At first,
Love is a Choice
To act,
Not in emotions,
Nor perceived rewards,
Done from duty as duty,
Because we would be
Loving.

Love may mellow
Over time,
See traits worthy of surrender...
Take root,
Become reason of itself
For pleasure,
For staying true.

We performed the ritual courtesies:
Reiterated "Love yous,"
"Thank yous,"
Farewell prayers,
Hugs,
Waving good-bye,
We hoped our window tint
Hid relief shining in our eyes....

And then another farewell,
A mother crippled, old,
Bent low by time and widowed,
Gentle now, and grateful
For our shortest stays.
This mellowed love we would desire
When we have nearly lived our days.
Smiling tears and long embrace,
Juxtaposed these loves that end in sighs
The differences in love's good-byes.

She followed him out the front door
After his failure to give "a ****,"
Her lonely wail above him soared,
And he turned while she took her stand,
She tried begging him urgently,
"Rhett Butler, please don't go!
Old Ashley's gone as you can see,
And I've done what I didn't know...
Oh, Rhett, won't you come back, please?"

But he kept his word, let not even a moan
Gave no second thought to the dame,
Rode off to a life of wealth on his own...
And drove poor old Scarlet insane.
And O'Hara lived her life half crazed,
Yes, she lived but not very well...
Once you've lost at love, it's the end of your days,
And you cannot unring a cracked Southern Belle.

Two screaming cats
Claw their way  
Up the high road,
Wild eyes flashing
WHITE AND RED
WHITE and RED
white and Red
white and red
whitenred
whitenred
red
red
red....

Glad I am home,
I sigh a prayer
In wondering
What roadkill
Waits to feed
Incessant screamers
Southward streaming terror.

A farm screen door latch
Should slam with the urgent drumming
Of a man or woman going off
On urgent business:
To see the cattle fed,
To till the fields,
To clang the dinner bell...
Should sing relentless songs of returns,
Not stand and wait for days...
Sagging as the hinges sag,
Lonely in waiting those who've left,
Forgetting to come back.

A door is meant
For entering and departing,
Handles on both sides.

Door latches that see
no leavings nor returnings
Are kindred to handles on coffin lids,
Opening containers only....
No longer home....

A farm screen door latch
Should slam with the urgent drumming
Of a man or woman going off
On urgent business:
To see the cattle fed,
To till the fields,
To clang the dinner bell...
Should sing relentless songs,
Not stand and wait for days...
Sagging as the hinges sag,
Lonely in waiting ones who've left,
Forgetting to come back.

A door is meant
For entering and departing,
Handles on both sides.

A house that sees
no leavings nor returnings
Is kindred to coffins,
No longer home....

What the Fisherman said:
"It seemed like a good idea."

What he did:
Went fishing in a rowboat
Out on the Sound
About a mile out
And seagulls all around.

What happened:
Seagulls came about
To see
If scavenge work
Was to be done.
Dipping in and out
And just above,
One had some fun.

Fisherman annoyed...
One plucky bird
Came close above his head
And closer,
'Til finally the fisher said,
"I think I could just
Reach right up
And grab his legs!"
And so he did....

Seagull's Reply:
Seagulls, shocked,
Regurgitate,
Explode,
Expectorate
Whatever they've been
Carrying inside.

Instead of Fight or Flight,
Seagulls puke;
They have no pride.
At least this one did
Not.

Fisherman's Response:
He didn't even know
When he let go...
First the gull,
And then his lunch.

The man and the bird shared
Something in common
Out on the Sound:
They met for lunch
And went away hungry.

In autumn
I try to imagine
That cooling nights
Are only Spring
Returning.

I imagine
Planting the garden
Again,
But old Frost
Reminds me
That second childhood
Is only the precursor
Of winter's death.

Secrets To My Brother's Farm

"Before you run off to the chores,
I have a secret you must learn,"
And so the messages are passed
On how to operate this tractor or that truck,
Which I, the visitor, must discern.

"This tractor's clutch will soon go out,
Unless you heed these words,
Keep rpm just high enough, but not too much...
Idle her down before you slip the clutch."

"The key won't work in the old pickup,
Just pull the **** there on the dash,
Then give the coat hanger wire a pull
until the engine fires...oh...did you check the tires?"

"Oh, while we're at it, see that old truck?
It doesn't like to start on the first try
So turn it over a couple times for luck
And then she'll start and never die."

"The air compressor switch is gone,
so plug it in to make it go, but first
Be sure to drain the tank, or it won't run,
The motor's tired and and has to have an easy start."

"The tires on the trailer need more air,
Especially the left one in the back,
Slow leak is all it is, but if it goes,
A newer tube's up on the rack."

"The loader's got a special wire
That you must clip to start the alternator charging,
(And if you ever do forget, the ire
You'll feel when the wires start burning.")

"This cow's alright, but don't forget,
To feed her last in her own bunk;
She likes to fight, and we'll need the vet,
If others crowd her to a funk."

"Don't lean on that, or you'll get hurt;
I've meant all spring to nail it."

"The handle broke, so you have to get out
By rolling down the window."

"Watch out! The guard is off that thing;
It'll take your arm just quick!"

"Be sure to shut the gas valve off,
Or it'll drain out on the ground."

"No brakes, so drive her carefully.
Keep it in a lower gear,
But if need be,
Hit something cheap."

"Two scoops only is the limit
You'll make her sick with more."

"Be sure to double-wire the gate;
The cattle will get out."

"We save the egg shells for the garden;
We never throw away what we could use."

So many secrets to remember,
I sure could use a list.
What do I get when I suggest?
A look equivalent to a hiss.

There's a picture of you holding cake,
White frosting on your nose, wanting more
Your mother and father grinning
As you explore sugar as never before.

Behind the cameras, we laugh and clap,
Celebrating a year and nine months' wonder,
A life that we have come to know and love,
A little girl, on a day you're only partially aware.

The dog lies nearby, watching for crumbs,
In his own way celebrating this happy day.
He does not seem to mind he is supplanted
As family favorite; at least, he does not say.

The balloons, the cake, one candle all aflame,
Join our choral "Happy Birthday" song
Follow in the first of what we hope
Will be many, many more to come.

Just last week he was on his knees
In my mother’s kitchen
Scrubbing the yellow flowers’
Darkened dimples.
“The floor’s still good,
But the wax has darkened.
It’s been in there 30 years now!”
He told me on the phone.

Nothing needed replacing
If there was any usefulness left:
An old floor, or pair of jeans,
An old Ford or length of wire;
Use and re-use,
Or if something were not useful
At the moment,
It was stored (sometimes tagged)
In some haphazard pile for later.

Today we walked out on the place
He lived fifty-four years…
Scratched our heads and
Wondered where to begin.

“You can clean some of this scrap up…
Make some money,”
I say to my farmer brother.
“No!” his quick reply,
“Never know when something
Might come in handy.”

I stand there, looking
At the tottering empire of scrap,
Broken equipment,
Peeling, graying sheds.
I realize that in some ways
Dad isn’t really gone…
That I am the one who has left
The family farm up on the hill
Out in the sun and wind
And the seldom rains.

The semester has begun,
Textbooks, scuffless, new,
Slung lightly in my students' packs
As they begin their freshman track.

Thirty-seven new beginnings on,
I am an old horse about to plow,
Semester settling on my shoulders,
Horse collar creaking to the strain
As earth yields and rolls to the side.
Fall plowing the back 40 has begun.

Hair flying like lace all undone in the wind,
Flaxen and golden and fine in the sun,
Scented with hay mown fresh before dew,
A laugh on her breath and the mention of you.

She came in from the chores
Bearing Dolly's warm milk in a pail,
A tabby young kitten threading her heels,
And baby was greeting his mother in squeals.

She came in with the cold, blown by the wind,
And shuttered the heavy old door.
She stirred up the coals in the rusty old stove,
Cheeks all afire with the ice and the snow,
Stamping her feet by the fire's warm glow.

She came in from the spring,
A pail in her hand, and butter, packed in a jar,
Humming a tune with mud on her shoes,
A meadowlark's call on her mind,
First signs of green and new life on the wind.

She came in from the walk,
Frown on her face, mail in her hand,
Letters from home, black ribbon adorned,
News that made tears find their place,
And saddened her heart as it raced.

She came in from the fields
Weary and worn, old from the sun and the wind,
And she settled herself by the rusty old stove,
And she rocked in her battered old chair,
Reflecting a life both bonny and rare.

She came in from the fields,
And she'll go back again
When the evening sun makes its way
Round the flickering stairs to new day;
She'll rise just a bit before dawn
To stoke up the dwindling fire,
And go feed the new lamb
Whose mother has left her alone,
Whose mother has left her alone.

Cold settled in deep
On him and their son,
A poor fool, lost in his own world,
Scarcely aware his mother was gone.

The boy's father couldn't cope...
Tried, but hope with her had died.
Bankrupt faith, spent in futile prayer
To cure the failing heart,
Restore the lungs...
A silent "NO" hung in the air,
And she was gone.

Her ashes flew home beside him.
He went to pick up his son,
Stopped for three fifths of Scotch...
Proceeded to disappear,
Proceeded to disappear,
Proceeded to disappear.

The house suffered under stench:
Old *****,
Excrement,
*****,
Spilled bottles,
Cans scattered on the floor;
Everywhere a sour putrescence.

His son floated in and out of vision,
Autism and inebriation:
Two forms debilitation,
No hope of equilibration.

Neighbors made some calls...
Social workers came,
Took the son away.

Death seemed a reasonable option.
Leave the mess.
Join his wife.
End this ******* life....

Revolvers favor simplicity:
Load the chambers,
Snap the cylinder in place...
Aim closely to remove his face.

Muzzle up,
Open mouth,
Squeeze the hammer down...
Only a clicking sound.

Unusual, this...
Aim at the ground,
Squeeze off a round...
Ears ringing from the sound.

Raise the muzzle once again,
Bite ******* steel,
Squeeze the trigger down...
Again, a clicking sound.

Aim at the ground,
Blam! Potent round...
Set the revolver down.

"Hello. 911. What is your emergency?"

"Come get my gun;
I'm trying to **** myself."

Police arrive.
He's still alive.
Drunk and numb...
They take his gun.

Six weeks later, still in a haze,
He's told his story.
We are amazed,
But still he's found no calm for grief.

We struggle beside him,
Waiting for some sign,
Some reason why a gun
Should fail to fire...twice.

If you should read these words, my friends,
Please speak a prayer for a lonely man.
Ask for freedom from despair,
For peace and letting go,
For comfort and the hope of friends,
For better ends.
For better ends.
For better ends.

Rolling power:
      Churning waves
      Grinding shells,
      Prolific evidence of life & death
      Rising from salt depths,
Epic revelations from below.

Evidence of end games:
     Shells, drilled, scarred, scored
     By beaks of tendrilled monsters;
     Occupants devoured,
****** through ravaged carapaces.

Fecund progeny:
    Tiny messages, these shells...
    Evidencing life,
    Echoing death,
Generations grinding down and down.

My tanned bare feet,
    Track tide-lined shells,
     Seek forensic evidence and beauty,
     Follow ribbons of shells
Cast empty from the pounding sea.

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

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

We two are lonely here.

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

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

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

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

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

Halfway between Malta and Saco,
Highway 2 stops a minute
To look back...

Beside the road
A little shrine waits
The traveler:
A stone, naturally shaped
To form a sleeping buffalo,
But etched with lines to emphasize
The dozing buff's back and sides
And drowsing head.

Nearby, a 1920s entrepreneur
Saw money to be made...
Set up a happenstance hotel
Beside the hot and sulf'rus spring,
And "Sleeping Buffalo" was born
To "heal" and to amuse
Odd tourists in their wandering.

Not much has changed...
The old buff sleeps,
But now inside a little pen
To keep the tourist vandals
Safely from his way.

The old resort is open still...
Same rusty pipes and yellowed walls
And rusty water
Warm enough to stain
Unlucky bathing suits.
(The smell's enough to force
The bather to the bath as medicine....)

On my way to other places
I have stopped along the road
To meditate beside the old stone bull...

I understand, a little,
Now that I am growing old,
Tobacco offerings left
Beside the sleeping stone.
Though not a Pagan,
I can feel the distant Ways
Before our Western ways
Made tourists of us all.

"First day of Spring tomorrow!"
The Weather Teller says....

Outside, the Death of Winter
Drags along,
Over-acted, under-cut, and slow...
Decaying, ***** piles freshed again
In wet and heavy snow
While water fowl vee North,
Circling low to find slim-margined waters
Lining shores and cupping
Cakes of ice the size of lakes,
Brooding in their rotten state,
And waiting Orders from the Sun,
Whose work it is to usher Spring
In all her greening garb to stand
And bless the annual Burgeoning.

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

At lunch
My friend told me his dream:
"Jesus, my dad, and I
Were sitting by a fireplace,
Comfortable on soft leather chairs...
And we were smoking.
Dad had his pipe,
I was smoking a cigar,
And so was Jesus."

He laughed;
So did I...
Dreams can be absurd.

"I looked at Dad,
Said, 'You know,
You made my life miserable
Some times'...
And then he looked at me...,
'You made my life
Difficult, too.'"

He stopped and looked hard at me.

He'd had an Epiphany in his dream;
I saw the look in his face:
A coming to terms,
A sort of peace,
An understanding,
A sadding sorrow,
A letting go.

I remembered what he'd told me
When I had shared a dream...
My dreams are only about me...
Not about the people in my dreams.

My introspection ended
When he laughed...
"But that's not all!
We three looked up,
Somehow partners in the dream,
To see mother standing at the door,
And we, all three,
Slid our smokes down to the side
To hide them near the floor."

The twisting tale took us then,
And others in the coffee shop
Looked up from smart phones
To see two Frenchmen laughing.

Minnesota,
land of snow
land of ice
and wind
and chill

Gray sky, thick clouds, and fog now reign -
Give visibility that comes and goes
Between the sleety sister, icy-rain
and her brutal brothers, wind and snow,
But sunshine days are only weeks away.

Beneath the snow now sofa-thick -
A muffled trickling in the creek...
Not that winter's in the bag,
But an icicle extends its length;
White powder snow begins to sag;
A trickle leaves the water tank.

The ice, knee-thick, when drilled,
Reveals fish to pull up through the hole.
A month of fishing remains still;
The ice is safe, in spite of dwindling cold.

Somewhere up a path I hear but cannot see
The cheeky call of a chick-a-dee
Alerting family with his tweet
Who feast on orange bittersweet.

There's still a pile of seasoned wood
stacked in the shed, and enough food
To feed a visitor who happens by,
And every day is closer to blue sky.

So keep your hurricanes and quakes,
Your desert dryness and your heat,
Your eruptions volcanic and tidal waves,
Your populations fighting just to eat...
To me the cold and snow are sweet.

Knee-deep snow, driven by chilling winds
Blotted out gravel roads and ditches.
Lonely, fence line posts, in rustic rows,
Suffer hoary white in the winter sun.

Only brave or needful venturers brook cold
When wind-free mercury reads 25 below,
But out we went to winter pastures,
Heavy with feed, the old truck,
Tires chained and shovels at the ready
Clawed its way out seven miles to pasture,
And, later, seven miles back.

We boys were riding for the lark,
Enjoying risks, adventures bold
With Dad behind the wheel, no storm or wind
Could stop us, and we scorned the cold.

A hard pull took us up the road one mile,
Til, at the corner, into the lane we headed east
To see old Charlie's truck nosed into the snow.
His neighbors, we stopped to check, at least.

Asleep, too drunk to drive, old Charlie slumbered at the wheel.
"We have to get him out," we said, but Dad just shook his head.
"He's safe right here, stuck in the snow, with half a tank of fuel.
"We'll feed the cows and pull him out if he's still here when we come back.
Perhaps he'll sober up by then, and he'll go home."

How many times we left old Charlie sleeping in a ditch
Between his house and town, I cannot count today.
Sometimes, I think, we saved his life by leaving him
To sleep the vapors off, and other times by taking him away.

After all the work of forming sprouts,
Calling out all forms of  leaves,
Beckoning grasses, inert, unseen,
HE turned browns to golds and greens.

After awakening from restful sleep
The slumbering, snoring bears,
The fidgeting squirrels,
The ball-coiled snakes;

After HE irresistibly wooed to life,
Fish, Fur, and Fowl,
Gave orders of procreation,
Set ardor in the *******
Of all living things,
To make them spawn and breed,
To make them stomp and howl,
Under the teeming blue of oceans,
Upon the verdant plains of grass,
Beneath the sun that holds us fast,
Fecundity blooming where HE passed,

After the world was teeming and alive,
HE left humans asking questions,
And a Serpent asking on the sly,
"Perhaps it's just another lesson?"

Suggested truth beyond the Truth might lie.
And she, Pandora's Mother, Mother of all men
Considered loss of innocence the price of "Why?"
And death a mystery to share with Man.

So Winter came upon the world,
So Death declared its right to win,
And Living Things upon the earth,
Discovered cold and death and sin.

Growls or barks me from my easy sleep,
Dragging from my lips a groan, or sometimes worse,
Because a wind-blown branch is tapping at the house,
Or the neighbor dog is yelling out his worries to the moon.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, the dog
Moves from his place at our feet
To the valley between you and me,
Settles atop the comforter,
Lays his shaggy head upon my chest,
And sighs a deep, contented sigh
To say he is part of the pack, happily at rest.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I remember
That humans aren't the only family members.

Come sit with me
On this stone of sorrow;
Weep, lest I weep alone.
We may have laughing again...
Tomorrow;
But today, I'll rest
On this sorrowing stone,
Together with you
Or alone.

Starbucks cups of Kenya (fair trade)
Academic palaver and ennui
Interrupted by a hovering sparrow
Just outside our glassy corner
“Sparrows can’t hover”
An ornithologist told his class twenty years ago…
And here’s this sparrow,
Uneducated, I guess…
Hovers above and between us
On the other side of the glass…
Just hangs there
Maintaining for a count
One, two, three, four…
Slips down and then back up
And toward us, just above the glass,
Neatly picks a moth from the brick casing.
The helo-sparrow descends
To consume the pinched moth,
Its dusty wings
Resembling sunflower hulls
Shucked and discarded
Near bleachers after the game.

Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...

Blood on the floor,
And spittle.

Rival towns,
White - Red.

Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.

Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.

So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.

So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.

Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.

A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....

An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.

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

River birch flowers hang green-gold,
Dangling earrings on beautiful ears;
Morning sun about to break horizon
I never tire of spring, however old;
Her call to life again brings my heart cheer;
I live on promises; Spring delivers here.

A billion, billion blades of grass stand dewed,
Reflecting golden light of rising sun;
They put me in an easy-breathing mood -
Another war with winter has been won.
Now shall I venture out to breathe spring air,
The smell of earth announcing fertile loam,
And I shall leave behind my winter care,
My thrilling blood has stirred me up to roam.

Trees forcing sap to bursting buds
Giving leafy glories up to God.

Birds whose winged flight returning high
Fill northern skies with glory cries.

Soft calves and lambs in meadows skipping
Give glory in their lowing and their bleating.

Young stalks' persistent way through old decay
Announce green and growing glory be's along the way.

So you and I with sweet spring sighs
Hear and see and feel Nature's glory cries
And echo in our human tongues,
"All glory be to God!"

All Glory BE!

Let the springtime follies find their place,
And every admin find his clarion call.
Faculty and staff find hiding space;
The dice are cast and heads must fall.

The changing of the guard makes haste;
Outside the trickling melt is slow.
Quickened blood and whitened face...
Colleagues lost.... We wonder who will go.

House cleaning goes with spring, I guess;
We tend to move those articles of ease,
Ignoring those who have the power to oppress...
Whose absence might bring summer on the breeze.

Covered in slime,
On a new calf's legs,
Blowing and wheezing
To clear your lungs...
Commence breathing.

Spring, chirp in,
Crack the shell of ice
And open your beak
For the first worms
of Summer.

Spring, stalk in
With the dandelions,
Smear rouge on your tulips,
And sally forth
Looking for Love
In the asparagus.

A woman dressed in black,
Shadow-hidden,
Deep woods at her back....

I caught her image
In the yellow headlights
Just for an instant.

My wheels rolled by
While my imagination
Slid to a stop with her.

Why was she there
On a lonely road
In freezing rain and cold?

A mile up the road I slowed,
Turned around to answer
Nagging questions.

At the point where she had stood
Remained a half burned stump
Five feet tall, a broken scar face-high.

I smiled at my imagination...
Nearly stumbled on a shoe:
Black, high heel sunk to the hilt.

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.

"Buy a Star!
Own a Star!"

The sales are brisk,
For cross-eyed lovers,
Cross-hearted, lost,
Beneath the spinning constellations
Burning immortal exhalations,
Desiring forever oxytoxic bliss,
Burning ******* and hearts
Yearn longevity of stars....

PT Barnum saw his opportunity:
Sold cotton candy,
Hawked elephants,
Gawked dwarves,
Hid the razors from
Fierce bearded ladies,
Even sold the elephants' dung,
Provender to exotic gardens....

Barnum's packing up
The Pachyderms,
So Hawkers have us
Gazing on the stars....

"Step right up! See the stars!"
Purchase your fire in the sky!
Your lover's name,
Fixed in the firmament  
A million years!

At least the cotton candy
And the elephant dung
Served some earthy, earthly good,
Paid dentists' children's college,
Fertilized the family food.

So now go claim a distant star,
A million, billion miles away,
Its light must make its journey
A thousand years or more
To greet your eyes, and yet,
Your lover's sighs predict
A hundred dollars' better spent
Than on a good Chablis,
Cementing mortal love in
Distant stars so permanent,
Visited through telescopic glass
Atop our rented tenements.

If it
Started with an apple;
Will it
End with a syringe?

Ten thousand years to grapple
Sin-tactics on a binge

It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine
Tuberculosis!"

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.

weather breaking
                                        on the heartland
begins in other places
                                        minute-changing phases
threads and traces
                                       give the air its faces
gestational solitude
                                        hovers and broods
streams of space,
                                       solidifying in pace
before the thunder
                                      before the hail
storms begin as
                               whispers
                                                   breezes
first a zephyr
                            then a wind
                                                        beco­mes a gale
a force of power
                                         from breath to HURRICANE
indiscernible at first -              
                                          at last unstoppable

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off)

And then,
At 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off),

And stop.
Always 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.

I came exhausted
Out of the blistering gray,
Lungs choking dust,
Tongue parched,
Body swollen with heat.

Your cool gardens saved me.
Basked I in the tender greens of spring;
Nurtured, I lingered in the shade all summer;
Warmed, I stayed near your embers in autumn.
I would not leave the blazing logs in winter.

Dry and desperate my early plight.
Parched and stumbling,
Clogged by dust,
I found your water;
Drank and bathed,
Found solace in body and mind,
Found time to rest, to heal.

I wonder at the restlessness
Howling outside your gates.

Beneath the wind-blown clouds,
Shadows promise rain
But not today.

Sealed water bearers bluster by,
Too driven and too high to quench
Panting prairies where they lie.

Thin skirts of rain begin descent...
Devoured in the desiccated air.

The parched land waits,
Inhabitants determined to survive,
Perhaps to thrive,
When slower, heavier clouds arrive.

Persistent genes of prairie dwellers
Early ripen to store quick growth
Within their husky seeds,
Bear children to mature
At lightning speeds,
Live rugged lives
Blessed sporadically with green
That quickly fades to brown,
Wait patiently to send
Their children on ahead.

So life remains and waits
Beneath the scuttling clouds
Enduring sun and shade,
In hope of rains.

Before the sun
With his bright face
Puts angles on the shade,
Before old darkness slinks into his place,
I leave the house...
This morning off to work,
But slowing in my run,
I lean to see....

East and high above, a shypoke pair
Take leisure in their flight,
Wings creaking prehistoric,
Feet streaming back on boney stalks,
A trailing nuisance in the air,
Yet perfect for deep water walks.

The chilly air is still;
Dew hovers on the edge
Of giving up on hesitating summer.
Winter is not yet so far away
That crystal forms
Have been forgotten.

Dogwood, leafless yet, and bleeding red,
Begins to glow along the path
The joggers take before the morning sun.

The early light is best
To seek perspective on the world
Before the morning paper,
Before the morning cup;
The early light is best,
As long as we are up.

Before the sun
With his bright face
Puts angles on the shade,
Before old darkness slinks into his place,
I leave the house...
This morning off to work,
But slowing in my run,
I lean to see....

East and high above, a shypoke pair
Take leisure in their flight,
Wings creaking prehistoric,
Feet streaming back on boney stalks,
A trailing nuisance in the air,
Yet perfect for deep water walks.

The chilly air is still;
Dew hovers on the edge
Of giving up on hesitating summer.
Winter is not yet so far away
That crystal forms
Have been forgotten.

Dogwood, leafless yet, and bleeding red,
Begins to glow along the path
The joggers take before the morning sun.

The early light is best
To seek perspective on the world
Before the morning paper,
Before the morning cup;
The early light is best,
As long as we are up.

Father in Heaven, Giver of breath,
I am tainted by my prideful lust,
Wearied as I run toward death.
Kneeling knowing "dust to dust."
Were I to beg you slay the wicked,
My death I'd call for you to give.
Lord, hear the cry of one so wretched,
Tortured now, who begs to live.
Despite my wretchedness, I know
Surrender as I see your Image pressed.
Make whole this desperate soul,
Lift me to live in holy rest.

Amen

A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.

Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.

Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.

Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.

So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.

A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"

An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.

"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.

I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.

Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.

We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.

She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.

In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.

Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.


The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....

Slip into a syncopated
Yaw that staggers some,
Never touches others.
Come back home if you don't have the chops, or
Open up to ranges
Pleasant...
Awkward...
Totter some and Tatter some.
Insiders,
Outsiders
Nestle or Negate whenever Music syncopates.

Deny we the possibility of order
Ignore we an Outside Law
Suggest we an endless possibility
Worlds without end
Positions simultaneous
Moving in all directions or none
Claim we the future as ours

Defy we realities of law external
Look we inward-outward simultaneously
To become one or none or all
Reject a single story
Saw we the Arms from Truth
Reduce we the Other to I

Forget we the order of Universes
Without-Within
The clockwork structures
Atomic
Celestial
Genetic
Physical
Biological
In and or-ganic

Reorder or Retell we the Cyclical Tales
Birth and Rebirth
Seasons and Times
Journeys of stars swirling through space
Endless flights of planets
Endless migrations of living things
Each rhyming to universal rhythms
Watts and amperes circular-linear mysteries
Predicting futures from their undisputed histories

Deny we external truth
Held here in the gracious grasp of gravity
Warmed gently by a tolerant star
Inhabitants of a universe
Unable to explain itself
Or even how its atoms came
To repel and to attract
In perfect tensions
Or to unleash energies
Predictable and measurable
In milliseconds and millenniums

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

Marionettes macabre
Cut loose from our strings
Dancing slowing dirges
Proclaiming opening spaces
Beneath closed skies
Denying a Maker
Rejecting hymnody to sing
Ditties laden with lies.

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.