The girls had just come in from gathering fuel,
Laid the frozen cow pats in the box
Beside the stove,
Went in to wash for supper.

The old house creaked beneath a towering wind
Gray-full of promise that driving snow was on the way,
But though it shook, the shingles stayed;
The smoldering fire warmed and cheered
The children as they stamped their feet to chase the cold away,
Hands outstretched to catch the radiant heat.

A distant cloud of war in Europe loomed,
Sinister, though far, the children vaguely knew,
By catching whispered grown up conversations....
Though not yet reality for German-Russian Mennonites
Now Montana farmers on the eastern plains
To which they'd run to find a peaceful space
To settle far from persecution.

Before the supper washing and the setting of the plates,
Grandmother moved to catch the evening news,
Turned a dial to set the tubes aglow
And warm the wireless magic in the radio.

Crackling to life, a man's voice said, "Achtung!"
Early winter, 1938 on Montana's wind-blown plains,
The evening news presented ******'s venomed speech
Declaring war and warnings and impending dooms.

Mesmerized, my German grandma stood,
Suddenly cold inside the warm kitchen,
Staring out the window toward the barn,
Tears running down her cheeks,
Her children gathered round.

"Mama! Mama! What is the matter?"
My mother begged to know,
tugged upon her mother's apron,
Wondered at the power of words
To make her mother cry.

"That man has terrible power!"
Was all my grandma said, trying to be calm,
Then turning back to ready table
Before the men came in for supper.

Seventy-five years later,
Sitting at the kitchen table on the farm,
My mother's voice trails off...
******, and her mother...
How many millions gone?

Powerful within the room,
The memory rests.
Outside, the same wind blows;
Only absent snow-gray clouds
Beneath the ice-blue skies.

On a desert plain, wind blown, mirages boiling,
Dusted, parched beneath an angry sun,
Silent heat unending, withering, bending...
So many loves behind me now have fallen.

Walking first, I tried to run;
Standing now, my trudging's done,
At battle's end; the desert's won,
On the plain of despair, I am undone.

I wait for the chilling night to fall
I wait for the chill of night to fall
Night to fall....

Far off, the mountains stand,
Slopes of trees lined in black,
Beneath celestial snowy caps.

There's water flowing there, I know,
Beneath those icy tips of snow.

Were I to lie here on this ground
I might not wake,
And though rest's a tempting sound
I will not take my end in lying down.

The ones who left me far behind
Have flown to rest ahead,
And if I linger here to pine,
My heart knows this is not my bed.

These winds, this heat, the churning air,
Are only for this place; solace awaits up there
On the mountains' rising *****,
I inhale the wind and muster my last hope.

Blackbirds have found the feeder;
Lookouts scan from upper branches
While takers pillage cracked corn.

I approach to a flurry of black flight;
Guilt needlessly hangs
With the red feeder.

Meals offered to all comers...
Excepting squirrels
For which a weighted door
Flips down to cover the pans.

Four-footed chatterers declare war,
Express intention to circumvent
Discrimination.

Fewer masks these days -
August, and the sky is clear.
Western rivers still run cold.
Rain falls at last upon dry lands.
In spite of hoppers, grass and wheat
Replenish the living.
Sleek cattle slow their grazing.

So, why this weariness?
Why the onsetting brood?
From whence the cloud, ennui?
This cynic stirs in search of hope.

I remember 35
Like it was 25 years ago.

I had hair then.
Was in my eighth year of teaching.
Had four children at home,
A dog.
A cat.

Unbounded energy,
Exuberance,
Passion,
Conviction

Stress fed my bones,
Canceled my fears,
"Work harder
Before the night falls!"

Night is falling.
Sixty is nearly here.
I am nearly gone,
And yet you linger,
A soul standing in periphery.

35.
What is the point of living
If the past cannot be left,
And the present stand still
To let us dress each other's wounds,
Forgive our others' sins,
Let us, limping as we are,
Move toward the center,
Again to begin?

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.

Abuse
Singer sounded like "stinger,"
Fifty years gone, but fresh....
The long sewing machine drive belt
Hung thin and waiting by the broom.
Mother handled it like a snake,
Writhing in the after school air
When she used it to soothe
Menopausal rages.

Welts and shame, rose-red arose
When she stripped them of their clothes;
Struck hard the tender flesh:
Buttocks, thighs,
Panicked wrists and hands,
Flailing in the silence of a preacher's home.

"I never struck in anger,"
She likes to say.
A counselor chills to hear...
A cool-headed striker of children so sick
To give her children the gift
Of bruises, without emotion.

My estranged daughter,
I wait news of my mother's
Survival or demise.

Holy water,
A crucifix
Wait nearby,
I know the emptiness of agonized prayer,
Of groaning alone in sanctuary,
Of feeling only limbo,
Only limbo.

It's August.
I shudder
January cold.

In this quiet room
People silent,
Sitting,
Uncomfortably shifting.

Settling dust of unease
Wafts in restless eddies,
Too late to contain,
Too early to forget
Haze that hovers here.

New arrivals,
Entering too far to turn and leave,
Hesitate and wonder,
Frozen in knife-cut silence,
Wishing suddenly
For freer space...
And
Almost any other place.

Children, fresh as bib lettuce,
Green and tender,
Stand before me in my rocking chair,
Pearled new teeth,
Wisping hair, golden, brown,
Embarking up a stair way
That I am going down.

"Papa, can we go out to play?"
I look out the window
To see the kind of day
Before I say,
"Would you like to take a walk?"

Blackbirds chuckling in the arbor vita;
Vultures circling high
Against the blue and Sunday sky;
House sparrows scolding in the neighbors' trees;
A robin chorister brings Dickinson to mind,
And I don't mind.

Sunday morning's breakfast's done,
And we have time
To smile a little...
Bashful mornings
Just a little now
Even after thirty years.

Tomorrow storms will come;
Next week a tree will fall;
Shadows must make their surly steps
Even as sun slides down...
It's just the way this old world runs.

But this morning,
This Sunday morning,
Bright and fine,
I rest from all my worrying,
Rest in the love I have with you,
Amazed again to have,
Amazed to hold,
A girl like you.

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.

I imagine a fighting arena
Huge and closed.

In one cornered space
Tower Hegemonic Forces
Champions of dominant culture.

In other corners,
Trending,
Waxing,
Waning,
Anxious for their turn
To test their powers
Crouch the Up and Comers,
Ever-hungry crowds of Up and Comers.

Traction is slippery
On this tenuous battlefield;
Spittle and catarrh;
Blood, sweat, tears;
**** and *****:
Fluid proof of bodies
Denied a single humanity,
Mingle to confound
Desperate din of strugglers,
Seeking clear divisions to conquer.

On-lookers, deafened in cacophony,
Cannot see the uselessness.
Careful observers
Can but surmise what the prize
Desired might be,
But always there is the struggle.

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....

Exodus 32:11-14
But Moses sought the favor of the LORD his God. “LORD,” he said, “why should your anger burn against your people, whom you brought out of Egypt with great power and a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out, to **** them in the mountains and to wipe them off the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce anger; relent and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember your servants Abraham, Isaac and Israel, to whom you swore by your own self: ‘I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and I will give your descendants all this land I promised them, and it will be their inheritance forever.’ ”
Then the LORD relented and did not bring on his people the disaster he had threatened.

Thinking about the finite speaking to the Infinite,
The imperfect to the Perfect,
The chosen to the Chooser,
The creation to the Creator,
The human dialog with the Almighty.

Did a man change the course of Doom,
Move Heaven on behalf of earth through "prayer"?

We become old men
And old women, and

We look back wistfully, and
We look forward hopefully, and

We wonder....

Who found he had
Nothing
To Say....

Four months
Memory of unfettered times slipping

COVID-19
Plot or wet market accident, world plague

George Floyd
The fuse that lit the yearnings... and burnings

Protests
The righteous and unrighteous, weeping and burning

Rioting
Usurpation of the call to justice for terrorists

ANTIFA
The irony of the name is not misunderstood

Masks
Those damnable masks....

FaceBook
Blue Book for civil incivility

Statuary
Easy targets for cowardly mobs

News Media
Pick your poison; take your sides; everybody lies

Citizens
To fly the flag or to burn it?

Police
To protect and to serve; to spit upon and to abuse

Politicians
Demagogues gone wild

Jesus
"I have told you these things, so that in Me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." (John 16:33, NIV)

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.

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?

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.

Could go by February, or even March,
The way she carries on her wintry game,
Her laundry's cold and wet, stiff in snowy starch.
She promised us firsts, left us with seconds,
Spent herself, it seems, in company of Winter,
Petulant, credit spent, she left her tenants
Freezing blue 'til nearly May.
Robins shiver, lost in snow and sleet
While budgies safe in kitchen cages
Tilt their heads and shift their feet,
Perhaps to wonder what do robins eat.
Desperately slog we the winds of Spring,
Encouraged little when the robins sing.

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!

I drove 150 miles round trip
To hear a friend preach
And see him baptize an infant
This morning.

My friend preached on the Father's love
For the prodigal son...
Said, "The father loves those outside the fold
Every bit as much as those inside the fold!"
Made me remember that the Good Shepherd
Hunted far and near to bring the one lost sheep
Back to the other ninety-nine.

I thought, statistically speaking,
The Good Shepherd leaves no sheep behind,
(A hundred percent salvific rate
I'd call it... Pretty good odds for even
A dumb sheep like me...).

After the ceremony,
Lunching at the family's house,
The older brother of the baptized boy
Looked up at me,
Cake in his mouth,
And asked,"Are you Jesus?"

Took me quite by surprise,
But smiling,
I said, "No, I'm not Jesus!"
He asked, "Where is Jesus?"
His grandfather said,
"He's here!"
Pointing to the little guy's chest.

A little while later,
When his mom sat next to him,
He pointed to his chest,
"Jesus lives in here!"

Sunday sermons...
One in a church,
One in a garage...
I heard two today.
------------------
Matthew 19:14 Jesus said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these."

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.

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 your timing.
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 to have been
A gift, now long ago.

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.

Your children ordered oak, solid and strong,
Wheat sheaves bedeck the top,
Inlaid and waiting,
Ready for the coming harvest.

The questions exist:
Whether lock down in this space
Preserves the life or just saves face?;
Why quarantine locks healthy up
While hellions riot and disrupt?

She's 92 and all alone
Stuck inside a nursing home
"No visitors," the Guvner said,
And fear became the COVID dread.

"Bring out your bodies!"
"Bring out the dead!"

She walks a bit from bed to door,
Must wear a mask, if nothing more.

Alone, she rests, though it's a chore
To see faceless helpers on her floor.
Her handlers? Gowned, masked, and visored
As if she's the one who's virus scoured.

"How will I speak my 3000 words a day?"
My mother asked on the phone today.
"Speak now to me," I edged words in,
And listened to my Mom, cooped in.

If COVID doesn't **** her, empty hallways might;
She tries to speak to anyone who passes nigh,
But they are in a hurry to cancel someone's light,
And so the nights and days go crawling by.

"Bring out your bodies!"
"Bring out the dead!"

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.

Autumnal Wanderings

Summer's heat leaves us wilted,
Potted tomatoes drying on the deck.
Water helps, and evening's shade
Reminds us of the coming dread.

Ash trees drop late summer's shed;
Yellow leaves litter grass now lost;
Dog days oppress us as we yawn,
Ennui of heat turns our desire to frost.

We are not content at summers' turning fall;
We miss the verdant greens of spring;
We dread the snow, the wintry cold;
No longer young, we fight our growing old.

Autumn Dancer

Of the four girls whose parents
Be the Year, Autumn spends
Her quarter round in changing clothes
And riots life even as she slows.

Protesting greens that fade and run,
She riots best against the sun
In reds and oranges and yellows;
In slanting light her dancing slows.

Weeks before her dance is done,
She pays her homage to the sun;
Her stepping slow; she dresses down
For waltzes sad in somber brown.

At curtain call, her early temper loses sway;
Refined before the end, she dresses for ballet
And pirouettes in faded brown
A shadow now in dying light.
She pirouettes in faded brown,
Beside a sister white.

Autumn's light leaves me
Wanting,
Seeming
Wrong.

Summer's light raided me,
Burning,
Yearning
Strong.

Spring's light lilted me,
Promising,
Blossoming
Songs.

Winter's cold glow chilled me,
Accosting,
Frosting
Long.

But, dismal Autumnal light,
Warns me,
Scorns me...
Go!

The Autumn missal has arrived,
A fall reminder of the coming cold,
Strange slanting light to shift the maple
Greens to furious red and gold.

High above the myriad travelers chant adieu,
As on their sky-road paths they sing,
A chorus glorious to southern waters blue
Where winter marshes serve a warm retreat.

A liturgy of highest order drives the world
Beyond the ken of time-old cycles round;
Hibernal instinct now in feral life unfurls:
Flogs squirrels outward on their oak-corn bounds,
Plushes wealth of wolves' warm winter fur,
Hardens bone and antler, deepens feathered down,
Adds harvest fat to beast and fish and fowl,
Drives sap below old Frost's attempt to burrow down.

_____
Unspoken paen unheard by almost all,
A careless shivering passerby may dread
This ritual changing of the Fall,
But never mind, the liturgy is read,
And Nature safely tucks herself into her wintery bed.

We meet again;
No thunder, lightning,
Nor no rain,
But awkward,
Just the same...

Conversation turning dour,
Work complaints
Almost an hour...

Birthday wishes?

Realize a party's
Not for sighs,
Not for damning
Others' eyes,
Not a time to criticize,
Nor office lies,
Nor padding chubby thighs.

Times like this,
I realize,
It's office parties
I despise,
And pine away
For open skies.

Awkward.

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.

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.

After the milking's done,
Farmer gone to house and bed,
Rag-tag tabbies, half-breed furs,
Assemble by the milking stool
Yowl a bit, then settle down to purrs.
Rosined up, a straw-***** bow
Emits a violinic fiddle's skirl,
And one by one the mousers
Stand on twos to take a matted floor.

Come, let us see you pirouette,
You puissant pouncers.
Lightly spin those furry toes;
Sheath deep those claws to put
Perfection in your prances;
Balance on your tails, and spin;
Exercise or exorcise in cattish dances
The feline feelings you are in.

Dance happily and furiously...
Or sinuously and slow...
Whatever moods mouse-
Murderers can feel or know.
Enjoy the dance, ye half-breed cats.
Never mind the jealous schemes of mice,
Nor terroristic plots of leagues of rats.

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.

The apple orchard hums,
Bee-fully content,
Flower petals relax their budded fists
Revealing scented, open hands.

Immersed in pink and white,
Lungs filled in apple scents,
I wander, camera ready-height
Capturing...or so is my intent...
Bee-full flowers and flower-full bees.

Yesterday was winter;
Tonight must come a storm...
Skies to the south and west are gray.

But now I stop to breathe an hour,
Walk out among the apple trees,
Look up through heavens of flowers,
Revel with the honey-drunken bees.

She swept the house;
Sorted through a chicken
To make a *** of soup;
Chopped vegetables,
Boiled another *** of
Vegetable soup;
Broke eggs
And made a quiche;
Drove to work
And balanced all the tills;
Returned home,
Washed the sheets
And pillow cases...
And then she bathed
And went to bed,
Certain that
Her house was clean,
And that
Her family would be fed.

Sun's going down...

Around my miniature height,
Gloom is gathering itself
To usher in the night.

Beside the darkening feet
Of towering trees,
Shade-cooled and looking up,
I see sunlight climb
The upward reaches
Of tall pines.

Leaving shadows far below,
Green needled branches
****** new growth:
Yellow-candled greening flames,
To see the sun,
Greeting and adieu-ing
Steady moving days.

Light and life,
Ageless quests:
Upward reaching light
Downward breaching water,
Insatiable thrusting,
Splitting stone,
Spewing oxygen.

Monstrous undertakings
Glorious oversights.
Fitting past times for giants,
Mountain dwellers,
Living at a pace too slow
For careless passers-by to see.

Silent pines
Contemplate endless days,
Moving or un-moving,
Resolute certainty,
Imperceptible sojourners
Dominating vertical empires;

Joyous, silent soldiers march
Up and down these mountain sides,
While I, mere mortal, pass
Ant-like,
Scurrying in wonder,
Aware the urgency
Of ephemeral routine,
Mortal emergency...

Beneath Tall Pines.

We will be the willows,
Resolving to live,
Bending with the storms,
Not the cottonwoods
Refusing change,
Standing rigid,
Breaking in the gales.

Hello Poetry!
I have decided to keep
My poems here.
Rather a few be read
Than keep the lot
Penned up waiting in a sales ring
With no buyers,
Starvation coming....

David spied Bathsheba sitting in Uriah's bath
Up on a roof one night, before he fell into her arms...
Then bathing wouldn't cleanse Jehovah's wrath;
Bathsheba's man and baby came to harm.

Samson saw Delilah; they caused a perfect storm;
A plague of woe from love was roused,
'Til, blind and chained, the mighty man performed
The feat of strength that rattled down the house.

Antony and Cleopatra fell to each other's charm,
Just who it was who conquered whom is still unfixed.
We only know a serpent stung her in the arm,
And Tony died a lonely man, perplexed.

A flower stood alone out in a lonely glen....
"If love appears to you," Persephone would say,
"There may be thrill at first, dear friend.
Beware, beware!  Hades must have his day."

"The course of love ne'er did run smooth,"
The Bard was wont to say, and fully I agree,
The human heart may promise love and truth,
Then wander off in quest of agony.

Out of paper? Need a trowel?
Use a bidet and dry with a towel.

No way to clean? No toilet paper?
Bidet your stuff into a vapor.

When TP hoarders make you pray,
Answer those prayers with a cool bidet.

My new bidet is a real treat;
I spray the mess right off my seat.

My bidet arrived at the very last hour;
The TP’s gone, but my **** loves to shower.

While friends miss paper and complain,
My bidet cleans me like the rain.

When paper’s gone and you’re a mess,
Think “bidet” for cleanliness.
When water cleans you, life is fine,
So join me on the bidet line.

Bill loaded the truck with hard red winter wheat
One night so as to beat the scales at morning light.

Before sun up, he kissed Margie on the cheek
And roared out of the yard,
Overload springs sagging,
Engine fierce, but groaning,
Toward the town.

Two miles out,
The scale light said "Open,"
Giving Bill a momentary chill.

Shifting down, he exited
Before arriving Scale Hill.
A gravel detour waited
To take him on the long way 'round
And bring him back the other side of town.

Most situations similar
Go from bad to worse.
The truck eased down into a swale.

Beneath the surface gravel,
A bed of soggy clay
****** down the wheels
And stopped the farmer's way.

The creaking truck began to settle,
Testing Bill and
Leaving him chagrined
As the Transportation Deputy
Drove up to see the mess.

"Looks like you need a pull!"

What could Bill say?

And so he took the offer,
Then followed flashing lights
Back to the scale, and paid
A hefty fee to compensate
For being cheap too early
And learning much too late.

The old man next door loves birds,
Spends hours by his window every day
Watching his feeders without words,
Smiling as the winged ones come his way.

He lugs home sacks of feed and cob dry corn
Though his wife frets his spending.
He finds that kindness leaves him less forlorn,
Brings his old heart and mind some mending.

So out he goes to scrape rain-soaked seeds,
Clears the troughs, replaces suet in the cages,
Before retreating to his favorite chair to read,
Looking up to smile while turning pages.

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