One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...

For Helene.


Ashes on the water, now.
Love's bones like dust downstream.  
At least it got to see itself in our eyes,
Feel itself between hand holding hand

And whispered caresses.
From pillow talk to fists raised at
Concerts, glasses of Portuguese wine
On her balcony to the sound of magpies

We named our neighbours.
We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Ended gracefully.

I open hands that held hers and see
Nothing but skin worn by labour,
And air.
Ashes on the water, now.

Embers without a chance against rivers  
Cold with melted mountain snow and
Unyielding differences.
Some loves drown with lungs too full

To cry; others float like a funeral-pyre-
Longboat into the night, ablaze.
King and queen, hand upon hand.
Crowns tied from fresh flowers,

We were beautiful.
Began beautifully.
Slid apart the way a glacier parts from
The hills; slowly, but with the force

Of its thousands of tons.
Ashes on the water,
Where the ghost of our union rests
Underneath the surface of our memories.

I will remember you.
Until the stars burn out, raining the
Dust of themselves like snow upon
These waters that always are moving.

When the clouds below turn to into carpet
Up there in the cold morning light,
The VFR pilot jitters and frets:

Time to check fuel, to come up with a plan
To search for a hole in the billow below,
And bring the craft in to land.

So it was when a pilot coming back from a lark,
Flew in a circle somewhere over Williston,
Above clouds turning thicker and dark.

In his office sat Phil, across the state line,
When the radio crackled, pleading a break:
"VFR practice," he thought, "He's probably fine."

Phil headed to lunch, had an errand to do...
Drove downtown for a couple of hours,
Returning somewhere around 2:00.

The radio tone carried tired despair
When Phil walked back in from his break
And heard the pilot, still stuck in the air.

Phil knew that the fuel must be drained
In the old Piper Cub overhead,
So he logged a flight plan and ran for his plane.

He flew to the east and banked to the north,
Rising above the gray carpet below,
And spotted the wanderer holding its course.

Coming in fast, cutting his distance by half,
"Super Cub over Williston, this is Bonanza
On your left. How much fuel do you have?"

"About 30 minutes," came a despondent reply,
Standard answer, but gauging the hours,
Phil calculated the response was a lie.

"I am going to fly by your side.
Follow me and dive when I dive;
Keep contact and enjoy the ride."

The planes in tandem turned around;
Phil flew by IFR to find the runway end,
Backed off the throttle, and led them down.

The tail dragger followed, did not complain,
Dropped into the soup gliding blind
Except for the strobe on the faster plane.

The old Cub flared when Phil said, "Land!"
Settled onto the runway end as the propeller stalled,
And Phil had saved a desperate man.

On the hangar wall now hangs a plaque,
Though Phil himself is gone,
The Governor's gift for bringing a flyer back.

--------------
My brother once watched Phil Petrik of Sidney Aviation fly off the Sidney runway, disappearing into a pea soup fog, carrying our father and mother on an emergency flight to Billings, to save my father's life.

I lay this poetic rose upon Phil's grave as a slim tribute to a man who earned my admiration and life long gratitude. Rest In Peace, Phil Petrik.

´

You  came to me
as a vision
as a mirage
as soft shadows
landing low

Warmly loving
the hot bouncy
paws
and their
delicate dance
across Dali's

Tangible
soundless motions
obssesive mushy
desserted sands
of time's

Kaleidoscopic
fractal falling

Swirling
back into
the theatre of dreams

Tuning a
migrating
midnight to
those silent, evanescent
melodies
yearning
craving
to be played
once more
and adored on longplays

Spiraling and spinning
in my memory
like a skilled
reindeer wafting
wet air through fresh
nostrils, a defiant elegance
fluttering around as colourful
wings move the magnificent
leap of a sinew lyinx
to tremble
among spring greenery

Got to develop gentle moves.
Silent. Soundless. Elegant.