Sea Ku

for one deep breath

wind and water
show off
at the beach

~

ripple patterns
embellish the clouds

~

oblivious eagle
glides down the beach
gulls swarm

~

sweeping waves
erase the sand
for the next flock

~

high tide line
collects driftwood
and bottles

~

ebb tide reveals
a lunch counter
shorebirds pipe up

~

a fog rolls in
everything calms down

Earth Care

It’s tough getting old but I’m in better
shape than the guys in the neighborhood.
That last nasty left me unsteady and nauseated,

my immune system kicked in like a hurricane
and stirred the pot, rearranged the furniture,
I’m still a little feverish but I’ll be OK.

My stress level is down, I took time
to shake and quake, blow off a little
volcanic steam. I seem to be infested

with a parasite that saps my energy
and makes a mess on my skin.
I’ll concoct a virus to knock 'em back

on their heels. It won’t
be as traumatic as the pill I took
for that plague of thunder-lizards.

When Will The Snow?

Plum blossoms ride a spring
breeze, swirl across the path,
drift against the garden gate.
When will the snow?

A falcon wings a sudden strike,
fall migrants rise in the air,
swirl and twist a feather blizzard.
When will the snow?

A wandering goose chants yearning
across the wintry sky, a voice
adrift chills the Girl-in-the-Moon.
When will the snow?

The Birdmaker

At nightfall I devise a scheme
with sufficient reason,
light I can’t hear is dark sound,
add the feathers and fluff
and declare it to the moon
with proper dance and song,
ta dum de de dum, don’t take too long,
The National‘s on the TV.

It wings along the plum blossom tree
branch into the space between stars
and rides the passing updraft
of time warping light
that bedevils the sinister mind,
ta dum de de dum, porcupine,
Walla Walla, Wash, and Kalamazoo.

Ripened devices soar around and down
in lazy vulture circles and circles
to cranial cavities and fledge
the pinfeather cushions that grow
into a comedy of jays
plucking peanuts from a pinecone,
squawking in the moonshine,
ta dum de de dum, will you be mine,
I like the way you conspire.

Gorilla Poetry

for Poetry Thursday

Stan's stiff back sits in Betty's
Java Hut at a window looking over
the wharf where he was forty years
the heavy. The old gorilla moved pallets

and crates like an old poem moves
metaphors from a ship to the dock
to the trucks hauling cargo
down the highway to Spokane.

The old gorilla watches the young bulls
boogie with the latest equipment. He knows
the dance but doesn't know
the metaphors, the new poetry

doesn't make sense, the new doesn't rhyme
with big work. After the dance
the young bulls read the old poem,
and nod their heads deep.

A Place to Sleep

In golden commotion the sun slides down
over the edge, over the lip,
and a glass of wine. A slender moon
rises behind trees, darkness rises

from the floor and coats the walls.
A dark thick pervades the room,
deadens old voices, I can’t hear
my own barter. My temper is outside,

under the star dome, under the clouds.
I walk into the night street
and find the doorway to my inner cell.
Standing in the doorway looking down

the street is like standing on a beach
thinking across ocean swells,
mythic people chant,
lanterns rock slowly back and forth.

A doorway where I can be alone,
a place to sleep.

Earth Ku

for one deep breath

to build a web
it takes
one spider

~

a gray cloud
escapes the storm
endamps the garden

~

in new marsh grass
each wren sings
a better song

~

between the bee
and black dirt
a scarlet blossom

~

volcano
turns over
the garden

~

in the dark
an eight legger
ignores me

Former Life

for Sunday Scribblings

In former life I must have been
a slave, eunuch, peon,
to submit control, to endure,
when a special case, strutting

to some prettified purpose,
yaps orders like a circus seal
and nearly as fragrant.
Commands snap like a whip

across my back, long remembered
shackles and chains drag me
into the ground until roiling and burning
boils of hate build behind my face.

I must have been a slave in former life,
a peon with attitude, and a dagger.

One Old Red-Eyed Steer

I’ve been a ranch hand since I could ride,
I’ve seen the best winter sunrise
crack a frozen sky, watched rain
with attitude bounce in the sage,

listened to coyotes and meadowlarks
sing in the twilight and launch stars,
mothered cranky trucks and broke down cows,
but the only worst thing

I ever had to cope with is one old
red-eyed steer that thinks he owns
this outfit. He’s tried to run me down,
stomp me into dirt,

kick, nibble, and gnaw,
and I have the bones to prove it.
The first thing in the morning
I find out where he’s at and what’s

on his mind, and keep him in front.
I cut him for slaughter a couple times
but some disruption comes up
and he doubles back. He’s over

by the water tank now,
I’d best go and talk.

One More Song

‘Stardust’, ‘Temptation’, ‘Mabel’s Dream’,
‘Soler’s Sonata No. 12 in G major’,
speak to me in a primal way,
music that reaches my center,

celebrates the first guy who beat his fists
on his chest and wailed about
the one that got away, who beat a log
with a stick while the girls danced,

who beat two rocks together,
who played air guitar.
Suppe’s ‘Pique Dame’,
‘Frankie and Albert’, ‘Fig Leaf’,

remind me of events that are years gone by,
not just events, people, women I have known
who deserve one more song, ‘Farewell Blues’,
‘That’s A-Plenty’.

‘Oh Didn’t He Ramble’, ‘Four or Five Times’,
‘Temptation', keep me connected with troubles
before my time. To portray the present misery,
reflect today’s oppression,

I need one more song,
‘There Comes a Time’, ‘Enough’.

Fed Up

as posted on New Verse News

Back in school I was a horse
with a heavy load getting beaten
into submission by the almighty
administration, I work for a jerk

who treats me like a dog
performing tricks for a tidbit,
I'm bullied by the badgering police,
the politicians and their apologists,

tormented by the credit card company,
the oil company, the cable company,
the telephone company, maltreated
by small minded editors

who believe that only they know
a poem, I'm tired of being the sucker,
the clown dog, it's time to strike back,
bite the hand, and somebody

is going to get hurt, it's time
to be the trouble, the plague,
and let the almighty worry
about pointless violence.

Frigid

for Poetry Thursday

I love the way you walk with the confidence
and grace of a wild animal, I'd fall
into melancholy and despair
if your hip joints wore out

and you hobbled along like a road grader
with a flat tire. I treasure your jade-white skin,
I hope my eyes fall out
before your hide comes by the scrapes

and scars of an open pit iron mine.
I can't bear the thought of my love growing
a fat butt, the torrent of dark hair
turning wispy gray, farting

from too many years of zinfandel,
pickled herring, and cheese.
You understand why I put you in the freezer
in a charming posture. I bought insulated

coveralls so I won’t get a chill
when you sit on my lap.

Energy Ku

for one deep breath

carrion scent
rides the desert wind
to a soaring vulture

~

marsh grass sings
then the wren

~

ancient lake
wrinkles
the mountainside

~

cooper's hawk –
lightening strikes
the bird feeder

~

rain tails
from low clouds
tickle seeds

~

without the strength
to sleep
alone

Off The Menu

as seen on Bolts of Silk

Every joint has its specialty,
a signature tune recorded in Chicago
in nineteen forty-six, a cranberry-lime drink
mixed by a barkeep named Aurelya,

a baked quail recipe discovered
in the archives of an ancient medical library,
written on the walls of a Buddhist temple,
a secret recipe passed down

from Great-Grandma Nettie, with ingredients
from an herbalist in eastern Oregon,
from a secret stash in Louisiana,
flown in from Kaktovik.

Put away the menu, Aurelya,
serve up your best dish,
make your best moves.