01 Wednesday May 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
arrowleaf balsamroot, Bird Poems, Crows, Gratitude, Happiness, Hog Lake, Hog Lake Falls, Hope, Horse, Horse Poems, Horses, Life, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ravens, Spirit, Spokane, spring poem, Waterfalls
The ground sounds hollow,
an echoing cadence of hoofbeats
follows among ponderosa, & a caw-caw
of wood raven, forest spies tattling
on our prattling happy chatter,
while hawks circle the pool
at the base of hog lake falls,
& balsamroot whispers
about the perfection of it all.
02 Tuesday Apr 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Canada Geese, Cowboy, Freedom, Hope, Horse, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horse poetry, Horses, Life, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ravens, River, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Spokane, Spokane River, Spring, Survival
We rode dirt and mud,
through standing water,
like ponds, to verify
the sun, and life
of returning things:
Canada Geese, wood ravens,
mule deer, grazing at dusk,
and the river, surging
with the spring run off
of our souls, singing.
10 Thursday Jan 2019
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Cult, Fate, Ian Astbury, Life, Love, Muse, Music, Music Poems, Poem, Poems, Poetry, song, Spokane, Tambourine Man
Anointed: his one raised arm, in a throng
of arms, desperate to catch a tambourine
hucked into the body-universe by Ian Astbury,
before singing Big Neon Glitter,
Peace Dog, and Wild-Hearted Son,
and like some freak of fate
carnival game he played as a kid,
it landed like a ring on a bottle’s neck,
and throttled his arm down to his bare,
hairy, super-sweat-soaked pit.
For years, he mashed to the rhythm,
the beat, the swelling under-swell of song,
self-employed, stoned, and fully devoted,
as in, everything for the voice
that prophesized from the burning bush
of heavy metal, Shake it! Shake it!
What else could he do
except shake the damn thing
for twenty years, the entire downtown,
as kids made out, drank beer, and danced,
and someone in the crowd shouted,
Hey, everyone, the Tambourine Man is here!–
08 Sunday Apr 2018
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Courage, Eastern Washington, Fishtrap Lake, I-90, Moses Lake, Nobility, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Raven, Ravens, Seattle, Spokane, Strength, Washington
Imagine this: an arid countryside
In early spring, wild grasses
Still brown and dormant
From the autumn before,
Cumulus clouds, dark, heavy,
Make it seem like night,
Though your watch says otherwise.
There’s a lake reflecting the clouds,
Known for its rainbow trout,
Which attracts fishermen and birds,
And a BNSF train breaking westward
Toward Moses Lake and Seattle.
Imagine a raven soaring
Over the train, and with it:
The train, with its many orange cars,
The raven, ripping, racing, winning,
And reducing everything to backdrops
and props, objects bowed
By a single, scrappy black bird.
16 Friday Mar 2018
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Grace, Love, Mercy, Moss, Palisades Park, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spokane, Waterfalls
I found one word,
As we hiked Palisades Park
To the waterfall.
This word coated everything:
Fallen logs, arched branches,
Boulders, and the paths
We slipped upon.
I was shocked. Really, floored,
When, at the end of our hike,
We came away with the same word.
I asked you, and you named it,
Then, I proved to you
I had already written a poem–
Now thrown out for this:
How lucky am I to see life
Like you do? The one I love,
Not wowed by the waterfall,
Or the burbling brook,
Not the caves,
Nor the down-trees,
But the moss that covered that world,
Like your love for me,
Softening it all.
30 Thursday Apr 2015
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Basalt, Camas, Fishtrap Lake, Hog Lake, Horses, Pacific Northwest, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Red Tail Hawk, Sagebrush, Serviceberry, Spokane, Washington
There are dirt roads that bend
‘Round still lakes and extend forever
Atop basalt cliffs, between sagebrush
And serviceberry, balsamroot,
And the periwinkle twinkling of camas blossom.
You can travel down those roads,
But you’ll always be a stranger,
And they’ll always speak a language
You don’t quite understand.
There are dirt roads that pass by waterfalls,
Pouring themselves out,
In radiant rush,
Step by step, shelf by shelf,
Into the calm of Hog Lake,
While the red tails swirl above,
Thinking of fish or water
Or returning to their nests.
You can travel down those roads,
But you’ll always be a stranger,
And they’ll always speak a language
You don’t quite understand.
But travel there anyway
And try to memorize the inflection of bees,
Or the longing in the song of the spring swallow.
Listen for the whisper of grass
Beneath mule deer and coyote.
And, while you’re there,
Send up a prayer of thanks,
A wish, for it to go on and on and on.
08 Wednesday Oct 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Autumn, Cowboy, Fall, Hawthorn, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horses, Paint, Palisades Park, Pinto, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ponderosa Pine, Serviceberry, Spokane, Trail Ride
You should have wished for rain,
But you relished the sun, instead,
And the sweet smell of orchard grass,
In the pinto’s October sweat.
Before you left,
You stood under the bow,
And plucked an apple,
Ripe with the full bloom
Of a long summer.
You held it outstretched
Until all that was left
Was the juice, and the salt
From the palm of your open hand.
You should have wished for rain,
But you relished the sun, instead,
And his slow steps down steep trails,
Adrift of dirt and loose chunks of basalt.
The robin and wren, tree swallows and chickadees,
Flitted among branches of Ponderosa, Serviceberry,
and the Hawthorn with its dangerous nails,
While you thought of nothing but that,
And how your horse’s mane felt in your hands.
03 Wednesday Sep 2014
Posted in Uncategorized
Tags
Courage, Dry Salvages, Four Quartets, God, Horses, Lonliness, Osprey, Poem, Poems, Poetry, River, Rivers, Spokane, Spokane River, T.S. Eliot
I do not know much about gods;
but I think that the river
Is a strong brown god –
sullen, untamed and intractable.
T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets: Dry Salvages
Nothing makes you feel more alone–
Yesterday’s twenty miles of river
Calculated today, a lifetime.
The hunting bird, you said eagle,
Then, you said Osprey,
It was an Osprey.
Great beautiful white-winged thing
Hunting the Spokane River
For the one that jumps too high,
Makes itself too known,
Dares to release itself
From the swelling under-swell.
Listen to T.S. Eliot read Four Quartets.
