even with a literate mind
To ask, "What meaning lies in this?"