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.
Tic tic
Says the clock
As it counts off your day
“Where
have you been?” He says,
“Happy has passed away…”
Dirty work
This garden farm
On any good day, not much harm
‘Cept for
The mice
Who’ve come to barn
But today
You know —
Was different too
It was
The day…
That Happy died—
Divinations
Of an un-
Kind Spirit
Isolation
When you
Get perspective
From above
And can see
Yourself
On the astral
Plane. Comp-
rehension be-
gins again
When you
Return to
What is
Real and
Whole to
You. It’s
Harder than
It sounds!
These heavy feet
Burdened by ghosts
Of my grandfathers
Reminding history
Like wispy shackles
Dragging stowaways
On my ankles
Through my forest trek.
As walking in
Their steps of old
Ice cold conditions
Better gear for me
But me and my
Cold feet must carry
The miles of quiet.
My youngest son
Reminds me that
The 10 miles I
Journeyed were but
One day of 10
Miles for months
For the souls
Who took upon
The Oregon Trail.
I’ll keep my Coffee
Hot and my
Thoughts pastoral
And I will sleep
On my memory-foam
Mattress!
Fushia on pale blue-green
Umbra to sage, or better yet
— cactus-colored…
The green of the desert floor
Giving way to disease and decay.
A brilliant burning out with one
valiant effort
The bright colors of its
luscious burgundy flower’s
fruit flaring away
like a New Mexico sunset.
Is there a place
In your mind
Where you can run?
A happy place
Of belonging
— the sound of a song
It’s warm here
This perfect moment
I can hear it carry
My heart
Into a nostalgia
A moment of sharing
Yet when I’m here
Its presence leaves
My soul longing
Melancholy surrender
To the past
Give way to New Dawning’s
The music keeps
Me
Turn the page!
A place is just a place
Until it is your home
And when you are leaving
All your memories come along
But a place is just a place
When its people are not near
And in this place your place is missed
By those who hold you dear
But a place still holds your place
When you are far from here
It waits to welcome back
Sojourners who can hear
The calling of that place
And those who keep it warm
With memories of communion
Who await with open arms
Southernly winter Sun
Rises slow, casting
Angular shadows sideways
To the north
Cold morning fires burn
A smoky film releasing
Over the city, creeping
Down the valley
As the day progresses
Mountain’s depth revealing
Ridges and crevaces opening
To the warmth
Cold slice of Watermelon
1.
Silent. Snow
On the ground.
No noise.
Not wind.
Not Bird.
Only the
Occasional
Dropping of water
From the trees.
“Da-lop”
Large, heavy
Beads hitting
Deep beds
Of white.
Then suddenly
“Kur-plasch!”
A whole
Snowball.
Cold radiating
From the
Blinding ground
Steaming
From mid-day sun
Casting
Saw blade shadows
From cactus fronds
On the blank canvas.
To Ascend
To summit
To take to
The high ground
No shelter here
Only vigilance
Every footfall
An icy opportunity
For mass and gravity
To take swing
And change
Your orbit to
Down
“Watch your step”
2.
Silent!
Mountainside
No wind
Only the
Ringing,
Singing
In my ears
And the heavy
Drumbeat
Of my
Overextended
Heart
Palpitating
Out of my
Chest as
I stop
And breathe.
I listen
And hear
Nothing!
The forest
Still, until
The brief
Drop of water
That “blips”
And returns
To the white
Cold canvas.