When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.

The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.

Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.

The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.

Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.

So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?

Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.

Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.

In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.

I rode to the cemetery,
this Sunday morning.
I chained my bike to
the last log of the labyrinth.
I danced softly in the
center.

I walked up that hill,
while cars passed for
a burial service.
I wondered if I was rude,
not dressed like everyone
else, dressed in black.
I was afraid they could
tell, that I was looking
for names.

I hated feeling watched.
Even earlier when
I sat at the bar
of a diner for breakfast.

I kept to myself,
smiled to strangers,
so they knew that I
was friendly.

Could they tell that
I was hurting?
Could they sense
my quench of
thirst?

As I look too see,
and raise my head,
the corn rows are
to the right.

To the left,
a distant barn pillar.

The last time I felt
this way was six months
ago, or so.

In the month of April,
the Spring breeze
was there the ease my head.
I slept in the sunshine at
the top of the graveyard hill.
There next to me, a gentle,
wandering soul.

As I look to my right again,
barbed-wires keep
me from the corn.

This bench that I rest my body on,
engraved where my langley-legs
drape the edge,
"KEEP SEARCHING FOR A HEART OF GOLD."
In a handwriting that was too
familiar.

This shoots my compass magnet
North, South, East, and West.
19 years later, an Autumn
Breeze sways my way.

Sometimes the sun sets
when I am restless.
Other times, I will not rest
until the sun rises.

When I saw the name Ripley,
to the right was Bliss.
Behind the bush of pink flowers,
a rose bush I could only hope,
I did see the name Shannon.

I saw Melvin near Cahill.
I saw Hutchins, Tobin, and
Soloman.
I saw Thomas, Owen, Jones,
Donahue, and Roberts.

I searched for the names
that called to me.
They thanked me, they
apologized, and I did
likewise.

I searched for a name
like mine, and then
fell in love with the name I
was given.

As the burial service continued,
I followed the bits of grass-path
and gravel road, back towards
the labyrinth.

I am fire,
here to shine,
here to give warmth
to those who need it.
And one day, I too,
shall burn to ashes.

If they must, they might
try to simmer the flame.

Colorado forest fires
are a natural way to give
the Rockies a chance
to resurface.

And yes, my eyes have traveled
from stars to soil,
and now my eyes are set towards the
Himalayan, East.

On the way home, there are paths disguised as mountains
Arches of light to climb
Fragments of color, scattered bread crumbs, to lead the way
This is your journey home
Embrace Divine light, the pieces of your soul

Illuminated by the joyful tears of your guardian angels and ultralight beams, you are on the right path when you see me
Your journey home is not as hard as it may seem, the end isn't clear to you just as the gold's sheen comes second to your soul
the only illusion are the mountains in the distance whom are few and far apart
So with every milestone of your life, be sure to look into the skies and see which color of your next chapter shines

Rejoice!
Joyce!
The girl killed in a tragic car accident
in 1973.
Picked up from the earth.
You were lifted tenderly
to a place
coveted by
forlorn corpses
that walk New York City
in their dry-cleaned business suits,
attending the ritualistic Sundays
in cross buildings.
While it soaks in,
while death is now the life
you live
there’s a
ship coming crewed
by all your favorite people you never knew.
Every missed connection,
lost crush,
pets passed away
they echo in song
to the Nursery shores
your bare feet freshly plant
on.
Joyce Wells,
Farewell!
You’re on to another road, now.
This revenant path
with more sudden turns than Lombard street
on clammy mornings.
However the incessant
afterlife treats you
it was nice to know you, Joyce Wells.
We’ll all miss you dearly.
You’re currently in a Morgue
at some cinder block hospital.
You’re currently on a viking ship
set for a frosty-tipped valley across the sea with
Molly, a stray cat your family adopted when you were three,
and Micheal Donahue, your first love.
While the world keeps spinning,
while your casket is buried.
While in 1974 it rains,
there’s an ease in knowing
that Joyce Wells would be
delighted to hear
that she was
freed.

For Garcia




Ah, Harlem, Harlem, Harlem
Washington is Algeria before rebellion
F. Garcia Lorca, Indians, Indians
Ghetto walls still suffocate mothers’ mouths
This city cries
Wakes punching
Wastes then expiates
Hammered by the furnace of the sun
Lorca, Lorca
The madman is still breathing
Fred’ eyes bleed
His bed burns crimson
Wraith and werewolf sit
**** false justice
Garcia, Garcia
We need you
We need you with a gun
A gun, Garcia, a gun
Or (and this for your ears only)
Harlem, Harlem, America
Wash the blood from your
Babes blind eyes.





T. H. Donahue
6/25/71
Edited 2/8/2015