Friday, December 27, 2013
We’ve named the mountain passes,
fastened brass plaques where we stop
and sigh, but nothing in the natural world
remembers its name.
The wilderness answers to its own
wide spirit, counts any moment
like starlight that arrives unburdened
by the calculations of time.
“You are here” says a dot
on the map I unfold.
“You are not” says the rock
where I plant my foot.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Climbing to the top
of the hill befalls the
difficult part: the boots,
sink into the snow
and each step forward
must double as a step toward facing your racing heart,
a quickness inside you, an inclination that demands you sit down.
Here’s the sensible part of your maturing spirit, the one that brews a pot of tea and steeps the afternoon until the light turns muddy, not the one revisiting this childish slope where you only remember the rush
of sliding down. This going up never felt part of the ritual:
You were born on top, leaning over the edge, hardly
taking time to situate yourself on the slick
sheet of cardboard before giving in
to the sensation of falling,
of feeling the world
crush past you in a blur.
At the bottom, your face frozen
in an expression of pure ecstasy and terror,
you stared straight into the sky’s unblinking eye,
laid out flat on the snow, arms and legs spread wide
as if trying to steady yourself while the earth still whirled,
the whole of your little life committed,
to the memory of coming down.
Friday, December 13, 2013
How easily one forgets
that while losing is bad
losing badly is worse.
After I’ve dealt myself
one more pointless hand
my opponents Dosey doe
like country bumpkins
at a Sadie Hawkins dance.
My partner looks away, solemnly
counting her own fingers.
If only the tabernacle choir knew
the cribbage depression blues.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Is this your new book?
Nope, it’s the same old book from two years ago.
Well, it looks new.
Only if you haven’t read it.
I think I read it, didn’t I?
I don’t know, you said you were going to.
What was it about?
A gracious writer who struggles with a double life.
Yeah, I remember that. What else?
He keeps hoping friends will read his books, but they never do.
Yeah, yeah, that sounds familiar.
The writer finally bounces one of his books off his friend’s skull.
Ouch! You’d think I’d remember that.
The friend suffers amnesia.
An interesting twist.
A doctor recommends a regimen of therapeutic reading to bring back his memories.
Does the list include your book?
Top of the list.
Really? It's that good?
It has impact.
Wait! Don’t say another word. I’ll take this copy, if you’ll just relax your grip.
Prose or poetry, the choice is yours. Please consider a holiday gift from this huge inventory of TWO books, either for yourself, someone you love, someone you respect, or at least someone who hasn’t had a good laugh all year.
Signed and dedicated copies may also be purchased directly from the author -- namely, me.
If you’re thinking, Hey, I hate this guy’s writing, please forward this link to at least 10 people on your mailing list.