Neftlix, Hulu, autumn elaeagnus
thorns, small hairy buds, twigs hyper-lenticelled
fruits supposedly edible, leaves elongated, oblong
xerophytic but found in wetland
introduced species, some say invasive

Xbox is invasive
Hulu is the best source of foreign films
and foreign films represent reality better than American
although reality is not always what we're after
silliness, silly sadness, and relentless laughter

letting my web site go to seed
writing badly is the best revenge
eventually your doctors find something in you they can't cure
causes some fear, gives some certainty
you're required to tell your sons and brothers about it so they can make
      informed medical decisions going forward

let's posit the dead, like the dream-lover or -killer
is you in disguise, a facsimile or factotum
stand-in, an actor or actress remembering lines
which are your memories, or if you're not in movies
divinations of things to come, earthquakes and volcanoes

life goes on without a hiccup
you saddle up with the three gentlemen to the River Friday
where a new life begins without sleep as a soul, at least that's the story
      they tell
in these scientific times we apply Ockham's razor, i.e. the afterlife
will most likely be most like the life before life

when it gets too late to exercise
ignore time, learn slowly to go slowly
through life, rise
early, there is no time only change
an empty belly's holy

and a ***** willow's so alive its buds want to burst
in mid-February when the sun stays up in the sky more than January
this is what I write about, not Tolstoi, nor war
not one conversation or love scene between a man and woman
or illustration of what man has done to man

cars pass I never wave
so many guys are belly fat, women **** fat and they want to sit right
      behind you in the bleachers eating fried foods and wearing
      allergenic perfumes
I like the motionless perfection of autumn elaeagnus
wind in white pines
crows do not annoy but dogs do

a porcupine or coyote is a lucky sight
barred owl or pileated woodpecker
and a black bear is quiet reality itself
I said to the doctors 54 or 84 you always seem to want more when they
      said I'm too young to die
I said dying chooses you you don't choose dying, so it's not my fault

yesterday's walk, today's work
there's no percentage in searching for significance, wanting meaning
and no percentage in respecting death unless it's imminent
I admire the writer who writes 10,000 words per day no matter what
who's got plot

a plague or fire, a spider or a tiger in a boat
stolen Louisiana votes or endangered alligators
in my case common pipewort or pickerelweed floating in a northern
      lake
egrets, loons and hawks
on your winter walk cedar waxwings foraging for soft rose hips

and talking like people talk
about this and that, work and child rearing, not religion or politics
keeping it light and friendly
eating chili and chocolate chip cookies
passing time watching a football game, the superbowl or a movie
      usually a romantic comedy

for Robin

On that frosted January day,
     you and I hiked north
along the Mississippi shore
     on a trail marked well before us.

Footfall tapestries etched in snow
     wove tales of assiduous commerce
of hosts of fur-cloaked cousins:

the playful step-slide gambit of an otter -
      rabbit paw tracks by the score.
A bald eagle soared above singing ripples
      in quest of a mid-day meal.

The distant staccato cadence
      of a pileated woodpecker
          echoed off the limestone bluffs
on that January afternoon.
     Dusk-light washed the western sky
          in pastel gold and crimson hues.

A coal barge heading south
     thundered against the floes,
scattering ice across the channel,
     then vanished beyond the bend.

And we like bargemen at their tillers,
     set our southward course
retracing footprints in the snow -
     back to the world of clocks and enterprise.
January, 2011

Stirring the lemon balm and spearmint
carpet with naked feet , traipsing the nine a..m.
red-tipped grass to the Pileated beat
Drenched , rolled pant legs covered in
seeds and hitchhikers , emboldened morning
rabbits and Apricot skies , Alabama tell tale
breezes tilt broom sage on rustic homestead
drives* ...

Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,

Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.

Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.

Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget

your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.

Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.

Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.

Rereading the poems of others
and my own. Community across
time and graves. What's left
exceeds in significance
one's last moment. Yet
his last moment must have been
exceedingly important
for the poet.

Nothing he did that day will seem meaningful.
While we prosecute the war
a pileated woodpecker and red squirrel
compete for sunflower seeds.
A winter slow
to assert itself.
I can still see my mother's father and his bowl
of filberts, almonds, walnuts
quiet weekday mornings.

Both grandfathers read sports
pages religiously. I don't know
if my grandmother who gave me the
anthology of, to date, dated
unreadable poems read poetry.
I remember my mother's mother spoke
rarely as an animal.

Writing but not knowing where I'm going
unlike Joan Didion justly
cannibalizing candidates
who didn't read the Constitution, Bill of Rights or
Federalist Papers. It's late,
I have not vacuumed or shopped for food.
Instead I reread
Phil Levine's Salami.

Two Anna's hummingbirds, dance at the door
under the pane, in a mid-morning pour
whispering winds, voices through chimes
a whimsical picture, woven in rhyme

Perched on a limb (just a few yards back)
a pileated pecker, with breast of black!
foraging sparrows, partners in crime
picking out seeds from conical pine

A weighted blanket, and dark roasted brew
sipped on a rocker, with the daily news
the stream keeper watching, fluttering high
dipping and darting, at (wild) passers-by

Baseboard heaters, comfort the room
four months to go, to the April bloom!
the afternoon passes, in dense gray fog
a sliver of sunshine, catches a log

Into the evening, a soft glowing light
gusts on the water, gulls take flight
crows at a distance, nestled in trees
branches swaying, to a south-east breeze

Patterns of nature,  the rhythm runs deep
“those rich forest gems, to the soul they will creep”
an archway to heaven, with guiding raccoons
look over yonder…the quiet tan moon!

Imagine powder blue , morning flowers ...
Green clover nestled beneath swirling eddies , enraptured by Summer hay and sunflower fields , the chorus of Mourning dove , Brown Thrasher and laughing Crow ..Village church bells announcing each daylight hour , quiet Sunday mornings broken by Pileated Woodpecker and Bluejay ...The smell of Honeysuckle and fresh cut grass , burning leaves and Sassafras ..

In the holy spot
with a sitting rock,
an oak. In back
yards, shagbark
hickory and maple.

Ants climb the rock.
August, birds
celebrate flowering
weeds, the seeds
of autumn to come.

I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.

The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
I find sumacs fruiting

and the male *** organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.
Dark-eyed juncos glean the lawn,
an occasional nuthatch
in the butternut.

I hear a pileated
woodpecker jackhammering
and my neighbor’s skill saw
chirring. Ants crawl
on connecting interlacing instructions.

There's a saga in every direction
Stories to be told , a lesson languishing -
o'er tilled countryside and dirt road
Smokehouses , immaculate small towns
Sorghum presses , Pecan groves , Loblolly Crowns
May Robin carols , topwater Bream slice the surface of
brook fed glass ponds  , Whippoorwill's , Pileated Knights worshipping the given Dawn

A daily tradition , toasted pumpernickel bread and black coffee ...
From my favorite view , looking South across the front yard , on a Maple rocker . My rightful place I wonder ? What gifts will today bring ? What role will I play and when ? Time is precious one day , painful the next ! Mornings filled with peace , contentment . Afternoons with fear , resentment ..Clocks are quite loud when alone ! My chair vibrates across the wooden floor , echoing down the hallway . A picturesque morning , Pileated woodpecker , familiar call of Bobwhite Quail . Looking for me ? I'm unable to meet anyone today ! The child is afraid to come out and play .. Maybe tomorrow or the next ! Sometime this Fall if able , Thanksgiving , Christmas or wait until Spring ! I never know what the next day might bring ! Pull venetian blinds closed , finish my cup of coffee , commit my morning to prose , music and song ? What does it take to belong ?

Cherry , huckleberry , and peach Indian summer bouquets
glide across honey- brown sugar loam
They rattle , crackle and dance at the cue of fragrant ambergris winds , gather in splendid sheltered havens , attending by cackling red-winged mavens
Sing to me airborne madrigals , Cooper angels , Pileated conductors of the oakwood , choreographed lapping lakesides , the scrub of White Pines
Land of the pumpernickel shadows , of cinnamon needle carpet
cast adrift in the very breath of artist , lover and songster* ..

As I sit front row amongst an abundance of lushness I accompany a congregation filled with long-term friends. The holy ghost is in Canis latrans. Taxidea taxus isn't really diggin' it. Mephitis mephitis came into service smelling a bit reckless. Procyon lotor is all over Lynx rufus's shoulder. Castor canadensis just don't give a ****. Neotoma cinerea haven't said a peep and Glaucomys sabrinus is the flyest I've seen in weeks. The tunes that the Warblers are singing is sweet, with the Hawks hitting notes all the way to the peak and you know the Great Horned Owl cadence had to be deep. The gospel put all California Poppy, Star Tulip and Western Pennyroyal to sleep. Now everyone quiet down, all I hear is the river and the wind, patiently waiting for Giant Sequoia to speak. Drum roll please? Pileated Woodpecker knows the perfect beat. The deepest sermon goes unspoken. Nature is the religion and the earth is church. Praises to God for his Kingdom translating his words.

I pause at the marriage of boulder and river .. Along brimming , turquoise pools where I find my loves reflection ..
River Birches that yearn for their freedom ..The cool recompense of shaded ferns which uniformly line her red clay escarpments ....
Cobalt blue wildflowers ..The cover and color of my dreams paint both shores seemingly forever .. Red , black and green dragonflies patrol the riverbank trails , Pileated woodpeckers and Cardinals exchange their
riparian oaths before Orioles and cooing Doves ..
Cicadas rhythmically repeat whimsical , ancient melodies .. The songs of Utopia charge the abundant sights and smells before me ...

Dapple gray harbour
…humpback in breach!
a brown ruffed grouse
with apricot cheeks!

Pileated peckers
in caramel trees
the swirling fall mist
and gusty cold breeze

Bonfires and embers
in a harvest-moon sky
the cider house rules
and baled-hay ride

Warm roasted chestnuts
cozy fall stews
scarecrows and pumpkins
those dark autumn blues!

Parkas and sweaters
with cinnamon shades
a hot mulled wine
in the cornfield maze

Pine cones and acorns
on a brisk fall morn
frosty cold breath
and flannels well worn

Ghosts and goblins
…ole hallows eve!
the landscape covered
in dry golden leaves

A grateful Thanksgiving
with family and song
daylight (un) savings
where shadows grow long!

A north wind whispers
the harvest complete
stack up the woodpile
winter’s in reach!

Storm clouds brewing
the foliage flies
let’s spark up the franklin
and scurry inside!

Pull up a blanket
and call in the cat
...it's a perfect time
for a fireside chat!

Painted turtles sunbathe the muddy waters of Towaliga Creek , 'Flathead Cat' roll it's mysterious surface in the devilish heat
Summertime Carp confused in the stagnant , turbid abyss appear prior to sunset , Blue Heron and raptors of every lineage pay homage to 'Creek Hunter' kindred spirits
Bass explode in the Cattail brush , Pileated Woodpeckers tap adieu to the Katydid chorus
Brown Owls call downstream in the night music symphony
Instruments that sound with increasing intensity

Brown Thrasher looking left then right ., plotting her next move , dancing across fresh grass bathed in morning dew , Pileated Wood Pecker sings her morning song , rhythmically putting her toil to music , percussive taps draw inquisitive Eastern Gray Squirrels to her job site , playing and dancing from limb to limb , tree to tree unaware of danger above , Red tail Hawk soaring on warm air high above , Sun at her back , confusing potential prey below , mercifully giving her position away , high above the canopy of Maple , Sweet Gum and majestic Georgia Pine where a cottontail rabbit , frozen , nose twitching , ears turning to and fro , eases out of the tree line to awaiting sustenance in thick fields of green grass , berry , pine nut and bulb ...

Everyone has their idea of the perfect morning

My perfect morning is now
Sitting outside in the sun
Just me and the dog

The birds are singing
The air is sweet with a light breeze

I heard a pileated woodpecker
Watched the grey squirrels,
the blue jays, the black birds,
the crows, etc.
In the background is the baby crow and
baby black birds.

Perfect is it not?

So much harmony

Oh the pull of nature

To catch my reflection in the afternoon light
The hunt for bullfrog , crawdaddy and catfish -
on rain cooled twilights
Soaring herons
From pileated perches Zachary's tree frogs mourn
Maestro cricket and katydid harmonies -
along familiar field roads
Fog enveloped dales
Blackberry trails
Evening wind song
White pine , sweet gum and persimmon
borders
Barn owl , hound dog curiosity
A border storm in white fanged -
ferocity...