Seeking fresh protein,
a small fuzzy morning bird
walks up a tree trunk.
(top: lynxed.com; bottom: vickiehenderson.blogspot.com)
So, what do you do when
the bastards of pain
camp on your front porch?
Do you politely ask them to leave?
Or do you wade into
them with rage and a machete?
Usually, with pain—physical, emotional,
whatever—the bastards like to watch.
Maybe if they can’t see you hurting
they’ll break camp and go find another porch.
Maybe it’s best to stare straight ahead,
even smile a small knowing smile,
and fool them into thinking that you
don’t feel a thing out of the ordinary.
Go ahead, wash your front windows
and let them get a good look.
(from shutterstock.com)
Seldom does it do any good
to read a poem as you
fall asleep. The page
flashes two, three times
and suddenly you know
there is no going on.
Surrender is sweet.
Sometimes, the unread poem
gets trapped and the part
of you that doesn’t sleep
chews it like a happy bone.
Perhaps you awaken early
and the unread poem has
etched something into the
stone of your brain where
the day’s work begins.
(bluebird: 10000birds.com; swallow-tailed kite: raptorresearchfoundation.org)
(Note: It’s 93 here, so I’ve been thinking of snow. We Oregonians are heat wimps.–jrs)
Snow time:
gift wrap around all
I can see from my
perch by the
Christmas morning fire.
Small tracks
split the front yard,
seeking sleigh sign.
(from epictomato.com)
Waiting for coals;
the charcoal is still just warm.
Oh, there is intense heat
at the bottom of the stack,
but it needs to spread throughout
and proffer a red and white glow
that hollers “Caution!”
(Note: never work a grill barefoot.)
Dense protein awaits its ultimate fate.
It is a timeless custom, this
cooking of meat.
My ancestors, not so long ago
did not view this as recreation,
it was simply the way of it.
Today, men view grilling as a sacred right.
To the Old Ones it was women’s work.
We’ve come a long way.
Nowadays “women’s work”
is anything a man can do.
Nowadays men gather firewood, too,
and roll out household garbage
and harvest grass to compost.
We even have bottles to mimic breastfeeding.
That high-pitched whine?
The Old Ones are spinning in their tombs.
Let ‘em spin.
(top: cookingonthetrail.wordpress.com; bottom: paleyphoto.photoshelter.com)
This is just breathtaking.
(The Fourth is a grand holiday. It’s my sister’s birthday. We live in a truly great country where we are mostly safe and enjoy opportunities rare in the big picture. Most often, I am proud to be American. But… –jrs)
Who wants to remember:
the stench of the dead,
smoking bushes, skeletons
festooned with body pieces,
Dali meets Bosch;
this body’s for you.
Who can forget:
our most uncivil war,
atoms and flash burns blinding a generation;
a minuteman, cocked hat askew,
plays big cop on the corner of World and Peace;
the freedom to revel in politically correct enmity.
We celebrate a history of war:
mimicry of small arms and cannon,
young eyes alight with power,
smoke and flame in the streets,
dangerous delight;
living on old glory.
(catholiclane.com)
Laughter in the house tonight:
small voices grow large
spilling down the race
of conversation around the table
with its rattling dice cup.
All support every roll.
Applause abounds.
Life will roll on, a collection
of memories: sweet, bitter, sour, salt,
all learned and shared in ways
not yet seen or imagined,
but this laughter is where hearts live.
It is trust borne and nurtured.
In the dark, a memory of light.
(top: visualphotos.com; bottom: writing.wikinut.com)
The air is soft and breathes
better than anywhere else
I could possibly be; there is no
pressure from behind,
no pressure to the west on
this fine grey morning.
The horizon is a line bound
only by my imagination and
the elk watch my back.
The only pressure is deep,
where the plates move, one
under the other, storing energy
that will eventually drop
the sand on which I stand
the height of a man.
Me, for example, probably taller.
The ocean will scour away
all traces of me and mine.
My lifetime; my choice.
The air will stay soft.
(top: info.geonet.org.nz; bottom: eandt.theit.org)
Brilliant colors,
white, clear, black–
attack my shoreline with a
ferocity that indiscriminately kills
creatures born to breathe and eat
water; even when they eat each other
the cycle doesn’t stop.
Bent, broken, large, small,
infinitesimal: it is indestructible.
Long strings of hydrocarbon.
(top: squidandsquash.org; bottom: greenhome.com)
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 