Another Redirection

Ha. Life O’Wryly has another new one.  jrs

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Okay. Today we’re pointing to

I’m beginning a series of pieces written for ancient mariners like me.

sacagawea pointing

(painting inset:

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Thank you for my companions:
this journal; this pen;
this heart full of my blood;
my blood in the hearts of others;
my heart in the hearts of others;
the quivering guitars;
the gift of music holding me fast;
this love of the world, this brutal
beautiful world,
where life and death hold
one another in enraptured embrace.
I am more than the sum of my companions.
That is my contribution.
My gift to the world is the part of me
where there are no words,
the part I attempt to describe each day,
when I thank my silent companion,
brave Disappointment,
for not allowing despair.



Posted in Absolutes, family, Friendship, Gratitude, Home, Hope, Humans, Life, pals, Poem, Uncategorized, Universe, Wisdom, Writing | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Visceral Musing

Here Poemy, here girl, here boy,
hweet, hwheet, wheet…
c’mon—atta girl, atta boy, c’mon.
Bronkbuster’s muse is a dominatrix—
demanding, abusive, beautiful,
alluring, cruel, and
dripping wet—smelling
of sea and sagebrush.
Mine is on cat’s feet,
shifting shapes and sometimes
howling at the moon—
her edge cuts my heart
with fear and hope
I bleed on the page.
She, too, smells of sea,
torrentially wet
with lust and intent, crying:
“Coming through, get out of the way. Do your job, Lens Boy!”

for Paul Zarzyski



(top: USDA Forest Service; bottom: Fine Art America: Craig Tuttle)

Posted in Art, Beach, eroticism, Home, Ocean, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments


Talent don’t mean shit.
It’s what you do with it to
make the world better.



(graphics: CCO Creative Commons)


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Under the Rug

Unbridled sadness sweeps
me under the rug
on the floor of oblivion,
where cringing and
standing tall are the same.

My oceans are vast,
my salmon are few,

swimming with me under this rug;
my heart is
a defiant afterthought.
Fear, anger, despair, hope:
indulgences all.


under the rug

(salmon at Willamette Falls: Wikipedia; rug: Home Design Ideas)

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Reading Admonition

Reading poems–
a bronkbuster, a recovered drunk,
a morning iconoclast;
all tell me:
write something with velocity,
not half fast.


(Paul Zarzyski: Gordon Stevens; Richard Hugo: Hugo House;  William Stafford: American Academy of Poets)

Posted in Absolutes, Bedtime, cowboy poetry, Drunkenness, Humans, humor, Narble Furt, Oregon, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Work, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Poem Comes

My impatience
robs me of my observance,
but sharpens my pen.
I slice my ego
into quivering hunks of
silvery fatback,
sputtering in the
skillet I heat with my heart.
Shame fits me too well.
I am only as good as
my efforts allow.
Some days I work hard.
Some days I don’t work at all.
Bless the days I work.
If a poem comes
I have received a gift
given at my birth.


Posted in Absolutes, Art, birth, Humans, Man, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Universe, Work | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Haiku: Rain, Rain

Rain, rain, come and stay;
all the green loves every day.
Rain, rain, time to play.

rain green


Posted in Beach, flowers, Gratitude, Haiku, Oregon, Poem, Uncategorized, Water | Tagged , , | 2 Comments

Dead of Night

Pulled out of Tonopah at half-past last
heading up ninety-five.
Rocks were glowing—sand was blowing,
saw absolutely nothing alive.
Realized then: what did I know,
is there anything real I see?
This highway runnin’ in the dead of night
is gonna be the death of me.

The desert held me in the cup of her hand;
I tried not to make a sound.
The stars were tipping, felt like I was tripping,
there was nobody else around.
Then I saw her by the side of the road;
how could that possibly be?
This highway runnin’ in the dead of night
is gonna be the death of me.

I don’t remember stopping—but there she was,
her shirt read “lost and found.”
That half-lipped smile gave be a buzz
while my heart dragged along the ground.
Her ice cold hand brushed along my cheek,
her eyes were the color of dawn.
I knew I’d die if I tried to speak,
I blinked and she was gone.

I gave it up and was the road
sliding under my wheels.
We just kept rolling—no way of knowing,
must just be one of those deals.
Knew for sure—what did I know?
There is nothing real I see.
This highway runnin’ in the dead of night
is gonna be the death of me.



(highway:; ghost:


Posted in Consciousness, Humans, Life, Lyrics, Night, Poem, Song, Uncategorized, Universe, Woman | Tagged , , , , | 7 Comments