Obscure Photograph

for 3 Word Wednesday

At the Tokeland Hotel
an obscure photograph
of a forgotten winter storm

hangs over the silent piano.
The storm is forgotten
but the waitress remembers

the fishing boats
that didn't return,
and the silent breakfast.

Running of the Bards

for Poetry Thursday

In the last days before publication,
bona fide bards run their poems
down the street before cheering
crowds of reverent readers. Daredevil

poets run in front for a moment
of glory, always a few daredevils
are injured, and some gravely. The bona fide
are taunted to a frenzy by guidelines,

they submit to the publisher where most
are stabbed in the heart by the editor.
The reverent celebrate with fireworks
and parades. A small group

of sensitive writers protest
the inhumanity.

Tiny Ku

for one deep breath

in beach grass
a feather curl
lost its bird

~

the golden sunrise
spills down
a spider web

~

in the grass
a dew drop
holds a star

~

lightening flickers
out and in
the garter snake

~

a red cedar
looks up to the sky
ignores a wren's trill

Autumn Snow

Low ridges are hidden behind
gray clouds with an earthy smell.
Heavy flakes drop straight down
into wet clay, wait for a nighttime chill.
Even small birds share my disquiet.

Gulls on the Plow

for Sunday Scribblings

Doug looks across a brown field
where a couple dozen gulls sit
on the plow waiting for it to turn
grubs and worms, the field looks dryer

than before, life is sucked out
of the soil, sucked out
of the few head of cattle left,
out of what's left of a family.

Doug has black vulture dreams
where he can't keep up,
can't get out of the way,
where he wakes with foul despair.

In the kitchen he watches the sun
stab another bare knuckle sky.
Doug can't hurry bad luck,
he has to wait it out. Doug starts

the tractor and drives out
to hitch up the gulls.

Corvid

(Crows, Jays, and Magpies)

Hey, hey, hey,
ya got a problem with that?
Hey, where’s the food?
Hey, hey, hey,
was somebody here?
Hey, get lost.
Hey, hey, hey,
what’s going on?
Hey, here I am.
Hey, I’ll stay if I want,
hey, hey, hey.

Waiting for the Tide

for 3 Word Wednesday

From across a mudflat, a plover's whistle
pulls open a thought zipper, in the corridors
of my thinker I find a lingering memory:
on a fog-gray morning warmth leaves
with the subtlety of a garbage truck.

A memory within a memory pulls
through my chest like a knotted rope,
like puddles on the mudflat I find
low places to wait for next tide,
and the girl in the moon.

Splashing Ku

an old poet
hears a frog
splashing

~

an old frog
splashes
a poet

~

an old pond –
the sound
of a poet splashing

~

an old pond
waits for splashing
moonlight

~

an old bucket –
a frog jumps in
a frog jumps out

~

an old frog –
the sound
of poetic croaks

~

poets and ponds
and a splash
of the frog in the moon

Birding

Shadows flit to a tree’s backside,
flitting yellow to a branch, yellows flit
across the path. What was that?
A long series of high twinkling trills

from the dark corners of underbrush.
Something is soaring, just over the ridge.
On the trunk it’s dark, black with white
marks, red on the head, white line

on its face, like a woodpecker,
get out the book.
In the willows a liquid chirp,
like drips from a water spout.

Something moving in the grass,
that kraaa sounds like a tern,
Caspian Tern,
something yellow in the cattails,

something calling harsh, like a corvid,
something, what was that?
On the water something just went down,
big enough for a loon,

toward the pilings.
What was that? Did you hear that?
I think it was low.
Cinnamon Teal in the weeds, left of the Heron,

Waxwing in the tree, two of them, and a Goldfinch.
Left of the path, a flycatcher hawking for insects,
swallow wheeling to the right,
vest on the flycatcher,

rolling and rising flutelike notes,
yellows flit across the path,

what was that?

Scissor-tailed Flycatcher

Watch for a flying bug,
a target riding the wind,
gauge the speed and bearing,
converge like a wide receiver tracking

a Hail Mary pass, a net minder trapping
a slap shot, a shortstop snagging a line drive
and swallowing the ball in a gaping glove,
a fishmonger catching a flying salmon.

Think a victory lap and get back
in the crease, on the branch,
to the line of scrimmage,
and watch for a flying bug, a target.

Wagon

A wagon needs big wheels
to travel rough ground.
Wheels that keep us away

from soil, above the brush,
flatten smallers in the dirt.
Old wheels that travel rough.

NEC Ku (3)

(not elsewhere classified)

mugwump
essay –
fence post

~

starry night
over new snow
trees crack

~

new year’s eve
sneaks up
again

~

petrified wood
new mold
for old rock

~

Lakeview sparrows
peck car grills
for roadkill

~

fog covers
the stark
winter garden

~

solitaire
in a battle of wits
I lose

To the Fly on My Sleeve

This otter-green shirt is built
rugged to protect miners from rock
shards, protect loggers from devils club,

protect birdwatchers from the biting,
stabbing insects that escape
bird-lunch, to protect image.

This otter-green is built strong
to outlast an I-didn't-think-
it-would-last-so-long job,

an I-didn't-think-it-was-that-far
hike, autumn weather, a relationship
that's going nowhere, memory.

This strong, rugged otter-green
is diminished by a paltry beach-fly
hopping back and forth. Go away.

NEC Ku (1)

(Not Elsewhere Classified)

troubled mistress
drinks wine
with the moon

~

downwind
of the marsh
flavored fog

~

tules shout water
moss says damp
desert listens

~

driftwood
low high-tide
stops short

~

sora calls
from cattail marsh
heron in field

~

seed head nods
on brown stem
bedtime

~

winter wren
sings in forest
on and on

The Wind Stops Blowing

for Sunday Scribblings

The growling fades, the water level
drops, the ground stops shaking,
dust clears from the iron sky.
Survivors reassure the other,

it could be worse. I lost a tractor
and three goats, I'm thankful to be alive,
put my name on a list,
have you seen my wife? The lady

at the folding table checks
for names on a list. I'm relieved
the kids are all safe, I only lost
the house, it can be replaced,

put three names on a list,
and the lady at the folding table
puts three names on a list.
They're the reassured, but not the woman

swept downstream, she has time
only to be afraid, firefighters
lost in obsidian smoke don't feel lucky,
and the jade corpse dug out

three days later isn't grateful
that the wind stops blowing
when the lady at the folding table
takes her name off a list.

Rockiness

for Ringing of the Bards

Let's walk a Point Defiance trail
and I'll propose that a rock's a tree.
We'll consider the layered connections
between the branches and the roots,

we'll talk to birds that perch
on trees, birds that perch on rocks
and birds that perch in shadows,
we'll compare leaves to feathers,

rockery to barkery, we'll trace back
to a rock's ancestral home.
At the second bench we'll sit
under a red cedar with our feet

propped on a granite boulder and listen
to a swainson thrush's rambling talk
until we know the nature of treeliness,
and the nature of rockiness,

and then I'll propose
that a rock is god.

Pretend

for Ringing of the Bards

The black cat pretends the night spirits
are for his entertainment. Peregrine pretends
that shorebird clouds are divine provisions
bestowed by a mystical being that resembles

an ancient peregrine. Octopus pretends
his adapting design is inspired creation.
At my final hermitage I pretend
faith in primitive myth for a hot meal

and a bed away from weather.
What we believe is that we've got
to make do with what we have,
even when it's fantasy.

In the supernatural realm the spirits
play with the black cat and pretend
the party will never end.

The Cat

The cat doesn't need much door to get in,
he slips by when I go out
to the morning's slant light.

I walk the road down to a thin layer
of ground fog draped over Foster Meadow.
A bird lands in the grass, I don't know

the voice so I move up, the bird moves back,
I move up again and he moves back,
we play this inchworm dance until he wearies

and flies off to the far hedgerow,
and finds a perch past a barbwire fence.
I take the Sand River trail,

a dark-hair woman is already on the path,
she says, "My name is Kate." We crunch the gravel,
listen to bullfrogs and a wren,

I talk about computers and Thai food,
she talks about metaphysics and soccer.
The trail splits and she follows the river

downstream, I turn back to my hut,
I go in and the cat slips out,
he doesn't need much door.

Kettle Ku

coastal wakeup
one old mug
two old bags

~

no bump
in the cup
barren grounds

~

full in the cup
inspiring lift
hot T

~

kettle sings
cup breathes
China fragrance

~

exotic clime
cheap labor
steep in cup

Evening Ku

for one deep breath

somewhere between
Yin and Yang
is twilight

~

evening turns the city
to a river of stars

~

the sun sets
in a golden flurry
the river keeps flowing

~

evening dims the light
and wakes the big eyes

~

evening clouds
bring snow –
colors turn cold

~

twilight reveals a door
beyond the human realm

~

I'm exhausted
my head hurts
where's the evening

White Gnats

White Gnats tumble to ground,
their spent bodies swirl and drift,
filling cracks and crevices
under a golden moon.

Their essence disperses with dawn
as Wren skips from rock to rock,
and Crow explores
the canyon wall.

Black Smoke

Speechers enwrapped in ribbons and banners,
gnash teeth, beat drums, and dance through trees,
resanctifying ancient memorials and statues
on humid summer days with buzzing mosquitoes.

Black smoke bending through trees,
a guy with a frog in his pocket,
new signs marking a crumbling road
on cold winter days, in quiet obscurity.

Night feeders in moonlit gardens
watch for changes, for low hanging fruit,
and low hanging branches,
in quiet obscurity.

The Sidewalk Curves

In Fleet Park the sidewalk curves
around the old tree where talkers
and traders meet like their fathers'
fathers did a hundred years ago.

They sit back on park benches
properly arranged for an oil on canvas,
traders agree to hot deals, the talkers
disagree on everything else.

The heat fades with the sunlight,
the talkers and traders make way
for the socializers, the 6-packers,
the warm friends and torrid lovers

who slow dance over the roots,
swing on branches, trace names
in the bark, who sit back
on park benches properly arranged

for a talk in the dark. The old tree
comes down and it's cut to firewood,
it'll heat the stove for a winter,
and the sidewalk curves around.