Dead Poet

Uncle Joe spends the night
under an overhang awash in the smell
of wet dirt, lives in a private place
of mythical apes watching radio

waves bend around rain tails,
bounce down Whisky Ridge
and splash in the river. Joe learns
the religion of sweeping under rocks,

faith in insects and worms,
the ancient’s connection to bare branches.
When the moon is high and fog is thin
Joe scratches out his dreamerie

in a dust storm of metaphor and meter,
esoteric butt scratching that flies
past common grasp, artifice
revered by rival scratchers,

idiolect that never lives
beyond a private place.

Autumn Clouds

A chill wind from the northern sea
drives wild geese to the south,
puts frost in the ground,
brings autumn’s white clouds,

hides the moon. My shadow
travels rough over rough trails,
raising yellow dust
that hangs in the air,

easy for small birds to see
where I have been,
hard to see where to go,
hard to see new trails.

Tides

for Sunday Scribblings

Tides follow the moon's rhythm, rhyme
with migrating geese and fragrant blossoms.
Minus tides, the ebb tides
super sucked by the sun,

expose tasty bits usually hidden
from shorebirds, expose clam beds
and old wreckage. High high-tides,
the flood tides pushed by the sun

and winter storms, shove debris
into the beach grass, send shorebirds
to the hedgerows and mudness
on up-valley farms, to the airport runway.

Tide rhythms serve the shorebirds,
but don't belong to them.

Careless Turn

Under an autumn moon an ordinary bird,
one drab in a vast flock,
turns left when the flock turns right,
goes east when the other drabs go south,

one ordinary strays from primal custom.
The ordinary passes water and ridges
to a cluster of lights at the ocean’s edge,
follows a wire fence to a pond,

concrete lined with curious grasses,
where his face isn’t known, to connect
with the local drabs, to feed
on unusual worms and spiders,

to find a place to rest. The drab watches
moonrise through the wire fence,
recalls a careless turn to the left,
recalls a flock of primal drabs.

Hitching a Ride

for Poetry Thursday

I'm not afraid of love
but I know when
to get out of the way.

The backup lights go on
and I step aside,
tires squeal and silken curves

race down the street.
I've seen the back end
of that car before.

Dust clears and the road
is still there, I think on
tire marks, and see headlights

coming around the corner.
I hang out my thumb,
maybe I can hitch a ride.

Blog Ku

the sound of
clicking mouse –
permalink

~

will you
be mine –
hitching post

~

hear behind
the blog face
a troubled spirit

~

have boat
need truck –
trading post

~

blogger writes
to self –
no comment

~

pensive post –
the smell of
cold coffee

~

inactive blog –
the sound of
missing colleague

Soggy

Weather here comes from the west,
bad weather swirls up from the south,
soggy cloud bands dribble and drool
down the window, press down.

Cold sneaks in from the north,
waits to pilfer the soggy,
dumps on the street, a reminder
that all of yesterday is still here.

Fulls and Empties

for Sunday Scribblings

When Sue comes over she counts the empties,
and glares at me with eyebrows all out of kilter,
Kathleen counts the fulls and glances with a wicked
grin, I count the days without bother or pesterence
when I take the fulls and turn them into empties.

Blackberries

A breeze strikes wrinkles
on John’s River.
The dike is warm in the sun
and blackberries are ripe.

An autumn moon rises
above the path to my hut,
I walk through trees
to visit a headstone.

Dancing Naked in the Desert

for Poetry Thursday

Miles onto a playa the truck drifts
to a stop. I step into a mattress
of heat and pull off my boots,
feet cool for the instant they dry.

The crust on the dried mud is warm,
and crumbles into powder.
I take off my pants and passing heat
tickles leg hairs, the shirt drops

and hot wipes my back.
Free of clothes I stretch
in the alkali-dust scented air.
Hot wind hums a song

as old as rock, and twirls me
like a restless dust devil.

Water Ku

for one deep breath

a beach surrounds
the ocean
and the fog

~

a stream trickles
down the mountain
and never returns

~

the puddle reflects
a thirsty dog

~

at the lake
a kingfisher
goes in and out

~

on the water
moonlight waits
for pond hockey

Autumn Days

Walls of mist crowd in from the ocean,
bring the outer edge to my garden gate,
fog lowers the sky dome, lowers the light,
plum branches hang down.

Mountain Bear

In a high meadow
encircled by snow fields
clinging to granite walls
that frame the sky
and conceal the horizon,

the snow melt trickles
and joins other trickles
in a meandering stream
challenging the trail.

Mountain spruce hang on boulders
balanced against boulders
above a slope rich with sunlight
where snow flowers cascade
and attract flies to the pallet
of a troubled bear.

I walk along the meander
listening to the spruce hanging
and watch clouds smelling of snow
crawl over the granite walls

and chuck their weight,
launching mayhem
of busted trees and boulders
across the trail,
churning snow flowers
in a high meadow.

Graveyard Dust

Fence posts are broken off at the ground,
field-wire snarls fret the brush,
seven oxen occupy the field.
Black-eyed Susans look up

from cool dirt, tall grass
is eaten, or trampled,
large heads sway side-to-side.
Dark clouds build on the eastern plain,

even the air is edgy and taut,
a quail, a snipe, a spark erupts in the air,
large heads thump across the creek,
surge to the trees and into

a graveyard, tipping stones,
and troubling yellow dust.
Side-to-side large heads sway.
Things are going to get better

later tonight, or in the morning,
so I’ll just wait around.

Murder Chasing Death

for Poetry Thursday

East of Ruby Ridge, under a mattress
of dreary, a common raven dives
on a turkey vulture, black on black,
murder chasing death. Death twists

and turns, and murder tracks each move
like a jealous lover. East of Ruby
Ridge, murder and death, eye to eye,
the vulture turns into an updraft,

the raven lands on a fence rail,
murder gets satisfaction, death
gets the remains. East of Ruby Ridge
coyote watches murder chasing death.

Bird Ku

flutter crosses
a dirt road
shadow to shadow

~

loon dives –
water calms
for too long

~

little gray bird
take a message
to my home

~

bird song
in forest shadows
why look?

~

fishing boat returns
cormorant on piling
dries wings

Lakeview

Two old flowers stuffed in at Jerry’s,
faded tokens of spring’s terse dawn,
reminders of fragrant blossoms
popping through warming ground.
Two old flowers still attracting bugs.

Lajitas

for Poetry Thursday

In a dusty little border town
on the Rio Grande windblown
plastic bags are the state bird,
a guy with a rowboat is the cross-border

ferry hauling adobe and straw
hats back and forth between the ancient
and ersatz, and when they've had their fill
of lizards and ticks they caravan north

and south, anyplace but here,
back-filled with old rock,
it's not pretty but it's ours,
there's beer at the store and the greasewood

burns hot, and the young girls swimming
the river will leave old soon enough.

Little Fleas

Bitter coastal wind sneaks through clothes
and robs the warm next to my skin,
hard snow flicks off my face
and joins a drift of flicks on the path,
a glare of ice on frozen ground
benumbs my shoes,
metal railings suck heat
through fingertips until they burn,
and frost in my hut gets thicker each day.

Not many fleas next spring,
if I survive the darkness.

Light Ku

for one deep breath

shadow and light –
the way they
need the other

~

light splinters
on the floor
and the cat

~

a shadow crawls
through the grass

~

water song
lights the shadow
within

~

morning light
slips in
under the fog

~

hawk shadow
stirs up
a shorebird cloud

~

at night's end
the shadows sleep
in quiet places