July, is a different world
In the trees, robins
Coax their fledglings
To fly from the nest—
One, or two, hesitate,
As if they know
how hard this life can be;
How dangerous.
What the Fledglings Know
12 Tuesday Jul 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tag Archives: Survival
Skunk Cabbage
19 Thursday May 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Death, Fear, Fear of Death, Hope, Life, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Promise, Quartzite Mt, Skunk Cabbage, Spirit, Spirits, spring poem, Survival, Truth, Yearning
No, I did not bend down too near
To smell the yellow flower
Which grew in weaving lines through
The swampy crack, the scraggly creek,
Creeping amid mid-high, mid-spring grass.
We were at the base of Quartzite Mountain,
Nestled behind a tiny ski town, ghost town,
When the skiers don’t ski, or snowboard,
Or venture icy roads to snow-topped peaks.
You said the clicking was cicada,
I said, cougar, because I’d seen a video
Of a cougar making a clicking-ticking sound,
And decided the next clicking-ticking
Behind a bush, or tree, or grassy knoll,
Would be a mountain lion. You see,
We will never know who was right,
Because we passed safely the miles up,
The miles back down the hill, to the creek,
With those most beautiful, yellow flowers;
You could see them recede into the woods,
Like mystery, like scattered crumbs,
Showing us the way to an unknown truth.
I followed them for awhile, alone,
While you stayed back, and packed the dog;
Those irresistible, extra steps along their path,
Like blazing torches, luminous, yes.
One Swan, One Last Kiss of a Bee
12 Thursday May 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Afterlife, Beauty, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Happiness, Hog Lake Falls, Hope, Infinite, Life, Loss, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, prairie smoke, Prayer, Sacred, Soul, Soul Poetry, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Spring, spring poem, Survival, The Universe, Truth, Yearning
Hog Lake Falls, a cool breeze,
One single, solitary swan.
I think I see him preening
From this vantage, far away.
Last time I hiked here, you’d just died,
And I thought, how lovely to know
I can bring you with me,
Free of the dying chair,
The dying bed, the whole dying room,
And house, where you’d locked yourself away.
Such days are ripe with feeling alive:
Prairie smoke droop their heads,
Their beautiful faces turned down,
As they wait for the kiss of a bee.
Then they will finally look up at the sky,
Say one last prayer, go to seed.
The Knowing Alone
01 Friday Apr 2022
Tags
Alone, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Grief, Healing, Life, Loneliness, Loss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Spring, Survival, Yearning
They say,
There are five stages to grief;
All, feel terrible;
Where’s the relief?
When can we expect
To accept the loss of being
Who we were together.
The knowing alone–
Is that it, the end;
Is it final?
Mending spirit,
Where are you now?
Are the returning birds
Too loud to hear?
The Sun, too bright
To see?
The wind, too cold
To feel you?
Dimensions Around Us, Heaven
14 Monday Mar 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Afterlife, Belief, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Eternity, Heaven, Hope, Infinite, Loss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sacred, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Spirits, Survival, The Universe
If there’s a heaven,
Who’s to say
It’s not right here,
Next to us,
Rather than far away?
Another dimension,
Our souls
Walk through at death,
More whole,
than in life.
Scientists say,
Our lives replay,
As we pass,
They can map
Our brain’s waves,
An almighty flash
Of memory cells,
Flashing.
What’s that about,
If not
Making us better?
And so
I talk to him,
In woods and fields,
My father,
Who loved woods
And mountaintops,
And me,
Less alone than before
He walked across,
Or flew across,
Or emerged across
The invisible line
Between life
And death,
The breadth of which,
Seems smaller
Than I knew before.
Diminished, But Singing
04 Tuesday Jan 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Courage, Death, Fall, Healing, Hope, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Song of Sorrow and Joy, Soul Poetry, Strength, Survival, Truth, Winter poem, Yearning
You must admit,
a song of sadness
Is a decent song;
A song of rage,
The songs we banged to
In our younger age,
That made us stand
And raise our fists–
Is better yet.
The rage is gone.
Somedays, sadness, too,
And happy tunes
Are few.
Yet, sing we must
To shake the silent woods.
Our souls,
They still have much to say,
Of getting past, beyond,
The dull,
Diminished days.
The Edges Begin to Blur
02 Sunday Jan 2022
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Aging, Belief, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Eternity, Fear of Death, Infinite, Life, Loss, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Survival, Winter poem
A fog over the snow-covered hills
Of the Palouse, loosed delineation
Of hill and road and sky,
It seemed an infinity of cloud,
A shroud, over our eyes,
As we returned from a ‘last visit,’
The one where we said ‘goodbye.’
A great chain is about to snap,
The ties that bind crackle,
Grow weak, tremble, cry:
This too shall pass, everything must die,
But at last, we don’t believe it’s true,
Do we? Life is all we’ve known,
And its roads extend for our ever,
And ‘our ever,’ doesn’t come to a tidy end,
But it does begin to blur at the edges.
2022
01 Saturday Jan 2022
Tags
Gratitude, Happiness, Hope, Life, Love, New Year, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirit, Survival, Yearning
The past,
And its happiness,
Sadness,
Must its minor role
Encompass,
As we seek renewal,
And move forward
Into the unknown
Abyss of a world
Made new by one day,
One day,
A New Year—
Think of it—
A chance,
A calling,
A maxim:
To start again.
Happy New Year, Friends everywhere!
The Not So Little Things
29 Wednesday Dec 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Aging, Death, Family, Fathers, Forgiveness, Happiness, Hope, Life, Love, Memory, My Dad, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Souls, Survival, Winter
“Weep for what little things could make them glad. Then for the house that is no more a house. (Directive, Robert Frost)
1.
The frosty backs of horses at the bale,
The red fence, framing the snow,
This is the beauty I found
In the extreme cold
of December.
And I remember
Wishing for it.
2.
Do you want to save this bird,
It was a falcon,
And it ran, with broken wing,
At the edge
Of a barbed wire fence.
He asked me, as he knew
I was a lover of wild things,
And a nurturer of broken wings.
I do, I said, I do.
Then, he was out of the car,
Walking among snow
And wounded bird.
I watched him from the backseat,
The car, I would someday wreck.
But that day, it was whole,
And we were whole,
And he returned, victorious,
Gloved hands,
Cradling broken bird.
3.
I don’t know why he gave it to her,
But she was in possession
Of his cowboy hat,
And she knew
I was the one who wanted it.
I was in possession of money,
And funny prankster that she was,
My sister knocked on my bedroom door.
She was having a yard sale in her room,
And I was invited to shop.
I can’t remember how much I spent,
But the hat became mine,
and I was wearing it.
He laughed when he saw me,
His big hat on my small head,
And heard the story of its quick journey
From her to me–
He’d given it to her for free–
But I didn’t care,
I wore that damn hat everywhere.
4.
Before I wrecked his car,
I slid his truck off an icy road
At two am, in a snowstorm.
I remember hiking to the first house,
And a man answered the door
In his underwear, staring dumbly
At me. I was desperate for a phone
To call my dad, praying he’d pick up,
Otherwise, I’d be stuck
With the undressed stranger.
He did, and soon my dad was sliding
down the dangerous hill,
In the car I’d soon wreck.
Next, he held his metal two-ton jack,
And ratcheted the truck up, and off,
And up and off, back
Onto the road, where the ice melted,
And the snow turned to rain,
And the sky filled with lightning,
But we survived, and now,
We can laugh at this story.
Preparing for Infinity
25 Saturday Dec 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Death, Death Poems, Eternal, Hope, Infinite, Infinity, Life, Love, Multiverse, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirit, Survival, The Universe, Unity
In his last days, he contemplates this:
In the multiverse, our universe,
In the universe, our galaxy,
In the galaxy, our solar system,
And in that, our planet,
Where you find us,
Small as we are,
Celebrating
What it means to be eternal,
To join the stars,
To become one with love,
Two points on a line,
That extend forever.
Out of Our Hands
24 Saturday Jul 2021
Posted in Poetry
The universe told me
Our hands are empty,
They do not contain miracles
Or, even wise words.
Moment by moment,
Only moments,
The brokenness of hearts,
A temporary rise to our feet,
As if to help,
but we didn’t–Did we?
Because our hands are empty.
A Hideous Brightness
13 Sunday Jun 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Belief, Death, Death Poems, drought, Dying, God, Heat, Hope, Horse Poem, Horse Poems, Horse poetry, Horses, Life, Loss, Love, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Sacred, Sun, Survival, weeds
Drought year,
Everything is dying early.
We realize what is hearty,
And what is not.
Weeds, they multiply,
Even after we spray,
As if they know,
This is their time.
They sink taproots,
And suckle what is left
Of underground aquifers.
We’re breaking heat records in June;
The sweltering, unrelenting sun
Is just getting started.
How many trips to the barn,
Down this cackling road?
The day I saw the barn cat
Kill father Robin–
It was an ominous sign
For the foal.
And then I succumbed
To this hackling cough.
Death is a time for prayer,
Calling out
for whatever hope God can spare.
Cries sent, not into a dark night,
But a hideous brightness.
Waiting On Miracles
13 Sunday Jun 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Death, Death Poems, Dying, Fear, Fear of Death, Hope, Horses, Life, Loss, Love, Miracles, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Prayer, Souls, Survival, Yearning
When death gets a foothold,
You don’t know who it will take.
Souls grow heavy with guilt,
And the weight of silence.
Hope, a fragile light;
It fuels us.
Small, but mighty.
We wait for miracles;
They are fickle things,
Miracles.
The Difficulty Getting Here
24 Saturday Apr 2021
Tags
Children, Courage, Death, Family, Forgiveness, Generations, Hope, Life, Love, Marriage, Mothers, New Collection, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Strength, Survival, Women's Poems, Yearning
It’s a wonder I’m here, progeny of lost souls,
orphans, abandoned wives, poverty & places
so uninhabitable, unsustainable—
Yet, I’m here, and the generations beyond me
refuse to wither, too.
When the earth begins to close,
there’s always just enough left
to sustain us. One small patch of grass,
free of weeds, or drought,
and just enough blue sky and sun.
We find that place, and stay long enough
to drag another survivor on.
A Low Barrier Between Life and Death
23 Saturday Jan 2021
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Ash, Beauty, Bird Poems, Bowl and Pitcher, Courage, Death, Death Poems, Dying, Fear of Death, Healing, Hope, Life, Moss, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Ponderosa, River, Soul, Souls, Spokane, Spokane River, Strength, Suicide, Survival, Winter, Winter poem, Yearning
I wonder how many have plunged,
broken bodies against the steep,
unforgiving basalt, to flow far away
from the tether of this rocky outcrop.
There are worse places to die
than underneath a basking ponderosa,
on a glorious day in deep winter,
high, above the earth’s mucosa.
Here is heaven, its gods, the osprey and eagle;
they preside from piney thrones, regal,
and survey with indifferent contemplation;
from their perch, suffering is also celebration.
There are less noble ways to die,
than beneath the wings of geese.
See them glide peacefully
over the rapids of the Spokane,
rage of water in the ears,
shiver of blue sky, full sun.
Yet, if hopeless traveler made the steep climb
to this one, celestial throne:
its blood, a brilliant green moss,
its body, the bare, leafless skeleton of alumroot,
entreating with outstretched arms:
See, the promise of spring.
If they were to navigate loose rock,
on the treacherous path that leads here,
would it be enough to make them cling
to the rock wall in front of me,
this low, precarious barrier between?
Promise of a New Start
15 Thursday Oct 2020
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Afterlife, Bird Poem, Bird Poems, CoronaVirus, Courage, Covid19, Death, Dying, Forgiveness, Hope, Infinite, Life, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Spirit, Spring, Survival
“There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.” Robert Frost
Yet, they do fall, and silent, rot
beneath the changing bow.
Birds gather to peck the flesh
making less of loss,
Or perhaps, no loss at all.
You see,
the Universe claims everything
we leave behind.
Our regrets, too,
like spoiled fruit,
eventually fall away
scavenged by the sun.
Seeds are revealed
inside what we took as dead.
Trust me, next spring
there will be a new start.
Hope We’ll Live Through It
12 Monday Oct 2020
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Alone, Chaos, CoronaVirus, Courage, Covid19, Death, Hope, Loneliness, Loss, Love, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Soul, Souls, Spirit, Spokane, Survival, Yearning
“The hope is that if you live through it, there will be art on the other side.” (Louise Glück)
Two hundred and twenty days,
the sun and sky, still uncaged,
yet, our lives, like flotsam,
float further and further away
from what we knew:
The Fox Theatre sits empty.
And my friend,
how we’ve drifted apart,
you, on your wreckage,
me, on mine, further and further
from the place. Our lives hit
that large rock. The ship
is lost, lost, lost.
Will someone find us,
and salvage what is left?
What is left?
Smoke Taint: 2020 Vintage
09 Friday Oct 2020
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Anger, Chaos, Civil War, CoronaVirus, Covid19, Death, Death Poems, Division, Fear, Fighting, Hate, Hope, hopelessness, Life, Longing, Loss, Memory, Napa, normal, Poem, Poems, Poetry, politics, Smoke Taint, Sonoma, Survival, Wine, Yearning
What does fire taste like in the glass,
Our fear, red with hate, the flames
of civil war? The skin, and the smoke,
cannot be divided; they say
it tastes like ash, what is left
when the smoke clears.
We can see the devastation.
Remnants of a vineyard;
what was there, before tragedy
made our eyes cry with anger.
The tree and native grasses
are poured out, consumed together,
while the vine exists in water it stored,
but cannot save its fruit.
Its creation, aging in the hot fog
of dreams. Life was supposed to be
the taste of flowers, plums, currants,
and only hints of tobacco,
swirled in our glass.
Fuck the New Normal
30 Tuesday Jun 2020
Posted in Poetry
Tags
Chaos, CoronaVirus, Courage, Covid19, Death, Dying, Emptiness, Fear, Fear of Death, Freedom, Life, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Masks, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Soul, Souls, Survival, Women's Poems, Yearning
The Clerk
Imagine being nineteen again,
still pimply and awkward,
parroting a script
from behind a plexiglass wall:
Phone number, please, you say,
and imagine her fingers,
typing one in. You hear the click,
clicking of keys on the keypad,
sickening,
music of the dead,
you think, you’re dying.
The Enforcer
You’re maybe a hundred pounds,
just a little thing, whose mask
covers two thirds your fragile face,
and they buried you at the door,
the enforcer, instructed to say—
This door, not that, and arrows,
follow them, follow them,
do like I do, with this cover,
my voice smothered, my soul—
Wrong Way
I’m sure I was just standing there,
leaning over my cart, watching
my daughter shop for cards,
when I heard her voice—
not the enforcer,
but a fellow peruser, like me,
another blank face, masked,
breathless, breathlessly,
you’re going the wrong way,
she said, you’re not following
the arrows, she said,
and her bony, dead finger
pointed down along the ground.
I followed it, and sure enough,
she was right about me:
Rule breaker, careless
spreader of germs.
The shame, the shame,
she would have me feel,
for facing the wrong way,
disobeying.
New Normal
Fuck that. My latest mantra. Fuck that
and fuck that, too.
Even as I do it.
Where’s the humanity in this?
I want to scream.
But who would hear me?
We’re too busy saving lives
by not living, buttressed
as we are behind masks,
She doesn’t even realize I’m not smiling,
Or, does she? Maybe there’s something
of, fuck this shit, in my eyes,
the only part of me she can see,
if she tries to see, but she doesn’t.
The mask isn’t merely the covering
for a mouth, a nose, —
it’s blanket, too, as in a morgue.
Covering the dead. And I know,
my time is coming soon enough,
but I’m not dead yet, covered as I am,
prepared for burial.
Yet, still pounding on coffins,
trying to pull back the heavy veil,
cursing my heart away,
fuck! Someone help us!
–into the emptiness.
That Day the World Promised to Heal Me
29 Monday Jun 2020
Tags
Alone, CoronaVirus, Covid19, Death, Division, Grace, Gratitude, Healing, Hope, Huckleberries, Life, Loneliness, Love, Mercy, Poem, Poems, Poetry, Sacred, Souls, Strength, Survival, Wilderness
And then the world said,
I will heal you
In ferns, unfurling again,
berries, growing ripe
On the bows of yesterday,
the ones your hands touched,
As you harvested the wild fruit.
This is my great forest of chatter,
it says, in a smattering of late flowers,
a fragrant, maskless breeze,
and trees you can touch with bare hands.
Speak to the sky, it cajoles,
And the sky will answer you back,
With its bold booms, and its wet clouds,
none of this needs viewed
from behind the doom of plexiglass.
The young clerk, who looked down,
and down, and down, faceless,
behind the many layers of protection.
He was humankind, afraid to look up,
afraid to touch, or speak,
or even see one another.
But the world said,
I remain the same, fully open to you.
See me, and I will heal you.
Bits of Poetry 