These are poems that aim at reflecting something uniquely American in experience. Be it a place. Or a person or an experience. It had to happen somewhere to become something.
So much morning
To this day
A long slow sunrise
On the plains
The hawks and owls
And songbirds sing
The soil moist
The leaves turning
Awakening in me
My Childhood’s Past
A sense of spirit
The smell of cut grass
There’s something about
These fruited plains
A wildlife spirit
I once thought mundane
But a feeling of home
With open arms
Each time I return
I become reborn
Comanche – So the say
“Kohmats” more particularly
Best to make friends
Or be of great use
Otherwise, against, you’ll suffer abuse
Death, torture and rape
No greater friend than
The new minted Mustang
Emblazoned brand
Of the great plains band
Who had many foes
But knows no competition —
Save to better
Fort soldiers in gambling
Games of attrition
Yet, bent around
Their horses necks
They were unrivaled at
who they could best
with brutal speed
and unyielding will
few enemies escaped
their thirst to kill
and take the scalp
children and mounts
and of your women
have their fill…
I sat in a quiet place
Deep in the woods
Very far away
From humans and their
Vibrating city’s sounds
The constant swish of
Cars driving down her streets.
But more than that, the
Prattle and chat of voices gone
There were no songs
Of city birds, fattened and sure
That water and the next meal would come.
No, not the hum of crickets
Not the buzz of flies and mosquitoes
No, nothing to break the sounds
Of my own thinking.
So, when a sound is made
A woodpecker, hawk
or Owl’s tirade, does
Tear the silence into full awareness—
Your mind plays tricks and
Fills the silence with
Sounds of worry, fear and dread.
For the next sound that plays
Will surely be more deadly
Than a bird fetching its morning meal.
Into the woods
The end of summer
Into cold morning
A gleeful glimmer
of a night without incident…
Nothing to prevent
Our awakening
of senses, primordial
Long forgotten, guttural
need for fire and food.
A great horned owl
awakens me from my
darkened state
with the call to its mate
to breakfast.
Brings my morning thoughts around
to the food we hauled up
off the ground
into a tree to ward
off bears out hungry.
A long winding walk, heavy
packs but light thoughts
down to the river’s edge we made.
With campfire rings and
the desire to sing
we make tales of what
adventure bring.
Longitudinal Awareness
Not really a thing —
Not spatial, more sensory
The open capillary of mental exercise
A receptor that activates once in the wild
A slower foot, a surer step
Knowing that it is too quiet
While noting every sound.
The calls of the creatures
No room for mistakes, so
you lay awake wondering if it
be predator or varmint
Alive
Open
Receiving
Consciousness
Ready for the surprises
Except for your own
Mental illness
Migratory Birds
Dying by the 1000s
Warblers
Western Wood Pewee
Fly Catchers
Bluebirds
Blackbirds
Sparrows
—sorrow
Stumbling dumbly
Into the streets
Hit by cars
Falling
Out of
Trees 🌳
Starved
Of nutty energy
Not enough fuel to complete
A journey taken too soon…
For fires 🔥 raged
And burned their homes
Smoke fills the air
And burns their lungs
Away away away away
Into the dry desert sun
Only to keel over
Mid-way through their run
It’s not the apocalypse
Yet, one might blame…the devil
Climate change with dead bird denial!
O, happy kill
And with pure will
The tiny Widow
Hauls whole snails
Down below
To feed her sacks
Of tiny brats
By the hundreds
They will flow
Into my dreams
Reminding me though
There are things
I do not like!
Like counting spiders
Through the night
Who creep and sneak
And crawl to fright me
Out of my slumber cold.
Though I’m not their prey
A snack they may
Make from me
In the morning light.
(But, truly they were never there…
Just in my dreams and
Awakened stares
Taking from me my
Restful delights.)
*Alacrity – Not a common word for most. I stole it from William Carlos Williams. “Brisk and cheerful readiness.”
Her curves cut through him
She is the center of his life
All roads in his city
End upon her shores; Her Mountains
–Earthquakes, Time and her origins–
Embrace him Day and Night
Wind and heat; parch and monsoon
She drinks from the sky
to bring his thirst to an end
He lights Her nights and
bridges her spans
They form this imperfect circle
One man, called by many names
Beeʼeldííl Dahsinil; Arawageeki; Vakêêke;
Alo:ke:k’ya; Gołgéeki’yé — now AL-bə-kur-kee
One woman, loved by the people
mets’ichi chena, posoge, paslápaane
hañapakwa, Tó Baʼáadi, Female River, Great Waters, Rio Grande
Life’s hard enough
On a wintering Eagle
A war to fight for
Every meal
But when this girl
Gets determined
A brutish male makes
No successful appeal
Stands her frosty
Ground again and again
Until one talon slips in-
to the chest
Of her challenger…
Razor requisite
To back away
Assessing mortal
Potential of this
Violent affair
To our mother,
We must most humbly apologize
We have been bad children. You have provided for us all these good years.
And, we have torn up the
backyard, dug up or
Cut down all the trees;
Stripped out all the copper
Wiring in the house and
Took a crap on your dinner
Table. We’re sorry…hopefully
Our children will treat you better.
PS – Hey, I’m glad at least
One of us is recovering
From the Coronavirus.