Quinault

for Poetry Thursday

I live in a land of long trees
that understand a fog's patience,
and a plumb line. Doug-fir,
red cedar, reach up to scratch

an eagle's butt, and down
to a winter wren's chat,
and the Quinault reaches
out to the ocean and back

up rain-trapping valleys.
I walk the remnants of a trail,
happy for a heavy sweater
and a tin-cloth hat. Dippers blink,

jays scratch out a shrug,
a stream mutters its way
through the sword ferns, we listen
to the river, and the long trees.

Small Things

as posted on New Verse News

A tiny moth flutters in a spiral
between my chair and the bookcase,
disturbed into the early light, the flutter hunts
out a dark place to be alone

for meditation. Out in the garden
a frog croaks to attract his love’s attention,
he’s been croaking for three days
but she doesn’t answer. A mosquito flies

around, looking for me again. To escape
the bustle and clamor I put on a hat
and walk the trail to Bottle Beach.
On the windy beach a feather curl

wildly tumbles along over the sand,
separated from its bird the curl is headed
for lonely oblivion among the broken shells
in the beach grass. Above my hat

the sky is filled with onerous clouds.
A mattress heavy with dark thinking
mulls over broken dreams, lost loves,
sudden falls, dancing with eyes closed.

The mattress doesn’t mean anything
when a flower can’t find a bee.

Disconnecting the Dots

for Sunday Scribblings

Stumbling through old age I put aside
poise and carry a stout walking stick,
well-worn teak takes pressure off
well-worn knees. On a gravel path

the kinglets recognize my stumbling.
Rocks lining the path border have fallen,
revealing clusters of miniscule blossoms
and curious insects that were hidden

from earlier walks, the border of the path
is not the border at all. Returning
to my hut I find a glass of wine
is not a gravel path to wicked,

and contemplating Buddha
is more important than Buddha.

Bored Ku (1)

as posted on sorry if you're bored

in the dark quiet
of a cottage
safe from cats

~

coyote song –
inspired lesson
every night

~

waiting in line
at the bank –
salmon spawning

~

wait to see
the tide return –
patience is virtue

~

senior flirting
attracts irritated
chaperon eyes

~

senior flirting
leads to
graduation

~

political hubris –
leave confession
to the amateurs

Bored Ku (0)

as posted on sorry if you're bored

just for your grudges
I feed the cat early
and keep going

~

with fear of paralysis
I hoard no possessions
or lovers to grieve

~

a fizzle dawn
produces a cold shower
and curry gratitude

~

a double-flute
when no one is looking
swainson's thrush

~

easily buried
is reassuring
for a clam

~

the pull of the moon
attracts coyote song

~

insanity is attained
only by those
already in reach

Gravel Road

for Poetry Thursday

South of Lakeview a narrow gravel road
goes down the spine of Warner Ridge
and past the Dismal Swamp. In the bright
sun on a late spring day I swat flies,

consider the gravel leading into the trees,
and ask, "where are you going? Do you
connect with a paved road to some town
where I can sit down to an Italian dinner

with a glass of red wine, do you
go through a break in the trees
where pioneers travel the Applegate
Trail west to Oregon, are you

at the beginning, or do you end
at a long forgotten graveyard
in a small clearing?" The gravel replies,
"where have you been?"

View Ku

for one deep breath

beach sand
extends to the surf –
three red triangles

~

a plum tree
sees its blossoms
when the petals fall

~

a mosquito
lands on the wall –
leg itches

~

placid ocean –
one spout
moves north

~

snaky road
on a cliff face
basks in the sun

~

a morning fog
accents
the empty spaces

Brown-Headed Cowbird

In spring shadows an intruder is born,
a weed at Butchart Gardens,
a sober girl at a beer party,
a poet at the barbarians fair.

The poet is raised to a clan that is no mirror,
and the clan bears the crank. A chant,
a call trickles in like a rising tide
and draws the poet to a street gang,

a clique with a storyline that fits,
a choir that sings a poetic song.

Earth Drum

At first light the desert strums to life,
the breath shifts, earth heart is thumping
under the skin. The early sun reaches
between and holds close the ground,

the ground holds close the sage and juniper.
Tremors are deep within the roots,
a pulse pulling boots to canyon rims.
Boots stay close and scuff the sandstone,

hold on, and the desert holds its breath
until it blacks out.

Passed Out on a Bubble

I’m the only customer renewing a license
in the linoleum-and-Formica on a warm
September day, at the twelve-dollar
window the clerk asks if I ever

passed out. I don’t remember waking,
missing part of my story, wondering where
the time went. When you pass out
what happens that’s different from dancing

down the street to the noodle shop?
Maybe that was the time I was thinking
about South Beach instead of paying
attention in class, or when I was eating

curry-chicken with the opossums
on Monkey Mountain, or sharing a bottle of port
with the Giant Spoon Monster,
or when I grabbed the side of the ginger bubble

and watched Ben inside harvesting oysters,
the bubble broke and I fell out of the chair.

Annie French's Airboat

for Poetry Thursday

Words change shape when they're passed around
so don't believe all the rumors afloat,
they don't resemble the facts on the ground
re Annie French's flame throwing airboat.

Annie and the boys are sitting out back
on a day that's slow, and the thinking is slower,
when they see on the Boat Works spare parts rack
an airplane propeller and a John Deere mower.

So they take a flatboat and a cutting torch,
and with gnashing, banging, and oily grime,
they join the airplane and mower parts,
and make an airboat of odd design.

Annie calls on her cousin Normal Billy
to showoff the airboat at Squabble Lake.
Billy rattles up with Packer Mike,
pulling a trailer with his old Toyot truck,

which was a Toyota before
a road grader scraped off the 'a'.
Annie looks askance at Mike's trailer,
the hitch bolt's a little loose and a lot rusty

and the safety chain's a clothesline rope.
Annie explains what's an airboat,
and how it works. Mike and Billy head out
and the first stop is Charlie's Tavern,

where Billy explains what's an airboat,
and how it works. After a pint for Annie's sake
they climb back into the old Toyot
and drive off, headed for Squabble Lake.

Billy is chuckling so Mike asks, "what's up?"
"Jake's girl, Molly, was by the door,"
says Billy, "when we left I pinched her butt,
and all the guys had a good laugh."

Now Jake is known to have a jealous
streak, and he doesn't get the joke,
so he and Uncle Jimmy climb
into Jake's big-wheel 4-by

with the manly-package and roar off
down the road on a malicious mission.
Mike checks the rearview and says,
"company's coming and they're not smiling."

Billy asks, "can't you make this rig
go any faster?" Mike says,
"the back of that boat is like a sail,
it's like going into a headwind."

Billy says, "wait here, I've got a plan,"
and climbs back through the hole
where the window used to hang,
then scrambles over the airboat's bow.

Billy fires up the mower, and stomps
the throttle. Mike hears propeller roar,
the steering goes wolly, and the old Toyot
speeds up past eighty-five. Billy looks back

with a grin and sees Uncle Jimmy
leaning out of the manly-package
with a double-barrel, Billy dives down
to the bottom of the boat and hears

a double load of bird shot ping
off everything above the gunwales.
Billy reaches back to hold down the throttle,
and looks around the bottom of the boat

to see what he has to work with:
three flares, a jar of pickles,
a can of gas, and a day-old fish.
Billy lights a flare and spikes it

into the mower seat, he pours the gas
on the upwind side, and the propeller
throws a glorious plume of orange flame back
down the road. Jake sees the glorious orange

and locks the brakes, he's near the speed limit
when the manly-package leaves the road
and drives a quarter-mile up Johnson Creek.
Uncle Jimmy says they would have gone farther

but the creek was high and they were against
the current. Billy keeps his head low,
his hand on the throttle, and keeps pouring gas.
As they pass Doug McKay's Truck Farm

Mike's girlfriend, Madeline, looks out
the kitchen window and her dad
looks up from the broccoli patch to see
a flame throwing airboat pushing

Mike's old Toyot over the hill and down
to Bickers City. Madeline and her dad
look to each other, one of those
long slow looks seeking harmony

in a disordered cosmos.
The roaring flame clears the farmer's market
on Main Street and Mike sees Squabble Lake
dead ahead. He lightly touches the brakes

and the wolly steering takes a hard left.
That's when the rusty bolt snaps,
the clothesline breaks, and the old Toyot
cuts donuts across the parking lot

and into Booger Marsh. Billy feels
the ride change and looks up,
where the old Toyot should be
the boat ramp passes under the bow.

The trailer stops dead in the water
and rips out the airboat's flooring,
the propeller and mower sizzle and sputter,
and sink to the bottom of Squabble Lake.

Packer Mike and Normal Billy
smile and wave from the old Toyot
on the road back to French's Boat Works
with a jar of pickles, and a day-old fish.

Words change shape when they're passed around
so don't believe all the rumors afloat,
they don't resemble the facts on the ground
re Annie French's flame throwing airboat.

NEC Ku (2)

(Not Elsewhere Classified)

falcon storms
a feeding flock
feather blizzard

~

icicle drips
a tone between
hot and cold

~

if a varied thrush
can peck at his food
on the deck
so can I

~

the smell of dew
spider web sags

~

sometimes I take
a hot shower
for no reason

~

fog covers
the holes
in my roof

~

the inner critic
is up early
it's a bad day

Lower Animals

Hubris said, “how special you are,
different from the lower forms.
It matters not that you hear
less than owls, run slower than goats,
and fly not at all.”

Hubris said that I’m apart
from the web of sparrows, bees,
dogs and trees.

And, does the web of goats
and bees agree? Hubris said,
“I don’t know, I’m not there.”

Flaw In The Quilt

At Bottle Beach a twilight fog
whispers away, the entire mudflat
is lit by morning sun, a flatboat glides
to oyster beds, a loon is on the bay,

four teal are just outside
the water line, incoming tide pushes
shorebirds toward the high tide line.
On the mud every space is taken

by delicate pipers, crisp feathers
in place, dark eyes obsidian clear,
each long bill precise-probing
for bits. A peregrine appears

from behind the trees and spots a flaw
in the quilt, a feather amiss,
a wing askew, a misaligned footprint
on the mud, a mistake. The peregrine stoops

and sandpiper clouds rise,
teal flush, the peregrine swoops up
and wheels over, sandpipers coil,
teal drive hard and low, coils flatten

and stream away. A jolt in the flock,
a nasty, and the peregrine plucks feathers.

Desert Rain

for Poetry Thursday

The blacktop west of Round Rock
drifts through Chinle Wash
where red cliffs reach for sky
and black clouds reach for ground.

The clouds get there first
and a sunlit deluge
of rain and hail comes down
faster than it can run off

the blacktop into a dry creek
and turn red soil to sucking mud,
and the rain washed cliffs
breathe sage to the sky.

Middlemarch Pass

I watch Claire predict the weather,
she's so happy to tell, but I don't listen,
it won't change anything
and I'll be here to watch dark clouds

roll through Middlemarch Pass
and blow down the canyon, the wind
picks up and circles around the corner
and then just enough cold rain

to wash the dusty smell off the sage
and juniper. A late sun peaks
under the passing storm and invites
a shrike to perch large, then an evening

chill clears the sky and it's ready
for the moon and stars, and Claire
has such fun.

Sleep Ku

for one deep breath

one leg down
beak under wing
one eye open

~

cherry blossoms yawn
at spring sunrise

~

midday air
barely moves
in and out

~

a butterfly waits
on the plum tree's
bare branches

~

in a small river village
the last light goes out

~

crackling ice –
beneath
a river fidgets

~

old ashes
finally scattered
before I leave

Watchdogs

Roscoe the Nose is a legendary searcher
known for exposing bullies and bad guys,
Rotten Nellie is on guard and looks so wicked
she could stop fire. Roscoe and Nellie

breed with high hopes, with visions
of gifted offspring, and I get the pick
of the litter, an alert, bright eyed,
high stepping, black and brown pup

that catches flies and her name is Kate.
She outgrows puppy stumble and builds
tracking skills until she finds
the last cookie at a picnic, as Kate grows

it’s clear she can’t outsmart a fence post,
she’s lazy as mud, the witless watchdog
sleeps under the porch, a parasite, alert
for any vagrant who might scratch her belly.

Great Blue Heron

as posted on Concelebratory Shoehorn Review

Juliette leans, sways like marsh grass
dithering in a breeze, seed head
lopped over, errant plume hangs.
Juliette’s exposed to peril, moves on

to stay ahead, to find a bar,
a mudflat where needs are satisfied,
fish are picked clean. Alights,
settles on a hummock, neck doubled

in, waits for change in the tide,
in the rain, in the darkness
sleeps light on a dicey perch.

Road Ku

for Poetry Thursday

the first night
I saw a wild goose
in a dream

~

coyote clouds
run with
tails down

~

spring storm –
even the rain
wants inside

~

the way Nevada
sits next to Utah

~

how to draw
the place between
her breasts

~

two old posts
held together
by barbed wire

~

the moon watches
the whole story