drycrikjournal

Thatched and lashed with horsehair
thread, even well-built nests
have casualties, tip in a storm,

spill family overboard, and we
remain to make repairs – find reason,
where so often there is none.

If we have love, we have no choice
but to fall with them, over and over
into the void – and we do it,

not to savor grief, but to collect
what parts we can, to piece our nest
back-together again.

                                            – for Alie and Jeff

Rocked by tragedy, we repost this poem for our community. Originally dedicated to Jeff and Alie McKee in December 2010.

Without a script
I am an extra in this movie,
a face on a crowded street
in some big city—
or feathered Indian that dies
dramatically
circling a wagon train West.

                    I drop my rifle,
                    grab my bare chest,
                    lean back and slide
                    down a paint horse hip,
                    tuck my shoulder
                    and roll to a dusty stop—

an expendable example
on the trail to progress.
I used to get by on less,
but I need the money,
so I play the part:

                    grimaces of futility,
                    but in my eyes:
                    open space
                    prior to
                    its improvement.

Water slips along granite
slabs beneath clay, leaks up
at the outcrops, pressed

from mountains of moisture
to find a creek, escapes
into road cuts, makes bogs

of good ideas and waits
beneath a thin crust
for a little respect.

Early morning dew,
a long leafless shadow falls
between young girls grazing,
sprinkled black on green
dreams, a young man’s heaven
that still works a world away
from almost everything.