The east wind blows cold,
ruffling the hair where it
lays against my ears.
It smells of fir, river, and traffic.
My urban life is a friend
with whom I often argue.
I always question my place in it.
Answers are mostly ambiguous and
invariably lead to more questions.
My embrace of it always
carries the undercurrents of desire.
(Portland, OR: Forest Park–Wikipedia.org; St. John’s Bridge–ninamontenegro.com)
Getting a flow started
is not without consequences.
You must overcome gravity
even as you rely upon it.
Avoiding a mouthful of what
you cannot swallow is key.
(top: hikearizona.com; bottom: secretsofthefed.com)
Rain taps on my window,
but I don’t seem to hear.
I’m buried in myself again
wondering about this year.
It’s gone so fast,
it’s almost past,
and coming to an end.
The wind outside is fitful;
the wind chime does its thing.
The dog yawns and wants a walk,
my heart puts on a wing.
I choose a smile,
we’ll go two miles
completely off the clock.
The rush of time forgets us
and fades away the rain.
Up Broadleaf hill my ragged mind
eases with the gain.
We make the crest
to skate the rest
and leave the world behind.
Buttered toast sucks up the
beef blood on the cutting board
to happy noises, anticipating
the almost guilty pleasure
of savoring the blooded bread.
The children ready the tree
for Christmas with strings
of lights and beads.
A lifetime of ornaments
and a seashell star find
their places as they do each year.
The wits are quick with adult expertise and
fly about the room on decades of wings
as we laugh and revel in home.
Bantering with my own blood warms my bread.
Your eyes are closed
as mine are open.
Your smooth unblemished lids
hold secrets no one can know.
When I blink you see me
standing behind you in
that upstairs bedroom as
we watch the sheep below
clustered for shearing.
They are gone now and
the big shed fades,
grey on the ground.
Your lids are still smooth
and I am still behind you.
(top: shutterstock.com; lower: victorianweb.org)
My hand moves.
A thread tugs my frontal lobes.
At the other end,
my ancient brain blazes a light
like a Christmas star
across those hills barely seen.
Maybe the thread spans a river,
vast and microscopic at the same time,
forever and now.
The nature of things
gifts me with joy,
but clogs me with arrogance
so that I am in constant flux,
a cartoon on each shoulder,
each negotiating a place to go.
Gravity will force a flow
that drains the flood plain and
lets my hand move.
(pen: en.wikipedia.org; dog: writetodone.com)
My concentrating face is a frown.
This has always been so.
When I am deep in contemplation
people who don’t know me assume
that I am incalculably sad;
they worry over my spirit,
not seeing how my deep engagement
has rendered me inwardly content.
Such is irony.
I think they would more appreciate
a vacant little smile.
(See what I mean? I’m perfectly content.)
Sound arrives first;
ears can see over dunes.
Light will bounce too, but
shapes may morph into something else.
Water will always stretch
as far as you can see.
Waves will curl and crash,
reassuring your heart.
Salt smells of life and
marks the water as your own blood.
Wind awakens
all that you know.
(top: travelportland.com; sunset: joelmartinson.com)
(Note: this poem is from a writing workshop I took with Kim Stafford: “Daily Writing in the Tradition of William Stafford.” It borrows the form of William Stafford’s poem “Growing Up.”–jrs)
I travel in concentric circles,
it’s just how I’m wired—
sometimes going forward makes me dizzy.
I may not get there with everyone else,
but I will get there, if only to move on.
(top: fineartamerica.com; bottom: chancescroggins.com)
The wall crawls with stuff
I don’t want to recognize.
Looking obliquely, the movement
reveals insects, each one connected
to some choking childhood terror.
I watch them through the sheetrock.
Thousands of antennae, millions of legs,
with an occasional slither.
As soon as identity is imminent
I crash through the door to the yard,
leaving house structure behind.
Outside, bugs offer sympathy.
(top: bit.ly; bottom: flickrhivemind.net)
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Narble Furt Lives 