Stabbed in the mountains,
sun’s wet reflection marking
more than pots of gold.
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.
Almost underfoot,
you work the ground
for bugs and spiders,
diligently clean window
screens in morning light—
yet play second fiddle
to your canyon cousin’s
cas-
cad-
ing
song,
higher-up, closer to
the conifers and pines where
sticky-sweet bear clover
plunders my senses.
there’s a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
– Charles Bukowski (“Bluebird”)
Leapfrogging fence posts
along a pasture road
just ahead of me
is commonplace, just
out of reach—a game
passing for fun—
and I am blessed
by the flitting iridescence
of another spring.
Closer now,
a pair is nesting
just out of reach.
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.
We had to shout around
the fire, the browning beef,
our quartette of comedy competing
with tree frog symphonies,
layered orchestrations beyond
the edge of dark up to our feet,
interrupting, croaking rudely,
demanding their moment on stage.
It’s how the world works,
taking turns—now is the time
for art—to find the common heart
of humanity that can bring peace.