Author Archives: John

                    I was nothing
                    But a window sailing through the night.
                            – James Galvin (“Agriculture”)

And once a young cowboy full
of living wildly, the blow and snort
of bulls and horns beside me,
death was distant and I cried
war whoops of another tribe
long gone gray or pushing daisies.

We chased seasons in circles full
of fast bravado, reached and roped
the moment, tipped our glasses over—
and over around the fire,
to see our stories disappear, lifted
like stirred embers to the stars.

When old men can’t remember, they
seek good habits, look for grace
to emulate and plan ahead, calculate
the odds and go forth with a good
and steady heart, write down clues
for some young man to follow, or not.

Screen door open to early morning dark,
the floor seems to creak under bare feet
sneaking behind me, then stampedes to the roof

as she returns unannounced to surprise me.
I am always glad to see her, nod to the gods
and check the radar, check the forecast

to see how long she’ll stay this time.
I am, of course, a fool for her—always forgiving,
yet seldom forgetting her infidelities.

Even though I see in the dark with old ears
that spend more time rhyming with
what I want to hear than what’s said,

she brings no huff ‘n’ puff bluster of baggage,
no laundry to do—wearing only
a light yellow sundress for her short visit

to keep us all hanging on a fading hint of green.
She feels no guilt for being gone, for letting
our household go—dances in on little feet.

After you’ve lived with her awhile
and got along, got to know her
temperament, her sultry smile, her
rages and just plain forgetfulness,

you will come to know you don’t
have   much   say. You don’t even
have to understand why she gets
to make the rules that you obey.

It’s a strange relationship, hard
to be subservient and still write
love letters that try to stay
on the good side of her generosity.

She’s always full of surprises,
but after you’ve lived with her awhile
you begin to expect certain things
like fidelity, like a little rain.

The curse of words,
always looking for a home—
a place to light for a moment.

I nod off into a dream
as he fits a gold crown
over what he’s ground away

that begins with a dog
I don’t know—it could have been
anything in the distance calling

before I wake to latex fingers,
metal instruments in my mouth
and mumble something about

how dreams start—
like a poem
open to the rain.

It’s gray outside,
palm trees dancing
as fingers work together—

all I want are dreams and rain,
and just enough teeth to separate
the gristle from the meat.

                                                            for Darren Rich, D.D.S.

Can we call it just
another day, another passing
of the sun overhead
to get things done, one
to measure, fill the seasons,
months and years
facing first light
from the same door
through which we retire
to our sweet gloaming?

Looking back and forth,
Janus has nodded off
with each new plan
to work around the weather
when it doesn’t rain,
cattle in the hills—
like counting blades of grass,
we can bale them now,
box them to gather dust.

Young men play so hard
it almost hurts to watch—
remembering: time shot
one moment to the next
like endless ammo
through an assault rifle.
Young men figure
they’ll retire
just to play harder.

That old saw
about taking better care
if we’d known
we’d live this long
cuts true and deeper
than when I first heard it
from the old men betting
I’d never see thirty—
but luckily I played
on credit.

Wikipedia

                              Clouds and rain on the tips
                              of mountains prodding the sky,
                              music pouring from some well,
                              I stepped into the light.
                                        – Quinton Duvall (“XII. Testament”)

Too much moon to sleep,
coyotes make contact.
Break dark silence. Call
from every draw that falls
into the shallow creek.

They need no code
to translate, to decipher—
no allegorical symbolism
to paint in pastels,
no words at all, singing

to one another like poets
tend to do trying to reach
a high note, one last pitch
at heaven with no one else
to listen but quiet darkness.

It’s what they do at night
in the spring, stirred
from dreams to yip and howl.
But to truly call it music
is only a matter of taste.

                                        for Paul and Quinton