Wildflowers
The wildflowers I have known
slowly growing in the fertile soil
of my raw and untamed mind
make me see the colors of love.
Slowly growing in the fertile soil
are all the dreams of perfect days
and warm evenings on the beach.
Love blooms from smaller seeds.
Of my raw and untamed mind,
only vague memories exist,
replaced by splendor and green.
Spring's hope is eternal they say.
Make me see the colors of love,
or let me continue to dream.
If perfection lasts through dawn:
the wildflowers I have known.
Crushed Roses
She pulled a pressed rose from the Book of Luke’s pages.
These pale and flattened flowers bloomed once upon a time.
Now the colors are muted and the scent has long since diminished.
The petals once soft and flesh like lie flat, saddened; neglected.
These dried flowers are stories of yesterday, slumbering today.
These pale and flattened flowers bloomed once upon a time,
When life and love and memories were young and new,
Even though they each correspond to a love one lost,
Whose name is carefully printed and followed with dates,
Birth and death separated with the small dash of a lifespan.
Now the colors are muted and the scent has long since diminished.
The old family Bible though well thumbed, mended, and dog eared
Now sits neglected in a dusty old storage space in a ramshackle garage
Collecting dust and missing a family who wander the world,
Daily further away from crushed roses and Jesus’ Word.
The petals once soft and flesh-like lie flat, saddened; neglected.
These dried flowers are stories of yesterday, slumbering today,
Making me wonder how tomorrow will be if we put aside the past
In an old family farmhouse, a lonely widow woman’s tears slowly dried.
She placed a rose to save in the Book of Luke’s pages.
Lights In The Sky
There are lights out there to the Northwest,
I think it is one of those flying wedges,
whatever they call those fast moving planes.
I think it is a modified flying saucer.
I once saw a UFO, but really it was a ski resort.
I think it is one of those flying wedges
From somewhere in the middle of the earth,
That strange portal into the earth,
Or back to the skies beyond the stars;
Inner and outer space mixed together.
Whatever they call those fast moving planes
That seem part black ops and part sci fi
Was waiting just beyond the hills
In the high desert of southern California
And I had no idea how long it hovered.
I think it is a modified flying saucer,
Not the disc or cigar shaped ones
I grew up loving and fearing
Reading about in ratty novels
And bright crudely drawn comics.
I once saw a UFO, but really it was a ski resort,
Or so they told me; those military guys
Whose job it is to tell you
What you really see by mistake
When you see lights in the sky.
Vessel
Loose lips sink ships,
And I am trying to find the bottom
Of this endless cup of coffee,
To see if the flecks leftover
From a filter bowl
That didn’t quite seat
In the worn out Bunn O Matic
Have left a message for me.
Like so many tea leaves,
Why can’t coffee dregs
Predict the future?
Loose lips sink ships.
The News
Saturday’s headlines spoke to me:
America has a new 'rat capital.’ New York isn’t the star!
A Florida woman realizes she left child in hot car!
Business owner claims cops accused him of breaking into his own store (because he's black)!
Air Force fighter intercepts plane near Trump NJ golf course and successfully turned it back!
More headlines for all to see:
Ritz crackers and other products recalled after salmonella found!
Tiger Woods falls just short of sensational victory in final round!
California woman guilty of killing dog, throwing animal from parking garage roof!
Man, punched in the face in New York City attack captured on video as a ‘goof!’
5 minutes of headlines make me fear my tv.
Night Owl
Woooo woooo hoooo
The sounds of the resident owl
In the big hollow
Of the Boo Radley oak
that grows right outside my balcony
Calls in the quiet of a dark night
Amid the clattering blades of the
Mercy flight helicopters that are
Following a back and forth flight
From tragedy to triage in the trauma unit
Of a hospital two blocks away.
I bet the people
(who I silently pray for)
Strapped on backboards
With oxygen masks
And heavy bandages
Wish they could fly away
Of their own free will,
Like the sleepy old owl
Their death delaying machines
Are keeping from his slumber.
Al Hager
I will always run with you
in rain or under skies blue
but not because of your loss.
When I was your boss
and you just another kid
trying to do what I did,
I saw you were smart
and did more than your part
fixing 40 year old airplanes well.
At maintenance you did excel.
You live life without excuse
cheerful despite fortune's abuse.
Family, friends, and loved ones
you stick by your guns
to protect and keep safe
always a smile on your face.
Others have an easier lot
but you complain not.
It can't be easy losing a leg
but for mitigation you don't beg.
You taught me so much;
that self-pity is a crutch,
with no place in a man's life.
Your beautiful child and wife
are proud of who you are;
the guiding light shining far.
Allen, I love you as a brother.
You have strength like no other.
Having grown since our early days
your mighty character stays.
Knowing you has improved me too.
I will always run with you
in rain or under skies blue
but not because of your loss.
Apple Sauce
"Daddy can you cut the crust off my sandwich?"
Crust cut off?
Her mom must have taught her that!
Bread without crust is like
applesauce without cheese,
which is like a hug without a squeeze.
It must have been three decades ago,
maybe two, surely not four.
I wandered back
the way some simple things
make me do.
Have you ever been
crab apple picking?
"Get a bucket of them."
"Don't get the ones with worms."
"Biggest ones you can find."
"Don't take all day."
Sliced with peelings on
chopped in half
boiled in a big pot
on the back of
a red hot wood stove
while we sweat in the kitchen
washing canning jars
for winter preserves.
Push down hard,
smash the apples through.
Add cinnamon and a little sugar.
Better than store bought.
Better than anything
given to you.
The sweat
and work to do it yourself.
makes apple sauce sweeter.
With a slice of government cheese,
the apple sauce was better
than any other dessert to me.
A Wild Goose Chase
When I was a child
the sky would darken
with flocks of ducks and geese
on the way north or south
depending on the season.
Canadians and Snows,
Mallards and Pins
winged their way past.
Glorious V's rent
the air with powerful beats.
Left in their wake
I watched for
the occasional
fluffy chest
or stiff wing feather
to drift down.
Last summer,
on a warm cloudy day
Emily and I
drove down to the
Minot Zoo.
We looked at grizzly bears
and spider monkeys
before we headed across
the Souris River Bridge
to see domestic animals enclosed
in the other half of the park.
On the path by the buffalo pen
was a toddling boy
following a scurrying goose
with one dragging wing.
"Daddy can we take him home?"
little Emily asked.
"No he's wild and should be free."
"Looks like he's stuck here
with the rest of the animals to me."
Big Brown Truck
When I see a big brown truck rolling by
I think of generosity and Christmas time,
a mug of cocoa and snowflakes in the sky.
As all American as a slice of apple pie,
memories of knitted hats in patterns sublime
when I see a big brown truck rolling by.
Each year my grandma knitted a supply,
warm clothing for grandkids without a dime,
a mug of cocoa and snowflakes in the sky.
She would smile, a sparkle in her blue eyes.
I think wearing store bought items a crime
when I see a big brown truck rolling by.
We opened Christmas gifts with a content sigh;
bright yarns of orange, red, green, and lime
a mug of cocoa and snowflakes in the sky.
I miss my dear grandma, but I don't cry.
I wish I could thank her for gifts divine
when I see a big brown truck rolling by,
a mug of cocoa and snowflakes in the sky.
Christmas Chaos
There was chaos at my house over the holidays
bows flying, colored paper ripping, dogs barking,
kitty hissing, baking smells, and Emily laughing.
It all blends together into a sweet, sweet haze.
The season after Thanksgiving started ever so slow;
four more long weeks of mind numbing work and toil
mixed with visits planned and cards to sign and send.
New Year dawned in a deep pile of wind blown snow.
My daughter came from sunny California to visit
only to find frigid temperatures and a gale blowing.
We cuddled and embraced mugs of hot cocoa,
but the quiet pause only lasted for a minute!
Soon the house was again a swirl of movement,
like a mini tornado or sea spout whirling around,
quickly spreading holiday cheer instead of sadness.
I think this is what 'Joy to the World' really meant!
Dark Days And Theft Of A Dusky Symbol
I wonder at dark days and theft,
when I hear a story from my coastal home
of what is taken, and what is left.
Would they take a bald man's comb?
They stole the carved crow
off the Crow Tracks business sign pole.
Why? I am sure I don't know
does it make them feel whole?
Down on Water Street in Eastport.
the sign hangs bare now,
with no customers to court,
the owner wants to start a row.
Somewhere a 15-inch long
black wooden crow waits,
ready to sound his coarse song
in this town of fishermen and bait.
A broken dowel on a pole remains
where once the bird stood
in snows and summer rains,
remnants of the statue made of wood.
The police were called and took pictures
and stood chin scratching;
not providing society's illness cures,
just wishing they had ideas hatching.
I pray the crow flies home soon,
replaced by repentant vandals,
perhaps by the light of the moon.
In small towns theft makes large scandals.
I wonder at dark days and theft,
when I hear a story from my coastal home
of what is taken, and what is left.
Would they take a bald man's comb?
Dreaming Of Trains
A young boy's dreams of riding rails
are steadily fed with stories and tales.
Grown, engines cease their steam song;
slowly the vision of wandering derails.
I watched diesel trains move along,
blunt featured, efficient and strong.
I wonder at all the romance sadly lost
upon tracks where the smokers belong.
I guess the environment paid the cost
of belching, dirty coal smoke exhaust,
but sparks flying and blackened plumes
make my railroad picture pretty, glossed.
I see switchyard engines blow oily fumes,
but wish I was relaxing in Pullman rooms.
I never outgrew railroad dreams I assume
as my boyhood hobo fantasy resumes.
Elephant Mountain
"Watch out for that ice!"
"View sure is nice."
"Wait until we get to the top,
plenty of time to stop."
"I am a little cold."
The north wind was bold
as we climbed Elephant Mountain
north of Rangeley, Maine.
My brother Digger and I
under a crystal blue sky
were on a treasure quest,
without gold in a chest.
We looked for antlers dropped.
Where the trail stopped
we parked our snowmobile,
put on shoe spikes of steel,
and started up a game trail,
alongside an abandoned mine rail.
Poking through deer bed downs,
nothing here on the ground
except the trampled rent snow,
left behind by buck or doe.
We stopped by a blow-down,
for a drink and to sit down.
Digger's dented thermos cup
full of coffee we drank up.
My cold feet I began to stamp.
"Guess we better head for camp."
We climbed back on the sled,
following the trail laid ahead.
Down Elephant Mountain we flew.
This treasure did we accrue,
time spent as brothers,
better than gold and all others!
Fireflies
I can tell you from experience
fireflies don't taste as sweet
as their color would indicate
but if you sample them just right
tasting them will get you a date.
I can tell you from experience
that teen boys craving attention
will try to do just about anything
to get a girl to look their way,
when emotions jump like springs.
I can tell you from experience
that two fireflies on a tongue
don't light up your entire face,
but leave an acrid residue,
that even water won't chase.
I can tell you from experience
that a sweet kiss lasts long
and there is magic in hugs.
Mostly though my memory carries
the taste of dirty fluorescent bugs.
Grandma Knitted Love
My grandma made mittens
and sewed flannel underwear,
soft as new baby kittens.
Upon our heads, often bare
she placed hats with pom pom
hand crafted with great care.
In a time not so far gone,
these gifts were made of gold,
powerful as muscle and brawn.
Colorful checkers and bold
kept us protected from cold.
In A Quiet House
In the silent morning
with no television,
the only light comes from
ice fog-bound
sodium arcs
penetrating the crack
between thick curtains.
I sit with coffee and dreams
remembering the past
and contemplating
the future
that begins
with one more sip
and solemn vows.
Here in the quiet
of a sleeping house
where even puppies
still lie abed,
I muse on the perfection
of morning,
life, and love.
Smiles,
like fleeting moments,
come and go
upon soft breaths
as I think of my love
and how a gentle word
makes a beautiful day.
"Baby, wake up."
"Do you need a ride
to work?"
"I want to tell you something."
"I love you."
"Have a great day."
Warm hugs in a quiet house.
Kathy Sutton
I remember when as a child I cried,
and you were sure my tears dried.
When I seemed to have no friends,
you were there to make amends
and assure I wasn't left all alone.
I think of you now that I am grown.
If there are truly angels who see,
I am thankful you were there for me.
Kathy, I can never hope to repay
the caring you continue to display.
I remember when as a child I cried,
and you were sure my tears dried.
Books to read and paper and pens,
small treat and other odds and ends
are things I remember you did bring.
Mostly seeing you smile made me a king.
I looked forward to your frequent call,
praying your schedule would stall,
giving more moments of your golden light
which to me always shined so bright.
Kathy, you truly are a savior to me.
I thank God for you on bended knee.
I remember when as a child I cried,
and you were sure my tears dried.
Some would say it was your job,
dismiss my musing with a head bob,
but they didn't see your warm heart,
wisdom and life lessons you did impart.
I am a better man for things you gave.
Over years, these warm memories I save;
a collection of books of outsiders murmurs
and a hopeful thought whatever occurs.
Kathy, I know God must smile upon you,
and clap His hands at the good you still do.
I remember when as a child I cried,
and you were sure my tears dried.
River Of Rain
She stands alone in a river of rain;
same tears and pain again, again.
Where does the promised love go
when these lonely tears flow?
Once upon her face a brave smile,
but Lord above, it has been awhile.
Is she left closer to death's blow
when these lonely tears flow?
My tender words have worn thin,
a whitewash that barely covers sin.
Her pain again starts to show
when these lonely tears flow.
The Green Tree Waits
A green tree stands in the corner
with synthetic branches fluffed,
waiting for lights and bulbs
to be hung by a child's hand
and plugged in by mom and dad.
With synthetic branches fluffed,
shaped, and bent, the illusion
is complete. No Charlie Brown affair,
but a living breathing testament;
soon it will be Christmas day!
Waiting for lights and bulbs,
the old tree snoozes patiently.
We slowly built a mountain,
wrapped gifts at his feet;
colorful boxes and bags.
To be hung by a child's hand
are golden stars and angels,
mini sleighs and snowflakes,
resting in soft tissue cocoons.
They have slumbered all year.
"And plugged in by mom and dad?
Are you serious, I am almost 12!"
How quick our precious little girl
has grown over the few months
the green tree waited in the corner.
The House That Built Me
Some say it is just wood and nails
crafted together with strong hands.
A keen mind with vision sees it through.
Plaster and paint complete a home.
With a final polish, a family moves in.
Crafting together with strong hands,
a level that was half a bubble off,
and old boards carefully chosen
from the Thornton Brothers' yard,
father built our family home.
A keen mind with vision sees it through.
You have to have the right start,
and a powerful and caring heart.
They say when they talk of life,
"strong foundations build strong men."
Plaster and paint complete a home,
but it is the love and charity
of the dwellers that make unity.
If not we are left with a collection,
a facade with opaque windows.
With a final polish, a family moves in,
like we did so many years ago.
It wasn't a mansion it's true,
but father built it to withstand,
that old house that built me.
A Folder Of Love
My love for you was left in a blue folder
upon a coffee table next to your sofa-sick bed
under two boxes of Oreo's and a carton of 2 percent milk
that had ridden in the front seat of my car
until just the right time, awaiting feet-sweeping
and soul baring.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
I penned a sonnet or maybe open-ended
and unrhymed heart-pained words
in an outpouring of haphazard and confused emotions.
I didn't know if you would read, or hear or feel,
so I kissed your blanket-warmed brow
and silently stole away.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
Would I live or love another day
or forever hunger for your words
and gentle kisses?
I seem to have spent a lifetime, lifeless,
and a smattering of love affairs, loveless.
Am I to deny friends
and end up friendless
because I lust for yet another taboo?
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
My heart is again broken yet seamless,
a poem like bit of fluff torn from the sleeve
of my existence where it continually resides.
I wish the frost at your core would thaw,
melting ice dripping, dripping dripping,
a maddening sound of spring coming,
destroying the hell of winter once and for all.
I dance with my toes in the fire of emotion.
I am waiting the crash of symbols
or the tolling of a bell
as the litmus test of your feelings;
bearing a chad-edged and lined paper
written with a number two pencil;
I love you. Do you love me?
Check yes or NO,
and so it goes:
My love for you was left in a blue folder
upon a coffee table next to your sofa-sick bed.
Another Battle
Like a warrior home from his last battle,
I piled dented shield and dulled sword
in an old dusty and locked room,
where only memories and loneliness rattle.
"I will fight no more, forever," upon my lips.
To love no more was once my master plan.
Scars upon my heart would heal in time.
There were no more dragons to slay,
no more maidens to steal across the land.
I will love no more, forever," upon my lips.
I lay alone in the dark shadow of a lover's moon
destined to remain a lonely, unbeaten warrior .
Oft offered heart slowly hardened, calcified,
"Maybe it will stop beating, and none too soon.
I will know pain no more, forever," upon my lips.
One day into my life a young beauty wandered,
peering, through the long unused keyhole
that lead into my carefully secured soul.
Slowly, as awakened from a dream, I pondered,
"I wonder if this is the end of forever," upon my lips.
I lifted door bars and disengaged rusted latches
slowly, carefully widening the oak-hewn door
that had been my heart's savior and salvation.
Could this be one of Cupid's unexpected matches;
"I will love you forever," upon our lips.
Faded Blue Ribbon
Just another knot
in that old blue ribbon.
That is what you are,
memories tied to me.
I met you on an island,
so cliche and true.
Southern Pacific fun,
and surf pounded lust
are memories far behind.
Just a frayed band,
lightened by sun and strife,
you are the old ribbon
tied to my heart.
In your ebon tresses
was knotted a ribbon bright,
Against the darkness,
you were a light.
You live in a land
that is perpetual summer.
I was destined to desert you
in favor of the cold comforts
that are my home.
But I took something
besides woven thread
with a single black hair
found in an empty
car seat.
I carry your memory
through decades
and thousands of miles,
your present
is my present
clouded in our past.
On cold winter days
when I pray for the weak rays
of a dormant sun,
I pull the past out
and slip into the comfort
of your embrace.
I cast fact aside
like the relationship
we could have had
and relive a month
of lust and heat.
Just another knot
in that old blue ribbon.
That is what you are,
memories tied to me.
Halacy’s Field And Football
"Down!"
"Set!"
"Hike!"
The leather ball slapped hard into my hands
from my cousin Robert's hand-off.
I waved for him to go long...
"Further...further!"
My wobbled spiral throw
was timed for his quick feet
to run back across the knee-high timothy.
He leaped over the white-faced granite rock
that marked the pitcher's mound
when we played baseball,
and landed perfectly, ready to rush.
Head down, stout legs pumping,
he was again the young bull
who I charged through boyhood with.
Toward the goal line Robert led the race.
Across clover and vetch
to the gravel where Lester Lapham's
abandon tin trailer squatted he sprinted.
Hard on his heels in a stumbling run
was cousin Kamala and the Halacy boys
who were sure to bring him down
short of the heel-dug goal line.
Mike grabbed a handful of red t-shirt.
"Ripppppp," went 12 dollars worth of Sears thread.
"Touchdown we win!"
"Bobby, when your mom finds out you are dead!"
Shoulders were shrugged as we lined up again.
It was understood that he could blame me;
somewhat of a family trouble maker, you see.
As the late afternoon shadows grew long
we demanded one final turn carrying the ball,
dreaming we were destined to be stars, all.
The leather ball slapped hard into Robert's hands
from my short throw.
He waved me to go long...
"Further...further!"
Fast and low,
on and on we go,
outrunning adulthood.
"Down!"
"Set!"
"Hike!"
Life Is Her Library
The ghosts of 2004
are rattling around her door
as she sits cross-legged
on the cold tile floor.
Life changes is the belief,
time stolen from a thief,
but she mourns comforts
found upon printed leaf.
She grew up in a library
with vaulted ceilings, airy
far away from this adulthood
on the frozen prairie.
Now away from the ink-ridden page,
where life is like a stage
she shivers with chill,
loneliness, boredom, and rage.
The dusty floor reminds her
of the smell of books.
Funny how the mind can transfer
a memory so demur.
Ashlyn unfolds from the floor,
and heads for the door.
Anyone raised on a diet of books
will never be poor.
A smile slowly comes near,
casting out loneliness and fear.
The answer is in a book
that much is clear.
The ghosts of her past
are vanquished at last
as she passes checkout desk,
looks at shelves of volumes massed.
Mariner
Like the ancient mariner
trapped by the seas I sail on.
Even though life is tough
and I scream into the wind,
"Enough is enough!
I will continue on;
same words, same song.
A bruised and battered heart,
is sleeve-pinned for all to see.
Another forever torn apart,
that is once more my life,
cleaved with keen-edged knife.
Upon these seas I drift,
no sure hand at helm.
The current is not swift,
but I move onward,
loneliness, just another word.
Days turn to nights,
and I feel better,
here away from harbor lights.
Outward, and away I go,
better for my soul I know.
I shall dry tears
and hope for the best.
it is easy to forget fears
and open my heart again,
but I don't know when.
The wind makes rigging creak,
but thankfully every breeze
does not her name speak.
I shall return to shore,
looking for love once more.
Like the ancient mariner
trapped by the seas I sail on.
Storming Down A Mountain
In a roller coaster-like world I traverse
rocky mountaintops and wide valleys.
Screaming down slippery slopes
I make my own trails, a moss-less stone
with no seat belt, no crash helmet.
Rocky mountaintops and wide valleys
are splattered with forest and shadows,
yet devoid of the crystal lakes
that would make romantic picnics.
Here I dwell with no rest, pell-mell.
Screaming down slippery slopes
upon the splintered steel
of ungoverned, wasted skis,
I have the berserk finesse
of a bare-chested madman.
I am the moss-less rolling stone;
gathering bits and pieces of life,
while shedding the skin of illusion.
We are what we are as they say;
the things our parents warned us of.
With no seat belt, no crash helmet;
remember when life was that simple,
our own forefathers and dear mother's
survived to beget this generation
of political correctness and avarice.
Surrounded By Simplicity
When every day is surrounded
by airplanes and traffic and industry
it is hard to remember mother nature
and how the simple things really matter.
The wind gossiping with the trees
tells the tales of life and memory.
When every day is surrounded
by hubbub and confusion and speed
a drink from a cold stream might help
bring me back to a boyhood evening
chasing those fluorescent bugs
like a kid with a mason jar.
When every day is surrounded
by adulthood and restrictive rules,
and there is no more than black and white,
maybe those fireflies are really fairies
and "what if" is all the explanation
pure magic really needs.
When every day is surrounded
and wrapped in a need for productivity,
I still believe in hugs and smiles.
Kisses on bruises should fix all.
We all need to give a little more of each.
Who knew simplicity could be so wonderful?
When every day is surrounded
by airplanes and traffic and industry
it is hard to remember mother nature
and how the simple things really matter.
The wind gossiping with the trees
tells tales of life and warm memories.
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