Category Archives: Poems 2011

Each day, the trail is the same—
imperfect circles cut in dry grass,
worn into soft dust that holds

yesterday’s track, exposing rock,
stones and boulders on the move,
broken loose from the whole.

Atop my own, pad and hoof
shine like last night’s coyote
under a full moon, on the trot

from canyon to draw, and the heifer
determined to calve in private
breaking away from the bunch

to hesitate mid-way, turning
over herself before going on
to a place she remembers as safe.

The trail is the same—even
at the gate where a covey of quail
will erase where I’ve gone today.

                                  …and all that we have
                            to love may be what’s near
                            in the cold, even then.
                                                – William Stafford (“So Long”)

So much for fleeting fantasies and retouched dreams
that seldom see canvas, that cannot feel the cold
nor help you walk the uneven ground of shadows

and circumstance, anymore than unravel chance designs
of lichen on speckled granite rock. No perfect world,
no perfect perception left to rise from the herd,

the human press, to warm the soul. We wander off,
letting go of this and that we thought we would become—
we bought or thought we stood for when it mattered.

Even now in this instant, we are not the same, yet
near at hand is the tool and the template, the axe
and handle, everything we touch at the level of love.

Unlike any other, the day waits
under dark covers and doesn’t care
if you are there, or not,

to see her details, to watch her
dress—always changing
into something new.

                                Knowledge will cure them. But
                                not all at once. It will take time.
                                            – William Stafford (“Waiting In Line”)

The cows have watched, seen me stumble
feeding hay, blade clenched in my teeth,
held their breath each time I climbed

the moving flat bed, wondering. And yes,
in town we step aside for one another,
open doors, lock eyes and nod for all

we have survived and seen, wondering.
We work the shallows near the bank
and stay from the faceless current, trying

to find an eddy in the coming rush of youth,
before another dam is built, or river loosed
to flood. It will take time to accumulate

credentials, or to have the luck to get lost
in the sun’s goodbye, or slow approach
to the day—and to save enough experience

to endure our last rainy day. No shortcuts,
it will take time to get to where we began,
to fill-in the blanks, take pride in your hands.

In the caves, long shadows of dancing
girls distort and disappear, the echoes
of barkers overlap, every alcove serves

booze and food as we pass one another
staring onward, believing we follow
a thread through the maze. Outside,

on the surface, it sometimes storms—
we watch dismayed and thankful.
There are reasons we bunch together,

build forts and send out patrols
for fears we cannot face or discuss—
always the enemy, we live in caves.

Sweet conjecture,
that plane of possibility
between earth and sky,

a space that speaks
a common language
with the eyes

recording reaction,
replaying surprise
without words, yet

we try painting
moments, matching
colors, so as not to forget,

blending sounds
into a song
to carry in our heads—

small reminders
to hang in the hall
like windows, open.

My father plied economics
to everything—cows, feed
and even rain, hoping

his demand for wonder
might supply it. Greenheads
rising from the cattails,

sunrise cut and streaked
into separate beams
by Sawtooth and the Kaweahs,

he looked for God beyond
the numbers, and saw
enough to be disappointed

in mankind. He spared
our living with his being
right in ninety-seven,

spared the politicians
written lectures, and left
to watch the show—

forever assured
that no tree grows
to the sky.

The war, before me, unfolds
with the flag, chills of inhumanity
roll up my back and bunch

in my shoulders after clearing
my parents’ shelves of mementos,
Japanese and Russian knick-knacks,

hand-painted Imari and little,
black lacquered boxes. I feel myself
become oppressed, cornered

and cowering before this muslin
flag, indoors for more than three
score years—not one frayed thread

unfolded by squares of bright red,
around a clean quarter-circle of white
with one bent, black limb

of Hitler’s swastika. St. Vith?
my son somewhere in Belgium.
Refolded, what does a man do

with such a prize? Give it away,
sell it on ebay, or keep it hidden
with his guns and ammunition?