Bluebirds, matching set
Follow along as I hike
Flitting on phone lines

Poems about women  
Spills of passion  
Flow from anger  
Burst from love  
Gather dust in libraries  
Find homes in back pockets  
Adorn bulletin boards.  

Counting poems  
About women,  for women  
Is endless    
Reams of works  
Billow forth  
From crazed minds of men  
Hourly,  daily, weekly

Small wonder  
This gentle ***  
Incomprehensible,  
Entices, enchants
  
Fill pages with thoughts of her  
Ease all tension, write

He wants everything
to be new, for
life is now,
in the moment.

Talk of yesterday
irritates his mental state.
He seems to have no
memories, sour or sweet.

He pays attention,
observant, fixed and
focused on charm bracelet,
the sky, or her feet.

Notes, mementoes
seldom covered his table
for life is now,
living is the present.

No talk of tomorrow
nor discourse of history
for he might miss
the softness of her breath.

Who cares for yesterday
or sins that he had played,
excitement seems supreme,
he might make the same mistake today.

Recalling past life and loves
seems folly:
Notice the wind, the rain,
her walk, or her sway.

He wants every moment
to be new
so he may fall in love today
again, with her.

Anchor babies playing.
Young children’s arms a’ flailing
whirling, whirling,
here they stay.

Illegal’s children dance
Mother took her daring chance
twirling, twirling,
watch us play.

Crossing Rio Grande’s water
Mexico sent a daughter
staying, staying
watch me play.

We don’t know we’re problems
We’ll dream of sweet sugar plums
dancing, dancing
love this day.

Anchor babies playing.
See children’s arms a’ flailing
whirling, whirling,
here we’ll stay.

On his bucket list
he wanted to commit
an original sin
was told he already had
Somehow he missed it
No one told him
if he had fun

No matter how much arch in the eyebrow, 

the distorted image in the mirror
offers validity that Age is hammering out 

its handiwork as Borglum did 

on the Crazy Horse Memorial. 

Age does not put the chisel down.


Mother, well chiseled at 98. 

Father, at 79, was sculpted by age
and weather and farm labor. 

Will 
Age's chiseling cease? 


Age had been his friend over many years. 

Friends say he had aged well. 

Now his relationship with Age 

has entered a new stage,
an on-the-rocks stage. 

Age has picked up the pace 

and now chisels with a jackhammer.

At sunrise the dew melts into nothing
and the field loses its silver glow
while retaining a tranquility
unbecoming of most minefields.

Brushing his face against
heavy denim material
the curious son hears his father's words,
Soon you will walk across
this field. I will educate you
to step here and step there,
to avoid the hidden dangers
beneath the grassy slopes
and native flowers.

Trust flows from innocent eyes,
uncreased by worry
or the wear of fear,
as the son requests,
Why are there mines among
the lavender and milkweed?

Because the fox must be hunted,
and the deer harvested
as food for our hungry ambitions.
These mines are triggered
by those who justify their sport
as signs of bravery and courage.

At times crazed men ignite the mines
as a show of their rage.  They ****
others among us, even children.

What if there were no mines?
We must keep our freedom,
freedom to walk anywhere,
to say anything
and to plant mines in the field
despite their dangers.

The eye of the eagle
will guide you each
step amid the lavender
and coneflowers until
you are safely to the other side.

Glancing upward, gazing ahead
the boy shares his wonder,
Will I continue to plant mines in the fields
for my children to walk?
A heavy masculine voice
cracks the north wind

If I train you well, . . .
If I train you well.

(with Eddie Eagle)
http://eddieeagle.nra.org/
(information about the Eddie Eagle GunSafe Program of the National Rifle Association,  
Eddie Eagle is a registered trademark of the NRA