Face

as posted on New Verse News

I dread a different face as naturally as a sandpiper
dreads a falcon, and the alert sandpipers
survive to hatch chicks with the same falcon dread.
I'm an old white guy, my picture

is on the money, there's a lot of us on the TV.
When I see another guy rambling
down the street I look in their face for clues.
I can tell if they are in the old-white-guy tribe

as easily as a ruddy duck can look
across the pond and tell a canvasback
from a ring-neck. A prettied-up politician
struts under banners in a campaign tent,

they battle to be leader of the old-white-guy
parade, the one migrating into the dim glow
coming from the kitchen window. The prettied-up
face has a different fit and finish,

but I don't see a ring-neck and I don't see a falcon,
prettied-up must be a part of my tribe
from the other side of the tent.

Angel Dreams

They come in the moonlight, the dark angels,
reminding me of failures and regrets,
and small black things fly
in and out. The grim reaper

is there in the night, suggesting it's time
to write down the stories behind the heirlooms
and pass them on, the clock is running down.
People who seem to know me

spread shame and despair, the harm
will not be repaired. I can't turn
away in the dark, I can only wait
for morning, and wonder if they'll come back.

They used to come in the night, but now
they come in the day.

Old Jeep

The bushings creak
on my old jeep,

the joints
are wearing out,

I know
how he feels.

Peanuts and Politics

Out in the tree a scrub jay squawks,
there's no response so he flies down
to the deck, sorts through the peanuts,
picks one, drops it for a better one,

I can't tell if he goes for weight, or smell,
or color, he swaps his pick again
then flies back to the tree with his booty.
Inside I sort through the candidates,

pick one, drop them for a better one,
try to find one with weight, or vision,
or a good thinker. A squawk and the jay is back
to pick a peanut from the former rejects,

candidates drop out and I change my pick too,
soon enough for us only one choice remains.
In peanuts and politics the first pick is the best,
but we end up with the last one left.

Juniper

Juniper’s twisting branches,
like dry creek beds
reaching for headwaters.
Wind carries leaky cloud buckets

dribbling rain tails,
clouds bang together,
sparks skip, water spills
on dusty Juniper.

Low Clouds

Looking towards the sun settling
on a middle kingdom
I think a thousand miles away,
music splashed islands,
plum blossoms casting
a red and white swarm.

Marbled waves stare back,
low clouds heavy with intent
waiting for a change
from long days to long nights,
from warm rain to cold,
waiting for a break in traffic.

Uncivil chinook snarls over the bar
casting breakers to spray,
pushing tide through beach grass.
Malevolent squall plucking wires,
plucking limbs from trees,
tossing signs into crumpled receipts.

Splattering rain surges up valley,
recharging meanders and trickles
that swarm back to the harbor,
push back across the bar,
wait to be picked up
by the next uncivil wave.

Looking from the marbled swarm
I think a thousand miles away.

Hog Springs

for Totally Optional Prompts

Cottonwood sweet hangs over
the trickling springs, the sun drops
behind a ridge, shadows climb
the trees until the leaders blink off.

It's twilight, my mind is clear wind,
I can't think of anything
no matter how I try, I wait
for a simple meaning to life,

like a cat waiting for the door
to open. A row of old fence posts
leans north, into the wind.
A broken flower on the path

is the misplaced link
between the branch and the seed.
Deeds not recorded
can not be remembered and celebrated,

every day she fails
to keep her promise.

Kitchen Spider

A midnight-red spider
takes hesitant steps
across my kitchen floor,

in ponderous methodic motion
twiggy legs step stepping.
The cautious tracker ventures

across an open stage,
looks for the shadowed side,
for dark seams, the dim eyed hunter

taps air, checks low vision
with eight twiggy canes. A tremor,
an air shiver folds the twigs

into midnight-red debris,
waits until he can't remember,
waits longer than I can.

Kitchen Chopper

Nancy comes in the room loud
like a cheep television commercial
selling fear, don't climb dangerous ladders,
never clean those messy gutters again,

do what I say and be safe.
Protect your family, don't lose your good name,
things I don't want to hear
dominate my thinker and there's no mute

button, flickering light bounces
off the walls and there's no off
switch. Out of the kitchen comes
the chopper-matic, I slice and dice

the fear mongering until the room
is silent, except for the computer hum.

No Beginning

for Totally Optional Prompts

A creative thought has no beginning, it rises
out of soil and glides around in the grass
until it finds a resting geezer and falls
into his thinker. Creatives fall from clouds

like snowflakes and pile up on a hat, melt
into a sleeve. Creatives are a dream's offspring,
in the dark they escape in prison clothes,
tracking them is tough and they often get away.

They're in the ocean-dust dripping from cedars,
in a wren's trickling song, and sea lion slobber.
I wrongly think a creative begins
when I give it a name, when I wrap it

in words and store it in a jug,
but creative beginnings are like life.
I'm the current address, a migrant's shack,
a home for creatives to grow cliche,

then burrow back into the soil,
or the clouds, to begin again as myth.

Free of Faith

Bill has faith in his old Jeep and John loves his old Ford,
they scrutinize motor upkeep and mileage 'til I'm bored.

Uncle Bill can't comprehend I'd rather be walking,
Normal John likes to listen to his own pointless talking.

I need a civil way to tell this pair of religious fanatics
to take their stinking trucks to hell and cut the melodramatics.

They're more than welcome to worship motorized paradises,
just leave me a hiking trail for my own devilish devices.

Between Dusk and Dawn

for Totally Optional Prompts

The sun never sees a slow dawn
sneak over a desert ridge,
the orange eye stab a hole
in the sky dome and suck out the stars,

never sees a gathering dusk
sizzle into the ocean
behind a bank of purple clouds,
the sun never feels the chill when a snowflake drops

out of a December storm and lands on its neck.
The sun watches the planets whirl
around its head like a cluster of flies,
the blue one with a brown stain,

farther out the rust-red one,
then the yellow one in a cup holder.
Between dusk and dawn I watch shadows
wrap around, the jade moon and the planets,

the rust-red one, then the yellow one
in a cup holder. In the dark
an orange eye sneaks over a ridge,
drops in a storm and stabs a neck,

stars sizzle in purple clouds.