The Reader
Experiences Text:
Tastes the corners,
Chews the middles,
Examines the ideas,
Turns them over and over -
Lozenges to be mulled.

Unique to each Reader
The Text must pass
Each Reader's senses:
His eyes,
Her nose,
Their tongues...
And so begins Digestion,
A complicated process producing
pleasant dreams in one,
Nightmares in another.
Soothing sleep for me
Dyspepsia for you.

Ideas have their routes to pass;
The dross is left behind or lost
And what remains is fiber to our souls
(To steal Walt Whitman's term).

The Author,
Having said
What is to Say,
Submits the Text
And Steps Away...

What's to be Read
Or Heard
Or Seen
Is Said and Done.

Then Comes the Fun.

The Reader
Ambles In shuffling,
Struggles In fighting,
Bumbles In stumbling,
Forges In determining,
Skates In gliding,
Rides In on a horse named Fluency.


The Reader wears the Text:
Tries it on for size,
Shrugs before Self's Mirror,
Stretches,
Shrinks,
Dyes,
Preens,
Thinks s/he sees the Whole,
But cannot even see the back
For lack of some connection,
Then ambles off to share
The Text with others.

Later, at the Readers' Circle,
Each wearer of the Text,
Each Poem Creator/Holder
Whose individual Poems differ
After putting on the Text,
Compare.
And though they twirl and dance,
Though they stretch and pose,
Though they must adjust,
No one wears the Text
The Same.

I know what you are thinking;
I know what you were thinking;
I know what you will be thinking
When your end comes.

When the end comes,
I will be waiting
To pull you through into
Always.

Wasn't it I who pushed you,
Unaware and blinking
Groggily into the light;
Wasn't it I who pushed you
Forward into Time?

What kind of man is this
To report his mother for begging him
To abandon hateful folly?

What son is this, so depraved,
Would shoot her in the public square
With jeering blood-seekers cheering?

What kind of god must this man seek,
To end the life of the one who gave him life,
To what end would such a god demand obeisance?

Perhaps a god this is,
Whose thirst for blood would raise
The dripping flags of war
And bathe the world neck-deep,
Up to the horses' bridles in gore,
But he's no god of mine.

This god is not the One
Who sent His only Son
To give His Life in the name of peace,
To save His friends and love His enemies.

This god is in rebellion,
Denying his own creation,
Lying to himself,
Reviling peace
Because it bears the image of
The One True God.

Enviously manipulating,
Beguiling the children of Eve,
Desecrating the human form,
Dividing the human race,
Heaping doom upon doom,
Calling damnation on himself.

Just up ahead is a trail
Where people seldom go,
Sidling down the gravel hill
Into growths of ash and birch and elm,
Thickets of wild plums,
Chokecherries, leaves turning dusty,
Verdant armies of stinging nettles
Protecting coveted stands of juneberries.

Bittersweet vines entangle aged elms,
Siphoning life, to produce four petaled reds
As summer goes down to autumn.

Leaving the wind above
To batter the old truck,
I descend into the silence,
Trees stand tall, but low
Below the breeze.

Down in this steep place
The wind cannot come,
The sun, when it finds its way,
Warms gently on the coldest day.

The spring my father dug
Before I was born,
Set into the weeping gravel hill,
Runs steadily,
Strong enough
To fill the battered tank,
To keep a goldfish or two alive,
To host strange crustaceans:
Tiny shrimp, just larger than ants,
Pebble crusted creatures
More insect than fish,
Frogs in the tank,
Toads out...,
Mosses and mud
Thirty years or more
At home.

Deer come to this tank,
On hot days or cold;
Coyotes, too.
Porcupines dine on treetops
Swaying quietly
A hundred feet below
Wild Montana winds.
Cattle in winter find life
In the quiet, constant water
Flowing here.

I am taken back
To a stifling July afternoon,
But cool here in this protected place,
Dragonflies floating
And cicadas sawing in the trees,
My mouth full of juneberries
As I circle my way,
Eating more than picking...
Coming face to face with a coyote.

Was he dozing?
Passing through?
Or, do coyotes eat
Juneberries, too?

We stop hard,
Stunned.
Then bolt in opposite directions,
My juneberries flying
From the milking pail;
His tongue between his teeth,
Tail low,
Feet flying into the brush beyond.

When Esther Smith and Stella Prue played a prank,
The community speculated who-dunnit,
Quirky, yes, and funny, too, the spinster pair created
Minor havoc in the town and were permitted,
By one and all to set the pace for jokes committed.
When Jebediah Olefson's oldest ward,
Tommy, and his girlfriend, MaryLou,
Moved in together, no one spoke a word,
At least out in the open, but the village knew
A prank to fit events would soon be witted.
One Sunday on their way to church,
Towns people passing by the couple's place
Beheld a sight to make the elders smirk.
A hundred diapers, white and in disgrace, were hung
Upon the couple's drying lines, a piece of work.
No surprise, the two were wed within the month.

It's Christmas 2015,
And I am here to ask,
When will you and I be younger,
When will we have more life ahead to live,
And if we don't choose to fully live right now,
When will we?

Life is a precious gift.
Hellish?
Yes, sometimes.

Wonderful?
Yes, often!

Beautiful!
Certainly, and ugly, too.

Look up from ennui.
Rise from the ashes of despair.
Take hold of Hope.
Seize Forgiveness.
Embrace Courage.
Stumble or Stride into Life.

Do you know there is a Savior
Who came as a poor babe
Through the ****** doorway
Of a ****** to set His mortal path
To the ****** doorway of the Cross,
In order to lead us through it to Joy?

To travel that path to Joy,
You and I must do only one thing....

Receive the free gift;
Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ...
And be saved.

The rest is the infinitive
TO LIVE!

Life in Christ is a struggle;
No secrets there,
But that Life is worthy
The Sturm und Drang,
And don't we all have
Sturm und Drang
Anyway?  

So, LIVE!

Merry Christmas!

The summer had come and gone,
And tomorrow, she was leaving,
Going back to the city to wait
The warming spring's returning.

At 88, she had decided it best,
Husband gone four years,
Two hips healed, but stiffening;
Ice forming on the ground
To keep her from walking;
Time to go back to the city to rest,
Hopefully to return when whooping cranes
V'eed north again in spring.

She'd packed her things
In two suitcases yesterday:
Simple clothes,
Her Bible,
A pair of shoes, or two;
Not much now,
No need.

She wondered if he'd do one thing
Before they drove away.

"My nails need a trim."

So, here he was,
Bent low to hold each foot,
To trim his mother's nails...

Memory, returned then,
Reversed four years
To this same chair,
In this same house,
His father struggling for air,
Needing help to dress.

He saw again his father's feet,
Frail and white and cool,
The nails long and needing care.

Embarrassed, the old man,
Despite the lack of breath,
Wheezed he couldn't bend
To reach his feet.

And the son had bowed then
To trim his father's nails,
And dressed him before
The three of them began the journey
From which only two returned.

And now, the week before Christmas,
The mother and her son,
Focused on the nail clipping,
Knowing certain chores,
However poignant,
Must be done.

A grey goose above me
Calls strident-high,
Alone and looking down,
While I walk toward the lake,
Looking up to find
His silhouette against gray sky.

We're miles from town
On a middling winter day,
Shortest hours of light
Within the year.

We two are lonely here.

Skies gray promise
Neither rain nor snow;
A warming wind is blowing;
Perhaps the silver skiff
Will melt again,
And let the grey flier in.

Where are his loved ones?
I'd like to know;
And why he flies alone,
Scanning from his skimming height,
And yet I think I know.

I used to hunt his kind,
To lie in wait beneath a blind,
And rise to meet
Descending flocks,
Wings set,
Until I knew
The goose I'd brought
To ground
And the goose above
Remained inseparable,
One mate for life,
Death do them part,
And after, live alone.

A chill is setting in tonight,
And I am heading home;
A fire and my wife waiting.

Some comfort as the evening ends
I hope the grey one finds,
In the company of friends...
I'd see he weren't alone,
If I could make amends.

Had they known the kind of man he was,
While he was retching
Into the oxygen mask,
EMTs might not have been surprised,
But they were,
When he tried to clean himself,
There in the life flight bay
As the rotors beat their way.

Stubborn to the nth degree,
Prouder man I never knew,
Fastidious in most his ways,
Embarrassed that a stranger
Should clean up his mess.

"I'll take care of it, Art,"
The flight nurse said,
"It happens all the time!"
He kindly lied,
And cleaned the old man's face,
And fit another mask,
And dialed the oxygen to full.

What he thought then, I cannot tell;
I hope he dreamt of going home,
Or heading to the barn another time,
Of being strong and well,
Or McKellar singing Handel's masterpiece;
I hope he felt a little wave of peace
Before he left his body, tough and old,
Before his mind felt coming cold,
I hope his final breath was a sigh
Of going down to sleep,
Of going down to gentle sleep.

He died...
Truck slammed into
An off-road approach,
Thrown clear,
Head folded back
To touch his spine,
Bruised and scratched,
But unable to breathe,
Unable to bleed.

No longer able to regret,
He made no attempt
To take a long look back....

No use reminding him
The futility
Of driving drunk,
Even in celebration
Of graduation;
No need to send
A congratulatory card...

No need.

The Monday after,
I stood in a classroom,
Hands upon the lectern,
Voice tense and low....

"Don't ask me to cry
At your funerals
When you die
This way....

"I spend too much
Life and love in my students
To waste my tears,
To howl in rage,
To whimper in disbelief,
To wrack myself with grief."

The class sat,
Numb as I...
Until they saw me
Cry.

These grumblers,
Enoch said,
Walk in their own desires,
Arrogant flatterers
Taking advantage  of others,
Attempting to divide the family of God
Because they do not believe,
Because they do not have the Spirit.

But you, the Body of Christ,
The Family of God,
Continue to build in holy faith,
Praying in the Spirit,
Keeping in the love of God,
Expecting the mercy of the Lord,
Jesus Christ,
Who gives us eternal life.

Have mercy on doubters;
Save others by snatching them
From the licking flames of Hell.

Fearing for others,
Have mercy for them,
Without allowing yourselves
To be made filthy,
Keeping yourselves
From being drawn into
Their addictions and their sins.

Glory, Majesty, Power, Authority
Are HIS forever:
Before time began:
Past, Present, Future,
And He is the only One able
To protect you from falling,
To provide you legs to stand
In His Glorious Presence.

He is the only One who makes
You blameless,
Who fills you with joy,
Who is able to save you
Through His Son,
Jesus Christ,
Our only Lord,
Now and Forever.

Amen.

Scoring at the genius level,
Never a thing he did
That was worthy of his high intelligence.
No teacher whose IQ could match,
No vocation and no calling
Worth the time to spend in college.
What could they teach him
Anyway he asked,
In his superior knowledge?

A depressing world to one so keen
And so he focussed inward
At his liver and his spleen
An alcoholic blizzard
To numb the boredom and the pain
Of such imperial wit
As years rolled by the bar door
He wanted none of it.

And now he's old and hasn't been
And likely isn't going to
Because a fool so long ago
Bowed low before his IQ.

Enoch, prophet of the Living God,
Enoch, walker with God,
Seven generations from Adam,
Prophesied,
"The Lord,
With thousands of holy ones,
Came executing judgment.

"All unjust and ungodly ones
Whose unjustified castigations
Against God Himself
Have reached His ears
Stand now in judgment."

Their motives are exposed;
Their grumbling arrogance,
Their cavilling fault-finding
No longer hide
Their flattering lies,
Their avaricious lusts.

They are exposed.

Beware!
Your love boat feasts
May smash upon the jagged reefs
Lurking among you,
Within your ranks,
Fearless, they lie,
Brooding and biding,
Content to feed on you
As you love everyone
In innocence.

Waterless virga,
These empty clouds
Promise and pretend
To be more than wind.
They are dry.

Thickets and groves
Promising fruit,
Their leaves will soon fall,
No nourishing yield
At all.

They are wild waves,
Unpredictable,
Huge and swelling,
Frothing with folly.

Stars, these wanderers,
Hurtling in their burning light,
Hell-bent toward
Oblivion.

Destroyers,
These blasphemers
Follow the path of Cain,
Jealous murderer;
******* themselves
Just as greedy Balaam,
Prophet for profit;
Will plummet headlong,
Following Korah,
Doomed leader
Of rebellion.

Senseless ones,
These men who mock,
These men who curse
The things they do not know,
The things misunderstood!

Animals plummeting,
They fall into dark desires,
Ignite devouring fires,
Ruining their own souls.

Knowing that you read my words,
My own words....
Consider my thoughts
Within time's moving context,
That you catch a glimpse of me,
From time to time,
Within the context of time.

The thought that you
Know me in some ways
Weighs heavy on me now.

Have you read enough to see me
Laughing or troubled,
Calm or aflame?

Have you glimpsed the coattails
Of Sunday, running
On ahead?

Have you seen me following
Hard after?

Can you see that I run on,
Convinced that
Though today is Friday,
Sunday must be coming?

You need to know
Fools live among you,
Fools,
Similar to the destroyed ones
Burned from the skies,
The people I'm speaking of
Dream on,
Living on dreams,
Filthify-ing  flesh,
Railing against law,
Railing against law enforcement,
Throwing off authority,
Ridiculing Highest Powers,
Despising Glory,
Expecting no judgment.

Not even Michael,
Michael the Archangel,
Battling the Devil,
Old Lucifer himself,
Potent in infernal might,
Would so presume.

Even Michael,
Trumpeter of God,
Mightiest of angels,
When disputing with the Devil
Over who would take
The body of Moses,
Was wiser than to curse
His infernal Opponent.

Instead,
He stood behind the Robes
Of the Most High,
And importuned,
"The Lord Himself rebuke you."

When a town goes bad,
It's a bad apple,
Wormy and unsound,
Unwholesome,
Spreading infectious pus
To towns nearby,
Until stench goes up
And out to Heaven.

****** *******,
Immorality,
Weakens and pollutes
The people,
Victimizes the weak,
Tears away civility
To strangers,
Be they men,
Be they angels.

Blight is cleared
From the orchard
By fire....

So ***** and Gomorrah
Went beyond the bounds,
Scoffed at external law,
Imagined no limits...
Were burned by
Falling fire.

No one names a village
***** now;
No cities named
Gomorrah.

A shibboleth,
The uttered names
Of two joined cities
Invoke wisdom
Invoke humility,
Invoke repentance,
Invoke solemnity
Before the tempting
Of  Almighty wrath.

I must remind you
That God delivers His own
People to safety,
And sends them
Into punishment.

Remember Egypt
And our ancestors,
Freed from slavery,
And then punished
For their unbelief?

Remember the angels,
So powerful,
Loaded with authority,
Some of whom even now
Are banished from His Glory
Into chains of *******
For their rebellion,
For their disobedience,
For their disbelief?

They now wait Judgment,
Tormented and waiting for torment...

I am writing to warn and to remind you, brothers.

Jude

Wishing to dialogue
About the joy of our
Shared salvation,
I must interrupt
The joyous conversation
To warn you.

Dangerous men have invaded
Your circle of faith,
Men who purpose
To corrupt the truth
Of God's free gift,
To franchise immorality
For their own profit,
To pollute the Sovereignty,
To deny the supreme Lordship
Of Jesus Christ
To deviate
For profit and profligacy.

I write to warn you.

Jude

Jude,
Brother of James
(subtext: brother of Jesus)
Servant of Jesus Christ,

Writing to all those
Who answered the call,
Who know the love of the Father,
Who are kept by Jesus Christ...
Know the Mercy,
Know the Peace,
Know the Love
Of Christ
In abundance....

A humbling thing, this,
To be the brother of James,
The half-brother of Jesus,
To realize only later
He'd been living next to God,
And then to choose the place
Of submission....
Of recognition....
Of protection....

Jude,
Knew Jesus to be good,
But totally overlooked
GOD Incarnate....

Until he saw...
And bowed humbly:
Accepting,
Respecting,
Trusting
All
To God Incarnate
In an older half-Brother.

Jude

Is upon me now:

Of plowed old corn
Turned beneath the soil,
Disheveled roots clawing at sky

Of seagulls, far inland,
Crying "Scavenge!"
Out on lonely fields,

And smoking brush smouldering
Useless now, for human needs,
Hazing a clouded sky,

Of chilling, two-wheeled rides,
The windblown miles rushing
Past towns and scattered farms,

Of fetid morning steam
Rising thick above the lakes
Hunters crouching,

Of calls rising from the mud,
Flaring foolish ducks
Swooping low to their own harvest.

We have not deeply thought
Just yet, of coming snow,
We, in this cloven spot in time;
While all around us
Leaves slip their summer greens,
To dress in colors bright,
While migrant birds begin to keen
For warmer, bluer skies.

I sense that Autumn has begun,
And I am discontent;
My garden's done its annual  run:
Potatoes, scarred and round are dug,
Tomatoes in and canned,
Nearly leafless, blood-red beets
Stand their pockmarked rows;
Onions dry in braided twists.

New Winter's not a long way off,
Though Autumn's looking bright,
And sadness makes impossible to doff
That "certain slant (our Emily once said) of light,"
So I must find a quiet corner soft,
And I must dream somehow...

Awake,
Asleep,
The scent of autumn
Is upon me now.

I rest my head.
No zombies march
Toward my bed,
And when I sleep,
Sleep like the dead:
No cause for fear
Nor dread.

At morning's light
I rise to pray,
Prepare my way
At dawning day,
Content to work
Another day.

Imagined terrors
Cannot climb
This life of mine,
For I am Thine,
And when my errors
You divine,
Forgive and cleanse me
For all time.

A perfect man,
I'll never be,
But I have put
My total trust,
O Lord,
In Thee.

Brahma
BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON
If the red slayer think he slays,
      Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
      I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
      Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
      And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
      When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
      I am the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
      And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
      Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

Never
Is the Vine
Closer to the Vintner
Than during
Pruning.

The day following Cawdor's capture
Was strange and grew stranger:
Relief from battle's end,
The weary ride's return.
Three witches in a fen
Pronounced Macbeth's sweet future  
Named him, "King," hereafter.

Their prophecy fazed him,
I think.

Aware their source could only be the Devil,
I queried them,
"Prophesy the future to my line."
Cackled utterances gave nothing to me,
Except the fathering of kings,
A promise I can only to leave to God.

Shrieking and smoking,
The hags evaporated
Leaving us shaking,
Alone in murky thought.

I obeyed, as much as I am able,
Macbeth's command
To leave the hellish messengers'
Words hanging in that fen.

Tonight Glamis has become Cawdor;
The day has trickled down to night;
I am out upon the battlements,
Too troubled now to sleep
While Macbeth snores, content.

He leaves to see his Lady in the morning.
King Duncan follows after
To celebrate the victory of Scotland,
To honor the bravest of his heroes,
The two-named Thane.

Here above the courtyard,
I pace beneath the tent of night,
As witches' words I mutter,
"And King hereafter."

Something is not right.

Hear me in my blue suede shoes
Moaning out the Internet blues!
Got no time for life outside!
I'm surfing the screen world here inside
Yeah, I'm surfing electrons and I'm lettin' life slide....

Man, I gotta get up....
Man, I gotta get up and go....
Man, I  gotta stand up....
Man, I gotta let the net go....
Cause this Internet surfin'
Is lettin' my good woman go....

Ohhh! I had a woman said she'd be mine,
Wooed her and made her my Valentine,
Forgot when I met her
Forgot her too wide
Let time and her good lovin' slide
Lost on the Internet side....

Man, I gotta get up....
Man, I gotta get up and go....
Man, I  gotta stand up....
Man, I gotta let the net go....
Cause this Internet surfin'
Is lettin' my good woman go....

Ohhh! I hadda wommaaan,
I had a womannn so fine,
But I done forgot about her
Surfin the Internet line....
Now she's gone to her mother's
And givin' somebody else time.....

Man, I gotta get up....
Man, I gotta get up and go....
Man, I  gotta stand up....
Man, I gotta let the net go....
Cause this Internet surfin'
Is lettin' my good woman go....

Old bucks eat late
Under harvest moons,
Leave the younger crowd
To chase the does
Before night falls,
And down they go
Before the hunter's bow.

Scarred and limping
They may be,
But old bucks are wise
To outlive generations
Of the young and strong
By patience
And by separation.

Eastern Montana prairies struggle
Too little rain,
Too much wind
Too much cold and heat.

In dire extremes
Living things have learned
To live a life of second chances,
Save some seeds from sprouting,
Produce more than can be used,
Find a quiet shelter from the wind to grow,
Never stand too tall against incessant wind,
(There's certain strength in being small)....

A cactus revels quietly in scarcities,
Flowering briefly,
Concealing water in a leather skin,
Resting in spiny clumps
Of resilient solitude.

Blue grama grasses
Curl toward the earth,
Decline the luxuries of height
To put on seed,
And stand in wiry toughness
Moving beneath sun and wind.

A weathered look befits exposure to the elements;
Gnarled branches speak the will to live;
Grasses, brown and speckled mark desperate thirst;
Frays and fissures delineate wins and losses
Against passing time.

Patience endures the ravagers' scorn.

Alicia,
Brynde,
Braden,
Kate,
This one's for you,
My children....

Alicia came upon a wish,
Surprise, surprise!
Our lives could never be the same,
Bright and pretty,
Intelligence to stun....

Brynde followed within two years
To join her sister,
To make life full,
A way with Daddy's heart,
A feisty soul,
And willful charmer of bees.

Braden's entrance brought me joy,
To join me as our only boy,
A melancholy son at times, but sharp
At math and quick debate,
Able bodied little man now tall and strong,
I am so glad you came along.

When Katelyn joined our band of five,
We both were stunned, and yet the joy
You brought us with your winning smiles,
Your brains and voice and dancer beauty
Cannot be measured, can't be bought.

As I am growing old, I've cried my share of tears,
I've laughed and raved and mourned the years,
I thought my work was in another place away
From you, my bonnie bairns, but as the years come on,
I must give thanks for you...each one,
And count myself a man so blessed
To have four children safely born,
To have a loving wife,
My only love, and Mother of you all.

When your children
Near berserk us;

When the maitre de
Would disapprove;

When the pastor
Stops the service

To ask your cut-ups
To stop and move,

I shrug my shoulders.
Don't grow nervous...

I buy, of course,
Though they don't deserve it....

When the ice cream vender
Tries to serve us....

Not my monkeys!
Not my circus!

We are Children
Of earth and water.
We are reminded
We are of the elements
In our entries,
In our farewells.

We're walking as the sun begins
Its morning rise behind the trees
Just past our house
Joe and I,
Pond on our right,
Cars to the left,
Hill path curving
Up and out of sight.
Morning smells,
The call of geese,
The morning voice of robins,
Cars rushing,
Loud and soft and loud.

Our morning walk,
The route we know...
And the routine.

We do not talk, he and I,
Alone in our heads,
He with his man,
I with my dog thoughts.

This path is the path of years,
Slower now,
Still connected with a leather leash,
We stroll convinced of nothing
But the need to walk.

This morning's different, though...
Joe stops halfway up the morning hill,
Houses and our house below...behind,
Says, "Tuck, old boy,
Should we change this time?"
Stoops to look into my eyes,
Unsnaps the leash...
To my surprise.

His smile lets me see
That I am free.
"No need, I think," he says.

I turn and look back
Toward our house,
Think of geese now standing
On the dewy grass,
Observe the sunlight
Glisten on the stand of corn
Beside us,
Remember past enticing smells
Along the way....
A rabbit scent invites me
Off the path to stray....

Joe's moving now,
On up our hill.
I am standing on the path,
A little shocked and still.

A younger dog would run,
But habit's set its track;
Our mutual walk lies up ahead,
So, faithful now, I move
To walk beside my Joe,
Content to travel with a friend,
And let the running go....

I barely woke this morning...
Could hardly get up.
My head was fuzzy,
and my nose was running....

I grabbed a hanky.

"What's wrong with you?"
My sweetheart said,
"You feeling janky?"

"Allergies," I paused.
"Nothing too swanky,"
And blew my schnoz
Into a hanky.

We've come to August
And late summer sun;
The apples hang robust;
The garden's almost done.
It's time to go and have some fun,
And now my nose decides to run.
The ragweed and the goldenrod
Fill up the air with pollen pods.

I'm gettin' cranky feeling janky!
I will thank ye to hand me a hanky.

Janky!

Has arrived.
Silent rows stand breathless,
Sweating in the dense heat,
Of August.

Blackbirds do not yet circle;
The sheaves are still too young,
Kernels burgeoning sweetness,
Hiding from the ravagers
Soon to come.

The tall field, burdened in the heat
Broods over tassels brown,
Ripens corn beneath a yellow sun,
Waits the pickers' marauding hands,
The tractor-roar of silage foragers,
And relentless tearing of plows.

Just when there was nothing more to say,
Just when I figured we were ending,
And rose to put the dishes all away...

You stuck your head inside my door,
Grinned that dumb old grin you've grinned before,
Said, "There's reasons why I've been so long;
Been working on a brand new song,
But skip all that and let's go out to play!"

Just when I was sure that you'd forgotten,
Just when I was making other plans,
Just when I'd called you something rotten...

You dropped a dozen roses In my hands,
Expecting me to forgive you all your crap,
Said, "Come on, Honey, I'm a sap;
Come on baby, please don't slap;
Let's go take another lap!"
And jitterbugged us out without my cap.

Just when I knew you were a *******,
Just when I knew that I'd been played,
Just when I bought an airplane ticket
To take me up and carry me away....

You proffered me a diamond ring;
You took my breath and made me sing,
You promised me another fling;
You set a date and were not late,
And then you heard me say,

"You made me wait, you made me pine,
I can't say now that we'll be fine,
But Lover, make it right this time!
You listen now and listen fine,
Can't stop my pout with vintage wine....
So think a while, and then start humming,
"If my lady's waiting, I'll start running!"
And if you're late from time to time,
You're never gonna hear me whine,
If you let me know just why and when,
And don't leave me wondering again!"

Two Frenchmen,
One newly retired,
One still a few years out,
In high back leather chairs
Beside an empty fire place,
Guinness & coffee & conversation
To bring closure,
And to think how to begin again....

"I'm burned out!"
Mssr. Rivere declares,
"Away with books;
Away with the horn!"
He says, and I can tell,
That he feels worn.

Is this how we come to our ends;
Spent in years and worn of halls,
Chalk and marker memories,
And the clattering of chairs....
Old opening lines, closing remarks,
Grading done and logged,
And now it's out we're turned
To walk upon the parks,
Once quicker steps now trudging
Up and down the eternal stairs?

Memories' mellowed now,
And sometimes failing;
Shall we go sadly sighing,
Or do we go out flailing?

At these crossroads,
Care-worn teachers,
Revert to old philosophy,
To faith, and to our friends...
Ancient lines to lead us
Too soon to be old men....

Must look all ways, we,
Then venture out again
To see what lies beyond
The pasts we leave behind;
Take pause this afternoon
Upon the marge
Of journeys new
We must begin.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

On another note:
Rocks worn small form other stone,
Melted or crushed or aggregated
Into rock, again;

Trees from ash piles rise,
Requiring heat...
Seedlings released from cones,
Redeem the land in time.

Lakes do evaporate,
Their empty cups await
Rain or swelling springs
To come again.

"Hope is the thing with feathers,"
Our lonely Emily said,
And I hold fast her words,
When all seems dead.

Peace and Encouragement to You!

Doesn't need us,
Wasn't lonely,
Knew the future,
Saw the way,
Past Death,
Chose to act,
From perspective
Of Perfection....

We
Need Him,
Are lonely,
Uncertain of tomorrow,
Face imminent immolation,
Are powerless,
In desperate need
Of perfection....

Needing Grace,
Needing Mercy,
Demanding Justice,
Heaping Dooms
Upon our heads...
Unaware, we see
Only our current needs,
Ignoring our helpless state,
Created beings,
Deny the Creator,
Deny the Savior
Who decided before Creation,
To take our place
When Death arrived.

Or

We acknowledge
We are created beings,
Desperately in need,
No other way past
The Curse into which
We are born,
And throw
All hopes,
All trust,
Entire,
Upon the God
Who made us.

A hundred souls have now been called,
Finalists for the one way trip to Mars;
They wait again for numbers to be culled
So they can take a place among the stars.

Knowing they can not return,
Still they choose to feel the thrusters burn,
The first to leave their mother, Earth
Prodigal children, these, their birth to spurn.

And so they wait while science catches up
To give them air and food and liquid sup,
Suspended on their way so they can stand
In thinner air and orange rock and arid sand.

The universe, expanding as it goes, for Earth
Waits patiently as we climb the ladder to the sky
To test the science and find an astral birth,
The outer limit of our human quest for why.

And when we stand some day on rocky Mars
Dissatisfied, we'll look out past old Sol
Peering out for paths to other stars,
The restless quest still burning in our souls.

To all of us:

Those for peace and those who war,
The healthy and the ill,
The satisfied and those who beg for more,
The pauper and the millionaire,
The valley folk and hill,
The ****** and the *******,
The husband and the John,
The mother and the father,
The daughter and the son,
The rake and lonely celibate,
The lion and the lamb,
The quiet and the loud...
Some day will reach the quest...
Rest will come to all of us
Somewhere between the cradle
And the shroud.

I'd suffer four long years
Before I set a letter on the page...
I'd sob a hundred times,
Waking from repeated dreams of you,
The daughter I have lost,
Running into my arms, and
Our tears mingling
Over the wasted years,
Only to realize that dreams
Are only dreams
To remind me of my longing,
Not yours.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd tell you that sorrow cuts me still,
Even though my heart is turning stone,
That parts of me are fading out to gray...
That family isn't whole while one of us is still
Away.

If I were to write you a poem,
I'd say the old stool you loved
Stands waiting,
Your handwriting still claiming it
As yours,
Though you have left it here
These years.

But how shall I write a poem
When the leaves of spring are glittering,
And when meadowlarks are singing,
And work calls me out to take the agony away?

Perhaps in fall,
When leaves begin their grim descents,
And winds drive chilling clouds of gray,
As mournful sounds of geese in southern vees
Cast gloom upon the dwindling days,
Perhaps in fall I'll take my pen,
And try to write a poem for you
Again.

I drove four miles this evening
Down the road to see the miracle
Of pastures greening.

They'd come to life this Spring
To lick the rivulets of melting snow,
Lichens before wild grasses, glistening,
But then a blistering summer blow
Came to patch their roots.

Just last week a quarter inch of wet
Fell from a Treasury on high
To tell the famished carpet,
"Wait a while! Storm clouds are nigh!"

And yesterday a full wet inch
Of heaven's grace and mercy flowed
From the billowed Throne's high bench
To rally grassy supplicants to grow.

Tottering across her farmhouse floor,
Fixing breakfast,
Baking muffins,
Frying liver and onions,
Caring for her "boys";

Sitting on her purple walking chair,
Asking how the cattle are,
And what I'm going out today to do;
She's crippled up, but she's not through.

She barely has the "oomph" these days
To lift her legs into the truck,
Her body hunched over,
Head barely at the window level,
To ride to town to see the doctor
Or go to church and wait
While I shop and run my errands,
Before we head back home again.

Things move slowly now as time grows short;
The walker crawls across the floor;
Simple tasks become her tedious chores,
But still she cooks and cleans between short naps.
She worries more, but I have watched her praying,
Sitting by her bed, hair up in a cap,
Squinting hard to read her Bible,
Lips moving as she goes to prayer...
My name and many others whispered there.

Gray skies upward fling
In the vap'rous breath of Spring
Melting mounds of snow
Trickling rivulets slow

Lines of feathered travelers
Nature's hope inspiring harbingers
Vee Northward o'erhead
Calling high and loud and long
Their ceaseless journey song.


Houses buried far below
Including the one we own
Beneath the weight of heavy snow
Crack complainingly and groan,
Wait with unknowing strain
Warm sun's shine to own.