The breeze off Arrow lake
sways the curtains in my room,
robbing the ghosts of places to hide.
The fan blurs the ceiling where
peeled wallpaper casts vibrating
shadows, like insect wings
stuck to my leather.
The confused air stirs
this book on my knees and
my eyes flutter closed
to again see today’s road.
The fan circles my sleep as
the hot room strokes my sepia skin.
I am utterly still.
The ghosts will not let
those demons find me here
in the Leyland Hotel.
(Upper Arrow Lake: Kerry Oxford)
Posted in Action-adventure, Art, Bedtime, Consciousness, Dream, Gratitude, Harley Davdson, Life, memory, Motorcycles, Poem, Travel, Uncategorized, Vacation
Tagged Canada, ghosts, life, poetry, travel
Ha. Life O’Wryly has another new one. jrs
Okay. Today we’re pointing to https://lifeowryly.wordpress.com/
I’m beginning a series of pieces written for ancient mariners like me.
(painting inset: starszz.org)
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
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,
for not allowing despair.
Posted in Absolutes, family, Friendship, Gratitude, Home, Hope, Humans, Life, pals, Poem, Uncategorized, Universe, Wisdom, Writing
Tagged friendship, life, music, peace
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
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,
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 Muse, poetry, sagebrush, work, writing, Zarzyski
Talent don’t mean shit.
It’s what you do with it to
make the world better.
(graphics: CCO Creative Commons)
Posted in Art, Baby, family, Haiku, Humans, Uncategorized, Universe, Work, Writing
Tagged contribution, humanity, learning, talent, writing
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:
(salmon at Willamette Falls: Wikipedia; rug: Home Design Ideas)
Posted in American history, anger, Humans, Uncategorized, Wildlife
Tagged animals, ecology, environment, humanity, ignorance, poetry, salmon
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 humility, learning, Paul Zarzyski, poetry, Richard Hugo, William Stafford, work, writing
robs me of my observance,
but sharpens my pen.
I slice my ego
into quivering hunks of
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 gift, imagination, poetry, work, writing
Rain, rain, come and stay;
all the green loves every day.
Rain, rain, time to play.