No plumber to call
to break the lines loose
to free a year of rain
backed-up, flooding
the UK and Montana,
freezing East.
Helpless as town dogs,
we don’t know
how to fix anything
anymore. No time
to sit and pray,
to meditate the dry
away, or cry.
No other home
but red dirt hills
that never greened.
They don’t know
tomorrow’s zip code
nor do we—exactly
when, or how many
trucks to order.
My eyes run the ridges,
leap watersheds
searching for sign,
clues to long-gone friends
roaming free
of the weight of flesh.
I run awhile with them
busting brush behind cattle,
then we sit and smoke
together. When I return
to the moment, I can tell
the stories I remember.
Always beyond, there is no last step
into time, no hurry to the finish line, yet
we race, stampede in a flight of hooves
bound blindly to the herd by dust,
by flashing lights at crossroads charged
with chomping bits of machinery
at the heart of it pulsing, swelling every
artery, every capillary and vein fleshed
with quick credit and convenience,
begging for business with easy access.
Visitor to another world, this
pickup won’t fit any place to park.
We learn to live without passion.
To be reasonable. We go hungry
amid the giant granaries
this world is.
– Jack Gilbert (“The Danger of Wisdom”)
Stark and efficient waiting room,
two plastic stick horses to occupy
children—one pink, one blue.
No ears, no eyes, no manes or tails,
seven smooth and hollow cylinders
molded to stand for a rider
or to wrestle out of the corner
back to the young hen
pecking on her cell phone.
No one seems to notice: not
the thin, distinguished gentleman,
not the gray goatee next to me,
not the woman in a shower cap,
nor the tight biceps in a T-shirt,
all pecking in fields beyond
the clatter and commotion
they ignore. Still fasting
and willing to pay in blood
to get along this far from home—
I want my coffee ready to ride
whatever goes right or wrong.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
– Wendell Berry (“How To Be A Poet”)
We listen with our eyes,
turn pages back, hear
and learn the language
of all-flesh praying.
Certain ceremonies linger
in the air, cling to rocks
thrust up from the earth,
always ready for the sky—
places young boys came
to become men standing
among the Blue Oaks
for generations camped
below. You will know them
when you find them,
when you stop:
sacred spots for gods
to rest and try again
in case we need to pray.
Have I become so hardened by this prolonged drought that I am reluctant to express much joy with our recent rains, ever vulnerable, afraid to let my guard down? A drop in the proverbial bucket when considering the bigger picture, am I afraid we may be spurned again with only two months left of our grass season—too long in a dry rut?
But none of this obstructs our evening conversations, finding lines of poetry in the space between us. I pen my name—and you hear rain like applause on the roof.
Oh, the night came undone like a party dress
And fell at her feet in a beautiful mess.
– Gillian Welch (“Barroom Girls”)
To fit the dark approaching rain,
you play your father’s Martin,
sing Gillian as I hum and harmonize
my relief in low and grateful moans,
learning the words as I go,
reaching for the moment written
to see our separate selves
sparking at the White Horse—
leave this thirsty ground
to replay our connections,
each electric flash saved
in the dark oak bar.
for Robbin
Oh, the night came undone like a party dress
And fell at her feet in a beautiful mess
The smoke and the whiskey came home in her curls
And they crept through the dreams of the barroom girls
Well, she tosses and turns because the sun is unkind
And the heat of the day is coming in through the blinds
Leave all the blue skies for the rest of the world
Because the neon will shine for the barroom girls
Ah, the barroom girls go by your side
Like the ponies who pass on a carousel ride
And all of the colors go around in a swirl
When you dance in the arms of the barroom girls
Now she rolls to her feet when she can’t sleep no more
Looks at her clothes lying out on the floor
Last night’s spangles and yesterday’s pearls
Are the bright morning stars of the barroom girls
Last night’s spangles and yesterday’s pearls
Are the bright morning stars of the barroom girls
Songwriters
WELCH, GILLIAN HOWARD / RAWLINGS, DAVID TODD
Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group, BUG MUSIC
Courtesy: MetroLyrics
Like loose rocks, discarded
twigs, felt with shuffling
feet—another time of propriety
and flush purpose passed, yet
lingering to trip us up,
slow progress down
and we rest, set-up camp
on running water
and remember what really was
important, how much we cared—
invested in moments
we knew would never last.
We are well done—
too long on the fire,
too long grinning at the gods
through clenched teeth.
Rocks shine on naked slopes,
dirt and dust have risen
in search of rain. We wear
circles in dry earth
back and forth to water
feeding hay, meet each other
plodding in a daze.
We are well done,
too long laughing
at old age, too long wondering
how tomorrow will look
backwards on today.
We raise another glass
to all this, anyway.
drycrikjournal 