He slid his arm around
The coolness
Of disdain,
Felt the distance
Of an Arctic plain,

Rested his hand
Upon an alabaster
Thigh,
Saw eternal haughtiness
In stony eyes.

Human heart
Has he;
She
Heart of stone.

To tempt a man
To be so close,
But always so alone.

The garden meeting adjourned and moved...
Management abruptly cleared the premises,
Canceled return visits,
Speculations inconveniently disrupted,
Wonder-rousings interrupted...
We found ourselves somehow
Standing on the Great Outside.

No wistful entreatments heard He,
The Grand Proprietor,
In spite of our new knowledges,
Our now-wise forays philosophical,
Our sophisticated posturing;
He seemed without empathy
In His Garden's sudden closure,
In our ejection and dismissal.

Stumblers of unexpected freedom,
Following a shadowed river
Narrowing down into a Valley,
Darkening down into a pinprick end,
We gaze behind, ahead, behind,
To see, high sword gleaming,
The standing doorman, glowering.

Eden, receding from our view,
Serpent joins us as we walk,
"Where were we when we left our talk?"
His lowered voice renews.
We notice now, the air is chill
As an endless sun slips down
Behind a darkening hill.

(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)

Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.

Always, tough, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In surreal dance, a lifeless reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.

Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.

And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood

Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
Full joy I felt, to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.

Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
Seeing both, I can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.

(Alone, I wanted love, both to be and to do...
Creation is a dangerous fling when love is on the line.)

Wood carvers' magic lies
In the carving of their steel knives;
Sticks of wood and cotton strings
Give hardwood imitative lives.

Always, though, a thing is needed,
Or the living and the dead move only
In a dance surreal's reflection;
The dead must imitate the living.

Somehow string life is never quite enough;
True love must choose to stay...
To dance a half step slow or  quarter fast,
To jive against a jink and twirl an unexpected twirl.

And so I cried each night and prayed
For genuine, not wooden love,
And life arose in wooden hands;
Pinnochio was born, and stood

Wobbling on wooden feet, but living.
The joy I felt was full to see my son,
My own creation, moving on his own.
Then he, like any living boy, began to run.

Some say a loss is better if love comes first;
Some say it's better yet, to be alone.
I have seen both and can't determine which is best...
Pinnochio, Pinnochio, my wandering son,
Remember me, your father, and come home.

Kathy Charmaz suggests that if
Grounded Theory leaves me stuck,
I ought to add an "ing" to all the memos
Of all the field notes of the scratch notes of the observations,
and the transcribed notes of the interviews
That I took a half a year ago,
And so....

I'm creating a list,
Starting with A
Accepting (criticism)
Adapting (to change)
Attending (to lessons)
Attributing (blame)
Attributing (success)

Skipping B
Which seems all alone,
I move to the Cs,
With a heart of cold stone....

Caring (from teacher)
Changing (to learn)
Collaborating (in learning)
Comparing (with others)
Connecting (key concepts, and ideas to life)
Correcting (one's errors in deeds or in thoughts)
Conferencing (to see what the good doctor thinks)
(Guess the Cs are nice to look at in my despair),

And on toward Ds,
Those diffident dogs,
Dialoguing (in classrooms, in memos and calls)
Differentiating (myself from the pack)
Disrespecting (my feet up on somebody's desk)
Dominating....(discussion in class or the hall)
(Careful, Ds, talk it out or you're gonna fall).

Es are Encouraging (the work can be done),
Enjoying (the tasks, alone or with you)
Engaging the students, (not too much to ask)
Excelling (the sense of, and actually, too)
(My sense is that E is a place to be dwelling)

F is still Focusing (on the specifics)
Then jumping to G,
Goal-setting (so needed, and powerful, too)
Graduating (the goal, so I've heard, how 'bout you?)

Then H is for Humor,
Amusing for sure,

And on to the I
Interacting (dialogue is our guide)
Identifying (the needs and the shame and the pride)

J stands with K,
Both empty and alone,

L is for Learning (adjusting in change)

M is for Modeling (Bandura's so proud)

N stands for "none" at the moment,
But O is for Organizing, (homework and my thoughts)
And P is Participating, (profs like this a lot)
Paying forward, (so noble, and so seldom done)
Persisting, (not quitting, as losers have done)
And Plagiarizing (May God help us all)
Praying, (we live through the work set before us)
Prioritizing, and
Finally, Progressing (Can we sing all in chorus?)

Q's pretty quiet just now,
But R is for Reading, and
Reflecting, (like mirrors or a pond)
Resigning, (accepting) or consider this,
Risking (daring to risk)

While S, Lovely S is all about Self,
Self-advocating (students)
Self-assessing, (too)
Self-deprecating, (but not much)
Self disciplining, (cool)
Self-motivating, (how often?)
Self-regulating, (we all should do this)
And last, some Struggling proceeds
Before we find ourselves Succeeding.

T is Threatening, (a sense of foreboding)
Teaching, (is harder under a threat)
Transitioning, (moving on, before we all rust)
Trying, (not tempting, but taking a try)
Tutoring, (If you need it, don't cry)

And U
Is alone with the flu.

So is V (guess it's viral),
But W's Writing, (the goal in this study, of course)

And so far,
X, Y, and Z
Are still hiding, no Ings in their view,
And it's back to my coding,
After I get back from the loo.

Ahead, steaming with dew at the light,
An auto poised waiting to turn in the night.
As it started to move, I startled to see
A vapor make exit, then hesitate there...
A wisp, very slight, no more than a breath.

I'd have missed it, had not I stared,
Just ahead of me, under my lights,
Wavering yet standing upright.

As the car ahead moved to the right,
This vapor staggered its steam to the left.
Watching, I ****** in my breath.

I hadn't the presence of mind,
Didn't seize on the moment,
Didn't find enough time
To run the thing down
As it glimmered before me
A second...no more,
And then vanished,
Leaving only this thought....
Halloween is before us!

A week or so
After the funeral,
The interment of ashes,
The settling of accounts,
The realization of continuing sighs,
We helped Mom empty
Things you left behind.

Shirts and pants,
Jackets, shoes,
The quiet, worn things
Left by a man who
Said little,
Worked hard,
Saved earnings,
Lived generously.

At the bottom of your dresser drawer,
Lay wool socks, leather gloves
We kids had given you
Father's days, Christmases,
(Never birthdays),
You'd put away for some other day....

I remember your telling me,
"I don't need anything!"
And maybe you didn't....
But we did.
You gave us everything,
Including your life
In the end.

Our feeble gifts
Lie waiting
For feet and hands
That that have gone away.

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.

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!

When a thing
Is "Free,"
The product
Is "Thee."

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.

Don't bother me...
Don't bother me...

The snow or rain or wind
You bring
Are only temporary flings,
Changing the golds and the blues
For a day and then blown away....

Gray skies,
Fling your snow,
Spew your rain,
Blow your gales again,
And leave the soil moist,
The air swept clean,
The birds returning with the Spring,
And I will soon rejoice
In yellow sun and green.

Gray skies don't bother me.

Not all demons
slither hissing into view,
roar from fang-riddled maws,
slash their way to horrors,
unimaginable....

Grima Wormtongue,
One of our own,
Whispering servant of Theoden,
Enervating counselor of the king's ear,
Luller of restless sleep,
Side-leering gaper of fair Eowyn
from near closed eyes...
Lusting her beauty as Saruman's prize....

Sneaking and sly,
Harmless and weak
in appearance;
Dangerous as arsenic
Green and poisonous
At heart...

A demon?
No less,
No more.
A tool of the Lord?

A weakener of resolve,
A hardener of arteries,
Caster of doubt and fear,
Prince of febrile inaction,
Luller of all dreams noble,
Fool and leader of fools.

Worthy of death,
Gifted with banishment,
Eventual giver of Palantir,
Unwitting knife of justice
At Saruman's throat...

A demon?
No doubt,
But even so,
Luther maintained
That even the devil
Was God's devil.

Grima Wormtongue,
Unwilling tool
Of the Almighty.

Hanging Obamas?
Beheaded Trumps?
Time for the ghouls
To start taking their lumps.

Stand down the MEDIA,
Hillary, go home,
Rush, stop your spouting,
Warren, go roam.

Our parents have told us
America has no fears
In peaceful revolutions
Every four years.

But this time it's different,
The country's on fire,
On hate we're hell bent
Messing our nests in our ire.

Meanwhile the World looks
At us with awe
To see a great nation
Stagger and yaw.

It's time for the people
Of a nation this great
To pick up the pieces
To stop all the hate,
To rally their causes,
To seek peaceful means
Of political changes
Based on old laws
That preserve the nation
Despite human flaws.

Scorching summer heat
Makes winter cold seem pleasing
Discordant reason

Bellies up, paws out
Dead nomads lie appealing
Road **** suicides

Frost thickens at dawn,
Rumbling salt truck rattles by
Before snow's assault.

Skin turns numb plastic
Five minutes exposed to air
Fifty degree wind chill

No bird chirps nor flies;
Young ash borers freeze and die;
Cold saves old ash trees.

Beneath frozen mud
Spring peepers sleep winter's death
Waiting the spring thaw.

Eskimo, my wife,
Dressed in down, coiffed now in fur,
Radiant in snow.

When a boy, I knew
No greater love than the hunt
Through deep snow for hares.

North winds fierce bring cold,
Drive me gasping to shelter.
Exhilaration!

No one sleeps outside
With impunity for long;
It's January.

Her fantasy now?
The "polar plunge" with her friends...
And our friendship ends.

HI

JUST
came from hair shop.
Toe man is to come tomorrow.
Diane has an appt  for 1:30 tomorrow
so hopefully we can meet outside.
Happy Birthday Sue and Anniversary , etc,
Your card will be late.

Beautiful day today after the rain,  
Did you get enough rain?

Lunch  is here,
Hope you are all well.

McGee is on.

love Mom

This night hosts dinosaurs and demons
Growling, tapping, slithering to my door
To utter threats or blessings, dependent
Upon my ability or desire to laden bags
With candies meant to cheer and send the chill
Of coming death away, even in the face of disaster.

Our Mother's gone;
We are alone.

Her body lies here,
Husk and cob,
Soul's wrapper, shed;

Her hands

Hushed in the presence of death
I see her hands,
hold them one last time.
fingers that cooked
thousands of meals,
mended jeans,
darned socks,
scrubbed floors,
cleaned and cleaned,
and cleaned;
turned Scripture pages,
mended my wounds.


Her feet
Cooling now,
But a little warm,
Remind me:
old canvas work shoes,
shuffling walk
pigeon-toed
(I walk like her)

Her hands and feet remind me:
foot rubs,
back rubs,
often with a song...
While we were growing up;
later on, when she was old
she'd ask me to raise my foot
so she could give me
a "reflexology" treatment.
I never refused.

In the stillness of death,
I grasp her feet,
Give them one last squeeze.

"Mom, I owe you thousands."

But she is gone.

Bull headed stubborn, never conquered, he...
My Father.

A hearty laugh, with anger never far away;
A choking voice; emotions had their way
With him, and when he sang alone,
Heading for the barn, he sang Handel
So we heard him clear in every valley.

When only grass and leaves were "Green,"
He saved everything he thought might be of use:
Red tape from old banana sales,
("Never know when tape will come in handy!")
Bagging string wrapped on a stick,
("You can't have enough string!")
Rusty wire in spools from some old fence,
("Carry some with you for emergencies.")
Dirtied engine oil in metal barrels,
(To soak wood posts and make them last),
Scrap iron by the ton,
("Boys, weld these into fences!")
Semi loads of **** seed screenings,
("Cheap and adds protein to the feed!" )
Even burned out light bulbs...
(He never gave me a good reason;
One bulb's enough to **** a sock.)

"Never know when this may come in handy!"
His constant motto.

A complicated man I never could unravel,
Honest to an inch, sometimes, yet shrewd to miser-dom,
Then crafty in some deal that left me blushing,
Only to turn around and sacrifice to see a neighbor thrive.

Drove sad old cars no one would want,
And made us work for most things that we sought,
Then gave such gifts to others
As would stun my mind to thought.

I have him by a hundred pounds,
Am taller by a head,
But deep inside, I am convinced
I'll never measure up in height or depth.

I'm not sure that I want to.

Forecaster's greatest joy
The weather equivalent
Of the sacking of Troy...
Hell and damnation
Aloft in the clouds,
Heavenly wrath from
Funnel-ish shrouds.

My father wakes,
Prepares for chores,
Quick breakfast takes,
Throws on his coat,
Slides boots for wet or dry
On his aging feet,
Heads to the barn
In every weather,
Adjusting to the wind
And sun and precipitation,
Weatherman or no,
Undaunted if he sees
Hard rains
Or falling snow.

A gray hippopotamus lived in a zoo
At the end of the Tropical Line,
Harry the Hippo lived next to the loo
Right by the Northern confines.
With his wide toothy smile,
And his great double chin,
He greeted his neighbors
With a great hippo grin...
Made friends with the deer,
Made friends with an owl,
Avoided the white scowling bear,
Avoided the family of wolves,
(He'd heard they liked to eat meat).
Decided to friend a great, walloping moose,
A challenge, his neighbor seemed rather elite.
Tall and severe with a beard on his chin,
He stood like a tree on his heavy brown hooves,
And branches of antlers stood heavy and grim.

"I see we are neighbors,"said Harry the Hippo,
"Name's Harry," he said with a grin,
"Since it looks like we'll be here a while, ya' know,
I figure we ought to be friends!"

"Bull" Moose only chewed a bit more on his cud,
Burped in the gray hippo's face,
Turned his wide antlers for well and for good...
He spurned the whole hippo race.

But Harry had patience,
Had nowhere to go,
So he waited a week and a month and a day
For Otto the Moose to come 'round,
And he did! And now the two of 'em play.

Our Harry's advice to you is be nice,
And after a while, it comes true....
The balkiest neighbors will have to think twice
And fall into friendship with you.

(0=

“Haunted Houses” (1858)
All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table, than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires;
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o’er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night,–

So from the world of spirits there descends
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O’er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

Have you ever done enjoyable work,
But toward supper time,  
After a long, long day,
A satisfaction sets in,
Almost a fullness,
A readiness to stop for the day...

I know this feeling.
I understand Robert Frost's poem,
"After Apple Picking."

I loved haying on the ranch,
But after 14 hours' roaring up and down
Long alfalfa fields,
I was content,
Ready to shut down for the day,
Ready to climb down from the old John Deere,
Ready to walk, dusty, to the old truck
Waiting in growing darkness.

I recall listening for sounds of night coming on:
Crickets rasping against the cooling day,
Nighthawks' screeching, veering for insects,
Soul-mourning cries of coyotes,
All teamed against the ghosts of day:
Tractor's roaring echo in my ears,
Thumping memory of lurching over clods,
Dust clogging my itching eyes and throat....

The old tractor, too, was content
Sitting silently,
Cooling in the twilight.

All day making hay, we watched the empty sky.
Summer heat, clinging shirts soaked, powder caked in dust.
Though we worked a Montana field,
I knew when my father said,
"Hurricane weather."

By two or so, a few small clouds, high and innocent,
Were forming to the west; we did not stop to rest;
A field of second cutting hay down,
Windrows of perfect hay
Fed the tireless machines we rode.

By supper time, a line of gray progressed,
Menacing from north to south and moving east.
"Supper'll have to wait, boys," and Dad was right.
We raced the sky and quickly coming night.

Unnatural calm and breathless air held dust above our rows;
We pressed on, knowing that the winds were on their way.
Bright bolts began to stab across the plain;
We guessed the storm was half an hour away.

The race was nearly finished, our baling nearly done,
When lightning struck around us, sure as any gun.
We looked for Dad, and he baled on, so what to do but follow?
But when the rain and hail fell, our work was done.

Laughing as we ran, we piled into a truck;
Let the tractors stand to face the storm alone
As rain and hail poured  anger at our bales,
And we, the merry balers, headed home.

Who faithfully waters flowers
In the too-small *** upon the stoop,
Blossoms smiling at morning sun,
No fear of nooning heat
Her ministrations prove that love
Transcends the tightness of their tiny space,
And so they bloom and glow.

Here's to the Man whose only Love
Anticipates his steps before sun-fall...
His only thoughts of coming home to her;
She is his haven 'gainst a solemn world;
This little house with flowers on the step
A place where love and blossoms grow.

It's not that I wanted to step away from the mic,
Nor wander away from the words;
It's this monstrous paper I'm trying to write
That keeps me from seeing you birds.

So, summer is ending, and I'm sixty-plus pages in,
With twenty or so of references done,
And a chapter or two I have yet to begin
Before I can rejoin the poetry fun.

I'd best step back out before gendarmes
Arrive to see if I'm even alive,
Locked up in this office with silent alarms
As I struggle to finally arrive.

Dissertation resembles gestation;
The fun was in passing exams;
Now I'm paying the past years' tuition
By proving I didn't just cram.

Can't wait to join you all in a few
...months?

Don

South Pacific 1944,
Our ship under attack,
Men at the guns,
Zeroes coming in.

Smoke and bedlam,
We three at our turret
Loading the gun:
Projectile.
Powder,
Fuse,
and slam the door
to belch explosives
at the sky.

Man the post
Keep on firing

But then I knew I had to go
And turned toward the hatch.
"Good-bye, Paul,"
I remember someone said.

Half in - half out the door
We took a hit
Direct
That blew Jim's head
between my knees
And on the deck.

Two died instantly
And there I stood
Wondering
About
Higher Orders.

South Pacific 1944,
Our ship under attack,
Men at the guns,
Zeroes coming in.

Smoke and bedlam,
We three at our turret
Loading the gun:
Projectile.
Powder,
Fuse,
and slam the door
to belch explosives
at the sky.

Man the post
Keep on firing

But then I knew I had to go
And turned toward the hatch.
"Good-bye, Paul,"
I remember someone said.

Half in - half out the door
We took a hit
Direct
That blew Jim's head
between my knees
And on the deck.

Two died instantly
And there I stood
Wondering
About
Higher Orders.

Hiro, the Kamikaze,
Happily lives just over the hill,
Sleeps every night quite calmly,
So proud of his never a ****...

Hiro, the Kamikaze,
Veteran flyer is he,
Flew back from 33 missions,
Dropped his payloads in the sea.

----------------------------

Can scuttle shade to shade,
A bolting spider
Bringing back the day
My father died
So unexpectedly?

April 2nd,
April 2nd,
Twice
And down again
And scurrying unseen
To thrice.

How is it Time
Can simultaneously,
Throb slowly on
From troubled day
To troubled day,
An angling worm,
Obstinately crawling
Through stubborn clay?

That this walnut skulled
Gray matter audaciously decrees
Mastery of the Universe
While encaged in a home
Perched precariously
Atop a tottering structure
Of flesh and bones
Befuddles the wise.

Shall the ***
Question the potter?

Shall a man
Challenge the Creator?

Hubris bound in cage of bone,
Claims power that is God's alone.

Who is the master of my soul?
Who is the Captain of my fate?

Bow low this mind in fragile bowl
Humbly restrain my foolish soul.

Ole and his strong wife Lena,
Distant on their pathway grew,
And life between grew meaner,
Silent in the house, it's true.

One day the Pastor came to say
He'd heard a thing or two about them,
Sat at the table in a listening way
While Lena spouted about men.

Pastor Inqvist finally gave a shrug
And walked around the table slowly,
Had Lena stand and gave a hug,
And looked down from his height at Ole.

"This is what she needs my friend,
A big hug every day, to end her sorrow,"
And Ole cleared his throat and said,
"What time will you be here tomorrow?"

From silent MUFFFS
of
falling
snow

The stillness
of
fifteen
below,

That clouds the Air
With frozen Breath
And freezes Hair
And threatens Death

A welcome CHAOS

comes with Spring
/ / // / / /// / /
Thundering rains
! !! !!!! !!! !!!!!!
and songbird sings
___
Deep-buried lawns
and dormant sleep
Replaced by mud
10 inches deep.

Children love the

mess ---

ee ---

nessss!!!!

Of mud ...

and

Gutter

floods,

But Mothers

Strip

Them

At the DOOR

To keep

The Chaos

off the Floor.

Cause for despair, this...
Dr. Heidegger's experiment gave new life to old bones.
Elixir re-infusing lust and ******
Once the liquid hit the blood,
All bets on again for nothing good.

So many years,
These hands, now old,
Have worked at the table,
kneading and rolling dough,
Testing texture,
Adding raisins,
Walnuts,
Sugar,
Sprinkling cinnamon.

Warming the oven,
Waiting for the dough
To rise,
Sliding trays onto hot racks,
Marking time....

She sits on her walker's chair
Looks up into the camera
"Oh, don't take my picture!"
But how can we not?
Adding these images
To the memories,
To the moment.

The scent of baking bread,
Cinnamon,
Raisins,
Fills the room,
With 40 years' remembering...
Time stops,
Time reverses.

The ones who stopped in...
Dad,
Brother,
Sister,
Gram,
Hired Men,
Grandchildren,
Neighbors passing by...
Some now long gone...
After all, they were
Only stopping in...

"To grab a bite"
On their way to the barn,
On their way by the farm,
On their way to fields,
On their way to the phone,
On their way to town...,
But really to stop
For cinnamon, raisins, walnuts
Twisted into fresh, hot bread,
And a cool glass of milk.

Stuck in the cloving of seasons,
Mourning the falling leaves,
The long, hot summer hours,
The dusty flowers,
Tired with their bee-filling,
Wanting only sleep.

I am torn for loving summer,
Regretting nothing:
The summer flings,
The two-up rides on tree-lined paths,
The running, ducking laughter in the summer rains,
The sparking, smoking skies of 4th July,
The too-warm walks and wanting shade,
The pleasures of a new-cut lawn,
And you, the constant sun-bather there-upon.
The sweet embraces you and I shared in the nights,
Knowing seasons last for just a while,
We celebrated summer through it all,
Not wasting time before the coming Fall.

00000
I love you, Melody Joy. db

A skater lone soars on new ice.
I hold my breath as I observe
His every pirouette and swerve.

Yesterday, the water lapped a chilling shore;
Today a brilliant skin holds sway.
Thickening hourly though it may,

I wonder at the nature of the glider there;
Does he consider life and death,
Or think beyond exultant breath

To be the first upon new winter's ice?
He sails along an ice-blade track,
Never falt'ring, never looking back.

Oh, I was young upon a time and flew
The way this skater now does fly,
But fear and "wisdom" hinder twice
While others soar above thin ice.

She sits there,
Fingers entwined,
Face showing her tangled mind.
"I don't know what to write,"
She states, and follows,
"I don't have anything interesting
To say."

I ask her what she loves...
Sometimes it's horses,
Sometimes law,
Sometimes children,
Sometimes God,
Sometimes....
Always
Something that she loves.

And when she talks,
Her eyes grow bright,
Revealing memories,
To be nudged and wheedled,
Poked a bit and needled,
To find that sliver and
Extract the thought
On which to write.

Then off she goes to compose,
To start a journey up the path
We both hope leads to a diploma,
A job, a career, an opportunity.

When she is gone, I sit and muse....
I am a father and grandfather now,
Still adjusting training wheels and
Giving that first push,
Still patching skinned up knees,
Pulling slivers...
Sending children on their way.

There'd only plundering be;
If all of us were wolves,
No sheep could flee....

Oh, the pirate's life for thee.
And the pirate's life for me,
And the world were all in flames,
And the world were all in flames.

If everyone were pirates,
Why, villains all we'd be,
And every deck-born swab
Would glower at you and me

With our laces and our kerchiefs,
And our killer pirate wigs
As we stormed across the continents and seas;
As we stormed across the continents and seas.

And good men, none, would live their lives,
With the gentling help of their good wives;
And children, all, would yell and terrorize,
Chasing down the nursemaid with the kitchen knives.

If everyone were pirates,
No farmers, and no fishers on the beach,
No bakers, and no soldiers continental,
No doctors, and no teachers left to teach,
No preachers and no sermons for to preach,
But only pirates coming up the streets...
But only pirates coming up the streets.

To see her dancing with Jesus,
Free of pain
Celebrating finally
In some uncharacteristic way.
Do so by all means.

I tend to look backwards
To the memories I know
My mother, standing at the window,
Worrying over our father,
Miles away at the close of day,
Winter winds blowing,
Seven miles away in the winter pasture
He was opening a spring
Forcing his way in the deep snow,
To let the cattle drink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Thinks she sets aright
Some problem universal
In her leveraged might....

If the ******
Thinks that in ****** rage
Satiation lies...

If the Thief
Thinks in stealing pieces,
She takes home peace...

If the Bully
Considers righteous
His abuse of power...

Or if they do not care,
But run to evil deeds
Because they're there...

They do not think beyond
Commission,
Forget the list of victims
Includes themselves.

Aftermaths & Consequences
Force lives of guilt
Penned in fences,
Pending dooms,
Self destructions...

Perpetrators penetrating
Their own souls,
Destroying their own lives,
Believing devils' lies,
That no one has to pay;
No hell awaits to have its day.

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.

I know why Adam chose
to go with Eve,
To stay beside the one
he'd come to love,
Though he believed
Life and Death's incision
Hung in the balance
of his imminent decision.

He took and ate
the offering from his Mate.
In Life, in Death,
the two were mated,
And for all time,
their seed was fated...
Deadly plantation
of love and sin,
This Reaper's Field
we're living in.

Before he damns him,
I believe,
A man must stand
in Adam's skin
And gaze on Eve.