She is an atlas
her eyes deepest
and darkest Africa

Unfolded I hold her
tracing the source
of her diamonds and gold

In search of the motherload.

In the folds of the hills
and hollows
of my mind,
I remember a time
when you were free.
You were of the sweetest color
known to me.

No man could catch you;
I'm not even sure we tried.
It was such a sight
just to watch you
spread your wings.

Like a bird
you could fly
circles so high,
blue as the sky,
and free as the wind.

I knew someday
you would leave,
fly away,
no longer free;
my mountain bird
on a breeze.

r ~ 6/30/14

I head out at twilight
only to return each dawn,
wading the muddied waters
of my youth, and mysteries
of a history misremembered,
or wishfull, wistful memories,
wanting to revisit in dreams
those things that defy the laws
of physics, yet knowing I can't
go back, and each breath I take
reminds me forever of that fact.

A semi-circle of white mushrooms
Around my crab apple tree
Usually I'd cut them down
But for this symmetry
Half circle evenly spaced
From each other and the tree
Odd arrangement crescent moon
It was meant to be
My crescent moon of symmetry

r

I kneel in a field of wheat grass
catching grasshoppers.

I scoop underhand into my jar, another
at the height of its jump, a third.

I put my jar by the stream, pull one
out and I grab it, force my barbed steel
hook through the belly still trembling.

I cast long loops of line into the drift
below rocks where current
froths and whirls.

I stand mechanically slightly ashamed, uncomfortable on that shaded bank
where trout strike hard.

I let them swim, then hold fast, reeling one, exhausting him, wrenching him
into air, his tail drumming against the sky.

Hanging  from the line
his fat belly flinches.

All his life of riding rapids, hiding
in flats embraced by waters’ fast flow,
by red rainbows in his scales.

I didn’t expect that open mouth,
that whiteness, the gills stop twitching,
the eyes caught in that open stare.

I have compared my love
to the lazy, the no good
and to crazy girls of the past,
to my first truck, to a spell,
a moth and a bottle, to the hell
bending moon, if you could tell,
and to a Captain - if not a ship,
and to ways you'll come to know
too soon, but I have never, ever
compared my love for you.

When love comes to visit
she only stays a few days
at a time; her work in the city
is important she says, so
she brings her satchel of books

I wait at the crossroads
where the bus lets her off

Then we go to bed to dream
where she sings and hums
before morning comes

When she gets up
and pulls on her jeans
and goes out on the porch
it's so early you can see the moon
and the sun; I go to work
while she lays around
to read and do what she does

The days go so slow
and when I get home
she's baked some apples
and painted my bedroom blue

The next morning
I take her up the road
to the bus; we say so long

She never talks about her job,
so I leave her  alone.

I remember the last doctor appointment that I took my father to. At the VA, of course. He wouldn't go anywhere else. Said he didn't like doctors in general, but at least these ******* didn't tell him that he needed to quit smoking. It's been a few years since the old man passed, but I recall so clearly how unfazed he was that day. How accepting of it all. How he remarked to the Doc so matter-of-factly "Of course it's spread. That's what cancers do. Just like us, they do what they have to do."  He never asked how much time he had. He knew. Told me not to tell "the girls". My sisters. **** fine old man. Always did just what he had to do.

4/2/14

Hello ****, some water?
You're looking well for
Such an old stone.
Wish I could say the same
For Keith, but then, he's
Aging real, isn't he? :)
He ain't fading away too soon.
Well, I'd like to say that time is on my side
But I'm all out of time and I have
Yesterday's papers to read before
Dinner at Ruby Tuesdays. Let's spend
The night together and paint it black next time.


Ah, John John. There you are.
Why, you don't look any older
Than the day you metamorphosed.
Pardon me while I flick that lady bug
Off your back. Always were popular with the gals, weren't you. Speaking of, Eleanor Rigby stopped by yesterday to help me with some chores and offered to take you to her strawberry fields forever if I would give you up. I told her that she was in line behind Abbey up the road and Penny down the lane. You hound dog, you.

Eric, you old derrick. Seen a domino
'Round here. I seem to have misplaced one.
Watch it, I see some snake eyes in those
Weeds. Need to get that old *** Layla out.
What, lazy?  Your faith in me is blind, old son.
You are in the presence of the lord of the stones.

Mr Fogerty, how ya been?  Nice day today, eh?  
Have you ever seen the rain like last week?  Coming down like water out of Niagara. I was beginning to wonder who'll stop the rain. We were fortunate, son. Coulda flooded.

There you are, big as a dirigible and heavy as lead. Large enough to be a cornerstone to that stairway to heaven.  Ought to have named
You Zeppelin.  We could use you to build a dam for when the levee breaks. By the way, seen a black dog around here lately?  Neighbor Bill's been going through some good times and bad times. He's feeling dazed and confused since his old lady said babe, I'm leavin' you and now his dog has run off. Man sure could use a whole lotta love. Well, best be movin' on.

There he is!  My main man, Neil. Bud, you are showing your age, but still rockin' in the free world, I see. I remember the day I found you down by the river some time back after the gold rush. I was feeling helpless till that pretty cowgirl in the sand with a heart of gold took pity on this old man and gave me a hand loading you up into the back of my VW.  It was like threading a needle, and the damage done to my back without her help would have been something awful. She was a real cinnamon, that girl. From Ohio, if I recall. Well, I see the sky about to rain, looks like a hurricane may be coming. Could be a real thrasher. Tonight's the night that we shoulda been having a harvest moon. Well hey hey my my old friend. Time for this southern man to head on in. You hang loose, and I'll be seeing you in the by and by.

r ~ 14Mar14.

Night and fog
setting in-unsettling
now that the rain has stopped

the live oak in the dark
creaks under the weight
of dying limbs

mean high tide
at three a.m.
means no ghosts will walk
ashore

U-227 lies on the bottom
not too far out from here
where she went down
in the nacht und nebel
while the live oak creaked
and the ocean roared.

r ~ 8/10/14

"...a black woman
in a white house
built by slaves..."

O,
to be
Manet
with Nana
on that morning
before the stroke
of brush did touch
her cheeks with blush
of immoral immortality.

r ~ 6/11/14

you were laid up in guadalupita
with camelia la tajena from la junta
and her tonto from la plata-
hiho-yo

shootin' tequila with pancho villa
jefe of the bandidos mc locos
- tweakin and twerkin chicas and cholos
and vatos ridin' with the vagos -

they were singing -

"con cuerno de chivo y bazooka en la nuca
volando cabezas a quien se atraviesa
somos sanguinarios, locos bien ondeados
- nos gusta matar"

you were kickin - breathing quickened
- bravo television tunnel visioned
to the tonto/pancho episode
en camera - exposed

pronto - camelia shot her tonto
dead - a perfect rose upon his head -
i like killin - she said

hiho-yo, tonto

we sang narcocorridos
all night long -

on the blue mesa.

r ~ 10/25/14

 *song excerpt from:
"Sanguinarios del M1” (Bloodthirsty Men of the M1)” (2010)
"Translation: "With “goat’s horn” (AK-47) and bazooka at our necks/Sending heads flying if anyone tries anything/We’re bloodthirsty, crazies deep in the scene/We enjoy killing..."

I could
if I thought
it would
do any good
~ lay my head
on the temple steps
~ like an addict
getting a fix
by a fire-station
~ but I know that
there’s no
Narcan
for the soul
~ when it’s OD’d
and grown cold
and oh so old.

What can I say
about changing places
and the weary night song
piled outside every window?

It can weigh you down
like happiness, like rain,
like the notion of destiny
or an obligatory farewell
that you carry strapped
to your shoulders.

Believe me, if it would help
you see things in a different light
I would only write poems
about love and dream gardens.

The sun and the fresh air
would do you a world of good,
and I would make it rain just enough
to spruce up the flowers.

I would read these in a French dialect
and part my hair accordingly
like a slight, wry smile.

But the truth is
I could never understand
why a single language is not enough.

Breath blown into an empty bottle
and tossed into the nearest stream.

This human need for a philosophy
of words when a howl would do
much better; after all, we are only dogs wearing a fancy leash and a collar
of home we sometimes call a house.

Places change because with the years
we change even less. We’ve spent
too much time in the dirt
and now everything is relative
because it is under our fingernails.

Scrape away rinse and repeat and still
the hounding memory of nights
under the stars, backs to the chill
of dry ground and nothing but a long sigh
for a sheet to pull up to the neck.

How many sighs does it take to make
a death? Just open your eyes
when the night peaks at its most
exotic and serious black.

We’ve been here before, you and I.
Heard sounds that would never
make sense out of context.

But there was no need to ever
translate what the crickets said.
Was there? For us, once, never a need.

Sunup
expectations low-
another day aimed my way

- till the sky became
a color never named
and changed my world - again,

a new day.

r ~ 10/12/14

Some died in the Spring;
and some by the river, deep
in Winter beneath a bridge.
Some died alone by a tree
behind a repossessed house;
and some with their cats
at home, quiet as a mouse.
Some died reading bills
that come in the mail;
and some reading the part
number, reaching for a fan
belt hanging on a nail.
Some died with a flyswatter
in hand, toilet paper in a screen
door, dead flies on the floor;
and some like heat lightning,
fast as a sick baby’s breath.
Some died without a warm, caring
woman’s hand on a forehead;
and some sharing a last cigarette.
She, my old lover who loved danger,
died on the side of the road
in the arms of a stranger.

Night is an old blanket
asleep on my pillow.
Night is the mist on the river
covering the willows.
Night is the moon turning blue
brushing her hair.
Night is a black dress
on the back of my chair.

Who is that man
in my doorway

his shadow
smelling like grave soil

face cold as a dead star
dark as a pond full of oil

his hair floating like weeds
eyes blank as a book of good deeds

turning slowly with grace
like a boot tied to the end of a lace.

Heave away laddies
sail away you ladies
let us lift our glasses
to that one-eyed spy
aloft in the dark nest
looking down to what
we have spelt out in
the fires of driftwood
drinking to the light
filling the silent sea
wooing its bed right
below my window,
and to the memory
of the rusty revolver
held tight in my right
hand I keep beneath
my hard, cold pillow
O, night, you old sailor
your victory, I salute.

Some days pass by fast like a flash
of white, a young woman
crossing her legs on a park bench

while some nights roll slowly
like dark stockings a widow takes off
at the end of her mourning

but tonight is as black as *******
draped over the light by the bed

a silhouette of a lady in the glow
of a cigarette before morning.

in the dark

i sometimes feel

the cold sharp edge
of night's dagger

memories are bled

forgotten pain
is good to remember

the sound of cheney's voice
speaking of war
with his new bad heart.

r ~ 6/22/14

If you think of me in the spring,
think of dogwood petals
in my hair, greener grass
and new beginnings.

If the summer solstice
finds you walking alone
in the garden of the moon,
remember that I'm somewhere
walking alone, too.

If you sing of me,
sing in the fall
in blue flannel and jeans
like the saddest song of all.

And if I pretend to die,
and you pretend to weep,
I promise to do it in the winter
when there are no flowers
to send in your pretended grief.

Just give me
a blindfold
and a cigarette,
or two.

Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

Hello Poets.
I received a copy yesterday of my good friend Timothy's new book "Reflections in Short Poetry". An excellent book with some of Timothy's finest poems.  Many of you are already familiar with his work. The book is very affordable and now available at lulu.com (by Timothy Salter). I highly recommend it. Congrats to Timothy for getting off of his **** and doing what many of us would like to do. Check his work out here at HP, too, if you aren't already familiar with his writing.

r

If I were a watch man
I'd grab the moon and
put it in my pocket, man
take it out every now and then
and ask him O moon
is it time yet to give up
the ghost of my past loves
whose paths I've long crossed
lost and missed my chance
since the crows have danced
and left tracks with their feet
cut deep into my cheekbones
but I've never owned a watch
it's true (believe it or not)
or cared to know the time
and the moon looks just fine
shining up there in the sky
such a scene to be seen
instead of stuck in a pocket
of my old gray faded jeans.

Squinting lines instead
of the smiling kind
I watched the sunset
over the pines
as always, west
where my mind wanders
wondering why I left
an orange blazing
light lighting my deck
back aching
so **** tired
of this god forsaken
place wishing it was fire
not just another dying day.

in all the photos
he was a young man -
my father

handsome and smiling
a useful smile

i tried to find one from later
when he was a bystander
on my street -

older, unsmiling, obsolete
- there were none

i wish i had known
how he felt

now that i do.

r ~ 11/25/14

Silence is the Captain
of my nights

His ship slips quietly
like words made of smoke

By the low light of the moon
he guides me

Both lost in this deep ocean
of love and loneliness.

Strong and tall
the lonely pine
rising up
to sky so blue.

The emerald grows
its beauty slow
and captures light
in solitude.

Lonesome pine
down by the sea
dreams of ships
with beams hand hewn.

Strong against
the wind and waves
the pine will sail
the ocean's view.

r ~ 7/20/14

Dragonflies and Damselflies
Symbols of good fortune
From water nymphs
To flying orchestra in tune
Beauty in symmetry
Fragile Forktail
Ebony Jewelwing
Common Whitetail
Eastern Amberwing
Autumn and Amber Meadowhawks
The Common Green Darner
Such beauty in variety
5,900 species of wonder
Ode to the Odes
Dragonflies and Damselflies
Another splendid nature code
Filling my skies

r  
4 August 2013

I listened to the iron rooster
spinning in the wind wondering
who would climb the roof
and take him in, or would he roost
with strangers in the house

It was so cold
the chicken water froze over

The women made coffee
and the men went out to the shed
to look over the tools

No one would sit in her black chair
because it was a bear
that might wake up anytime

She died in the middle of the night

The doctor said her heart blew out
like a jar of preserves

Before dawn I laid my head
on the hard couch by the cast iron
stove and heard her coming down
the stairs with her cane and her teeth
in a glass on the way to the outhouse
saying *Who took my flashlight?

You big bonehead.

I once painted a dartboard in the corner of a room.
Half on one wall, half on the other; hit bullseye every time.
I thought I had found an answer.

I once jumped out of an airplane.
Nowhere to go but down.
That wasn't the answer, either.

I once walked a trail bordered by a swift river and a sheer cliff.
I could go where I had already been, or someplace else.
I found the answer.

r ~ 4/27/14

When I was young
I didn't have any doctor bills
now I get statements
special delivery, envelopes
full of X-rays I hold up
to the moon, that rock
sinking deep in my gut
looking like all of those cold
feelings I've swallowed
the many curses held inside
wooden matches chewed twice
and not spat out, a cancer
like a two-headed speckled trout
swimming around
trying to find its way out
when in fact it's just a feeling
I get trying to swallow regrets
one rusty old fish hook at a time.

I dream of white
winds blowing,
like dogwood
petals, or snow.

This is the longest
I’ve been so close
to you on a sheet
of papered dreams.

Like you, death,
these poems
about you, come
as no surprise.

Close to the last page
between the covers,
still I think I’ll need
at least one other.

I hoped before
I could let you go,
before I hoped
the white winds blow.

I remember how the blood
on the tip of each blade
of grass in the sun
where it had splashed
made them look
like tiny swords you see
in picture books
when my friend placed
his hand on a stone
and took a knife to his finger
right through the bone
for pointing out the faults
of his father to his face
who later hung himself
in disgrace and the son
with the stump
by his right thumb
felt the pain
one thousand times
as he flung his father's shame
all around praying for
a cleansing rain to come
water the flowers by the grave
and wash the sheen of his sin
away to make everything
all clean and green once again.

A man without
scars is like a river
without water
like a room without
a window
or a son to carry on
the name
and a man without
a woman
is a man without woe
or sand or a heart
to be broken
a man
who is dreaming only
of a tractor
and wide open
fields with no hay
to be mown.

I have a son
not too far south
of me, close enough
to jump in my car
and go speak of my love

but I won't put a bit
in his mouth or saddle
him with my troubles

We could cut our palms
open with sharp knives
and be blood brothers
the rest of our lives

and I could find another
woman in the mountains
instead of staying here
with his mother he loves
while he swims his own
sea of life without me

instead I drive long drives
and count the keys
on the black piano
of the highways at night
passing beautiful women
who wave and smile back

but I'm only dreaming
keeping night watch
over my bed,  I dream
about old songs that sing
back to me like one
by Townes Van Zandt
about going down to see
a woman named Kathleen.