What Are Secrets For What are secrets for When whispered outside my door And snatched by The ever searching, Intruding wind That blows them Into everyone’s ear, Not just the lover I wish would be mine, Would lean into My powerful embrace And ask me What secrets are for. Dordogne On the banks of the Dordogne we walked hand and hand in a warm summer breeze, alone upon the beautiful land. High above the river we paused, peering down at the fast current, seeing the ebb and flow of life, in swirling patterns, recurrent. As pure as the light of dawn, and steady as a shifting sand, we were as leaves on trees, mere specks in a tableau grand. My lovely diamond with no flaws, accepted the firm hand I lent as we walked from the rift. Away from Dordogne we went.
Duct Tape And Origami
Thin tissue paper cleverly shaped.
The box showed a pink crane,
wading in a sky-blue paper pool
surrounded by grass and flowers.
"Anyone can do it, even a fool."
Thin tissue paper cleverly shaped,
looked like an easy project to create.
I folded and twisted, ripped and rent,
The result looked like a used tissue.
not a delicate bird, carefully bent.
Thin tissue paper cleverly shaped.
I was not going to be stymied
by a child's (Age 4 to Adult) project.
I got a fresh sheet and tried again.
Once more paper torn and wrecked.
Thin tissue paper cleverly shaped.
I finally made an everlasting bird,
not perfect but indeed cleverly caped.
A swath of beautiful gray magic,
the origami crane I duct taped!
Falling For You
"It's not what you think!"
I told anyone who dared link
my looks and questions
with actual feelings for you.
"It's what curious people do."
I balked at their suggestions.
Still looking with vacant expressions
when you slowly walked by,
I couldn't forget though I would try
the time you smiled at me.
Sometimes I wondered what to do.
Could I be falling for you?
Should I take a chance or flee?
I dream of confession on bended knee,
but that doesn't mean I am infatuated.
I am sure my heart isn't being led,
but I do think about what could be.
Farewell Hemingway I am writing and beer drinking, contemplating sitting in the sun and fishing for Blue Marlin. King Spearfish dance on the line that plays out in my mind. Contemplating sitting in the sun when my writing is done, just like Papa Hemingway did. Barefoot and ragged I sip something cold and crispy. And fishing for Blue Marlin doesn't fill my stomach anymore than writing does, but there is a certain glory in the battle and tales. King Spearfish dance on the line carefully crafted and concocted from my pen and the bottle that we both use as muse. Farewell Papa, write on. That plays out in my mind, "Farewell Papa, write on." All in one run on sentence, you lived and loved and cried, laughed and then left us wanting.
Feeling Sorry For Myself
That turned down face
came to the mirror today
to meet my morning.
I wish you were here,
an overwhelming thought;
sadness filling this place.
I feel sorry for myself,
it is altogether too true,
as I sit crippled, alone.
They tell me to smile
but I think I will not
until my mouth is ready.
Separation comes too soon,
and the distance is vast
when you are again away.
My mirror clearly shows
the world of my choice;
smiles and tears strewn.
Flancloneter "Flancloneter," he said again. "Flancloneter," from a drunken stumbling tongue. "Flancloneter?" I wonder if he asked, "how many francs for a litre?" "Five...uh cinq...oui cinq franc...ummm...pour litre..." Man, French is not my language. "Merde!" I was in Quebec City at an out of the way bar and bottle shop helping a friend on a busy Saturday night. I came by the illusion of being a francophone honestly enough. Two generations ago my dad's people spoke no English when they ranged this province. Before that they lived in the French countryside. Hearing someone speak French and being able to master the language in a loud drunken bar, as you may or may not know are two very different things. I took a shot of Whisky, "What can I get you Mack?" "Ce qui?" "Bière? Whiskey?" It was going to be a long night. "Damnedignorantyank." "Damnedignorantyank!" from a drunk stumbling tongue. "Damnedignorantyank?" I knew what that meant for sure. "Kiss my ass frenchy." I said slow and deliberate. "léchez mon cul!" I ducked to avoid a thrown bottle then jumped the bar.
Gettin’ Old Is Not For Sissies
They say old age is like a bad dessert at the end of a particularly fine meal. I don't know much about simile, but it seems to me I am about out of fine meals. I think it has been since about 1994 or 95 that I could taste much anyway. Anything good and tasty has been replaced by something softer and less chewy. When they said no fat and low fiber was the way to go, I kissed taste goodbye. Kissed taste goodbye with lips stretched over fake teeth that I take out at dinner time. Gettin' old ain't for sissies it's true, but at mealtime, I forgot whatever else I had to do!
Great Big Memory
Great Big Sea
sings on my computer.
A tune about Boston and St. John's
rolling out of the speakers.
Makes me remember walking with you.
"If we go to the lighthouse
on Lookout Hill,
we may be able to see
whales or icebergs."
It was 1996.
I had taken a month's leave
to visit.
A long slow walk
turned into an angry rant
and heated argument.
Slammed car doors,
and a long walk
through a cold St. John's rain.
Great Big Sea
sings on my computer.
A tune about Boston and St. John's
rolling out of the speakers.
Makes me remember
walking away from you.
Halifax, North Dakota
I love the sea
and the sea loves me,
But you can't take a boat to North Dakota.
I'm stuck in an airport
in Halifax, Nova Scotia.
It started with predawn takeoff
through the fog in St. John's.
There’s not enough visibility to continue on.
I love the sea
and the sea loves me,
but you can't take a boat to North Dakota.
I spent six hours
in an airport terminal.
You can have your beer at 8am,
I'd rather have whiskey in my coffee.
"It’s down that way
past the ladies room."
I love the sea
and the sea loves me
but you can't take a boat to North Dakota.
Visibility slowly increases at noon,
fog slowly slips back toward St John's.
Last boarding call, it’s time to move on.
I'm asleep at a bar in Terminal B.
My plane taxis away from Concourse C.
I dream of being at sea
as my flight leaves without me.
It's a hell of a walk back to North Dakota.
If I Were The Rock of Gibraltar
Tariq's Mountain in Gibraltar's Sea
I had read about it in history books.
Dusty old volumes told of war,
defense and the stronghold.
Spain and England played
a mental chess match for control.
From 5000 miles away
the Rock of Gibraltar
beckoned me.
A visit involved six stops
in four countries.
I was gently frisked and probed,
photographed, passport stamped
and showed two forms of ID.
My broken Spanish
secured me a seat
on a helicopter
and a bicycle tour
across bustling Gibraltar,
warmed by the
Mediterranean.
I beheld the quarter mile high
limestone Rock.
Anticlimax and letdown.
It just wasn't all that
impressive to me.
Bigger stones than
the Rock of Gibraltar
I had climbed
in the South Dakota Badlands.
A walking tour
started at a quarter past
three.
“Walk only on the
marked government trails,
obey all signs,
don't feed the apes,
and stay in sight of me.”
Up a steep rough slope,
with no pretty girls
to chat with.
Just a Spanish tour guide,
two senior citizens,
and a National Geographic Photographer
from Manhattan.
I lagged a bit behind,
with no more hope of discovering
the magic of Gibraltar
than I had at sea level.
I took a quick stop in the bushes,
to answer a call to nature.
Shuck my pack,
take off
my sweaty hat.
Yawn and stretch.
I was eye to eye
with an adult Barbary Ape,
who was more interested in the
ham sandwich and trail mix
in my bag than me.
I shrieked with surprise, and
he slowly ambled off down the trail,
as I ran to catch up with
my tour group.
Later the guide told me
of local superstition
and how if ever the apes left,
so would the British.
They are both kept
and fed and coddled,
like the ravens
in the Tower of London.
I shuddered and thought,
on the way back
to the waiting helicopter.
I wouldn't want
crazy monkeys
running wild over me,
if I were the Rock of Gibraltar.
Immortality Is A Beach
Sitting on the shore
gazing at deep blue seas
holds no attraction for me anymore.
We were all supposed to live forever.
That was the promise.
That is all I ask for.
I sit motionless
watching the tides,
ignoring the sounds of life.
We were all supposed to live forever.
That was the promise.
That is all I ask for.
How terrible to me
that you should die
in the ageless, continual sea.
No body twisted and mangled found,
no witness to your final exhale
giving way to motionless floating.
Drenched by waves and spray
drenched by tears
I wait upon the beach.
Trembling with sadness,
cold in the Pacific sun,
I awaken and look around.
My breath screams in my chest,
the noises a drowning man makes
reminds me of losing you.
We were all supposed to live forever.
That was the promise.
That is all I ask for.
Internet
With a quick click of a key
down wires and thru lines
information comes to me.
Knowledge's lamp shines.
I post writing on the 'net,
pay bills, do my banking,
and ask questions of a vet.
Computers keep thinking.
In my old computer chair,
I can peek around the world
like I was standing there,
instant information hurled.
The internet is a marvel true,
for it connected me to you.
Journey ON
Make a list of all the things I need.
Pack it all the night before, check.
Clothing. Yup. Toiletries. Uh huh.
Snacks for driving. Yes. Yes, and yes.
We aren't going to have a repeat of last year.
Pack it all the night before, check.
"A-chooo" dusty old brown suitcase,
worn green mobility bag with clasp top
found under Christmas decorations.
"Man, what did I leave in here? phew."
Clothing. Yup. Toiletries. Uh huh.
Blues uniform, pants, shirt, jacket,
hat, shoes stuck into a big garment bag.
Razors, shaving cream, toothbrush and all,
I left the bag on the couch last year.
Snacks for driving. Yes. Yes, and yes.
Yes to Doritos. I love their messy goodness.
Yes to a bagel or two coated with cream cheese.
Yes to a big Thermos of life giving coffee.
Yes to bottled water and diet cokes too!
We aren't going to have a repeat of last year.
Steinbeck mentioned what happens when mice, men
and probably plump Airmen plot their course too close.
Day two had flat tires, speeding tickets and two hours lost.
Add to List: Pray to God for a smoother road this time.
Just Ask
The key to being a man
was there for the taking,
like the lyrics to life
scrawled on the metro bus wall
that took us
down to Baker Street.
I just didn't see it.
We laughed as we rode
past the concrete wall
at the entrance to
Shea Heights,
about Hill Moms
and crazy codfish kissing
traditions.
Every time I heard
"How she going buddy,
what are y'at,"
I'd giggle and mumble
and grab another shot
of burning liquor
in an attempt to
be a man.
My evening ended rather
ungracefully
and floor-crawling.
I never gave you
the tenderness you wanted.
Nights ending
in huge arguments
and you dragging me
from Sherlock's Bar.
The key to being a man
was there for the taking,
like the ticking meter
of the worn taxi
taking us
home from Baker Street.
I just didn't see it.
La Juvena River
Lush jungle-like rain forests Alive with colors bracket her. Journeying toward the oceans; Under way, thick, dirty, brown, Veigned with heartland soil. Endless is the cycle Nurtured in mother's bosom. Anaconda. Serpent. River. Red parrots and green macaws Inhabit trees along the banks, Vibrant flashes on emerald leaves. Eerie are calls in the night, River winds eternally.
Latest News 1326 Local
''We are so happy to be home," say those freed.'
"Former President Clinton, American Diplomat!"
I smile at the good news in this 24 hour live feed.
Bill is resolving international issues? Imagine that!
"We need Obama's health plan," most agreed.
It all reminds me of a Roosevelt Fireside Chat!
I stopped to browse through these news stories,
looking at what is left of my world's inventories.
"The GOP is organizing town hall mobs," they say.
"Add turbulence to the list of dangers when I fly!"
"'I love jihad,' says young terror suspect gone astray."
"'Use public care to keep our girl alive!' her parents cry."
A video clip shows a mom dragging her kid on a rope.
"Paula Abdul set to wave American Idol ``Goodbye!"
"If you want to reach full potential, use this magic dope."
This is just one afternoon snapshot of current news,
it seems we have gotten a bit mixed up in our views.
"Folks want to know where their food comes from."
"Putin bares his chest in some new vacation pics."
"Finally free after 34 years; Squeaky Fromme!"
"Mid-size cars in low speed crashes are costly to fix."
"Costly DNA tests for kids make you a better mom!"
"Congressman jailed over money freezing tricks."
But a moment in time froze all these headlines.
If you want a picture of decline, read these signs.
Le Chat Grippe
Quebec City sprawls
in the gentle grip
of another May fog.
Le Chat Grippe
has a place set for you.
We were visiting the
old city on a senior trip.
After an afternoon wandering
and souvenir shopping,
We had reservations for dinner and culture.
The only thing I could pronounce
on the menu was sole fish.
Fillets swam in
butter, lemon juice, dill,
bread crumbs,
and a pound of sea salt.
If I never again partake
of such a dish,
nor see it as an option
among French made delicacies,
I shall be happy.
There was something about
grease and fish and lemon
topped with dollops of fresh cream
that made my stomach crave Burger King,
instead of foreign cuisine.
"Tu n'aimez pas les poissons
parce qu'il ne nage pas."
No he didn't swim,
as I idly pushed him around
in his plate bound pool.
It was only the first day
of the trip.
Already I was bored
with guided tours and strange accents.
I wandered out of the restaurant,
toward Le Château Frontenac,
with a half pack of cigarettes,
and no plan to rejoin my classmates soon.
It was 6 p.m.,
a dark haired girl leaned
on the stone facade of the hotel.
I had found some excitement.
Quebec City sprawls
in the gentle grip
of another May fog.
Listen To The Waves
Listen to the waves call,
whispering to the sea wall.
"May I go a little further?
Do you really hope to deter
me from my goal of landing
where houses are standing
with little hope of withstanding
my crests mighty and tall.
Down where tides occur,
breakers are crash landing.
Magic City
I am wandering my adopted town, I see what has kept me here. It is more than sky and air clear, with no violence or gun shot sounds. Seldom do I see a grimace or frown, most smile when strangers draw near. I am wandering my adopted town, I see what has kept me here. We grow while the economy is down, because corporations drill for oil near. It looks like another banner year with crude and wheat in the ground. I am wandering my adopted town.
Misty Currents
Beauty is in subtlety.
Jet black morning
slowly rolls away.
Eastward early rays
fail to penetrate early gloom.
Low-beamed headlights
illuminate painted road lines
disappearing mere inches ahead.
We low-speed march south
to the Interstate.
I hunch over steering wheel
in the quiet dawn,
fearing moving animals
wandering onto pavement.
True dawn does not come
at six, seven, or eight.
We reach four-lane concrete;
silent, low on traffic.
Vanquishing barely thinning fog,
the early rays
start to reach tired eyes,
as gloom slowly, grudgingly parts.
Green fields and valleys,
Minnesota lakes and farms
are revealed; a curtain
is opened by magic hand.
Gossamer drapes part;
beauty riding a misty current.
Monastery of Sainte-Marie
Surrounded by silent green fields
the stone corridors still whisper
with echoes that the walls yield.
"Hallelujah," a soft heavenly purr.
At the Monastery Sainte-Mere
tumbled rocks and thorns abound,
but God certainly is alive there
watching the faithful walk around.
Under errant knights’ shields,
cut down like worthless curs,
faithful blood fell in these fields;
the cowled monks and monsignor.
Upon the teetering stone stair,
a wild rabbit leaps and bounds
in a place broken and in despair.
Once again silence surrounds.
Morning Sun
Morning sun glints off water drops,
everywhere I look mini rainbows
in tiny clear globes greet my day.
Last night's storm caused dismay,
lightning flashed and winds rose,
as we warily hoped it would stop.
There was a tornado warning,
as black clouds descended,
We checked basement supplies.
Morning brightness was a surprise
when rain and night had ended.
Making my heart and soul sing.
Musing Upon A Dark Valley
It feels like I already wrote this one,
recapped a pen and called it done.
Now I find it moss crumbling and alone,
slipping from fingers suddenly dead.
My memory captures words you said,
a relationship dry; thousand year old bone.
The soft glow of reason and reality
has become a sullen stranger to me.
Gone are all the rhymes and reasons
that used to pour like honey from lips,
beguiling, charming like poisonous sips,
enjoyed for moments sting for all seasons.
Into the valley that became my lost soul
former love isolated by loss of control.
Trapped and caged here, no birds sing,
to blot out the accusing voices in my head
that ceaselessly repeat words she said,
resounding with a cracking bullwhip sting.
Nascar Is My Sport (Sometimes Life)
North American Stock Car Auto Racing,
As the anagram goes,
Sounds so dry and boring.
Cars, 43 in number, circle a track.
Asphalt, hot reflecting sun, burning tires,
Roaring engines energize stands full of people.
Yawns. Boring to others. "Red Necks" they call the drivers and fans.
Now into the pits screams that Budweiser car.
A third generation driver and rock and roll kid
Sits at the wheel ready to burn more rubber.
Car is jacked, tires changed, fuel added,
Adrenaline fueled, his pit crew adjust and fix minor damage.
Right twist the jack handle. 13 seconds later the red rocket is away.
My first live NASCAR race was in Texas, while I was attending training in Wichita Falls. I bought weekend tickets for $325 from scalpers, because I wanted to watch live what always kept me glued to the TV on Saturdays and Sundays.
Normally a three day trip requires packing and hotel plans.
A clean pair of underwear, socks, three T-Shirts and khaki shorts
Stuffed into a Walmart bag was my luggage. $412 spending cash
Carried in my taped up "Terry Labonte 1984 NASCAR Champion" wallet was my fare.
Arnold, my travel partner had a Chevette and we flipped a coin.
Rear seats sleeping for me! We started the 100 mile trip.
We spent $17 combined at Whataburger, adding the wrapped burgers and fries to the beer in our cooler. South we headed, secure in the knowledge we now had everything we needed for a great weekend.
North Parking lot 15C turned out to be two miles from the track.
Another rainstorm added to the pleasure of our walk.
Sodden we trudged across the muddy unpaved expanse
Cold beers in hand and in pockets. We smelled cooking meat;
A number of tailgate parties had sprung up,
Ranging from single burner grills to pigs on spits glistening.
We wandered on to the Texas Motor Speedway track complex, hearing the distant growl and scream of engines on the track.
"No admittance to the truck race or practice without a ticket!"
Arnold said, "but we have tickets for BUSCH and NASCAR."
"Sure you do, but that doesn't let you in tonight."
"Crap." Well, there goes that idea. What now?"
An acre and a half of mud and a mile walk later,
Right back where we started, we cracked open beers.
Rock music blared from a few nearby campsites as the party continued all night. Beer and cold burgers mixed with a few glimpses of beautiful girls in the nearby campers who may have forgotten the things their momma's taught them about dressing in public made this rainy muddy parking lot seem a little like Woodstock in '69.
North Texas morning sun winked off Chevette hood chrome.
Aching back and morning after beer breath in a dry mouth,
Stretching, I unfolded myself from a front bucket seat.
Can't imagine how Albert ended up in the back, with the cutie from 45C.
Around to the hatch back, trying not to see too much...
Reo Speedwagon shirt and clean socks...I changed into fresh clothing.
The track opened to the public at 9 a.m. In the next two plus hours we watched "Happy Hour," the final practice for Sunday's main event and the opening ceremonies for the Busch Race.
NASCAR'S Busch Racing always seemed a tune up to me.
Amateurs were running fast and furious trying to
Scale the heights to greatness.
Cars scream and bump and fly much faster,
Alive and in front of you,
Roaring madly, instead of on a television set.
I confess, I do not remember the winner of the Saturday race, although an online search told me it was one of the Burton brothers by a nose in a rain delayed and crash ridden event.
Naturally the second evening at the glorious Texas race track
Announced itself with arguments, cold burgers and dwindling
Supplies of beverages and shorter tempers.
"Crap, did you eat the rest of the fries?"
"All the ice is melted and we only have three more beers."
"Really? maybe you should drink slower."
I dove into the back seat and covered my head with my worn jean jacket, determined to get enough sleep to be able to enjoy the race the following day.
No shame, Sunday morning I peed beside the car.
A shower or brushed teeth since Friday? Forget it.
"Southern 500" Terry Labonte shirt and changed shorts
Compensate for creature comforts and cleanliness.
Arching my back and finger combing my hair I stand,
Ready to watch the drivers race on the track of my dreams.
Albert and I once more walked toward the speedway, with many friendly words and waves to the people we had lived alongside for the last day and a half. We were like a small commune. The brunch grills were on and TV's and radios were tuned to pre-race shows. American and driver 's flags popped in the breeze and stood against the light rain. Al seemed to be looking at something directly across the path from lot 54C, where the girl from Friday night sat with a burley guy in a Rusty Wallace shirt.
Noon came and went and still the rain blasted down.
Albert and I went back and forth to concessions, beer, and bathroom.
Six times the jet driers circled the track blowing hot air.
Clear skies were promised in 45 minutes,
All drivers called to their cars to await the start.
Roaring winds and rain drops blistered the track again.
We sat in the stands shivering for an hour and a half drenched. Even the areas under the stands where the concessions were housed were wet and the wind blew the rain in. About three hours after the scheduled start time, the rain had finally stopped, and the track was dry enough for opening prayers, and "gentlemen, start your engines."
None too soon, the track finally ready, the cars screamed to life.
A field of racers 43 strong stream to the green flag.
Some who still race, some retired, some you may as well forget.
Cope, Earnhardt Jr, Gordon, Jarrett, and the Labonte brothers are there too.
Around the last corner and to the green flag they come,
Ramming the gas pedal deep and screamed into the first turn.
There were three more rain delays and subsequent track drying before the final forty some odd lap sprint to the finish in the gathering dusk.
Nearly feral, the cars scream wild freed horsepower.
Around the oval track they go beating and banging
Sparking and smoking. Ricky's cooked motor throws smoke and oil.
Caution flag comes out for clean up and another pit stop.
All cars come down for the attention of their teams.
Right over the wall into the mix they jump ready.
Albert was standing on his seat, nervously twisting his hat in his hands and jumping up and down.
Now into the pits screams that Budweiser car.
A third generation driver and rock and roll kid.
Sits at the wheel ready to burn more rubber.
Car is jacked, wheels changed, fuel added.
Adrenalin fueled his pit crew to adjust, and fix minor damage.
Right twist the jack handle. 13 seconds later the red rocket is away.
The finish was close, but in the end when the checkered flag had pushed the breeze aside, an older racer motored to victory lane.
Naturally a man from Texas named Terry won the race, and I cheered.
Albert hoped for the Earnhart kid in the number 8 car,
Still, as the rain started again his smile matched mine.
Car haulers started loading racing machines as we wandered out to parking.
A long slow line of race traffic awaited us on our trip back to the base.
Remembering the weekend I await another NASCAR adventure.
That's my favorite sports event story. I hope you can relate to it. If not, maybe you should check your television sports listings, or go to a track near you, and join us, who are proud to bleed and sweat redneck, white and blue!
New York City Taxi Ride
Getting to the hotel
from the airport
in a city cab was
an adventure
in and of itself.
We were locked
in a screaming yellow bullet,
humming and skimming
over the surface streets.
We came to see the sites
of the Big Apple.
New York city nights,
Times Square,
the Twin Towers' monument,
Lady Liberty and all
awaited us,
should we survive
this taxi ride.
I was praying
to St. Christopher,
not believing he could
part traffic, but somehow
we made it to the hotel
alive and unharmed,
besides seat belt bruises
and the taxi fare.
"Want to go see some things
tonight after I shower and change?"
"I will go anywhere with you
that involves a cold beer and walking.
No more taxi rides today!"
Painted Skies
In great blue black swirls
I painted the night sky.
"Darker! Darker!" I would cry.
Stars gleamed as pearls
bits of light penetrating whorls.
Even ebony could not deny.
The quiet stillness below
a barely discernible blanket
here and there a tree's silhouette
or cottage window glow
added to what I chose to show
as I dabbed with paint wet.
A nocturnal still life was revealed
as my ravenous brush I did wield.
Parrots
Along the big brown river.
Red feathers contrast vividly.
Along the big brown river.
Screaming like a banshee,
they fly in flocks of color,
red feathers contrast vividly.
Giant birds and some smaller
carry rainbows on their back.
They fly in flocks of color.
Traders carry them in a sack,
showing them to greedy buyers,
carry rainbows on their back.
Clouds of Amazon tree top flyers,
captured for feathers and trade;
showing them to greedy buyers.
Slowly the parrot's colors fade
along the big brown river,
captured for feathers and trade,
along the big brown river.
Pausing Beneath The Oak Tree
Looking up I behold
spreading branches
holding the sun.
When eve is done
you slowly fade
into the dark.
In the park
where I play
The tall oak grows.
Under your shadows
I run and play
day by day.
Photographs
Thumbtack bitten and dog-eared
center-creased and partly discolored,
your smile still shows bright red,
young and beautiful you appeared.
Old pictures transferred to new wallet,
I seem to be able to renew everything,
like mother earth's rebirth in the spring.
Still your memory makes my heart fret.
I am left with photographs and memories
of when you and I loved and lived as one.
Are you sorry for leaving my life undone?
I am left lifeboat-less upon tears' seas.
I carefully tuck these memories away,
though sadness is barely kept at bay.
Pink Cranes
Pink cranes come from under fingers,
as by your small working table I linger,
telling stories of traveling and writing,
that fly off into skies split with lightning.
I marvel at your skill and ease in creating
and wonder at the stack of paper waiting.
You tell tales mysterious and enlightening,
that fly off into skies split with lightning.
Some creations are sold, some given away
to the many children who pause on their way.
They are in a hurry like birds on the wing,
that fly off into skies split with lightning.
Pink cranes come from under fingers,
that fly off into skies split with lightning.
Pulpwood Truck
Twelve wheels pulverize the old dirt road and throw it up in blinding dust curtains that slowly shimmer in the summer heat. On the way to the papermill, a pulp load, overstacked and held on by trace chains that slowly shimmer in the summer heat. Hardwood stacked 18 feet or more high as the big diesel truck barrels along, on a route from woodyard to millyard. Smell the smoke, hear the engine cry. Blood and sweat and toil is its song, on a route from woodyard to millyard. Swathes of cleared forest lay far behind as she barrels through the summer sun. From the past where river drivers strode, to a future, nature laid waste by mankind. Steadily onward the roads of progress run, from the past where river drivers strode.
Purple Dawn
Down in the sagebrush country
where some of the real old west
still clings to the land
we wandered.
Here lie the rusted steel bands
of an old wagon wheel.
There twin ruts follow pioneer dreams
across miles of wide open prairie
broken by the four lane highway.
We followed it to this secluded campsite.
In the purple dawn light I hear you
turn over and groan.
"I've had enough of this camping fun,
let's stay in a hotel tonight and tomorrow."
Looks like our nomad tumbleweeding days
are about to catch on the edge of civilization
and spring roots again.
ROCKING IN THE FREE WORLD
Raucous hard-driven pounding rhythm
Out of gigantic towering speakers
Called to me across the speedway.
Kingdom Come, Dokken, Scorpions...
I was waiting on Metallica and Van Halen.
Nearly smothered against the stage,
Gritty and sweaty I stood screaming.
It was the summer of my 13th birthday
Neither boy nor man; rock music fan.
The power of music moves me!
Hand held high, I am a waving statue,
Eiffel in a racetrack infield.
From the west came thunderheads
Ripped with lightning flashes
"Evacuate the grandstands!"
Eerie silence and darkness, power killed.
Walking through the mud to my brother's car,
On the other side of a big parking lot,
Rated as uncool, but quickly improved.
"Looks like we can restart the show!"
Dirty, we headed back inside the raceway.
Room To Breathe
In Montana the sky
is so big that it takes
a day for your mind
to catch up with
what is seen and felt
by your heart and eye.
You told me a place like this
would really give you
room to breathe and
a chance for time alone,
to sort out your feelings
and rediscover if what
we had was real.
I left you at a hotel
in Bozeman with two
packs of smokes,
four beers,
dirty laundry,
bruises, and
a Greyhound ticket
out of my life.
In Montana the big sky
turned red
with my rage.
I wonder,
if time apart
and room to breathe
will always mean
that my usefulness
has been
snuffed out,
like a cheap
cigarette.
Sea-Smoothed Rock
Wave-tossed rocks,
churning and tumbling,
eternally washed by ocean;
along the seashore
all is smoothed and beautiful.
Churning and tumbling,
the same salt in the water
is the salt of my tears,
of my blood,
and of my love.
Eternally washed by the ocean,
my dreams are sustained
by brief walks
upon the strand
after being away too long.
Along the seashore,
the spell is cast,
like a fisherman's net,
and the ocean owns me
forever in her heart.
All is smooth and beautiful.
I am the rock
softened and kept forever
upon this narrow margin,
where land and water make love.
Something About Diamonds
Diamonds sparkled in headlights,
still strewn across the highway
after careless sweepers had gone.
Another fatal car wreck cataloged;
too much alcohol and speed
had claimed three more teens.
Categorized as a typical Friday night,
the trooper shrugs helpless at the way,
drinking and driving still goes on.
Head down, expression dogged,
thinking of diamonds that bleed,
He hates highway death scenes.
Speak Easy
It was easy for us to speak
of forever while sitting in
the misty fog of a St. John's morning.
We had been up all night
drinking Tim Hortons coffee
and listening to Great Big Sea.
You laughed as I tried to sing
the words to Mary-Mac in my
stumbling rhymless way.
I wasn't the under a balcony
serenading type.
At The Lookout,
I straddled a cannon,
and you took my picture
in the misty half light
of cold spring dawn.
I have the beat up Polaroid,
tacked on a cork board
on my wall.
It takes me back to 1993,
and Newfoundland.
I saw you today
with your husband,
and tried to remember
what we actually had.
We shared a love for Irish ancestry,
and an easy way of speaking
of forever.
Forever and love was easy,
like the misty fog
that creeps in on
a St. John's morning.
Spring Without The Letter “E
It is spring in Florida.
I pack my bags and digital,
flock south with a flight full
of tourists.
Tampa, Florida glows in the sun.
I didn't know what I would find,
a survivor of North Dakota's
six months of cold, wind, and snow.
I forgot what sun could do,
sparkling off a body
laying on bright sand.
Now I know I am not
young or as built
as most party boys
stumbling through Tampa today,
but a smiling girl is
walking my way,
so in Florida
I will stay!
Stargazer Lily
Brilliant flash of color and leaf looking toward the sun in disbelief. How did you create such majesty for me to morning wander and see? Standing upon slim verdant stalk, your bright beauty pauses my walk. I feel as if gazing upon heavenly host, of your elegance you should boast. Little stargazer of pinks and gold, in the sunlight standing tall and bold with looks subtle and sweet, you make my day complete.
Static Radio
The a.m. radio morning static
calls to me in staccato bursts.
Voices come through erratic,
"mumble...something...firsts..."
I am looking for 80's rock
or morning talk show hosts,
instead I get noise to mock;
voice fragments and ghosts.
I switch to the f.m. side,
hoping for some company,
but all across the band wide,
nothing at all comes to me.
The a.m. radio morning static
calls to me in staccato bursts.
Voices come through erratic,
"mumble...something...firsts..."
Steamer Trunk
You wait for me so far away,
like a pirate upon the sea,
behind an old rusted lock
double packed with memories.
An old battered steamer trunk,
heaved upon the splintered dock,
double packed with memories,
behind an old rusted lock.
My emotions I keep tight
my heart in hand I squeeze
behind an old rusted lock,
double packed with memories.
I am ever the seafaring man,
shipwrecked upon a rock
double packed with memories,
behind an old rusted lock.
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