Author Archives: John

A man can wish for shape and sound
that resonates with those he loves
when he’s away—that far distance

our hearts have yet to learn to leap
and be two places at once—to cross
the ink black sky, dot to dot, stars

as stepping stones to both sides,
our envelope in space between here
and there, the stream we swim

with the ease of trout, with grace
and poised efficiency, as matter
not yet facts we comprehend.

But a man must wish it first, follow
the splintered light beams, become
the dust long enough to find a way.

Something passes between eye and ear,
a glimpse, then gone, I can’t identify—a dark
blur or glint of the ethereal, or pinhole peak
into another dimension we have yet to name.

The hunter’s eye catching movement,
the cowboy chasing shapes beyond confined,
I am reminded of Tom Homer’s quote
passed down to me: ‘He looks—
but just don’t see.’ And sometimes

a glimpse is all we need to trigger, to inspire,
to stir the brain and then the flesh, or visa versa—
sometimes it is the yet unnamed
that begets a renaissance of thought. Here,
we leave the gate open just in case.

You should know how
to read sign, find water,
follow tracks and stars
and tell about it—how
to start a fire in the rain
skin a rabbit, cook the meat
and pick your teeth with a bone.

You should know how
to make the mundane rich
with detail and symbolism,
start your own religion, quietly—
to look through the eyes
of animals, trees and birds
to see yourself as common.

You should know how
to draw lines, share space
and learn to help.
You should know how
to create the kind of joy
you cannot buy
with cash or credit.

Low hills worn smooth as flesh,
summer blonds with different shades
of grazing play in one another’s shadow

at dusk and dawn, a plain and treeless
nakedness I trace, pausing with my eyes,
to touch ridges, gaps and valleys falling

into Live Oak canyons, gentle slopes frozen
in an undulating moment drawn and prolonged
with each breath in uncertain light—slipping

slightly, she comes alive, dressing differently
with each season. At work early, young herons
greet me. We nod and say good morning.

The old girls know before we go, read
our minds, movement and the stars aligned
this time of year when they’ve given up their calves,
ready for home and breeze beneath the Buckeye shade
and cool dirt stirred by generations—something sure.

If you turned them loose they’d find their way,
but they’d rather graze than climb the hill
the young girls question, working edges, lingering
while feigning naiveté, looking off towards memory
and possibility other than a season with matrons

without patience. No one really tries the horses
who know their way around the rock pockets,
down trees and steepness, daring independence
with their eye and sidehill two-step. The bunch
lines out, everyone having fun headed home.