Category Archives: Poems 2014

WPC(1)—OUR REVERIE

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End of day in the shade,
100 degrees
of everything we need.

 

 

WPC(1)—”Summer Lovin'”

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Glancing up at one of many windows
in a dream, and she preoccupied—
what was it then that hungered so

to be noticed, what little boy revisits
my mortality, what mother of us all
plants a seed that grows and grows

into the damnedest things, like poetry?
As for love and wisdom, what value
then if not gained first hand?

 

 

WPC(3)—CONTAINERS

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Gooseneck and old corrals
to gather a watershed
to take to town.

 

WPC(3)—”Containers”

 

WPC(2)—CURRENCY

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Pole barn full of relief
and distant hope
not to have to feed it all.

 

 

WPC(2)—”Containers”

WPC(1)—HAULING WATER

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Clouds or plastic canisters—
Lord, we pray enough
to last a lifetime.

 

 

WPC(1)—”Containers”

TO WHAT LISTENS

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                                   I sing—to what listens—again.
                                        – Wendell Berry (“To What Listens”)

 

I cannot match the Canyon Wren’s sheer cascade
of octaves through brittle Manzanita, spilling over
granite boulders, each note searching for a home

or the strike, light and crack of a cold summer
thunderstorm in tall pines and damp cedar duff
beyond the fire—middle-of-nowhere—beyond

narrow roads and ‘lectric lights, the burnt scent
of moments mixed off to join the world in a gust.
I yearn for the source, map each in my mind

and like calling cattle to me: sing, awaken
canyons with old vocal chords turned free
and loose, a crackly a cappella of my own.

And they come out of chemise, off mountains
of oak trees, to the familiar, like good friends.
I sing—to what listens—again.

 

THE TRAINER

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An easy balance of wills
at work, a dance
on uneven landscapes.

 

 

OLD WRECKS

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I often wondered
why some old men
liked college kids

around, leaking
basic adventures
that felt full

and familiar
despite the times—
ageless naïveté

seasoned with passion
to pump the blood
into guffaws

and unsolicited
windies with a moral
learned the hard way.

I look back
to see them now
and myself

as a diversion
for old wrecks
just like me.

 

 

JULY 2014

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After early rounds, we retreat, you and I,
to outside shade as the sun bakes
the earth white, drink hot breaths

of monsoonal air as finches pant on the beam—
and then again to the inside of the house
until the canyon’s shadow is complete.

We retreat, you and I, from the outside
world of wars and treachery, the frenzied
feeding of a fire of fears out there—

an eternal flame to keep from being
afraid of the dark—an instant enlightenment
designed for growth and commerce.

We retreat, you and I, knowing seasons
change—and we endure the heat reaching
into the fuzzy edges of our delirium

watering cattle and garden. We retreat
to one another and wait for the fire
to burn itself out—start over again.

 

 

FOR SNYDER AND BERRY

Out of wonder by wild design,
like greenheads rising, our ascension
from cattail ooze on a Sabbath

when I was a boy surprised
with my father—and all times since
shaking off the last glistening drops

to fly—no church or sermon necessary
to feel whole, to shed the nonessentials,
to become awestruck, he implied.

Even the shadow beneath the ridge
of a rattlesnake track teaches
by design, direction and urgency

left to fade within the long history
of earth. We cannot help building
fences in our minds to keep the wild

away and apart from our selfishness.
But only out of wonder may we remove
the barbed wire from our hearts.