Tag Archives: Spokane

Tambourine Man

10 Thursday Jan 2019

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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!–

Raven Racing a BNSF Train Through Eastern Washington

08 Sunday Apr 2018

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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.

2. Moss

16 Friday Mar 2018

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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.

 

Hog Lake

30 Thursday Apr 2015

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cowboy looking at fishlake

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.

hog lake falls

Early Fall Ride: Palisades Park

08 Wednesday Oct 2014

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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.

River Gods

03 Wednesday Sep 2014

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     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.