Whipped in a Thunderstorm

Fluffed up with a fork,

She teased?

Huh?

More like whipped in a thunderstorm,

He replied.

...

There was a fierceness in him.

Not in his voice,
That was but a dry whisper,
But in his eyes.
His spirit was worn
And in tatters,
Save for the nuclei
Found burning behind them.
Faded blue with streaks of indigo
But furious, feral
Almost reptilian in their life force
Resistant
Insistent.

She probed him a bit,
And found herself compelled by him.
And though she saw him vulnerable
When put against her strength, 
She knew that an almost unbreakable
Alliance had been born.

Blackbird Morning

It's a blackbird morning.
I do not take from it
Any overt meaning…
I am happy that they are here
Exploring and enjoying
Their good fortune
In the form of seed and suet.

I am reminded of school children
Let loose for recess;
Let the good times roll.
The birds and I have negotiated
Unilaterally an accord:
 I feed them and
They come close enough
So that I can enjoy their company
From the comfortable view
Of my easy chair

Cup of coffee in hand.

I am the consummate reluctant ornithologist.

Cracked Kettle

But not quite…

"Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time we long to move the stars to pity." - Gustave Flaubert

Thumbing through the thesaurus 

(and if that’s not alliteration, nothing is!)

I want the right word, words

That give meaning to the untenable. 

I sometimes circle-dance around an experience

And throw words at it

To see what sticks,

Ending up with kindas and sortas

Good, but not quite.

It’s as if I don’t really speak

This language,

At least not out loud.

My friend and her dog Willow came upon the body 

Of a newly dead cardinal.

She watched the dog inspect the bird

And as dogs experience the world 

Through their own reality

My friend searched this experience for insight

For the right words
To fathom the meaning
Through the eyes and nose of her dog.
“Tell me Willow, what do you know?”

What Willow knows can only be implied
And applied to the human experience;
Only loosely,
Wanting for words.

Beating on a cracked kettle, indeed.

Movement

Hiking at Glacier
Turning mountain trail corners blindly
Waiting for the bear
While banging my bell,

I came upon a slide

Of earth, rock, branches
And a puzzle of broken trees,
Splayed out in an eruptive flow
A scared swath down the mountain side
Opening a vein
And allowing a view
Of Lake McDonald far below
Looking like a puddle
Cupped in the mountain’s maw
A sapphire oval
With an island dotting the center
Sailing steamboat-like
On its never-ending journey north.

I stared and studied
Wondering and reconstructing
The moment and the movement.
Perhaps a burden of snow
Loosed a rock
Or time tumbled a spruce?
There was an instance
Of initiation
And wondering I wagered
That it all went
From the long pause of potential
To a wild explosion of kinetic.
And if I had been standing there…
Well I wouldn’t be standing here.

I could see the continuation
Of the trail to the opposite side.
And I puzzled again
For some uncertain time of
Venturing across
Stepping into the precarious
And perhaps being swept up
Into this mystery.

I wondered if there were skeletons

Entombed below
And if mine would ever be found
Marked only by detritus
On its downward journey.

Would my path forward
Be a solid safe concretion,

Or one loosely laid out before me?

Such  fates are  likely known only to

Mountain gods.

So I See

if one is willing to look
it’s right there
with just a little fine focus:

three cormorants basking by the pond
friends no doubt
and casually handsome
fine pointing
the freshness of the fish

one raccoon
in the fevered throes of death
stumbling down the trail
frightening and
so sadly wrong
in so many ways

a parcel of squirrels
incessant and persistent
in their quest to eat
every last sunflower seed
if not manic what are they

a murder of crows who laugh

at such human folly

proud but not prideful
rightfully private in their ethnicity

two swans
muted
while posing
for an audience of one
showing to all the world
what love is.

all this
and for you

at the low, low price

of nothing.

Lament

By the kitchen sink one morning

Things can happen without warning

And so beyond the window glass

A scene of life and death did pass

A mourning dove was on the ground

Where seeds dropped from the feeder found

This meal she ate as she was bold

Her feathers plumped to fend the cold

So hunger trumped survival’s rule

She did not see the talons cruel

The hawk swooped down so sure and fast

Its meal this day won’t be its last

A feather grey was all that’s left

A life so sure and now bereft.

The Fire Next Time

The Fire Next Time
(With props to James Baldwin)


That someone is calling for me
Is evident by the list of
Phone calls I get,
Which I leave unanswered.
My smart-ass phone
Emboldens them in red.
No one I know really wants to talk to me…
So just leave a message or send one.

These other folk, call center creatures,
Really just want me to fork over funds
Or fess up to where my son Sean is
Apparently, he owes
Someone
Somewhere
Something.
Really?  You want me to rat out my own kid??

My strategy
Which is tantalizingly unproven
And likely fatally flawed,
Is that if I don’t answer
It (the call generating computer program)
Will give up
Get tired
Go on to other ripe fruit.
Three strikes and I’m out!

Some people fear that there might someday be
A global electromagnetic pulse
Manmade or celestial
Which will fry the internet,
The fire next time.
I see this purge as a potential blessing
In that we all might get liberated
From such probing pestilence.
In any event
I prefer to be un-plucked…

So if you really want me
You need to be on my contact list
My red velvet electronic rope
That discerns the wheat
-I’m SO honored that you answered-
From the chaff
“We’re not worthy…”
Or
You could try knocking at my door.

Drive By

There are signs that clearly point the way,
If you read them
If you let them:

I drive by Chickadee Way
And wonder what they say there
About me
About you.
What do they know?
And I puzzle that a handful of feathers
can so easily cheer
A wanting heart.

I drive by Granite Street
And think long and hard
About just how long and large
The universe is/was/will be
And how small and short my stay
And how great the opportunity.

I drive by Easy Street
(Yes, there is such a place)
And picture people
Warm hand in hand, I think

Blind and blissfully

Joined together to lessen pain
To share a knowing smile
Lessons learned.

I drive by Poet's Corner
(Which is really a pocket park)
And I fill it like black Friday
With a line around the block
Around the world
Sending beauty word by word
Into the tingling future of now.

Drive carefully
But look for your way
Side street, alley or circle
You may need to round the block
Or even get out and walk
To find the streets where your mind can wander
Where your heart can live.

Spring Snow

This spring snowfall does not bother me…
No not at all.
I am not inconvenienced,
Unlike the birds,
Migrant guests who arrived on time
Only to find their rooms not ready.
And it appears that they will make do,
And survive within their world of deeper wisdom.
Such trusting souls.

Spring is such a relative season
A time of arrivals and departures,
The heat of the sun struggles with the cold
Of darker days,
The story of creation ongoing,
As the earth wobbles its winding way
Leaving us with weather filled with a high degree
Of in-betweenness.

Spring looks both backward and forward
I see that now.
So on this morning
And at this moment
I will not struggle in the in-between,
Rather I will choose to be mindful of its wonder
This heat and cold
These flakes and feathers
and be grateful for such gifts.