Category Archives: Poetry

Natural Cycles & Unnatural

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For my arachnophobic friends out there: hurry past the first illustration–I think spiders are pretty, but I understand that you do not!

digital photocollageShort Term Shelter

Under the porches of the house,

amid the floor joists, posts and beams,

cobwebs and dust, dead mice and dreams,

there is a corner one last mouse

still nests in, where a little light

leaks underneath the latticed edge

that skirts the porches, where the hedge

holds lots of insects that by night

fill up his little rodent sides

and round his belly with their crunch;

this nest of his, I have a hunch,

will soon not be where he resides,

because, although he’s now grown fat,

it’s been discovered by the cat.

digital photocollageRides Upward & Back

Bicycling up into a tree, I paused to see what I could see

between the branches, richly leaved, and saw, if I was not deceived,

a broad, expansive view indeed, and haply so, while I was treed–

but (Woe!) relaxed my braking foot and clocked my forehead on the root–

so, shorter ’twas than was my wont, this little arbor-biking jaunt.

Brevity is for Witless Souls

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digital painting from a photoEditorial Lines

The relevant portion of this text is the starting sentence and the next,

so I won’t add another verse, as it would only be that much worse.

digital painting

They Don’t Make Western Movies Like They Used to Make ‘Em . . .

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pen & ink

The End.

Those Big Death Scenes in Westerns

The slinger slung his monstrous gun

out of its well-oiled holster—

she tried to dart from the couch and run,

but he shot her through the bolster.

She tried to duck his second shot

and they got into a tussle—

it didn’t help her cause a lot:

he shot her in the bustle.

She staggered around; began to totter;

still the gunslinger came

relentlessly on and at last he got her—

right in the final frame.

pen & ink

Even though a cowboy’s socks can pretty much stand up on their own . . .

Something’s Afoot at the Fort

A Texas Ranger lost his boot

And all of us can feel

His pain at losing shaft and spur

And being down-at-heel

Without the custom stitching and

Tooled silver on the toe,

The steel shank inset and the vamp—

Where is a man to go

To get re-shod so perfectly

In style with stuff that wears

Like his cast-iron skillet, by

A boot-maker who cares

As deeply as the Ranger does

For quality and class?

I only hope the Ranger knows

That this pain, too, shall pass,

For down the street the Ponder shop

Has crocodile skin

And hand-tooled leather of all kinds

To tuck his tired hooves in,

And like a human’s farrier,

Will shoe him with perfection

In custom boots as soon as he

Gallops in that direction,

So go on, Texas Ranger, sir,

Get in and order boots

To save your poor hooves from their loss

In any style that suits,

From ostrich up to diamondback,

From white to black as soot,

And classy as a Cadillac

You wear upon your foot

pen & ink

Nothing can compare to the perfect boot . . .

My Heart is Racing

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digital painting from a photo

Moving at Speed

Everyone’s obsessed with speed

As though it were a grail,

But give the people what they need—

Not what they want—and they’ll

Discover much to their surprise

Alternative delights

That come in the more subtle guise

Of leisured days and nights

And find at last that racing lacks

The lure of lying low,

Avoiding rampant heart attacks—

Instead, loving the slow,

The thoughtful, easeful lassitude

Of living at snail’s pace,

And savoring those motes of joy

Bypassed by those who race

digital painting from a photoNearly Endless Cycles

We pedal around at a furious rate

Just as though we’d outrun finitude, death and fate

But the truth of the matter, however we flee,

Is we’ll all still die off—that guy there, you, and me.

Closed/Open

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Windows and doors

Are metaphors—

But also real

Gateways.

So: are Yours?photoHow open to change?

How closed in fear?

Do you throw them wide

When a friend

Comes near?photoYou can bar the way

And lock out

All storms—

But have you

Barred Chance in all

Its forms?photoAre your windows sealed

To stop the rain

So tightly that

No light can gainphotoEntry anymore?

Is your door of steel

Holding off

New joys

For fear you’d feel?photoThrow open the sash!

Swing wide the door!

Adventure is what

This life is for.photo

The End of One Chapter Leading to the Beginning of the Next

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digital painting from a photoThe road is long; the way grows faint,

But with a song and no complaint,

I’ll walk it more at peace and ease

If you will shore me up, and please:

Your love for me is deep, I know,

Yet sing me to sleep and let me go—photoA path unclear as nighttime draws

Me ever near its end, because

I’ve had full count of wealth and known

Such joys a fountain might be thrown

Beyond its rim in rushing streams,

So if grown dim, the way holds dreams

Enough to lead me happy hence,

And I’ll not plead in self-defense:

Though ever deep your love, I know,

Sing me to sleep and let me go—photoInto the night that never ends,

Where dark is light, and waiting friends

And quiet rest and graceful peace

Draw every guest to sweet release

How-e’er the strain of verses went,

With this refrain as Testament

And Will: Deep is your love, I know;

Sing me to sleep and

Let me go—

Magical Night & Mystic Day

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photoEnchantments

One night I stood upon the green

And every nightingale a-wing

Stopped in the linden trees to sing,

A perfect choir though all unseen,

Encircling in the meadow’s crown—

Night-blooming flowers ‘round my feet

Reflected moonglow, and their sweet,

Sweet breath rose up as stars fell down

In meteor showers to earth because

Its beauty was so great, so dear,

They longed to draw the night sky near

To all this peacefulness that was—

And while I stood upon that lawn,

Aching with joy, with ecstasy

As sharp as ice and flame in me,

I woke full wide, and it was dawn.photo

The day that came up in that place

Made all the green-wood hum and quake

With quivering for pleasure’s sake,

At seeing the full sun’s clear face,

Yet, basking in the softest fall

Of constant rain, as mist, to fly

In colored arcs across the sky

And shower prisms on us all—

The birds of day joined in that hymn

And coaxed the foxes to the green,

Contented beasts not often seen

In sun, and as I stood, a slim

Grey foal came, too, and nine or ten

Of rabbits, and the beasts all danced,

And I stood still, transfixed—entranced—

And blinked my eyes, and it was night.digitally painted photo

A Date with Heraclitus

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We all have a certain number of fixed elements in the schedules of our lives. At least, we think we do. And most of the time, we manage to keep them in fair order and stick to them. That, in itself, is really rather near to miraculous.

Every one of you who has crashed breathlessly through the door at four seconds to ten for the 18th weekly meeting of your Steering Committee, after an epic morning battling with a cracked molar, a stuck zipper, a closed freeway exit and a sinkhole that opened directly under your reserved parking space–only to find last night’s emergency notice scrawled on the white board, informing everyone that the meeting had to be moved to the Annex back on the other side of town–you know what I’m talking about.

photo

Well, I know why *that* Mourning Dove was crying . . .

Best laid plans, Ha! Old Reliable, Ho-ho-ho! Change happens, endlessly. Who am I to argue against the great philosopher who says so?

No matter how wizardly we are in arranging our lives, planning and organizing and arranging to the finest and most delicate degree of control, all of the skill and dedication in the world can’t stop the flow of life’s river from going where, when and how it will.

The good news is that despite the vicissitudes of our ever-changing reality. We manage, and we do so well enough most of the time that we can maintain the illusion, perhaps even the delusion, that we can predict and control our lives’ events for the most part. The very fact that things ‘gang aft agley‘ as they do keeps us on the alert and trains us to be flexible when we must, inventive when we can, and swift to recover when all else fails. Change, as we all must finally allow, is the only true constant.

photos

Some days even the repair equipment is just not up to the task . . .

Now, should I post this today, I wonder? Or should I write another post and save this one for another day, when something comes up unexpectedly–and it will–and disrupts my plan for that day’s post? Always good to have a get-out-of-jail-free pass tucked in my back pocket, I should think . . .

Another Pastorale

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Yesterday after running errands, we were reluctant to head directly home and do serious Work on a sunny Saturday afternoon, so first we took a couple of brief driving detours into the surrounding ranch-lands and enjoyed a uniquely lush and verdant north Texas spring outing, luxuriating in the marvels of denser woodlands, fuller runoff creeks and richer grasslands than we’ve yet seen since moving down here. Needless to say, we are reveling in the wealth of meadow and pastureland in the surrounding counties, as are all of the horse and cattle herds that didn’t get sold off or butchered outright to evade starvation and thirst in last year’s drought. It’s a beautiful prospect, this well-watered magic we have right now, and inspires the poetic in one’s spirit no matter how it defies other work.mixed media + text

Spring Pastures

Far back among the rolling hills, Where prairie grasses sweep and bow

And the sweet wildflower spills Pour down the slope, the Angus cow

Set farthest back along the line Draws up her calf to join the herd,

Slow-swaying, toward a stand of pine; The rancher there, without a word,

Appears to bring an evening feed, And all the cattle on the clock

That balances content with need, Some time before, began this walk . . .

The faintest glint of sidelong rays Begins to tint the brush with gold

The way late Spring colors her days, As if instead of growing old

She’s only burnishing her tone The more to show her graciousness,

Inviting birds that fly alone To join a choir whose notes confess

A radiant love of living things, Of all that’s sweet and warm and new,

Of leggy calves, of seed that brings That grass now banking up the slough . . .

The cattle walk, now, in their line, Their black flanks shaded in the dusk

With blue-tinged shadows, as a fine Light scent arises like a musk

From all their footsteps tapped in clay, Veils of the thinnest dust laid low

Between the sorghum rows’ array And that tall hayfield yet to mow,

And not one calf among them all Drifts off the center of the trail,

Because they sense their supper-call As sure as seasons never fail . . .

O Death, Where is Thy Sting?

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As long as I can crack jokes about it, there can’t be anything gruesome or terrifying or unnerving at all about dying. I hope. (She said, winking and smiling slyly.)digital painting from a photograph

Pretty Little Graveyard

Pretty little graveyard,

How all your headstones gleam!

How delicate and marvelous

Your mausoleums seem!

It’s sweet and quaint and dainty,

The peaceful way you lie

Filled up with rotten corpses,

Under the sunny sky.digital collage

Funeral Arrangements

The way the flowers grew in shade,

I knew at once that one fine day

They’d make a funeral bouquet

All prearranged, as though pre-made

By funeral mutes in plumed top hats

And wearing bombazine black sashes,

Their pearly skin as pale as ashes,

Accompanied by coal-black cats

Between the funeral-wreathed front doors,

Their carriage drawn by sleek black steeds,

With passengers in widows’ weeds

As fitting as the hellebores’.