Six Haiku About The Child Downstairs

an elk is dying
in the back yard –
or he's calling his mother

after a bath
he smells like kelp
rotting on the beach

soft wrinkle-free
skin wraps around
the mouth of hell

sticky fingers –
like a post-it note
on my shirt

I help his mother
find a new apartment

the family line
is a string
of snot

Sunset

Sunset creeps over an eastern ridge
like a spineless dawn and soars
over to a Thomas Hill landscape,
crashes on the western horizon
and sizzles into the foggy ocean.

Smoker

My old dog Smoker is so dumb
he doesn't know he's dumb. He hurries
along with his nose to the ground but the scent
of a mouse interests him as much as a horse.

Smoker runs along behind
barn swallows in the business of reducing
the mosquito population, the mosquito
killers don't mind because he's not

all that fast, and Smoker kicks up
swarms of insects. Smoker's a politician
elected to high office, he's always glad
to see me, and I keep feeding

and scratching his back.
Smoker's just another politician.

No Lead Is Safe

The interesting hockey team wins some,
loses some, the coach is tense, ticket holders
are uncertain which team takes the ice,
no lead is safe. The appealing lover is hot

on Monday, cold on Tuesday, the air tingles
Wednesday night. Politicking is different,
it's not hockey, it's not love, uncertainty
doesn't tingle a vote, on election night

a politician sits alone at the tavern
and stares a stump speech into the beer.

NEC Ku (5)

(Not Elsewhere Classified)

salmon fry
leave gravel shallows
for ocean depth

~

a dirt road wanders
into the next valley
and doesn't return

~

a canyon frog
lives on bad water
learns its echo

~

desert water
is a concern
thick or thin

~

a red cedar
and a tree frog
kreck-ek, kreck-ek

~

a rising sun stabs
the desert sky

~

kingfisher rattles
a blue bolt

Muddy Tracks

Dirt tracks in but it doesn't track out.
The dog tracks mud into the kitchen,
sloppy black stinking glop sticks
like a dirty political campaign.

We still love the old dog,
and he'll get our support,
but now we check his feet
when he comes through the door.

A Sandy Spot

The coastal sun is a Chardonnay fog
drifting west through the monument trees,
dabbing the mushroom mist, freshing
a sandy spot on the beach.

The coastal sun is a candy-ass imitation
of the firewater that wipes down
the desert sky, the white lightening sting
on a parched throat, the dense heat

on the front of a face, the rattlesnake
that falls in love with my shadow
and gets irritated when I walk
down the irrigation ditch to a sandy spot

where I take off my boots
and walk in hip-deep.

Belly Buttons

Old Mike is not inspired by ancient books
of myth that glorify dark thinking,
he finds no comfort meeting in buildings
topped with phallic symbols, monuments

to wealthy power. Old Mike desires
the tranquil smile on light-minds
that find solace in faith, infantile
ceremony, entrusting their futures

to swindlers long dead. In a final try
to discover pious comfort he enters
the Sistine Chapel to see the cherubs,
the ceiling angels, to view God

giving Adam a touch of life. Then annoyance
pervades the solace in his heart,
they both have belly buttons.

Autumn Storm

Under the blue-black a rain tail
hangs close to the canyon rim,
the tail brushes over the edge

and fills down-canyon potholes.
The potholes reflect fading sun
like a swarm of moons

in rim-rock orbits. The blue-black
flickers and grumbles, and thunkering hail
roams through the long night.

On The Edge

The morning sun pushes against shadows
in Blue Creek, from the edge of the woods,
bridging dark and light, a falcon darts

across the meadow and sets talons.
A black-water path bends among cypress knees
at the edge of Billy's Pond,

spanning wet and dry, an alligator.
A night snake balances
on the handrail between yin and yang.

Peanuts

I put peanuts out
for the old jay,
sometimes the squirrel
gets them first, sometimes

the crow, but I still
put peanuts out
for the old jay,
he looks so happy

when he flies off
with one in his beak.

Sylvia Creek Trail

Shoreline cottonwoods
hold winter fog
in their crowns,

cedar boughs
hang in rain
soft as snow.