Starbucks cups of Kenya (fair trade)
Academic palaver and ennui
Interrupted by a hovering sparrow
Just outside our glassy corner
“Sparrows can’t hover”
An ornithologist told his class twenty years ago…
And here’s this sparrow,
Uneducated, I guess…
Hovers above and between us
On the other side of the glass…
Just hangs there
Maintaining for a count
One, two, three, four…
Slips down and then back up
And toward us, just above the glass,
Neatly picks a moth from the brick casing.
The helo-sparrow descends
To consume the pinched moth,
Its dusty wings
Resembling sunflower hulls
Shucked and discarded
Near bleachers after the game.

Gymnasiums
Modern battlegrounds,,
Those days...

Blood on the floor,
And spittle.

Rival towns,
White - Red.

Sitting Bull long gone,
Custer long dead.

Native sons,
Sons of pioneers
Still locked in enmities,
Remembrances of treaties broken,
Lying words,
Hatreds long unspoken.

So much of fear
So little trust,
Braggarts claiming coup,
Braggarts thinking war
Through basketball.

So it was one night
I slipped and fell
In a reservation gym,
Heard the hiss and laughter,
Felt the rush of fear...
Anger came.

Before my racist pride
Could grow,
I felt a hand,
Heard a voice,
"You okay?'
Spike Bighorn
Pulled me to my feet
Before a silent crowd.

A quiet act of bravery
That spoke aloud
Made me see the way
Through hate,
Set me on a path
To lead me forty years....

An act of kindness
In a place of fear
Defuses tension,
Ends the wars,
Shames the cowards,
Fills the void
With hope.

-------------------

River birch flowers hang green-gold,
Dangling earrings on beautiful ears;
Morning sun about to break horizon
I never tire of spring, however old;
Her call to life again brings my heart cheer;
I live on promises; Spring delivers here.

A billion, billion blades of grass stand dewed,
Reflecting golden light of rising sun;
They put me in an easy-breathing mood -
Another war with winter has been won.
Now shall I venture out to breathe spring air,
The smell of earth announcing fertile loam,
And I shall leave behind my winter care,
My thrilling blood has stirred me up to roam.

Trees forcing sap to bursting buds
Giving leafy glories up to God.

Birds whose winged flight returning high
Fill northern skies with glory cries.

Soft calves and lambs in meadows skipping
Give glory in their lowing and their bleating.

Young stalks' persistent way through old decay
Announce green and growing glory be's along the way.

So you and I with sweet spring sighs
Hear and see and feel Nature's glory cries
And echo in our human tongues,
"All glory be to God!"

All Glory BE!

Let the springtime follies find their place,
And every admin find his clarion call.
Faculty and staff find hiding space;
The dice are cast and heads must fall.

The changing of the guard makes haste;
Outside the trickling melt is slow.
Quickened blood and whitened face...
Colleagues lost.... We wonder who will go.

House cleaning goes with spring, I guess;
We tend to move those articles of ease,
Ignoring those who have the power to oppress...
Whose absence might bring summer on the breeze.

Covered in slime,
On a new calf's legs,
Blowing and wheezing
To clear your lungs...
Commence breathing.

Spring, chirp in,
Crack the shell of ice
And open your beak
For the first worms
of Summer.

Spring, stalk in
With the dandelions,
Smear rouge on your tulips,
And sally forth
Looking for Love
In the asparagus.

A woman dressed in black,
Shadow-hidden,
Deep woods at her back....

I caught her image
In the yellow headlights
Just for an instant.

My wheels rolled by
While my imagination
Slid to a stop with her.

Why was she there
On a lonely road
In freezing rain and cold?

A mile up the road I slowed,
Turned around to answer
Nagging questions.

At the point where she had stood
Remained a half burned stump
Five feet tall, a broken scar face-high.

I smiled at my imagination...
Nearly stumbled on a shoe:
Black, high heel sunk to the hilt.

Carl didn't finish school
Preferring to work on my father's farm
Breathing prairie dust and smoke
Seeing suns rise and fall
Living under the weather
Freezing or sweating to the season
Reading the wind
Cursing the heat that brought migraines
Smoking Salem cigarettes

Alone in his bunkhouse
With his regrets
Three meals a day with us
A car or truck demanding payments
Kept him coming back to work

The draft cards came;
Neighbors left, but Carl stayed.
One day I asked him,
"Why didn't you finish school?"
"Why weren't you drafted?"
"Are you going to marry?"

"I can't," was his reply.

I asked him why.

"Because I tested as a border-line *****."
At 10, I had no idea what "*****" meant,
Had never heard Stanford-Binet,
Didn't realize the damage of labels,
But now I do.

When authorities mis-measure
the capacities of a man,
And labels shackle,
They fail to see or know
The genius in a Carl.

They didn't stop to think
What gifts he had
Nor had they seen
The perfection
Of his creations
There on the bunkhouse table.
Perfect miniatures of our farm machinery:
Tractors, cultivators, harvesters,
Cut from plastic and metal stock,
Measured intricately to scale,
Fitted with loving care,
Glued and painted
Complete and ready
For some small-minded man
To drive into a miniature field.

"Buy a Star!
Own a Star!"

The sales are brisk,
For cross-eyed lovers,
Cross-hearted, lost,
Beneath the spinning constellations
Burning immortal exhalations,
Desiring forever oxytoxic bliss,
Burning ******* and hearts
Yearn longevity of stars....

PT Barnum saw his opportunity:
Sold cotton candy,
Hawked elephants,
Gawked dwarves,
Hid the razors from
Fierce bearded ladies,
Even sold the elephants' dung,
Provender to exotic gardens....

Barnum's packing up
The Pachyderms,
So Hawkers have us
Gazing on the stars....

"Step right up! See the stars!"
Purchase your fire in the sky!
Your lover's name,
Fixed in the firmament  
A million years!

At least the cotton candy
And the elephant dung
Served some earthy, earthly good,
Paid dentists' children's college,
Fertilized the family food.

So now go claim a distant star,
A million, billion miles away,
Its light must make its journey
A thousand years or more
To greet your eyes, and yet,
Your lover's sighs predict
A hundred dollars' better spent
Than on a good Chablis,
Cementing mortal love in
Distant stars so permanent,
Visited through telescopic glass
Atop our rented tenements.

If it
Started with an apple;
Will it
End with a syringe?

Ten thousand years to grapple
Sin-tactics on a binge

It's June, 1967.
Nature, still lying through
Parsley green teeth,
Breathes the last of spring,
Hints early summer warmth,
Pre-July's cicada whine,
August's heat and wind.

Crops, still tender green
Quiver beneath a humid sky,
Under a glowing sun.

Bicycles amuse our early lust
To soar untraveled ground,
Entering lazy summer's ennui,
We scan a hawk riding drafts
On the edge of our hill.

Dust, drifting up the graveled road,
Five miles below us,
Piques our interest,
Causes the dog to raise his head.
He ***** an ear
Toward a sound we cannot hear.

We hear gravel slapping rocker panels
Before the traveler's roof rises into view,
Catch our breath as the engine slows,
Start running for the house.

A stranger's arrived,
A traveling salesman,
Better than an aunt
Only stopping in for tea
And woman talk.

Dad keeps his welding helmet down,
Repairing broken things.
The hired man inhales his cigarette,
Acts disinterested.

My memories linger on the past....

Salesmen brought the latest farming gadgets:
Additives for fuel and oil,
Battery life extenders,
Grain elevators and fencing tools,
Produce and livestock products,
Lightning rods and roofing,
Chrome-edged cultivator shovels,
Insurance for everything:
Fire, water, wind, hail.

Pitches came without exception:

"Top o' the morning! Looks like you're busy.
Don't want to take your time."

"Looks like you could use some welding rod,
And I have something new for you to try."

"Have you used chromium additive in you livestock salt?
Guaranteed to put on weight and protect from bovine
Tuberculosis!"

"Say, have you heard about the effectiveness of a new
Insecticide called DDT? I've got a sample gallon here
For you to try. Works better than Malathion!"

Dad, eventually intrigued, began the slow dance
Of dickering, haggling over this thing or that.
Most salesmen, closing in for a ****,
Hadn't grappled with my father.

At noon, deals still in the air,
My mother called the men,
And we all trudged in to wash,
Waiting in line at the tub,
Scrubbing with powdered Tide
To remove the grime and grease,
Drying on the darkening towel,
Finding a seat at the table.

The salesmen expected the meal
As though it were their right,
A standing invitation:
Stop in at noon,
Make your pitch,
Sit at table,
Close the deal after.

We boys sat and listened
To man talk.
Eyes wide, we marveled
At gadgets,
Wondered at Dad's parleying,
Winced at the deals he drove,
Commiserated with squirming salesmen
Surely made destitute by Dad's hard bargaining.

In retrospect,
I know the game was played
On two sides,
That the battery additives
Bought for five dollars a packet,
Even with the two Dad finagled free,
Cost about five dollars for everything,
Returned forty-five and change
To the smirking, full-bellied salesman
Who left a cloud of dust on his way
To supper a few miles down the road.

weather breaking
                                        on the heartland
begins in other places
                                        minute-changing phases
threads and traces
                                       give the air its faces
gestational solitude
                                        hovers and broods
streams of space,
                                       solidifying in pace
before the thunder
                                      before the hail
storms begin as
                               whispers
                                                   breezes
first a zephyr
                            then a wind
                                                        beco­mes a gale
a force of power
                                         from breath to HURRICANE
indiscernible at first -              
                                          at last unstoppable

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off)

And then,
At 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shoveling hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off)

And then,
At 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Pay our respects and go our ways.

Unshaven, old, and nearly spent,
He slouched in his kitchen chair,
Lungs rattling each wheezing breath,
Radiation doing little then,
To control the mass within, or
To prevent the Mass he knew
Would soon begin.

Hard to believe a man
So tough as Rubin always was
Sat stubble-faced and wan
In that early morning sun.

Two years ago,
At 65,
He and his son
Put a ****** on,
Fought a cop,
Nearly won,
Stayed a week in jail,
Paid a $7000.00 fine,
Then bragged it all
Was worth the time
And memories.

I saw him jump,
At 66,
From a moving van,
Six feet up
Like a younger man,
Hell bent to take his fill,
Shovel hard, cursing still,
Cigarette hanging loose
Even with a rattling cough
(He shrugged it off),

And stop.
Always 67,
His last remains crave no nicotine,
No *****, wayward fights,
No carousing old man libertine
Out with his son at night,
And we who watched Old Rubin's days,
Paid our respects and went our ways.

I came exhausted
Out of the blistering gray,
Lungs choking dust,
Tongue parched,
Body swollen with heat.

Your cool gardens saved me.
Basked I in the tender greens of spring;
Nurtured, I lingered in the shade all summer;
Warmed, I stayed near your embers in autumn.
I would not leave the blazing logs in winter.

Dry and desperate my early plight.
Parched and stumbling,
Clogged by dust,
I found your water;
Drank and bathed,
Found solace in body and mind,
Found time to rest, to heal.

I wonder at the restlessness
Howling outside your gates.

Beneath the wind-blown clouds,
Shadows promise rain
But not today.

Sealed water bearers bluster by,
Too driven and too high to quench
Panting prairies where they lie.

Thin skirts of rain begin descent...
Devoured in the desiccated air.

The parched land waits,
Inhabitants determined to survive,
Perhaps to thrive,
When slower, heavier clouds arrive.

Persistent genes of prairie dwellers
Early ripen to store quick growth
Within their husky seeds,
Bear children to mature
At lightning speeds,
Live rugged lives
Blessed sporadically with green
That quickly fades to brown,
Wait patiently to send
Their children on ahead.

So life remains and waits
Beneath the scuttling clouds
Enduring sun and shade,
In hope of rains.

Is the death of hope
The dying sigh Of freedom
Dying weekends
Expire in twilight
No one to speak My name to say
Everything will be
Okay.

Before the sun
With his bright face
Puts angles on the shade,
Before old darkness slinks into his place,
I leave the house...
This morning off to work,
But slowing in my run,
I lean to see....

East and high above, a shypoke pair
Take leisure in their flight,
Wings creaking prehistoric,
Feet streaming back on boney stalks,
A trailing nuisance in the air,
Yet perfect for deep water walks.

The chilly air is still;
Dew hovers on the edge
Of giving up on hesitating summer.
Winter is not yet so far away
That crystal forms
Have been forgotten.

Dogwood, leafless yet, and bleeding red,
Begins to glow along the path
The joggers take before the morning sun.

The early light is best
To seek perspective on the world
Before the morning paper,
Before the morning cup;
The early light is best,
As long as we are up.

Before the sun
With his bright face
Puts angles on the shade,
Before old darkness slinks into his place,
I leave the house...
This morning off to work,
But slowing in my run,
I lean to see....

East and high above, a shypoke pair
Take leisure in their flight,
Wings creaking prehistoric,
Feet streaming back on boney stalks,
A trailing nuisance in the air,
Yet perfect for deep water walks.

The chilly air is still;
Dew hovers on the edge
Of giving up on hesitating summer.
Winter is not yet so far away
That crystal forms
Have been forgotten.

Dogwood, leafless yet, and bleeding red,
Begins to glow along the path
The joggers take before the morning sun.

The early light is best
To seek perspective on the world
Before the morning paper,
Before the morning cup;
The early light is best,
As long as we are up.

Father in Heaven, Giver of breath,
I am tainted by my prideful lust,
Wearied as I run toward death.
Kneeling knowing "dust to dust."
Were I to beg you slay the wicked,
My death I'd call for you to give.
Lord, hear the cry of one so wretched,
Tortured now, who begs to live.
Despite my wretchedness, I know
Surrender as I see your Image pressed.
Make whole this desperate soul,
Lift me to live in holy rest.

Amen

A hundred-forty west-bound miles of
Montana Highway 200 see a summer
Traveler somewhere between
Grass Range and Jordan,
Deep in grass and antelope.

Waterless miles of meandering
Dry creek beds and barbwire alleyways
Herd the occasional car or truck
Down narrow asphalt chutes of road.

Speed limit signs stamped "70 mph"
Stand mortified and silent at Speed
Demons hurtling westward to Great Falls,
Round Up, or Flowing Wells, or east to
Jordan, Circle, Richey, Lambert, and Sidney.

Extreme heat and cold on the open plain
Demand courtesies of the West;
Travelers always stop to
Help the stranded.

So it was I came at speed to Sand Springs,
A sultry July day, heading to Billings,
Sad to be leaving my lover and my bairns.

A long way off, I saw her car,
Hood up and steam rising.
I shifted down and idled to a stop.
"Can I help you?"

An older woman,
Crow, I think, looked out,
A bit confused at first
Until her eyes cleared.

"I need a ride," she said,
And so began our adventure.

I made room in the truck
And turned around to find
The ranch where she cooked.

Ten miles back, we left the road
To take a trail that wound back
Into hills, dry with early heat.
"About five miles in," she said.

We found the place,
Resting in a scrap heap
Of old vehicles and broken corrals,
Middle of nowhere,
But she was home
And opened up the door.

She asked me to wait a bit,
So I sat, wondering what was next,
While she walked in through her door.

In a minute she returned
Her offering in her hand.
"Thank you," she murmured.

Nodding, I took the gift,
Shifted into reverse,
Left her there.


The braid of sweet grass,
An unburned prayer,
Rode on my dash
All summer long....

Slip into a syncopated
Yaw that staggers some,
Never touches others.
Come back home if you don't have the chops, or
Open up to ranges
Pleasant...
Awkward...
Totter some and Tatter some.
Insiders,
Outsiders
Nestle or Negate whenever Music syncopates.

Deny we the possibility of order
Ignore we an Outside Law
Suggest we an endless possibility
Worlds without end
Positions simultaneous
Moving in all directions or none
Claim we the future as ours

Defy we realities of law external
Look we inward-outward simultaneously
To become one or none or all
Reject a single story
Saw we the Arms from Truth
Reduce we the Other to I

Forget we the order of Universes
Without-Within
The clockwork structures
Atomic
Celestial
Genetic
Physical
Biological
In and or-ganic

Reorder or Retell we the Cyclical Tales
Birth and Rebirth
Seasons and Times
Journeys of stars swirling through space
Endless flights of planets
Endless migrations of living things
Each rhyming to universal rhythms
Watts and amperes circular-linear mysteries
Predicting futures from their undisputed histories

Deny we external truth
Held here in the gracious grasp of gravity
Warmed gently by a tolerant star
Inhabitants of a universe
Unable to explain itself
Or even how its atoms came
To repel and to attract
In perfect tensions
Or to unleash energies
Predictable and measurable
In milliseconds and millenniums

---------------------------

Marionettes macabre
Cut loose from our strings
Dancing slowing dirges
Proclaiming opening spaces
Beneath closed skies
Denying a Maker
Rejecting hymnody to sing
Ditties laden with lies.

He had always assumed that when his parents died
A kind of freedom would commence
For him to grow into what he could become,
But when his faher passed, unexpected,
His shock to realize the opposite was great,
And left him feeling numb and naked,
Weak and unprotected.

That he should realize his own mortality,
And the imminent farewell coming for himself,
And the sad goodbyes to other journeyers,
So gripped him then,
And robbed his sleep by bringing waking dreams:
Conversations with his father's silent ghost,
Worries of adequate preparations,
(What to leave behind, what to send ahead),
And desires to make some sort of difference,
So troubled his poor head
As to take the deepest sleep,
The kind he'd had whilst father was alive,
And leave him morning-tired and troubled.

Seeking solace for losing a life once charmed
With parents well and family whole, so tempted
Him to seek relief in revels far from depths-plunged grief,
That for a while, he lumbered on,
A wanton, seeking temporary pleasure
Who barely stopped to measure
The flying moments of his sordid life,
The cost of temporal flights with no intended destinations,
The emptiness of purpose-empty avocations,
The fruitless pursuits of mindless gratification.

But now he sits,
Back up against a lonely bedroom wall,
Violin and orchestra his late night companions,
Taking stock of where he's been and where he's bound,
Thinking deep and praying some,
Wondering what the waning mornings left to him will bring.

Lonely, he has become a different man,
Humbled in his un-sought and once-denied mortality,
A peace-begging supplicant beneath a tired moon,
While ancient winds blow ancient dust around
Outside his open window,
Just as they did while his mother moaned
Fifty years and more ago
Out on the dry land farm where he was born.

Grief, catlike inward burrows,
Circles in some lonely spot,
Settles drearily to purr,
Content to rest upon my lot.

I shall not live with grief,
Nor grief hold me, for long,
For life is made for living,
And the living must move on.

The quickest route through grieving
I'm thinking I have found:
Accept the gift of thanking
Those who've circled me around.

Friends who share my sorrow
Don't force, "Seek brighter days."
They know perhaps tomorrow,
I'll raise my paean of praise.

For memories of loved ones,
Who showed me how to live,
For work and funds and sustenance,
Abundances for me to give.

For those who live around me
Host sadnesses, I know;
Because I've lived my miseries,
Others won’t suffer theirs alone.

For faith, for hope, for love abide
While this chest holdeth breath
To spark full joyful fire inside
And route the griefs of death.

My father,
Who never marched a drill,
Nor fired an angry shot,
Recounts fond memories
I've heard so many times:
How long ago, when I was very young,
He and our neighbor,
Up before the sun,
Engaged in tractor battles
(He's very sure he won).

My father woke those mornings,
Early 1960s,
With the popping cough of
Diesel International tractor cylinders
Clattering out white smoke...
Then blue and black,
As engine heat and friction
Tightened gaps and sealed compression,
And the motor steadied into an even roar.

Across the county road
Our only neighbor led or followed suit,
Sending smoke and sound
To drown the morning songs
of robins and meadowlarks.

Fifty years later,
Dad laughs in recollection,
"We started rising just a little
Earlier each day.
Starting up our tractors
In a sort of game
Called, 'Who's out earliest?'"

Six became a quarter of,
Then five-thirty backed to four.
One tractor or the other roared,
Early and then earlier to pull
Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around
My mother shook her head,
But if she said a word,
I haven't heard.

They even started engines up
Before they ran,
Milking buckets swinging,
to their barns to chore.
As early became earlier
In the little farmers' war.

One day in town,
Entirely by happenstance,
A meeting came between the two.
My father, being younger,
Had energy for more,
But the neighbor shook his head,
Grabbed his hand and said,
"Let's stop this foolishness.
I don't know about you,
But I need my sleep."

The farmer battle ended then.
A hand shake and a smile
Between two farmer friends,
Created country lore,
Remembered here a while,
As "The Early, Earlier War."

Few of us are blessed to find a calling
While in our youth, before our prime,
To leave but know the farm's the thing,
The earthly place we'll spend our time.

The Thiessen farm is ordered, neat,
Equipment, houses, corrals and sheds,
A visual treat, each row a street
To show the order in Dwight's head.

The old earth tracks the sun around,
Each spinning lap marks coming years,
Sees loved ones laid to rest in ground,
Brings little ones to stem our tears.

A weary circle - life, and few
Are those who see how they are blessed;
Dwight, Diana found that it would do
To farm, raise kids, thank God for rest.

One day, a doctor said the words
No one desires to hear, but still,
This couple prayed, they didn't swerve
From praying for God's sovereign will.

Back to the farm, the couple drove,
Held close in prayer by friends
Aware that good comes from above
Aware that everything must end

Dwight breathed one final breath, was gone;
He left and didn't say good-bye.
But, oh! what air then filled his lungs,
Celestial breath in heaven high!!!!

--------------------
Dwight's leaving reminds me of an old song by Don Wyrtzen (1971)

"Finally Home"  https://youtu.be/sBZe2nWRSjU?si=bTriiCVgoucus8Eb .

When engulfed by the terror of the tempestuous sea,
Unknown waves before you roll;
At the end of doubt and peril is eternity,
Though fear and conflict seize your soul.

But just think of stepping on shore-And finding it Heaven!
Of touching a hand-And finding it God's!
Of breathing new air-And finding it celestial!
Of waking up in glory-And finding it home!

When surrounded by the blackness of the darkest night,
O how lonely death can be;
At the end of this long tunnel is a shining light,
For death is swallowed up in victory!

But just think of stepping on shore-And finding it Heaven!
Of touching a hand-And finding it God's!
Of breathing new air-And finding it celestial!
Of waking up in glory-And finding it home!

You Gentiles,
Unwashed, unclean,
Prepare for war,
Come vent your spleen.

Beat the plowshares into swords,
Your harvest tools to mighty weapons,
Feel the surging doom and think you strong,
Gather  in the Valley of Decision,
The Valley of Jehoshaphat,
Where stand we all for judgment.

The Sun, the Moon, go dark;
The Stars remove their shine,
And full earth shakes beneath
The coming doom,
Before the lasting Peace
Descends on Israel.

As we wait beneath the mountains
For the passes to clear.

The river fills in torrents
As the horses and the men grow thin.

Feats of winter thriving
Fade in the springtime starving.

Birds fly high above,
Finding open water beyond us.

We wait in wonderment.
The dogs sense danger as we eye them.

He died...
Truck slammed into
An off-road approach,
Thrown clear,
Head folded back
To touch his spine,
Bruised and scratched,
But unable to breathe,
Unable to bleed.

No longer able to regret,
He made no attempt
To take a long look back....

No use reminding him
The futility
Of driving drunk,
Even in celebration
Of graduation;
No need to send
A congratulatory card...

No need.

The Monday after,
I stood in a classroom,
Hands upon the lectern,
Voice tense and low....

"Don't ask me to cry
At your funerals
When you die
This way....

"I spend too much
Life and love in my students
To waste my tears,
To howl in rage,
To whimper in disbelief,
To wrack myself with grief."

The class sat,
Numb as I...
Until they saw me
Cry.

Beneath this morning's ice.
No evidence remains of froth and fury,
Of autumnal winds;
No sand-whipped waters beat
The chilling shore.

The wind, north and west that carried
Frigid breath down past the borders
Yesterday has died,
Leaving ice and cold to play,
Smoothing out the waters in their way.

Lake-wide, a panel, thin and thickening fast,
Resembling midnight glass, or
Glazing eyes at the moment of death,
Taking on a marbled look by morning,
Mosaic panes rough-textured
Under blowing snow.

The changing of water in its forms
Amazes me. Just yesterday, I thought
To kayak out a ways to battle
The waves, frothing careless and cold and free,
Unheeding the impending hold upon their wanton spree.

The refrigerator did it...

Results are in,
The crime is solved,
The botnet's done its ***** work;
The refrigerator has been caught
Just standing there,
But running just the same,
Cool as a cuc...
Never mind....

No appliance now is safe
Connected to the Net;
Programs roaming find some space
To pick up every megabit,
Conscripting all the little brains
Thinking on their own
To join together,
And while it's cooling Easter ham,
My fridge is on a mission now,
Releasing spores of spam.


(Check today's news...kind of frightening, but also funny.)

Old men stumbling,
Old women wading,
Descending into waters black.

River's force draws
Once steady Time
Into Lethe's murky flow.

Cares fall away,
Worry holds no more...
All swept from sensate shore.

Ever pulling,
Relentless River Lethe
Drowns even sweet relief.

Is upon me now:

Of plowed old corn
Turned beneath the soil,
Disheveled roots clawing at sky

Of seagulls, far inland,
Crying "Scavenge!"
Out on lonely fields,

And smoking brush smouldering
Useless now, for human needs,
Hazing a clouded sky,

Of chilling, two-wheeled rides,
The windblown miles rushing
Past towns and scattered farms,

Of fetid morning steam
Rising thick above the lakes
Hunters crouching,

Of calls rising from the mud,
Flaring foolish ducks
Swooping low to their own harvest.

We have not deeply thought
Just yet, of coming snow,
We, in this cloven spot in time;
While all around us
Leaves slip their summer greens,
To dress in colors bright,
While migrant birds begin to keen
For warmer, bluer skies.

I sense that Autumn has begun,
And I am discontent;
My garden's done its annual  run:
Potatoes, scarred and round are dug,
Tomatoes in and canned,
Nearly leafless, blood-red beets
Stand their pockmarked rows;
Onions dry in braided twists.

New Winter's not a long way off,
Though Autumn's looking bright,
And sadness makes impossible to doff
That "certain slant (our Emily once said) of light,"
So I must find a quiet corner soft,
And I must dream somehow...

Awake,
Asleep,
The scent of autumn
Is upon me now.

These are the cyclical watches:
Waking dawns of healing,
Walking light of realization,
Rejoicing contentment,
Sitting afternoons of temptation,
Wandering twilight rebellion,
Wallowing nights of sin,
Shrieking midnight repentance,
Mournful watches before dawn....
These are the days of shriving.

Who are these farmers,
And who, these fertile fields,
Verdant under native grass,
That stand un-plowed,
That shake beneath the plow,
That lie now fallow,
That bear the planted seed,
That wear the heavy grain,
That await the Harvest pain?

And who, these Harvesters,
And who, these close-shorn fields,
Desolate in short-cut stubble,
That stand, stiff in silence,
That wear the heavy tracks,
That have endured the harvest,
That yielded up their dead,
That bristle through the falling snow,
That whistle wind-song low?

And who, these merry Farmers,
And who these stubbled fields,
Glistening beneath the melting snow,
That warm beneath the glowing sun,
That host the migrants of the sky,
That tremble the biting plow,
That accept the falling seed,
That wait beneath the welcome rains,
That cycle through the seasons once again?

Stolid now, and still,
Clapped for sons and daughter
Successful in their various ways:
Races finished,
Speeches delivered,
Bicycles ridden,
Announcements given.

Moved, these hands,
To build and mend,
To knead and sow,
Without a seeming end.

Held me as a baby,
Held my babies, too,
But now I hold them,
Cold and still.

Slack now, these hands...
A life of work is done.

Watched the Lord come to the garden.
Heard the Voice call softly, “Adam.”
In anticipation, licked his lips,
Felt shivers in his snake-ish hips.

Still no movement from the bushes;
Human forms still held their breath;
Chortling serpent, breathless, waited
In the garden where came death.

Crouched beneath March winds
Howl the songs of wolves
Against cloud-scudded skies,
Leafless, bending only little,
Insensate, but howling still,
Straining against night winds.

First cold and wind must pass
Before the softness-es of Spring
Coax life from roots below the frost,
Reminding me that nothing's lost.

Black dress,
Black lace shawl,
Red cherry violin,
Black frets and strings,
Black bow, white mane or tail,
Tensely poised
To move along the strings
In dances sensuously slow,
Tantalizing strings
To vibrations sublime,
Singing listeners to sway
Eyes closed, adrift, in
Streaming consciousness.

Other movements quick and sharp,
Impossible for any heavy-wielded harp,
Dancing pirouettes of sound,
Jetting needles sharp,
Then  reeling tremulous...
These caterwaulings of a horse's tail
Held tautly on a stick.

A deaf man here beside me,
Only seeing, reads about
The music that I hearing, feel...
Somehow feels the Muse,
Sways to the dancing bow.

The imminence of death
Heightens awareness of eternity.
We realize our need to live in the reality
That as eternal beings we must prepare to die wisely
As well as to live.

During the Christmas season,
We return to the Truth:
Jesus is our hope,
Our source of joy,
Our source of peace
Even in the face of loss,
Even in our sorrow.

Jesus is our “Shelter in the Time of Storm.”

Planting excitement upon us,
My daughter asks how to thin the beets.

"When the plants are three inches tall,
Pick the weaker ones and pull them up,"
I say. "You'll take out two thirds of the young  plants
So the rest can grow."

I see a troubled look upon her face,
And realize what I find in myself....

The teacher's quandary:
Picking whom to keep,
Whom to cull...
We put our love into them all.

Watching for first and tender shoots,
Celebrating as the fledgling leaves appear,
Not thinking of a time ahead,
Dreaded time to thin....

Teachers are reluctant to cull,
Building emotional connection,
Providing loving direction,
Promising success to all....

Then come the standardized tests,
The  team selections,
The popularity contests,
The invitations to slumber parties,
The division of elites,
The rising of divas,
The rostering of first teams...

The separation of pariahs begins,
The promise we made to early learners ends,
Superiors, exultant, drown out the tears
Of those left standing by the fence,
Excluded from the chances to advance.

Standing in the seedling beds,
Spring breezes rustling tender leaves,
I turn to Kate....
"It's never easy....
But if we don't  thin the beets,
The beets will not develop
Beneath the leaves."

These damnable analogies arise
Infrequently these days,
And I am standing in the dirt,
Black soil upon on my hands,
Wondering about survival of the weak,
The treatment of humans and young plants,
Pondering humane ways to honor every student
In which I am investing...
Wishing I could see the end of high stakes testing....

of temptation.
We are enticed,
Seduced, and
Trapped.

The Going In
Is easy,
While Going Out
Is difficult.

The farther  
We slide,
Less likely
Our retreat.

Broke with the tinkling of chimes,
Bird melodies cacophonous,
And dew-wet sunlight
A million years old, and new again,
As this old world turned round
And brought me back to day.

The dreams and fears of night
Fell all away;
The dog barked out his morning bark
To call me out to play.
Breakfast down and leash a-fixed
W'e were on our way.

A yearling pup's the thing
To take a man's old heart
Right back to spring:
An angle worm,
A water puddle,
And grass to roll in,
The neighbor's dog,
The fire plug....

Who knew the joy of messages
Left on rock and trees?
And joy is found in lifting ears
And nose to test the breeze.

The secret that I think I understand?
It's not the dog who needs the walk;
The leash is for the man
To work out kinks from life
And see the little things
That dogs can see
Without the need to think.

"As good as any," the weary traveler said,
"For us to set our burdens down, and rest our heads."
Stopped they to ease their feet along a winding road
But just a little, then, and picking up their loads,
They journeyed onward toward a slowly setting sun
Assuming miles stretched far ahead ere they were done.
"This place," she whispered, as she held his withered hand,
"As good as any," though not the resting they had planned.
"You wait, while I go on ahead," her whisper sighed,
His resting place a shallow, the winding road beside.
Suns rose and set a little while while she trudged on,
The hazy past a trail; eternity beyond.

"As good as any," the weary traveler said,
"For us to set our burdens down, and rest our heads."
Stopped they to ease their feet along the winding road
But just a little then, and picking up their loads
They journeyed onward toward a slowly setting sun
Assuming miles stretched far ahead ere they were done.

"This place," she whispered, as she held his withered hand,
"As good as any," though not the resting they'd planned.
"You wait, while I go on ahead," her whisper sighed,
His resting place so shallow, the winding road beside.
Suns rose and set a little while slowly she trudged on,
The hazy past a trail; eternity beyond.