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.

Were I given a life to return
To hold again my newborn son,
I'd take time to be present,
Really "there,"
Beside, behind him,
As he learned to run.

Instead of the tower on the hill
I tried unsuccessfully to be,
I'd walk beside him on the path,
Reminded of my boyhood memories;
I'd leave the sermons to the priest and be the dad.

I'd get us shovels,
Deep to dig our conversations,
Embrace the work and sweat and look for more,
Pick and bar our way to Rock,
Drill and blast our anchors to the floor.

Before the storm surge of his teenage years,
I'd strive to see strong footings were in place,
Weld strong the structures while the girders rise,
Pray the work would stand the weather's cruel face.

The past, now present has me chilled;
The distances are lost in haze;
What I see now from my distant hill
Reveals broken structures to be razed.
God grant us time to renovate and fill
Remaining years to bring Him praise.

He had always assumed that when his parents died
A kind of freedom would commence
For him to grow into what he could become,
But when his faher passed, unexpected,
His shock to realize the opposite was great,
And left him feeling numb and naked,
Weak and unprotected.

That he should realize his own mortality,
And the imminent farewell coming for himself,
And the sad goodbyes to other journeyers,
So gripped him then,
And robbed his sleep by bringing waking dreams:
Conversations with his father's silent ghost,
Worries of adequate preparations,
(What to leave behind, what to send ahead),
And desires to make some sort of difference,
So troubled his poor head
As to take the deepest sleep,
The kind he'd had whilst father was alive,
And leave him morning-tired and troubled.

Seeking solace for losing a life once charmed
With parents well and family whole, so tempted
Him to seek relief in revels far from depths-plunged grief,
That for a while, he lumbered on,
A wanton, seeking temporary pleasure
Who barely stopped to measure
The flying moments of his sordid life,
The cost of temporal flights with no intended destinations,
The emptiness of purpose-empty avocations,
The fruitless pursuits of mindless gratification.

But now he sits,
Back up against a lonely bedroom wall,
Violin and orchestra his late night companions,
Taking stock of where he's been and where he's bound,
Thinking deep and praying some,
Wondering what the waning mornings left to him will bring.

Lonely, he has become a different man,
Humbled in his un-sought and once-denied mortality,
A peace-begging supplicant beneath a tired moon,
While ancient winds blow ancient dust around
Outside his open window,
Just as they did while his mother moaned
Fifty years and more ago
Out on the dry land farm where he was born.

Father's Day 2015 in Charleston, SC

When the murderer goes numb,
Thinks actions imply no consequence,
No need for forethought,
No heaven to approve nor disapprove,
No yearning hell to shun,
The act of killing becomes amusement,
A way to unsettle the ennui.

Drape a twisted mind in a Confederate flag,
Lace every thought in outrageous racism,
Give time and means and venue...
Turn the other way as percolating HATE
Photographs himself burning the Nation's flag,
Cradling symbolic rebel colors,
Proudly displays the vestiges of apartheid,
Rants villainy on the web,
Mind sick, and gifted with a gun...
The perfect recipe is prepared
For hellish fun.

Indoctrinate
This weakened mind,
Stir in a diatribe or two,
Look the other way,
Avoid the warning signs...
And wait...
Hope for the best,
Don't intervene...
We'll see results again
That we have seen....

The pastor greeted him at the door,
Invited him to join the Bible study.

Sitting through the heart-deep prayer,
Embraced by kindness as a stranger,
He chose to follow through,
A snake in the house of innocence...
Firing and reloading...
A coward's calculated act
To incite rage,
To challenge Haters everywhere
Race war to engage....

Looking into the killer's eyes,
Survivors speak of deadness:
No emotion, no elation, no remorse....

And so on Father's Day,
I weep and pray
For brothers and sisters
I have not met,
Mourning the dead (in Christ),
Who died at Mother Emmanuel.


(On Father's Day, 2015)

She was the only Non-Native
On staff in a parochial school,
Reservation in Montana...
The school nurse,
Working in her office,
Fighter of colds and flu,
Coverer of scrapes and bruises,
Pre-medicine expert...

A little girl stopped in to say,
"You gonna come to Mass today?"

"No, I'm a Protestant,"

Just then another student walked in:
"You going to Mass?"

"No! She's a *******!"
Said girl one.

And so it goes....

Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.

"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young  plants
So the rest can grow."

I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....

The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.

Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....

Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....

Then come the standardized tests,
The  team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...

The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.

Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't  thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."

These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....

British soldiers,
Trained her for war,
Slunk through these vines,
Machete-hacked jungle trails,
Stumbled through tangled heat,
Discovered torturous needles
Of the dusty ******* Tree,
Cursed the stinging pain,
Attempted cures for naught.

Belizean allies revealed
The *******'s secret:
Within the sap
Beneath the needled coat:
Analgesic antidote.

So it is the "Give and Take" poisons
Then takes the curse away...
Solutions sometimes lie
Just beyond our pain.

My Girl,
My Melody,
I love you!

I know I tell you regularly,
But being here with you
Reminds me how precious
You are.

Time is growing down;
I cannot get enough
Time with you....

We are not in Corozal
For waves and sun,
For lying out beneath a tropic sky.
Instead I see you sitting on a stool
Reading stories to children,
Sans makeup, sans decoration,
Sweat beads your forehead  
As you puff a ringlet
Of hair from your eyes
While beautiful children,
Mesmerized,
Enjoy your reading.

You have flown so far to be
A teacher and a friend
To others whom you've never known,
To forego the safety of our home,
To listen to the children,
Though we have our own...

So, I am watching you with different eyes,
Seeing inward beauty outward shine...
Praise God above that you are mine.

Surprise me!
A sink,
A toilet,
A shower,
A plastic can to leave soiled paper
A cup to pour water
On my sweaty self...
I am eight again,
Homesick at summer camp,
Stuck powerless in time.

Unlike the ones I know,
Sing beautifully,
Vigorously,
Unapologetic-ally,
Eight different songs,
Awaking me before light,
Before the rising heat of Corozal.

When you whisper close,
My hair rises...
I get the chills...
Feel thrills...
I'm in first grade again,
That first crush feeling...
And frowzy-headedness comes reeling...
Delicious ticklings up my spine
Sidetrack me for a little bit,
Like that first glass of wine....

I even lose my place,
My bookmark I can't find...
Should have folded down the tip....
Doesn't  matter...
I think I'll let my reading slip...

The clock was protected from change in your house.
No Daylight Savings Time admitted to your routines.
We who bordered your life had to adjust or miss you.
Your farm the antipodes of ours...straight and neat,
Everything where it ought to be,
No duplication or mess....
A feast for my order-hungered eyes.
I had not yet learned of obsessive-compulsiveness;
I only despised my father's clutter,
His refusal to wear time upon his wrist,
His stubborn old World ways.

I shoveled barley half a hot and muggy day
To load your truck,
Emerged tired, covered with dust,
Raging in a million itches
To receive fifty cents
"To take your girlfriend out."
Most ungrateful, I chafed,
Told anyone who listened...
But now, I smile,
Wishing my labor had been a gift.

I fell in love with John Deere tractors, gleaming green,
Colored television,
Fresh paint, white and red,
Because of you
Standing in striped Osh Kosh bibs,
Penultimate farmer.

Lydia, your wife,
Danced to the metronome
Of your orderly life,
Escaped only in Harlequin novels
Stacked by her chair.

Until the day everything changed,
Pink drool trailing from your mouth,
Gears grinding as you lost
The memory of clutches,
Tractor care,
Crops to plant be ******...
A stroke was taking down another man.

A Saturday we moved your wife to town
Near where you convalesced;
Monday, the Baptist preacher found her.

You ordered mahogany, rich and prime,
For us to bid your Lydia farewell,
Then followed, true to form,
Within the month covered in oak,
Wheat sheaves bedecking the heavy lid.

Inlaid and waiting, you rest,
Ready for the coming harvest.

A fluff of feathers
Black and white,
Hide the scrawny scavenger
Whose "Rick, Rick, Rick!"
Identify some place of death,
This careful bandit's visiting.

He leaves outright robbery
To his cousin jay,
And flits,
One disaster to the next,
To see how he may capitalize.

Dead carrion, his usual fodder...
Yet one subzero winter day
I saw a magpie perched
Upon a shivering cow
Belly deep in snow, and
Chilled in minus 30 air,
Peck-scratching through a healing scab
And pulling living flesh away.

Carl didn't finish school
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke
Seeing suns rise and fall
Living under the weather
Freezing or sweating to the season
Reading the wind
Cursing the heat that brought migraines
Smoking Salem cigarettes

Alone in his bunkhouse
With his regrets
Three meals a day with us
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Neighbors left, but Carl stayed.
One day I asked him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," was his reply.

I asked him why.

"Because I tested as a border-line *****."
At 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the damage of labels,
But now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
the capacities of a man,
And labels shackle,
They fail to see or know
The genius in a Carl.

They didn't stop to think
What gifts he had
Nor had they seen
The perfection
Of his creations
There on the bunkhouse table.
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.

A plain woman in a checkered dress
Trapped on a windy hill with a man whose every thought
Was crops and cows and bad weather coming,

You cooked every meal on time,
Served lunches exactly
When the hands aligned.
At the stroke of noon.

You drove "flagger,"
Moving trucks and tractors
From field to field,
Raised two boys and two girls...
Buried one in shock and disbelief;
And then moved on.

I know your secret.

On that swept-neat farmstead
Under the green roofs
Beside the red barn
In your white walls,
The rational order,
The unnatural neatness
Belied you.

Lydia,
Woman of the Romantic Heart,
You of the secret desire and passion...
Beside your chair in that sparse house
Stood a stack of novels,
Romance in easy reach,
An escape from harsh reality.

Ahhh.
The stolen moments!
The bliss of passion!
Handsome strangers ready
To rescue you from wind-blown land.

What guilty ecstasies you stole
Came five miles from the post office,
Ninety-five cents a copy,
Wrapped in brown paper,
Tucked in a galvanized milk pail.

The usual crew down at Mary's Cafe,
Slurping coffee over hash browns and eggs,
Weather too nice now for comments.

Bill clears his throat to say the grass is getting long,
And the pastor was out mowing yesterday.
"I tried to get my old Sears mower running,
But no go," he griped. "Took it to the shop."

Tom cleared his throat and looked at Bill.
We all knew what was coming.
Tom prides himself in handy manning,
And waxes on and on to us poor fools.
"Did you clean the plug?"
"Was your filter clean?"

Bill was in the hot seat now,
And we were being entertained.
"I checked 'em both, that wasn't it,"
Said Bill. "It don't make sense,
'Cause it was running
When I put it in the shed last fall!"

Tom chortled then, an expert in his glee...
"Well, then it's obvious, Bill!
If it was running when you put it in the shed,
It's out of gas!"

At that point, I burned my mouth,
Spit hot coffee on my food, and gasped for air.
I wouldn't miss these breakfasts for the world.

Near frost early morning,
Packed bags squeezed
Into the old Oldsmobile,
Ready to leave for college.

I kissed my mother,
Said good-bye,
Held her tight.

My father passed us,
Moving over stones,
Carrying two buckets
On his way to cows
And milking.

I couldn't see his face...
Had no idea.

"Art, are you going to say good-bye?"
I heard my mother say.

The words arrested him.
All movement stopped.
Shoulders hunched,
He slowly set the buckets down.

Turning was agony,
I saw,
As though his efforts
Somehow jarred the world,
Disrupted natural order, and
Acknowledged chaos come at last.

Forty years later,
I still see my father's face
Coursing silent tears,
And watch his shoulders shake.

Then we embraced,
We two,
And both were torn
With my leaving.

I knew with certainty
My father's love
That morning,
Leaving home.

To see this old man shaking here
In rage at boys whose apple-throwing jeers
Reduce him to impotent rage and tears
Is to know Odysseus, home from Troy,
Battle spent, no Cyclops left to blind,
And no more Stygian puzzles to unwind.

The threats he hurls are hollow stones
Coming now from a man whose bones
Once cracked beneath a decking plank
As Scylla searched with serpent heads
For men to crush and swallow, dead,
But ***'dy now remains to save the day.

The hapless tree whose apples green are peltering his home
Is now an oar, pole-planted tall a thousand miles ashore
As penance for the years of taunting gods of wave and foam,
And boys be savages unaware of what an apple's for.

A coat poses on a peg … waiting;
The newspaper lies beside the chair;
A hammer on a nail is hanging,
The sad-eyed dog, jowls sagging on his paws;
Looks tired, but does not yawn.
Chores waiting at the barn….

A caller rings to ask to speak to Art.

Any evidence that he is gone can bring
A flood of memories and tears,
Fitting response, I think, as part of noting
That cleaning up is difficult this spring.
No hurry now, to set the whole world straight;
We’ll get to work, or work can wait.
Dad is away - won’t be back, early or late.

I am, this morning, haunted by my father’s ghost.
If you would ask me now what’s sore,
I’ll tell you my heart hurts most
To see his worn old boots waiting by the door.

(April 6, 2012, DB)

Plato, Socrates, Glaucon
sat and talked
about a chair and bed,
Discussing
What was real and
Was not.

"The originals
Are safe
With
God."

"Anything after's
Imitation;
The Carpenter
Creates a representation
Of the Real
But never duplicates,
And in some way
Honors the Original."

"The problem lies
With poets whose ideas stray
In artful Imitation,
Sort of a third-hand
Bit of Gossip
About Truth."

"In a perfect world,
Original thoughts
Exist only the mind of God
And artisans create
One-off visions of
The Prime."

"To stay near Truth,
Let's banish poets
And their poems
And create the
Ideal Republic."

then ee cummings
sauntered in -
said - boys
i see a universe
next door
Lets g o o o o!

Glaucon shook his head,
Took *******'s arm
And followed Dada
Off the stage.

She said
Or someone will
Notice
Not us
Will notice
Just others
Are dancing

We should go
She sighed
Or someone may
Go
And not us
Without
Notice.

So,
We went
So
We danced
And everyone else
Noticed
Not us
But the lonely
Old women and men...
Chaperones, silent,
Eagle-eyed, standing
Un-moving, remembering youth...

While we danced.

Across a dry plain,
Heat shimmering,
Blur-ring in my mind...
Lost track of reason, lost my rhyme...
Rhythm gone to plodding,
Clodding on the burning flats,
Dust-deviled and limping over thorns.

Mountains are my only vision,
Forcing aching feet,
Tugging creaking knees,
Coaxing lungs, air parched
To breathe, to wheeze
Toward supernal heights,
Valley-ed torrents rushing
Cool and green and clean....

Beckoned thus, my heavy pace
Lifts lightly up;
The brackish slopping
In my old canteen
Reminds me that the way
Leads on to granite glories:
Woods inhabited,
Cabins warm against the alpine chill...
So I keep walking still.
So I keep walking still.

North Charleston, South Carolina,
Officer Michael T. Slager fires
Eight SHOTS
At Mr. Walter L. Scott,
Unarmed and running away...
Detained for a traffic stop.

Simple math,
These bullets Eight
Into Mr. Scott:
Five Bullets found him:
Three in the back
One in the rear
One through an ear...
Three bullets whizzed away.

And when Scott fell,
Slager yanked his arms
Behind his back
To cuff his hands...
Ghosts don't take to cuffs
The shooting was enough.

I have not been a marcher,
But I have seen enough,
I have seen enough.

Outside my office window
Sitting on the naked branches
Black against gray, chill sky....

Rained last night,
Rain on the way,
Fearless, they perch,
Wind in their faces,
Ready to fly...
Determined to stay.

This morning, I watched
Nest building in the arbor vitae
Strands of broken winter grass
Crammed into the evergreen fans...
Whole columns, breeze-shaken,
Hosting exuberant home-building.
Spring must have her way;
Eggs must be cradled;
Wind and rain, gray sleet,
Ignored as passing signs.

Love has built her nests;
She will not be denied.

In Gethsemane Jesus was sweating blood
(John Kerry sipped a Perrier)
Pilot, washing up, could work no good
(The Ayatollah practiced his *****)
And Jesus, beaten, headed to the Cross...
(The peace they plan isn't what we want to hear)
Established peace for Man in Heaven
(The Devil take this lower sphere.)
The Good thing is, He's risen!

He is Risen!

Homeward headed, I was driving my way
Down I-95 past the Old Mill Way in a yawn,
Turning the radio on and looking to play
Something to keep my consciousness on.

Few cars out at 1:00; it had been a long day;
I'd stopped off at Charlie's to sit with a friend
To blow out the kinks and let myself say
What a **** the company minion had been.

Four hours burned off like the late morning haze;
When I'd sobered back steady, was able to drive,
I paid off my tab, left my friends in a daze,
Headed the Jeep to the feed ramp for old 95.

At one in the morning, the traffic was thin;
When I heard Harleys roaring behind,
I scoped the mirror for the lanes they were in,
Double-blinked then to see if I was road-blind.

No bikers behind, no bikers beside, but sound
Like a squadron blared loud, and I felt a cold chill,
Thought better of having the last couple rounds,
Wished I'd stayed an hour before I'd settled my bill.

I glanced to the side, though the sound was all 'round,
Saw a glimmer of green glowing chrome in the dark,
And fire ethereal from pipes blooming sound,
From a Shovelhead, barely visible, flat black and stark.

But the rider's appearance emptied my chest:
Dark goggles, full beard and a gray flowing mane,
Black leather with signs on his tattery vest
And a number embroidered below the man's name:

"Rider 88" glowed red through the gloom,
A ******* burned on the withering arm:
"We rise again!" I heard a voice of doom,
"We're meeting at the old red barn!"

He wasn't alone, though I couldn't see
The posse he rode with, the pack he was in;
I felt a squadron of hellions run through me,
Concussive, incessant, their rattling din.

And then, except pavement beneath the Jeep's tires,
The howling of wind and crackling "Cotton-eyed Joe,"
Nothing but the road after midnight, no sirens or fires,
And me, shaking hands on the wheel, alone.

Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.

Which might just as well mean
That "It,"
Whatever "It" might be,
Didn't come to build
Permanent residence...
Had no plans
To put down roots,
To settle down...

"It"
Brings no eternal joy,
Nor infernal pain...
No Anything,
Really...
Forever.

So...
When "It" comes to pass,
Either savor or endure
For what "It" is...

But...

Don't build "It" a nest;
Don't build a wall against "It."

Let "It" be,
And prepare
To let "It" go....