"riffled" poems
We have let go of our frantic lust
for the shiny metal in the Sacramento hills.
It was hard for my grandfather,
in coming west on horse and with wagon,
dragging a family across the pimpled skin
of the young land, to help John Sutter
build his new empire.
He then found that his dream of good land
for ranching was subverted with easy gold.
Grandfather’s first home on the bank of the river:
a tule hut, or grass hut, left behind by
Mi-wuk Indians, who wandered with
the elk and circulated with the
wonderment of passing stars;
no regard for what shined beneath them.
It’s in the luring poems and the stories that the
old California adventure comes back to us.
No one longer builds much with grass,
and cannot so easily pick out fortunes
by following the earth’s deep cracks.
Some would walk away from jobs and cities,
bulging packs strapped on shoulders,
and head up through the openings
and narrowings of the valleys,
and into the foothills of the Sierras.
Camp beside ****** trout holes
and dip into the riffled water
at the edge of perfect green mirrors:
to find what is precious and become
free from the cycle of the frantic lust.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
It’s shattering,
the splintering Crunch
of greasy potato chips
between my greedy molars:
chips that taste like stale smoke
and the salty yellow Crunch
of the Mylar bag
that holds them closer
than a health-crazed mother holds her child.
It’s drowning my senses out,
the accountant-firm Crunch
of black coffee characters
beneath my crippled fingertips:
keystrokes that sigh like short fuses
and the riffled paper Crunch
of the overpriced notebook
that was sold to protect
them against non-quantum uncertainties.
It’s pointless,
the mortar and pestle Crunch
of sundried willpower
before my monolithic day-planner:
obligations that loom like thunderclouds
and the omni-present Crunch
of the rigid ticking deadline,
that has concocted its scheme
to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
What does wind think of the encampment on North 7th
as it moves under the overpass, the bright blue nylon riffling,
work shirts on a rope, the entry flap breathing,
an old man’s head bent over a chessboard, a rook tipping over?
What does wind know? Easy to say: nothing,
to say it knows nothing sweeping the day’s trash
down the avenue. The crawl says: fires in the West;
men with AR-15s; a mother and child face-down in the river;
children in cages; the rise of this, the fall of that.
We say the wind knows nothing as it drives fire like a blowtorch
across the land. We blame the grid, the lineman, the line,
though we know better. We say the rain inside the wind
knows nothing, as mud swallows houses, houses fall to sea,
floods push through cities, the ocean takes back land.
We say wind and rain know nothing. We say there’s nothing
to do. The wind passes through us and goes on.
A gust pushes in. A tarp snaps. A rook tips.
The old man uprights it, and waits for the next turn.
Aug 17, 2025
Aug 17, 2025 at 5:54 PM UTC
I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.
I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.
Dec 13, 2010
Dec 13, 2010 at 1:35 AM UTC
The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.
Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again.
The itsy bitsy spider riffled his cobweb off his legs.
Ripples of candor light hit the spider's neck.
Outside his nest was a rainbow glowing dark out,
and the itsy bitsy spider went up the water sprout.
The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for light.
Down came the night, cold and stark, miles from bright.
All sounds were of the insects that were preyed on silently,
and the itsy bitsy spider was lost to be
minutes to hours to years to some time in between
The itsy bitsy spider looked inside for a reason
Searching anxiously for himself, up to the ceiling of his prison
Careless and calculated he strikes his absence for any food
Water is relentless and pools up beyond his tiny boots
The itsy bitsy spider didn't long for a place to call his own
A shadow fills up his cup and the empty fills whatever's known
And Beyond all the drugs and alcohol and blood is hope
Sitting naively not making a sound to wake the sleeping rope
The itsy bitsy spider looked at his reflection
The scars were brought on some greedy loan, some false election
They didn't heal and his cold blood was still unborn
His body was broken, limbs disfigured and legs torn
but months of therapy self-reflection and positivity made his kind of whole
The itsy bitsy spider left his home hungry for beauty.
Down came the storm, forced the spider under a leaf
Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,
and the itsy bitsy spid....
May 10, 2024
May 10, 2024 at 4:25 PM UTC
A vague sense of foreboding,
A thought that is nagging ,
Riffled through this field of thought
This waiting time has come to naught.
Mulled by seconds ticking, on the clock
If only this impatience I could hock.
I'd take it to a pawn shop and
Get all that it was worth,
And spend it All on fun and mirth.
But alas it has no value
So there's nothing I can do
But sit in idle waiting
Until this all is through
............................JMF 10/7/14
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC