Feelasophy

Weekly Worded

2012-02-02T08:02:00.002-07:00

Shadows Heard, Not Seen
(for my brother, Paul, on his 60th)

Sun or shade, the groundhog
wakes wide-eyed from a state
of hibernation as early as January,
rolls over in its burrow and listens
to the dark sounds overhead.

A fox stalks a pheasant through brush,
two deer flinch at the wind
knocking snow loose from a limb
and the owl’s head pivots
like a latch, unlocking its wings.

If a shadow could be heard
it might sound like a shovel against
frozen earth, white with its timpani of thrusts
until the unyielding surface
shatters and surrenders to the light.

Weekly Worded

2012-01-27T13:07:00.002-07:00

Voyage of the Tractor

The farmer tills his field,
waves breaking in his wake,
a linear but rubbled trail bending
to the horizon, a deep tide
churning the roots to topsoil.

This morning below zero,
dew marks each wave
with frost at its peak,
so the land resembles a mad
brown sea with whitecaps.

Weekly Worded

2012-01-20T08:03:00.003-07:00

Rose’s Outhouse

Its occupants once sat
sheltered under an apple tree,
an occasional wind rushing in
to slam its splintering door.

Nobody sits there anymore.
When it rains the walls weep.
Crescent of moon, shadow of starlight.
The sun has silvered its boards.

Rose remembers the blossoms
each spring, those firm round apples.
Lord, how she misses that tree
but never the outhouse.

Weekly Worded

2012-01-13T08:10:00.002-07:00

H-E Double Hockey Sticks

Our steel blades bit into the plywood
floor, hatching and crosshatching
the grain so it resembled a glacial scar.

The metal door creaked as the cold
stepped in. Though nobody looked up
someone shouted, Shut the effing door!

and it slammed. More times than could be
counted it slammed. Like a wrecking ball
it shook the tin shack as it slammed.

The extremities freeze first, fingers
and toes, the tip of the nose,
and if we’d stayed in, out of the wind,

left our hockey sticks leaning against
the wall, that puck like buried coal
wouldn’t have warmed us at all.

Weekly Worded

2012-01-06T08:17:00.004-07:00

Seasonal Pentimento

The pond will not decide
if it’s solid or liquid.
Some mornings a palette
of ice stipples the sunrise.

Some evenings the wind
stirs the surface
with brushstrokes.
It’s a composition in flux,

counterpointed by three ducks
with their rumps
sticking out of the water.

Weekly Worded

2011-12-30T07:51:00.005-07:00

The Year in Preview

Next year will be different:
suicide bombers will be kinder,
senseless shooters more considerate,
the banks less greedy.

Congress will get to work
legislating America’s confidence
and hangovers from drunken holidays
will be covered by Medicare.

European debt will melt like polar ice
and dead movie stars will come back to life.
It will be a landmark year for self delusion.
Earthquakes, tornadoes, and oil spills

will manifest themselves
for study instead of destruction.
The homeless will begin to relish
the freedom of not owning a home.

Wildlife will adapt to the virtues
of domesticity, nuclear power plants
will generate the scent of fresh snow,
and a forest of electronic books

will be harvested by hackers,
to be left on the virtual doorsteps
of overcrowded online schools.
An abducted child will be found

alive -- the police apprehending
a network of journalists who suggested
things would not turn out
as well as they did.

Weekly Worded

2011-12-23T16:55:00.003-07:00

iCare

    “That patch is your iPad?”
    “Yeah, I got it for Christmas.”
    “What happened?”
    “I impaled myself with a blunt pair of scissors.”
    “That hadda hurt.”
    “Not so much, since the swelling’s gone down.”
    “No, I mean confusing a pad for your eye with an iPad.”
    “Say again?”
    “Your parents got you an eye patch, not an iPad.”
    “You’re just mad ‘cause you didn’t get one.”
    “I want a tablet, not a pirate accessory.”
    “What’s the difference?”
    “You think like a toddler.”
    “I’m almost three, same as you.”
    “Didn’t you see the commercial?”
    “They must have put me down for a nap.”
    “Well, an iPad watches movies, listens to music, contacts friends, and reads books.”
    “What’s reads books?”
    “I’m not sure, but the commercial said iPad will teach us.”
    “Then I still want one.”
    “So do I.”
    “What if we start crying?”
    “They’ll just change our butt pads.”

Weekly Worded

2011-12-16T07:40:00.002-07:00

My Neighbor Sleeps

And by degrees his cows
bellow to the bovine moon

until frost braids a muzzle
out of their breath.

They own no shelter
except themselves,

a blanket of hide,
a belly stoked on hay.

Beside the valley of morning
a record cold temperature lowing.

Weekly Worded

2011-12-09T13:38:00.007-07:00

“Down, Down -- .”

The chainsaw snarled, rattled in the air,
making confetti of the willow tree,
severing limb after limb, leaving
a trunk thick as a torso quivering
beside the fence. From where I’d climbed, revving
the engine, I could see five of my
neighbor’s cows watching me from a distance.
And the chainsaw snarled and rattled,
snarled and rattled, dropping limbs into
the mud where the cows often wallow.
Such a sweet smell of engine oil filled
the air, yet nothing changed. Call it a day --
not a chance, not until I’d lopped the top
by sections and tossed each chunk back into
my own yard without flattening the fence
that guarded his cattle. But the ladder,
as if to prove its inferiority
to solid footholds, began to sway when
the chainsaw pinched between a sagging branch.
Then I knew, since I was old enough to know,
to get the hell off that ladder even if
it meant leaving the chainsaw hanging in
mid-air, which I did, descending three rungs
at a time. Nothing to cut with now.
And the cows, since they needed no chainsaws,
turned to ruminate on their own affairs.

Weekly Worded

2011-12-02T12:16:00.001-07:00

Explaining the Constellations

Where gophers surface
to survey the vacant field,
pockets of loose dirt blossom
like a chain of brown flowers.

The sun, too, is on its way to ground,
a pale pink light illuminating
the underbellies of clouds.
As darkness backfills the sky,
the persistent stars poke through.

Weekly Worded

2011-11-25T07:28:00.002-07:00

Black Tanka

where tub and tile meet
a shadow of mildew grows
subtle as whiskers

on a Japanese poet
calligraphy of sorrow

Weekly Worded

2011-11-18T19:51:00.002-07:00

Tap the key with the little finger
and it takes you back
though not like a fountain of youth,
not like a time machine,
not even like memory.
At the edge of your previous thought
the cursor insists that going forward
is only marginally related
to going back.
The person you fell in love with
before learning what love was,
the last words you spoke to your father --
it’s all related, the line above
necessary to get you to the place
where you wait for the next one.
Return.
Start again.
But not with her,
not with your father,
not with the idea you had any idea
of where you would end up.

Weekly Worded

2011-11-11T07:46:00.003-07:00

Murmurings

        Communal to a fault,
                starlings flock to the same updraft,
                                 swoon like a black silk scarf
until the impression collectively shifts,
dives suddenly toward the earth,
         that table where untangling what one bird
            wants from what the murmuration requires
                    is weighed, pushed back up into the sky,
                            still dark with ten thousand other birds
                  weightlessly deciding.

Weekly Worded

2011-11-04T12:21:00.001-06:00

Before the Migration Tanka

After the wind has stripped all
the leaves from the limbs,
scattering them on the ground,

how much easier to see the birds
flocking the trees in feathers.

Weekly Worded

2011-10-28T19:56:00.001-06:00

Squatter

Only a small newt
inhabits the crawl space under my house.

I don’t get down there often
but when I’m forced to open the hatch

and duck-walk the distance to the sump,
the newt stands perfectly still

protecting its ground,
meditating on some damp and inner darkness.

Touch the tail and it scurries
a few indignant steps, but stays.

All day my feet upstairs
drum against the hardwood floor.

I am always the neighbor at the door
who tries the knob before knocking.

Weekly Worded

2011-10-22T19:43:00.002-06:00

This Pause Brought To You By

I heard a whispered word
as I sat upstairs, one word:

Wait. I didn’t know what else
it could mean. I was already

waiting for electrical power
to return, the house gone black.

The clock on the wall frozen,
the refrigerator keeping its cool,

the telephone finally hushed,
but that word slid like a

sheet of paper under a door,
like a ripple of linen smoothed.

Wait it whispered, again. I closed
my eyes so my ears could see better.

Weekly Worded

2011-10-14T22:45:00.001-06:00

Farmer

On his three acres the weeds grow tall,
Camelthorn, Musk Thistle, Russian Knapweed.
He recites their names like poetry, the words
wild on his tongue, and though he knows
they don’t belong, he tastes their unusual roots,
his palate warming to their tenacity,
so unlike the words he learned at school.

His favorite -- African Rue, as if sorrow came
from another continent to spread its five perfect
petals across his yard, his field, to circle his pond.
Neighbors complain to the county agent, but
he treats all words like weeds and lets them be,
unimpeded, erupting where they fall.

Weekly Worded

2011-10-07T21:11:00.004-06:00

Apple-Picking After Frost

My ladder is unreliable and
the apples are red as Mars.
From the shed I take down a long-
handled rake and carry it to the tree.

Standing beneath the branches,
I hold it up-side-down and reach
the tines like fingers. As I nudge
each sweet planet, the stem breaks,

and I try to catch the apple
before it hits me or the ground.
My neighbor brews another
cup of her steaming herbal teas,

swearing she’s seen a grown
man in a tree, raking leaves.

Weekly Worded

2011-09-30T21:32:00.000-06:00

The Accountant and Daniel Webster

    “Don’t you ever balance your checkbook?”
    “I’m not an acrobat.”
    “How do you know if your check bounces?”
    “I always hear some kind of twang.”
    “Your problem is that you’re not fiscally responsible.”
    “That’s why I hired you.”
    “I can’t help if you don’t take your finances seriously.”
    “But I do, I spend what I make.”
    “This credit card statement says you spend more than you make.”
    “I spend, therefore I am.”
    “Debt is no kind of existence.”
    “That’s what the guy on the phone said.”
    “What else did this guy say?”
    “He laughed, a whuh-ha-ha kind of laugh.”
    “He sounds evil. Did your soul come up in the conversation?”
    ”He said hire an accountant or he’d haul my assets in court.”
    “Just to be clear, are you sure he didn’t say ‘haul your ass into count‘?”
    “I’m not sure, he lisped.”
    “Then either way he threatened your booty with judicial penury.”
    “Is that bad?”
    “It’s a lot less dangerous than theology.”
    “So can you fix this for me?”
    “Any strong feelings about your soul?”
    “Only if it’s worth something.”
    “Oh, at this point I’d say it’s your only asset.”

Weekly Worded

2011-09-23T18:10:00.004-06:00

Nomads In America

   “Driving a huge rig like that can’t be a holiday.”
   “It’s not a vacation, it’s our home.”
   “You live in there?”
   “Sold our traditional house a year ago, now the road is our home.”
   “What’s in that enclosed trailer you’re towing behind the RV?”
   “That’s our garage. We store our ATVs, lawn chairs, barbecue, tools, other stuff.”
   “So what’s up with the jeep attached behind the trailer?”
   “It doesn’t fit in the garage.”
   “And the boat strapped on top of the jeep?”
   “The fruit of downsizing.”
   “What about mileage?”
   “Oh, we don’t keep track of that. We move as the spirit moves us.”
   “You can’t be moving very fast.”
   “Rushing about is no longer our way of life.”
   “And those bicycles, I’d stay awake worrying they’d get stolen.”
   “We hide them under the boat at night.”
   “I’d better let you go. A few cars have gathered behind you.”
   “Not to worry. It’s just the kids wondering where we’ll be stopping tonight.”
   “Your kids still live with you?”
   “Not all the time. If we catch a good tailwind, it could be a couple days before they find us.”

Weekly Worded

2011-09-16T22:57:00.003-06:00

Back To School Across America

By now a number two shaded dusk
has settled across California.

Redwoods leaning toward the ocean
cast immense shadows
like a million Ticonderoga pencils

assigned an hour of homework
after a listless summer vacation.

On the east coast it’s already
too late to get started,
good intentions fast asleep,

lulled by a melodious surf
as it erases every shoreline.

Weekly Worded

2011-09-09T19:57:00.004-06:00

Homebodies

The trouble with cows is
they’re really no trouble.
Such perfect neighbors
along our shared fence,
peaceful except when the moon
chases them at night.

They follow me along the wire
when I’m mowing,
the smell of fresh cut grass
like an invitation.
Their pasture is sufficient
all spring, summer, fall,

their forage ample all winter.
When I stare out my window,
eventually clouds appear
to me no different than cows
crowded together in the shade
of their sublime ruminations.

Weekly Worded

2011-09-02T19:35:00.004-06:00

Adjective Deficit Disorder

    “My son has no idea what an adjective is.”
    “That’s not unusual for a fifth grader.”
    “But he doesn’t want to know.”
    “That’s not so strange either. Even adults hate grammar.”
    “How will he ever be able to describe what’s going on inside of him?”
    “Adjectives aren’t the only parts of speech that describe.”
    “I have a confession.”
    “I know, you’re not sure what an adjective is either.”
    “It’s a genetic flaw. Not even my parents had a clue.”
    “Relax. Millions of people lead full and happy lives without knowing.”
    “Do you think if I study up and start using them my son will get interested?”
    “You’ve already been using them.”
    “I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
    “No apology necessary.”
    “Apology. That’s an adjective, isn’t it?”
    “No, apology is a noun, but sorry is an adjective.”
    “How can sorry be an adjective when it’s an apology?”
    “The labyrinths of grammar are complicated.”
    “What’s a labyrinths?”
    “Labyrinth is a noun, labyrinths is the plural form of the noun.”
    “I feel so stupid.”
    “Stupid is an adjective.”
    “Oh, well then I feel so adjective.”
    “Actually, the word adjective is a noun. It can’t be used as an adjective.”
    “Is there a pill I can take to help me pay attention?”
    “Grammar itself is a pill.”
    “I took it, but I never passed it.”
    “It takes a long time to digest.”

Weekly Worded

2011-08-26T21:11:00.002-06:00

The Writing Coach

    “Nietzsche thought God's boredom after the seventh day of creation would be a great subject to write about. Give that a try.’”
    “That’s plagiarism.”
    “Nietzsche is dead, he won’t mind.”
    “But the subject is sacrilegious.”
    “God won’t mind.”
    “Why not?”
    “According to Nietzsche, he’s dead too.”
    “Probably bored to death.”
    “There you go, an excellent place to start.”
    “What else is there to say?”
    “What, for instance, did God do to relieve his boredom?”
    “Apparently nothing, if he’s dead.”
    “Okay, forget that I said he’s dead.”
    “You said Nietzsche said he’s dead.”
    “Okay, forget that Nietzsche said he’s dead.”
    “Is Nietzsche really dead?”
    “Good God, yes, not a word since the year 1900.”
    “It could be a case of writer’s block.”
    “Excellent, another subject to break your dry spell. Try that one.”
    “A writer with writer’s block writing about writer’s block?”
    “What’s wrong with that?”
    “Anything I wrote would be proof that I don’t have writer’s block.”
    “You’re killing me with these excuses.”
    “At least you’re not bored.”

Weekly Worded

2011-08-19T19:39:00.001-06:00

Postscript With Full Moon Rising

In the wet mud
near the mailbox
raccoon tracks,
so precise
I trace the signature
of five splayed toes
as if they were the inked
footprints at the bottom
of my own birth certificate.
We must be kin
nocturnally checking for mail,
dressed in warm fur,
wearing a mask.
Opening latches,
turning knobs,
civilized marauders
taking our time
with strangers.
We are just getting
to know each other.
The frogs, I love them too,
though differently.
At night their croaking
crescendos with the moon
rising, and what I take
from this moment
of crouching over tracks
is a natural curiosity.

Weekly Worded

2011-08-12T20:43:00.003-06:00

Painted Desert By Numbers

Before sunrise
it’s thirty-six degrees.

Before sunset
it’s ninety-eight.

Between the two
it’s summer fall winter spring

all in one day,
but who can say which.

Weekly Worded

2011-08-05T21:26:00.001-06:00

Testament of the West

Noah stood on the porch,
watched the bar ditch
fill with water. Thunderheads
boiled and the rain fell.
The fields around him absorbed
all they could, culverts couldn’t
take any more, but Noah stood
by the house he built, two bedrooms
and two baths.

He installed a basement
sump pump and gutters
along the eaves, but the bar ditch
was an old testament
to poor planning. He opened
his second beer as the lawn
succumbed to the gush
of muddy water.
God’s bounty must be endured.

Weekly Worded

2011-07-29T20:47:00.004-06:00

Not Sleeping Together

    “Do you have any plans for the night?”
    “Ummmm, sleeping? What did you have in mind?”
    “I’ll probably be up all night.”
    “Oh. Sounds tedious.”
    “I’m an insomniac, I have no choice.”
    “So you’re asking me to sit up and talk with you?”
    “Would you?”
    “Why not just lie down here next to me?”
    “How will that help?”
    “I talk in my sleep.”

Weekly Worded

2011-07-22T14:19:00.004-06:00

This Just In

On a nocturnal stretch of gravel
   two yellow headlights stab
through a thick plume of dust,
   a farmer rubbing his eyes tries
to stay alert, but he’s hauling the weight
   of his day in the bed of his truck.

On a nearby highway a chrome diesel
   ignites the horizon like a meteor,
tons of overnight freight packed
   into a semi trailer in boxes
no bigger than the bales the farmer
   just stacked away.

At the intersection where one life
   must yield to another
is a house with a television
   that is never turned off
and the news flickers through lifetimes
   like the stars.

Weekly Worded

2011-07-15T20:14:00.001-06:00

Ninety-Nine Degrees and Then

Such relief
to step into the water
ankle deep,

to feel a cool pleasure surge
up the brain’s
tributaries and empty

into that
vast basin of memory
where you say

Ah, and the rippling waves
say the same
long syllable back to you.

Weekly Worded

2011-07-08T20:36:00.002-06:00

One More American In Paris

    Paris felt like the perfect choice for a spring vacation. He didn’t speak French, but he liked the sound of it.
    When he booked airline tickets, he also made a reservation at an old hotel in the Latin quarter of the city. He didn’t speak Latin either, but he’d always admired the Roman Empire.
    Jim Morrison had supposedly stayed at the same hotel. He liked Morrison’s music, especially “Light My Fire.” He didn’t remember all the lyrics, but he related to the part about coming on to babes who got off on lighting fires.
    The guidebook advised against driving in the city, but he arranged for a car rental at the airport, because he considered himself a good driver. Out of deference to the guidebook, he paid for the extra insurance.
    For sure, he wanted to visit Notre Dame. He wasn’t religious, but he’d seen that Hunchback movie quite a few times as a child and it was still one of his favorites.
    Pastries and cheeses and wine were on his dietary restrictions list, but he wasn’t terribly fond of those foods anyway. Besides, the chance of finding a chef in Paris that had the same health problems as he did must be pretty good.
    All in all, a trip to a foreign country would, as his friends kept saying, expand his horizons. He couldn’t imagine how the skyline in France could be any wider than what he was used to at home. Still, he was sure it would fit on a postcard.

Weekly Worded

2011-07-02T12:20:00.002-06:00

Decline of the Cottonwood Empire

One summer without water
and the cottonwood leaves yellow
long before autumn.

Two summers
and the cottonwood’s crown
turns bald.

Three summers and nothing
green comes back except grass
ringing its massive trunk.

Four summers and the bark
strips, peeling from the limbs
like shingles in a windstorm.

Five summers without water
and the cottonwood’s bones
bleach grey and white.

One chainsaw powders
half a century while a hawk
carves circles in the air.

Weekly Worded

2011-06-24T15:13:00.001-06:00

Buoyancy

   The temperature was supposed to climb to a hundred degrees, so I unfolded my two
inner tubes, inflated them, and headed for the river. Along the highway I spotted a hitchhiker, his thumb extended like a valve stem.
   “Hop in, where are you headed?”
   “I’m headed north, where my girlfriend lives.”
   “Ah” I said, winking, “so you’re in a hurry.”
   “Not really, she dumped me last week. I just want to see what the other guy looks like.”
   “So, technically she’s not your girlfriend?”
   “Nope, you’re right, she’s my ex-girlfriend.”
   “It might be instructive for you to take a run with me down the rapids in one of those inner tubes?”
   I gestured with my own thumb toward the bed of the pickup. He eyed my plan but declined. Water made him nervous. At the spot where I usually launch, I pulled off.
   “This is where I float.”
   He watched me from the road while I lashed my tubes together, slathered sun block on my skin and climbed down the bank to the water.
   “Last chance” I called up to him, “If you die your ex-girlfriend will feel real bad.”
   I know he wanted to jump in but his pack hung from one hand like an anchor.
   “An inner tube is as safe as a condom” I shouted.
   I pushed off and he watched me drift away from the bank, out into the current, ignoring a dozen possible rides, his thumb half-cocked, pointing toward his shoes.

Weekly Worded

2011-06-18T21:04:00.009-06:00

Peasant At Rest

A good way into the evening,
after the sun has set
but while the horizon still bleeds
its report of the day,

he stands beside the road
at the edge of his lot
listening to irrigation water
trace its signature in mud.

Half a hundred cattails
crowd into the ditch
to witness the signing,
their stalks straight,

their brown bearskin helmets
like British palace guards
commanded to attention.
Under a canopy of willows

the night gathers its militia.
This peace will be brief,
the dog next door
still hasn’t had its say.

Weekly Worded

2011-06-10T22:02:00.002-06:00

Close As Possible

If one life ends
as another begins,

we are no closer
to finding the hand of God

in anything we hope to touch,
except in the hand

we held,
in the hand we hold.

Weekly Worded

2011-06-05T13:36:00.001-06:00

Partial Service

    “I’d like to ship this package, please.”
    “Certainly. How badly do you want it to arrive?”
    “Standard shipping will be fine.”
    “So you don’t care about the person who’s receiving it?”
    “Of course I care.”
    “Standard shipping is no way to show you care.”
    “What would you recommend?”
    “Our Bubbles & Hugs package mailer.”
    “What’s that?”
    “Your merchandise is wrapped in a thin layer of plastic bubbles that when popped release a chemically engineered scent of your pheromones.”
    “But I’m sending this to my sister!”
    “Oh, that might be awkward. May I recommend our triple upgrade.”
    “I just want it to arrive in good condition.”
    “Our triple upgrade guarantees that. The first upgrade makes sure it’s on the correct truck, the second upgrade discourages abusive drivers from handling your delivery, and the third upgrade triples your shipping cost.”
    “Why would I want to triple my cost?”
    “To show you care, in a non-awkward way.”
    “I’ll stick with standard shipping.”
    “That will be fifty dollars, without insurance.”
    “Fifty dollars? How much with insurance?”
    “A hundred.”
    “I’ll drive it there myself for a hundred dollars.”
    “Excellent. If you’ll back up to the loading dock before leaving, we have a few other packages going in your direction.”

Weekly Worded

2011-05-27T21:48:00.002-06:00

Pond & Tanka

Frogs in the cattails --
an amphibian chorus
of unemployed Greek

actors still commenting on
a long-running tragedy.

Weekly Worded

2011-05-22T21:10:00.003-06:00

   “Your rubber ducky is up-side-down in the irrigation pond.”
   “I know, it never would have survived in the wild.”
   “It’s not surviving in the pond.”
   “I’d hoped for a better transition from the bathtub environment.”
   “Well Darwin, it’s survival of the fittest, and that’s one sad rubber ducky.”
   “Actually, petroleum-based species survive longer than you think.”
   “Stuck in the petrified mud for a millennium is not survival.”
   “Rubber duckies have souls with the elasticity of Buddhist monks.”
   “Rubber duckies are manufactured, not sentient.”
   “A god by any other name can still create.”
   “But they aren’t alive!”
   “Sentient beings lack authority to testify about an object’s feelings.”
   “Are you saying I’m dumber than a rubber ducky?”
   “I’m saying you are not a rubber ducky.”
   “I’m not face down in an irrigation pond.”
   “My point exactly.”
   “So, if I jump into the pond, would we both be rubber duckies?”
   “Close, but still lacking in what a ducky feels.”
   “Really! How would I experience that?”
   “I’d be required to throw you in.”

Weekly Worded

2011-05-13T21:19:00.003-06:00

“Poems That Touch You”
(title in a bookstore)

I’ve read poetry that didn’t
touch me, and the truth is --
if I had to choose -- I’d prefer
what’s less invasive.
Sadness, rage, hormonal
indiscretion -- it all amounts to
a form of lyrical masturbation
like a Shakespearean sonnet
that couples with itself
in the last two lines.
I do not want any indiscriminate
touching when I pick a book
off the shelf and stand in the aisle
reading a page or two,
clueless as to what I'll feel.
Boundaries assert themselves
in a world so random.
Once I touched a girl
who didn’t expect it,
a sweet spot she preferred
to keep to herself.
To her, I am no different
than the poem she had
to memorize in the fifth grade
and has since forgotten.
If art imitates life
then let us not be touched
when all we want
is to be moved.

Weekly Worded

2011-05-07T07:49:00.002-06:00

Tending the Kitty

    “Retire at 75 and you’ll live comfortably on these benefits.”
    “Unless I’m dead before 75.”
    “You’ll still have everything you need.”
    “What does a dead person need?”
    "Don’t be so morbid, we’ve got a future to plan.”
    “Retirement isn’t a future.”
    “What would you call it?”
    “A last supper at the actuary tables.”
    “Why set up a retirement portfolio if this is how you feel?”
    “My cat is blackmailing me.”
    “Your cat?”
    “Yeah, Kitty is my beneficiary.”
    “Your cat’s name is Kitty?”
    “He named himself.”
    “Kitty is a he?”
    “It’s a ruse, he has a pitbull soul.”
    “I have to tell you, chances are you’ll outlive any cat.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    “This is strange. Who would administer your funds after you’re, let’s say, gone?”
    “So, you do think I’ll be dead.”
    “Not necessarily, but legal issues arise when a person leaves money to an animal.”
    “What sort of issues?”
    “Well, it’s costly to designate and oversee a caretaker.”
    “Then I won’t have enough money to live comfortably?”
    “Yes, you would, if you lived, but the cat would have, let’s say, challenges.”
    “What sort of challenges?”
    “For one thing, he’d have to pay for your funeral.”
    “He’ll just bury me in the litter box.”
    “That wouldn’t be wise.”
    “That’s what I told him.”
    “What was his advice?”
    “The cat? You think Kitty talks?”
    “Well, you’re talking to him, aren’t you?”
    “Yeah, but I’m also talking to you.”

Weekly Worded

2011-04-29T19:47:00.005-06:00

Expecting Rain

By daybreak, I’d heard.
Was told.
Believed.
By lunch
clouds pillowed
against clouds
like petals on a gray rose.
I could smell
the aroma of earth
melded to sky,
a vision of virga
floated past.
By six o’clock dust
kicked up in the road
by a stiff wind
moved across the field,
the horizon.
The air turned yellow
like smoke, igniting
such a glorious sunset
I thought no rain
was worth it.
By bedtime I’d taken my vows,
to believe in nothing
except disappointment
and all the beauty it can bring.

Weekly Worded

2011-04-22T16:02:00.001-06:00

Saddle Math

One coyote,
a dozen howls.

One cowboy,
a thousand cows.

One moon,
a million stars.

One Ford,
a billion cars.

Weekly Worded

2011-04-15T08:22:00.001-06:00

A Fraction of the Hole

The bar ditch runoff
from my neighbor’s field
collects in a low spot
at the end of my driveway.
The culvert can’t keep it clear,
so I have to accept the water as my puny pond,
my mosquito breeder,
my frog haven.
When it rains
the water rises,
when it’s dry
the water disappears.
For privacy I have cattails
cross-fenced with red willows.
The birds wouldn’t have it
any other way.
I’m of a mind to tell my neighbor
I want it dry
but I’m also of a predilection to say
what comes down the hill
is only passing through,
as it is with me,
as it is with you.

Weekly Worded

2011-04-08T10:46:00.003-06:00

Hotel Calypso

When room service arrives
I can’t believe how her tresses
cascade over her shoulders
or the Mediterranean blue of her eyes.

I hold the door wide as the sea itself
and she sets a silver tray
on the black marble coffee table.
I should ask, “How much do I owe you?”

but I’m afraid she’ll say
“Seven years” so I just nod and smile,
as if I don’t speak any language,
as if I’m afflicted by stupidity,

as if I am too old to care.
But I’m not illiterate.
I’ve plodded through what Odysseus suffered
at the hands of his nymph.

My bed last night radiated such softness
I ordered a pot of coffee
to stir my dreams like the surf
crashing below my balcony.

On this island of Gozo
there’s a cave I want to visit tomorrow
which my tour book describes as
“just a narrow opening

at the top of a steep cliff”
and as she stoops to pour the coffee
I have a glimpse
of where all the trouble began.

Weekly Worded

2011-04-02T08:49:00.004-06:00

Bacchus Doesn’t Drink Here Anymore

    The restaurant was empty. The waitress showed me to a table near the window. She seated me, then apologized for the frenzied pace of the evening, rushing off to the kitchen where she claimed something was on the cusp of burning. I picked up the menu and glanced at the list of daily specials. Returning, she looked disheveled, as if she’d just finished wrestling with the chef.
    “Is everything okay back there in the kitchen?”
    “Oh, yes” she sighed, running one hand through her hair while the other smoothed a few wrinkles out of her skirt.
    “May I bring you something to drink?”
    “What do you recommend?”
    “Nectar of the gods.”
    I picked up the wine list, scanned it, but nothing going by that name was listed.
    “Is this nectar concoction a mixed drink?”
    “Oh no, it’s the actual thing.”
    I looked up at her, expecting a smile, a giggle, some acknowledgment of the incredulity of what she had just said, but her eyes drifted dreamily toward the ceiling.
    “So, what’s in this nectar drink?”
    “Gee, I’m not entirely sure, but I know Zeus orders it every time he’s here.”
    “Zeus?”
    “Yeah, him and Cronus. And the Vestal Virgins, when they’re out on the town, which isn’t that often I’m sorry to say.”
    I glanced around the restaurant once more, every table vacant, not a soul aside from the waitress and me.
    “Are you trying to tell me the Greek gods eat here?”
    “Oh yeah, and the Roman gods too, but not on the same night.”
    I decided to probe a little deeper: “Has Thor been in?”
    She glanced around surreptitiously, then leaned close to my ear: “He ordered take-out once, but complained about the meatballs.”
    I didn’t know what else to say, my knowledge of mythology was hampered by a single poorly taught high school English course over forty years ago.
    “Do you serve ambrosia?”
    “That’s our speciality!” she announced, clapping her hands together like a water nymph that’s just had a shower.
    “Then I’ll have a mug of your nectar, a plate of ambrosia, and a side of french fries.”
    Mythological food is fine, if one has an appetite for it, but a little fat can get a person through the leaner times.

Weekly Worded

2011-03-25T13:33:00.004-06:00

I Can't Hold the Door Forever

For as long as I can remember
the gate has been latched
with rusty barbed wire.
All I have to do

is put a little pressure on
the top rail and step through
the opening that yawns like a portal.
All the animal spirits that have

ever grazed here greet me.
When I let the rail go, the gate
springs back into place
as if it hadn't been disturbed,

assaulted by no force
more insistent than weather.
Anyone can see
this used to be a pasture.

The fence posts are leaning too,
and I could have stepped across
the sagging wire
easily as skipping a rope.

The deer know, and every other
animal that congregates
in these half wild places.
We choose our openings.

Weekly Worded

2011-03-18T07:54:00.002-06:00

The Other Shoe

When my father fell
nobody spoke of endings.
They said, Ouch! and
Is he alright?
but nobody mentioned mortality
because nobody knew.

He’d always gotten back up,
so for three months took aspirin
and complained about arthritis.
He wouldn’t see a doctor
until the pain of trying to stand
quelled his rage.

When they showed him the x-ray
he pretended to understand
how a surgeon could fix his hip
but maybe he knew all along,
and it just took ninty-four years
plus three months to decide
it was time to go.

Weekly Worded

2011-03-11T08:14:00.002-07:00

If This Is a Test, I Failed

Two fronts converged
in the sky.
The barometer fell
off the wall.
I couldn’t remember
which corner
of the house was the safest
so I just sat down
on the floor,
pulled a pillow
from a chair
and curled up
like a question mark.
I thought about
how my life
is punctuated by
questions, how
I never know
what’s right, even
without an emergency.
The air outside
was suddenly so still
I could hear a child
crying next door.
Maybe the wind
came up, maybe
the sound of a train
rushed through the house
with its string of exclamations.
All I know is
I fell asleep
and when I woke
I still had questions.

Weekly Worded

2011-03-04T07:50:00.000-07:00

A Field Guide to Dreams

Fall asleep
and a region of the brain opens.
It’s wild
but it’s not wilderness.
Identify any tracks
to be sure they were made
that day, or the day before.
Forget about proper supplies,
but be ready to step aside
when what approaches
turns ugly.
Sometimes you must run,
or running, fall.
Pick up the stones
worn smooth as teeth.
If the frustration of not finding
a safe path wakes you,
stare at the starless ceiling
above your bed
until you are familiar again
with your body.
Tug the bed sheet
tight against your chin
and in this makeshift tent
wait for sunrise.

Weekly Worded

2011-02-25T07:48:00.001-07:00

Empty Tanka

Like the price of gas,
my love for you increases.
If destiny says

we’ll always be together,
why don’t we just take your car.

Weekly Worded

2011-02-18T12:11:00.002-07:00

My Life As An Impressionist

If I could stand back far enough
the whole point of life
might come into focus.
From the ceiling above my bed
I’d watch myself wake
and not have to guess at the day
through the lidded folds of my blankets.
Or better, watch from the roof
as I slam the door and understand
why I can’t help being late.
If a hawk on its limb
sees its hunger, how much quicker
from my perch will I strike
at my smallest fears.

Up close, it all looks
like brush stokes,
every gesture articulated,
every variation of blue layered
so tightly against the other
the horizon collapses
into a flat line
instead of quivering
like the lip of infinity.

Weekly Worded

2011-02-12T09:27:00.002-07:00

Road Prayer

Dusk obscures this motel’s flaws
so that its badly weathered paint
glows like a halo. Heavenly oasis
of the desert tucked into the armpit

of an exit ramp, I know better
than to stop here, but tonight I am
bone weary from driving. I hope
more than two cars are parked

like ratty couches outside the rooms.
I pray a counter exists where both
money and keys can be exchanged
instead of through a slot in the wall

below a smudged pane of glass. I want
healthy flowers growing in the planters,
pliant springs supporting my bed.
Let the shower be named for a geyser,

may the toilet eddy and flush.
After I lie down, permit the vacancy sign
like a two-year old to stay up all night
and never quit saying “No”.

Weekly Worded

2011-02-04T11:57:00.001-07:00

Two Feet Into Paradise

When I find a boot
to fit my crooked right toe
then the left boot’s loose.
The calloused heel
shines like a tin star,
and a bone spur aches when I stand.
Oh, unmatched feet, you plague me
like the metric system.
I swear I’ll cross Hell barefoot
if in this life I can find
a comfortable pair of shoes,
but these boats I’m sailing
come with either oars.
If I’m going down
let me not be burdened
with layers of orthotics
and the questionable ethics
of trimming mole skins.
Jimmy Hoffa, where did you
find those concrete overshoes?

Weekly Worded

2011-01-28T19:24:00.001-07:00

Editing the Pasture

If the fence posts lean any further
the wire will begin to loop
and remind me of her penmanship.

I’m not worried any cows will escape
because they’ve been gone as long as she,
but rather, that eventually her words

will return, providing such
an uncomfortable perch for the birds.

Weekly Worded

2011-01-21T19:46:00.001-07:00

In Praise of Insulation

The roof, shed of its snowpack,
gathers the sun’s heat again.

Upstairs under the shingles
the attic warms while

outside the temperature
hasn’t climbed above freezing.

On such a day I could lift
from the mausoleum of dusty boxes

my dimmest memories and hold them
under the glare of a bare bulb

but it has all been so neatly packed away.
To open one box would only

lead to another, and what is the past
if not an accumulation of things we

can not touch wrapped up in the feeling
that we also can not let them go.

Weekly Worded

2011-01-14T20:14:00.001-07:00

As the Cold Becomes You

Imagine below zero
behind your skin, ice
etching lace on your smooth
white teeth, blood turning to slush,
arteries pulsing like blue neon tubes
so that no one walking past
can help but stare at the stillness
you are carrying inside.
The second hand on your wrist
sweeps the watch crystal clear
so the shadow of a miniature angel
hovers in front of your face.
Three sharp jabs a few decibels
higher than a dog whistle
and all the warning you need
tingles at your extremities.
Go deeper, you think, quickly now,
toward a flicker of warmth,
into that narrow hallway
where a bright door swings open.

Weekly Worded

2011-01-07T21:36:00.001-07:00

As icicles blossom
along the eaves, paperwhites
unfold on the window sill.

Winter sun draws it both ways:
up and down.

Weekly Worded

2010-12-31T22:09:00.005-07:00

Time Times Temperature

Not just twelve degrees
but twelve degrees below zero.

The cold etches its lace
on the window glass.

The patio door gets locked
without a key.

The water pipes
are sluggish as an old man’s arteries.

I would get up and go to bed
but the New Year is over an hour away

and the mantle clock quit chiming
minus two degrees ago.

Weekly Worded

2010-12-24T21:05:00.007-07:00

All That’s Left of the World

“I understand you have a rare volume of Rachel Carson’s Silent Spring.”
“Indeed we do.”
“What makes it so scarce?”
“The pages are blank.”
“All of the pages?”
“Every one of them.”
“What’s on the title page?”
“Not a word.”
“Then how do you know it’s a copy of Silent Spring?”
“Like I said, all the pages are blank.”
“Is this a joke?”
“We think it was, one that Carson herself perpetrated on the scientific community.”
“Do you have any other proof that Carson had anything to do with this book?”
“It smells like DDT.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, there’s also the signature.”
“I thought you said the pages were blank.”
“Invisible ink.”
“Oh, I should have guessed.”
“Would you like to see the volume?”
“What’s there to see?”
“Well, nothing except a sterile metaphor for a post-pesticide world.”
“Is that all?”
“That, and a sense of humor.”

Weekly Worded

2010-12-17T19:44:00.002-07:00

Still Life

As the Great Blue Heron lands
every small thing
turns perfectly still.
Its great blue shadow
sends shivers across the pond.
It wades to the depth
of its spindly legs
then transforms itself
into silence.
Wings tucked,
neck extended,
narrow head with a yellow beak.
As the sun tilts
in the silt impatience blinks.

Weekly Worded

2010-12-10T19:55:00.004-07:00

Winter’s Furnace

The trash barrel smolders all night.
Embers fanned by a breeze

escaping the inferno
float loose across the snow.

They are paper sails,
discarded candles,

Christmas lights
drifting like burning kites.

As each ember cools
it falls like a wishing star.

Weekly Worded

2010-12-04T14:08:00.001-07:00

Customer Service

I went to a home improvement center to buy insulation. My friends tell me if I stick it under my house, I’ll be warmer. I hadn’t done this before, so I was happy when a sales associate stopped to ask if I had any questions.

“Why does all your insulation look like giant rolly polly bugs.”

“They’re trying to stay warm.”

“That’s what I thought, like caterpillars, preparing for a new life.”

“Actually, I’m kidding. Insulation gets shipped to us that way. It saves space during transportation.”

“So none of these will metamorphose into something beautiful if, say, I buy a dozen rolly pollies and stick them into my dark crawl space?”

“Nope, sorry to say, unless you consider lower heating costs a transformation.”

“How many would I have to buy for you to guarantee at least one will turn into a giant butterfly?”

“Fiberglass is inanimate, it can’t metamorphose.”

“Maybe you lack faith.”

“How long have you been a homeowner?”

“I just bought my first house. That’s why I’m here at the home improvement center, to make my home more beautiful.”

“I’m sorry, insulation is not beautiful.”

“So does it turn into something ugly?”

“You’ll experience an incessant itch after handing it.”

“That’s not good.”

“And your eyes will water for days.”

“My allergies would be unbearable. Is there another department that would provide a warmer experience?”

“I’d recommend aisle five, electrical and lighting.”

“Is that where they keep the fireflies?”

“Oh yeah, thousands of them.”

“You’ve been very kind.”

“Thank you, and please, insist that Joe helps you, he owes me.”

Weekly Worded

2010-11-26T07:53:00.003-07:00

Messin’ With The Hood

A deer stood perfectly still on the road, her eyes like maraschino cherries against the glare of my headlights. I braked, then crept to a standstill, no more than ten feet from the animal. It continued to stare at me. I honked the horn. Nothing. I flashed the headlights. Still nothing. Finally I rolled my window down.

“Hey, you got a death wish? Get off the road!”

The deer gradually turned to face my car, walked forward and placed her two front hooves on the hood.

“Geez,” I shouted, “Watch out for the paint!”

But the hooves had already gouged and dented the surface.

I got out of the car.

“What do you think you’re doing? For god’s sake, have you no instinct for survival?”

The deer didn’t budge, though I heard one hoof tapping, as if to make a point of some petty irritation she had yet to air.

“What? Mountain lion got your tongue?”

Seven more deer appeared from the other side of the road, moving like a buckskinned gang of wild meat. I climbed back into the car, slammed and locked the door. Eventually, one by one, the deer wandered off into the trees.

In the silence I recalled what my father had said while teaching me to drive. If you see one deer, he cautioned, there are probably more.

Weekly Worded

2010-11-19T08:15:00.005-07:00

Next to Godliness

The evening news ran a story about a meteor shower, the best viewing to occur around 4 a.m. in the western sky. I brushed my teeth and went to bed but not before setting my alarm. When the alarm went off I grabbed my towel and a bar of soap and headed out the door.

The grass felt cool against my bare feet, fresh with the night’s dew, and when I turned toward the west and tipped my head toward the stars they reminded me of the tiny holes in my shower head, starlight streaming over me like cold water. I could see the Milky Way collected like steam against the ceiling, but still no meteors.

Maybe if I lather up, I told myself, I’ll be ready by the time they arrive. Rocks from space with the scrubbing power of pumice. What a treat! I let my towel drop and suddenly a streak of light from the street. A police car came by slowly, sweeping the neighborhood with a floodlight. It hit me square in the chest, almost knocked me over with its intensity.

“Put your hands up” the megaphone ordered.

I’d been scrubbing my armpits, so compliance seemed redundant.

“Turn around” it ordered, but I didn’t care to be facing east. All lathered up, ready to rinse, and then this awkward interruption.

“Can you wait until I finish?” I called back.

The floodlight switched off, the car crawled down the street.

“Sorry” the megaphone squawked, “we can see you’re clean.”

In a few minutes the patrol car was gone. The neighbor’s dog barked. A porch light came on. Best viewing, my ass.

Weekly Worded

2010-11-13T19:53:00.005-07:00

Will Eat For Work

The stoplight had just turned red, placing my driver’s window directly beside the man holding
the sign. I rolled the window down.
“Does that wording confuse many people who drive past you?”
“It gets me quite a few second looks.”
“A great marketing device, I must say. How did you think of it?”
“I’m a little dyslexic and one day while I was reading lunch...”
“You mean, eating lunch?”
“No, I was reading the ingredients off the side of a fast food wrapper.”
“Light’s going to change, better pick up the pace.”
“So I thought I’d give a jobless person’s perspective to the corporate food industry.”
“Cross traffic's light is turning yellow.”
“So I started sending in the free comment cards at restaurants.”
“And they gave you free food?”
“Yes, and a route, like delivering newspapers.”
“So why aren’t you at work eating burgers?”
“It’s my day off.”
“Ah, the light’s green. Gotta go.”
“Any spare change?”
“Here, try a few of these french fries.”

Weekly Worded

2010-11-05T20:41:00.003-06:00

Wilderness Survival

“Did you remember to bring the pedophile?”
“No, I thought we’d just have a nice hike by ourselves.”
“Then how will we keep track of the miles we walked?”
“I brought a pedometer for that.”
“Oh. Did I say the wrong thing again?”
“I suppose a pedophile would work too if he wore an ankle tracking bracelet.”
“I can’t help it if I don’t remember the names for all the gadgets you own.”
“Oh, let’s just go for a hike and forget about it.”
“What if we get lost?”
“I also packed my PMS navigation device, so we’ll be okay.”
“What does that do?”
“It pulls in signals from satellites and tells me when to shut up.”
“Is it working?”
“Yep.”

Weekly Worded

2010-10-29T21:13:00.003-06:00

Ed Abbey’s Cadillac

A rag top is ideal
for tossing beer cans
while touring the desert

and twelve miles to the gallon
on a good day
makes as much environmental sense.

Ed, you were a heap
of contradictions, not so different
from the Cadillac your wife sold

for five thousand dollars
a year after you died.
Idealism can’t be restored.

New paint and upholstery
won’t bring you back.
The bidding on eBay

less than expected, despite
the current owner’s claim
it’s a hoot

riding your memory around
Arches National Park.
Delicate Arch is ever tenuous

and time will bring it down
like the rest of us. Driving past it
is all we have left to do.

Weekly Worded

2010-10-22T08:36:00.006-06:00

Mountain Folk

“Nobody lives up that mountain road except the wealthy.”
“Then it’s a private road?”
“Oh no, it’s public as hell, they want us to admire their homes.”
“Then there are recreational destinations up there, hiking trails, scenic vistas?”
“Oh yeah, hundreds.”
“There must be a map.”
“Nope, the landowners won’t allow it.”
“Okay, I’ll watch for the signs.”
“There ain’t no signs left, except the ‘No Trespassing’ ones.”
“Unbelievable!”
“Damn well better believe it, they got dogs too.”
“Hasn’t anyone complained.”
“Oh sure, there’s been some whining.”
“So the authorities are looking into it?”
“Yeah, if by ‘it’ you mean their own pocket.”
“I’m going to drive up there. They can’t keep the common people out.”
“Go ahead, they don’t care.”
“Why not?”
“Their houses are so far off the road they won’t even notice.”
“What if I honk my horn?”
“They’ll just think a FedEx delivery truck got lost again.”
“Well, this revolution won't start itself. Thanks.”
“And close the gate behind you. Those golden calves tend to graze anywhere.”

Weekly Worded

2010-10-16T20:09:00.004-06:00

Convenient Thinking

I ate two hot slices of pizza at the convenience store for dinner, thinking fast food would be easier than driving all the way home and cooking a frozen pizza in the oven.

Then I bought a bottle of water to wash it down, deciding it would quench my thirst faster than rushing home to fill a glass under the tap.

Someone stepped out of the public restroom, so I stepped in, a chance to relieve my bladder instead of holding it on the long drive home.

After I washed my hands, it occurred to me to wash my face, thereby saving the time when I clean up before going to bed.

Things were so convenient I asked the young woman behind the register if she’d like to go out for a drink after her shift ended, instead of going home to my wife and kids and asking about their day.

I grabbed some money from the till while the young clerk was getting her coat, realizing how much simpler it would be to take the cash instead of going to work again.

That night I slept in my car. The florescent lights over the gas pumps were so bright I dreamed I was stretched out on a sunny beach, which was certainly more convenient than driving all the way to California.

Weekly Worded

2010-10-08T20:15:00.002-06:00

Jigsaw

I held it in my palm
until it warmed,
this potsherd

with a fingerprint
eight-hundred years cold.
Then I set it back down

on the rock ledge
that leaned toward an overlook.
Just a fragment

broken off the rim of a bowl,
it sopped up all the blue sky
it could hold

before rearranging itself
in the dirt, one more piece
of this puzzled earth.

Weekly Worded

2010-10-01T20:23:00.007-06:00

Polonius Tweets

“Two things before you go.”
“Only two?”
“Don’t be sarcastic.”
“And the second thing?”
“What second thing?”
“The second of the two things before I go.”
“What was the first?”
“Not to be sarcastic.”
“Oh. No, that wasn’t the first.”
“It sounded like advice.”
“It was not my original thought.”
“So, can we move it along?”
“Yes, I was going to say, neither a borrower nor a lender be.”
“Of course not, those are regulated enterprises, requiring much more capital than my pittance of an allowance.”
“Oh, that’s some relief.”
“And the second thing?”
“What second thing?”
“The second of the two things.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“And...?”
“Just a second.”
“The world’s waiting.”
“It was something about thine own self.”
“The phrase ‘Thine own’ is a bit redundant.”
“Don’t be a smart ass.”
“Okay, that’s two, I’m outta here.”

Weekly Worded

2010-09-25T08:30:00.004-06:00

The Fall

“Aren’t the trees beautiful when they begin to change colors?”
“If you think death is beautiful, well, yeah, I guess.”
“Death? Come on now, trees just lose their leaves but live on.”
“I’m losing my hair.”
“That’s not the same.”
“My hair is changing color.”
“That’s still not the same.”
“My bark wrinkles and peels.”
“What bark?”
“Skin bark, you know, the outer layer that isn’t smooth anymore.”
“I don’t care what you say, you’re not a tree.”
“The question is, am I growing more beautiful?”
“You’re becoming more obtuse.”
“But beautiful?”
“Thick.”
“Aesthetic?”
“Dim.”
“Exquisite?”
“Moronic.”
“Magnificent?”
“Stupid.”
“Divine?”
“Asinine.”
“Elegant?”
“Ignorant.”
“Dense?”
“Yeah, dense will do.”
“Okay, like I said, a forest.”

Weekly Worded

2010-09-17T08:31:00.002-06:00

Back to School?

The bus, outfitted as a camper,
pulls into the site opposite mine.
It’s an old bus, out of service
forty years, maybe more,
but children still pour
from its swinging door
when the engine stops.
It’s the school of pine needles
and sumac, wild raspberries
and milkweed pods.
There’ll be rocks tossed
into the creek before lunch,
bushes thrashed with sticks
before naptime, and chasing each other
in circles at dusk.
After the sun disappears
marshmallows will catch fire
to light up the night sky.

Weekly Worded

2010-09-11T20:33:00.005-06:00

The Light In the Closet

“Hello?” I asked of the air.

A light had come on as I opened the door, reaching for a shirt, which wouldn’t have been unusual if I owned a lighted closet. I always wished I had one, and now, apparently, I did.

I peeked into the deepest corner to see if someone was standing with a flashlight, but the closet was uninhabited. I glanced toward the ceiling, looking for a fixture. The light was so bright I couldn’t see behind it.

Dog-paddling through layers of clothing I’d hung along the wooden pole, I touched sleeves, collars, buttons, belt loops, and empty pockets. Clearing a space, I reached the back wall.

Nothing but light.

I stood in my boxer shorts, scratching my head. Then I remembered the yellow shirt and brown slacks I’d intended to wear, lifted them from their hangers, and shut the closet. The light disappeared.

From under the door a puddle of darkness seeped out while I dressed. It formed a pool around my toes. I should have stayed to see what would happen next, but my shoe boats were moored beside a chair and in them I floated away.

Weekly Worded

2010-09-02T20:35:00.011-06:00

Bugs
(for Wayne)

“So the television signal comes from that hill to the southeast, and that’s
where I should point the antenna?”
“That’s right, you’ll get the best signal from there.”
“Should I have my television at that end of the house?”
“No, not necessarily, if you orient the antenna correctly.”
“Should the rabbit ears be droopy or straight up, like it just saw a weasel?”
“What rabbit ears?”
“The rabbit ears on my roof.”
“I thought you had an antenna.”
“I do now that I put the rabbit on the roof.”
“And you’re on the roof?”
“Right. With my rabbit.”
“Did you remove the rabbit ears from the television?”
“I have the television up here too.”
“I hate to tell you this, but rabbit ears are supposed to be used indoors.”
“I wish you’d have said something before I got my recliner up the ladder.”
“You have a recliner on the roof?”
“Yes, and my television, and my rabbit ears, along with my rabbit.”
“Do you have an electrical outlet up there?”
“Well I’m not stupid, I brought an extension cord.”
“Then plug it in and tell me if you have a picture.”
“Oh yeah, now there’s a real good one.”
“Do you think you can stay in that position until the end of the game?”
“Oh for sure, but I don’t know about the rabbit.”

Weekly Worded

2010-08-28T08:46:00.003-06:00

The Poetry of Light

“ -- until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.”
--Elizabeth Bishop, “The Fish”

From my backyard, Elizabeth,
everything was rainbow.
The storm had pushed off
to the east, its black clouds caught
against the San Juan Mountains,
and the sun which still hadn’t set
ignited those raindrops like gasoline.
Iridescence doesn’t begin
to describe it. The sky had to be
on fire, clouds roiling like smoke
from behind a clean burned line.
A window of blue had opened
beyond the rainbow’s arc
and one snowy mountain peak
stuck through it like a tooth,
as if grinning.
I stood in my yard, bare feet
against the wet grass,
able to feel the turning earth
grind the sun into dirt
and I too had to let
such a perfect moment go.

Weekly Worded

2010-08-20T15:55:00.001-06:00

Recipe for the Wild

The middle of August
heading up toward Kennebec Pass
a forest service sign warns me:
Bears are in the area.
I plant my tent -- stake it
to the earth, then hike a circle
around my camping spot.

Bending to penetrate
the thick undergrowth,
I smile at the two red eyes
staring back at me.
Berries are in the area too,
red raspberries ripe as summer.

When I blink dozens appear
where the two had been,
then hundreds, maybe thousands
and the two clumsy cups
of my bare hands can’t hold them all.

Birds in the trees complain --
they take one at a time
but I fill one hand
only to spill those berries into my mouth,
lick the juice from that hand
and fill the other.
I am ravenous for the serum
of this wildness to heal my blood.

Before frost comes to this place,
before snow turns its narrow road
impassable, I want to grow fat
on raspberries, to stumble
back to my tent and sleep, maybe not stir
until the tiny white flowers
of morning unfold.

Weekly Worded

2010-08-13T08:46:00.005-06:00

Barn Dance

The farmer on the hill
keeps a yellow crop duster
cabled to his piece of earth.

When the weather signals clear
he starts its engine and lifts
so much imagination into the sky.

It’s his air tractor,
cloud seeder,
well-trained canary,

his liquid-filled silent spring.
It’s a low-flying
loopy handwriting sample,

a Stradivarius tuned to the horizon.
It’s a day at the circus
under the Bigtop,

every spectator straining to see
how the acrobat on the wire
thinks he can dance with

the hippopotamus of gravity.

Weekly Worded

2010-08-07T20:22:00.005-06:00

Nocturne

When it rained last night
I slept through it,
unconscious of the rain
hitting the tin roof,
rolling off the eaves.

I was dreaming
about places not in the rain,
about cloakrooms and landings
where goulashes wait beside a door.
I must have been tuned to the effort
of trees expanding from inside
one ring at a time.

I wish I’d come awake
just to say to you
who lay sleepless in the dark beside me,
Listen, it’s raining!
and all you’d ever have to say back to me is,
I know.

Weekly Worded

2010-07-30T08:45:00.003-06:00

When the Rain Came

Nothing else mattered.
We stopped staring at the TV,
lost our grip on the remote control.
Rain hit the roof with more crackle

than static, fell thicker than pixels
or peacock tails. Tree limbs bent
like so many weather vanes
twisting to line up with the wind.

We both stood and faced the picture
window where our landscape muted
from green to gray—the light driven out
of the sky by so much penetrating water.

Nothing could have been
more compelling, not the moon
breaking loose like a shock of rigging,
not the flotsam of sodden stars.

Weekly Worded

2010-07-24T08:10:00.006-06:00

Faustus Visits the Ag Store

The herbicide boasted on the package
of its nondiscriminatory approach to killing.
The manufacturer named it, Kills All.
I picked the product up, drawn by
the image of a mushroom cloud balanced
like a balloon above a cartoon plant's head.
The thistle looked as if it might be trying
to talk to me, but having drawn a blank
it needed my purchase to complete its thought.
This was marketing at its finest,
devastation and a conversation
concentrated in an easy-to-use container.
I stopped a sales associate:
“I can’t find a price.”
He took the container from me
and examined the label. “64 ounces of death.
Death always requires your soul.”
“But does it kill bind weed?”
He scrutinized the label
like a monk assigned to illuminate a manuscript
without his reading glasses.
“I think it says it ‘kills everything’.”
“But bind weed?”
“Everything.”
At the checkout I unbuttoned my shirt.
“I’m not sure physiologically where the soul is located,
but I am assured this stuff kills bind weed.”
The checkout woman laughed -- cackled, really --
then pointed her scanner gun at my chest.
“That’s a good one.”

Weekly Worded

2010-07-18T13:23:00.005-06:00

Living Wit Bears

Fastened to a registration booth barricading
the entrance to a state park, a metal sign read
“Living Wit Bears.” A missing letter
might have been dissolved by wind, rain,
sunlight exposure, or whited out
by a mischievous camper.
“How smart are bears?” I asked the attendant,
while filling out my vehicle license information form.
“I don’t know” the uniformed woman replied,
“I’ve never seen one.”
“But they’re in the area, aren’t they?”
“No idea” she replied, then flipped through a magazine
she’d been reading as I first approached.
I put my pen down rather noisily
and she glanced up again. “Why then” I asked,
“do you list instructions on this sign commanding
campers to use the specially designed bear-proof
trash receptacles?” She leaned over the counter,
so as to better see the metal sign I was tapping.
“No shit, I never noticed that” she replied.
Her meaty arms seemed to double in size
as they flattened against the counter’s edge.
I backed up a step. She continued to look at me
while her hands rolled the magazine into a
tight little baton. “Is there something else?”
she asked. I shrugged, trying to regain some stature
without giving in to a sudden urge to flee.
“No biggie” I said, “but this sign
seems to have suffered an H-ectomy.”
I smiled and pointed to the spot where
a letter was missing. She smiled back --
a malicious grin, really, that allowed me
to count her teeth. “Maybe too many campers
tapping that sign” she said, “in that particular
spot.” I nodded, as if her explanation made
perfect sense, turned in my forms, took my
little sticker, and got the H out of there.

Weekly Worded

2010-07-09T16:30:00.001-06:00

Instructions for Counting Cows

Remember, calves can be invisible
tucked into the shadow
of their mother’s udders

or napping in the tall grass,
so it’s best to start after
the rancher splits the bales,

with all the animals lined up
like beads on an abacus.
Begin by counting tails,

not heads, since rear ends
serve as primitive metronomes.
Cows also tend to drift

like clouds as they return to
grazing, so don’t let whimsy
dictate the animals you see.

Weekly Worded

2010-07-02T08:47:00.009-06:00

One In Ten Fireworks Is a Dud

I arrived long before the crowd
of 4th of July enthusiasts could
spread itself out over the prime
viewing real estate. After three
trips to the truck, I unloaded my
folding chair, blanket, picnic basket,
shade umbrella, cooler full of iced
beverages, and the spool of electric
fence wire, insulators, battery, and
stakes necessary to enclose my spot.
Instead of a single strand along the
top of the stakes, which is sufficient
for horses and cattle, I decided on
three separate bands -- top, middle,
and low, the lowest strand at shin
level in case any crawling infants
or small dogs invaded my space.
The sound of insects or butterflies
catching a few volts is almost
imperceptible, but humans tend to
yelp, more out of surprise than pain.
Stretched out on my blanket with my
eyes closed, I could hear people say
“Look at that!” or “I dare you” or
“Weirdo” -- that kind of running
commentary, but I felt secure,
unthreatened by the masses.
Then what I thought might be
birdsong turned out to be a voice
I recognized. “Bob?” it chirped.
I opened my eyes. “Well Marjorie,
yes, it’s me.” I sat up, took off
my sunglasses out of courtesy
and for a better look at this gorgeous
woman who often sunbathed
in the backyard adjacent to mine.
She approached the wire to give me
her usual hug. “Watch out” I shouted,
“you’ll be shocked.” Marjorie froze,
puzzled by my alarm. I turned off the
power, then stood to reach across
the top wire. We superficially embraced,
she standing on her tiptoes, still avoiding
the wire I’d turned off. “What is this,
some kind of prison camp?” she asked.
“No,” I laughed. “It’s more like a
panic room. Want to come in?”
I could see her bikini under the gauzy
shirt she wore, a large towel draped
over one arm. “Nah” she replied,
“That makes me a little nervous, and
besides, I want that big open piece of sky
right over there.” She turned and pointed.
“But if you want to grab your stuff
and join me, well, that would be real nice.”
She walked off, waving, looking real nice.
I watched her go, sat back down,
reconnected the battery, and reached out
to touch a wire with my bare finger.
“Ouch” I said aloud, then touched it
again and again, “Oooh...ahhh...yipes...”
and it was still hours before
the fireworks were scheduled to begin.

Weekly Worded

2010-06-26T07:28:00.003-06:00

Birdsong Translator

Birds understand each other.
The Killdeer thinks kindly
as the Finch produces a cheerful warbling.

The Cowbird’s dark pleasure
is to hear Red-winged Blackbirds
chirping from the cattails.

What bird would deny a goose
the embodiment of aggression
despite such a soft sloping neck

and Meadowlarks
bearing no relation to Larks
sound exactly like them.

The Mockingbird is an act
of mimicry, like a comedian
doing impressions

but it’s the night owl whose
simple vocabulary
first taught the animals to listen.

Weekly Worded

2010-06-20T14:59:00.006-06:00

Solstice Tricks You Can Learn At Home

Summer’s official,
the beans will start

anytime now, climbing --
radish heat

just below the surface
erupting like

solar flares.
I’ll stoop

in the garden
pulling bind weed

like the boy
next door

snapping his yo-yo
so the sun

spins lazily
at the bottom of its arc

before getting tangled
in this length of day.

Weekly Worded

2010-06-12T20:44:00.003-06:00

song of the siren

at first it draws you
to the balcony
the sense of tragedy unfolding
emergency vehicle
lights flashing
four floors down
pedestrians watching
from the curb
traffic resumes
the siren fades
but you follow it in your mind
through cobblestone streets
the heart attack
car wreck
overdose
here in the city of lights
where you have traveled
without incident
discounting inconvenience
your hotel
the latin quarter
small but clean
hovering a quarter mile
from hospital
island in a foreign land
the words you don’t understand
but the melody
irresistible

Weekly Worded

2010-06-06T17:03:00.011-06:00

closed door

buried forty years
lived
only twenty-eight
retirement, early --
a rock star's rock
a paris grave
fans
still
lining up
as if
backstage
one glimpse
of his name
rushed
from this world
to the next
lead singer for
the song the
song the
song

downloaded prayer
eternal flame

Weekly Worded

2010-05-29T09:45:00.003-06:00

the history of anywhere

survive if you can
grumbles the rubble
pushed into a hole
another layer of civilization
built on ruins
in the crypt outside notre dame
roman roofs
arches and walls
stones fleshed feet worn smooth
beneath roman homes
pariisi bones
gnawed by a penetrating cold
old as the blood
the seine’s ebb and flood
city of lights
lit from below

Weekly Worded

2010-05-23T21:27:00.006-06:00

Bilingual Drama at a Tiny Patisserie

Pee?
Oui.

Weekly Worded

2010-05-16T10:29:00.011-06:00

At the Louvre Nobody Cries

Loud voices are not permitted.
Along the gallery of agony,
the gallery of gore,
the gallery of unspeakable horror,
couples stroll
pointing out their favorite saints
shot by arrows,
beheaded,
beaten and brush stroked with blood,
nailed to crosses,
gashed by spears,
hanging in the air
five hundred years.
Everybody wondering
what is art.
Nobody asking
why is art
obsessed by such masters,
persecutors of the persecuted,
crafted-out-of-pain
exhibition without inhibition.
A niche in history
to stand and stare,
a few in disbelief.
The holy mother holding her baby
everywhere.

Weekly Worded

2010-05-07T21:24:00.002-06:00

Noah Fills the Cow Pond

I’ll start with ducks,
most common of fowl,
then add a goose and its mate,
a couple Blue Herons
for the dignity they bestow,
two egrets
and two gulls.
Next I’ll import a brace of otters,
rhinoceros and elephants
to remind the neighbors
how exotic the old testament could be.
Maybe a hippopotamus
because I like the sound of its name.
For the sake of drama I’ll include
a pair of alligators or crocodiles.
Crayfish, snakes, and slugs
by the bushel, since I want
something to survive.
Frogs for the crocuses that blossom
at sundown and a basket
of worms to aerate the soil.
These days I just open a valve
and water arrives from the mountain --
enough for the cows, more than enough
to share with the animals
that don’t belong to me.

Weekly Worded

2010-05-02T17:24:00.004-06:00

Only Seeing What’s There

Geese on the pond gliding
like geese on a pond.
Nothing else

to compare them to.
Materialized by memory
or chance, a downward glance
during a fly-over,

a flash of light reflecting off water
exactly like light
reflecting off water—

this, the reason they are here.
Had I landed a comparison near the pond
it would
swim like a sailboat,
float like a lily pad,
dive like a submarine.

So complicated.

I prefer a flock of wild geese
arriving in formation.

They know what they are,
not what they’re like.

A simplicity,
more surprising.

Weekly Worded

2010-04-23T21:14:00.003-06:00

Why Mallory Fell

Even at a distance
Everest explains nothing.
What it wants

is not to be there,
sticking its 29,000 feet
into the thin air.

What it wants
is to be done with snow
that keeps falling.

Glaciers so old
gravity lies down
to count the stars.

What it wants
is not to be blamed
another hundred years.

The moon is Everest's kin,
nothing else so close
as to understand

how the largest
ambition is to
be small.

Weekly Worded

2010-04-16T10:16:00.004-06:00

Galactic Tourism

Tomorrow we’ll drive
to the crater where 50,000 years ago
a meteor struck the earth.

There’s no reason to rush.
Sleep late, eat a hearty breakfast
then get on the road

so we arrive at the visitor center
before noon. Who cares if the weather
reports cloudy.

We’ll be standing at the edge
of a moment as if the day
just arrived -- the sun

temporarily obscured --
with the two of us so close to being
vaporized, thinking

WoW with capital letters
on both ends and a smaller o
seven hundred feet below.

Weekly Worded

2010-04-10T13:38:00.003-06:00

Community Service

Nobody knows
where driveway gravel goes.
Every spring another load,
cash for stone
spread out to fill the holes.
By the next spring only mud shows.
A few pebbles in the grass
to be flung at window glass
by the lawn mower.
Little else.
Supposedly it sinks
into the soft ground,
gets caught in that enormous convection
between the earth’s core
and this melting snow.
Nobody knows.
It could be
thanks to people like me
the path to hell is being paved.

Weekly Worded

2010-04-02T16:48:00.003-06:00

The Way of the Cross
(for T.S. Eliot)

If wind can be said to moan
then sadness slips into my house
between the window frames.

Snow plasters the screen
so I can’t see out. It’s Good Friday,
a raw day for moveable feasts.

In St. Louis where T.S. was born
there’s flooding. In England where
he lived and converted, eternal doubt.

In Westminster, no matter how quiet,
the usual whisper, that April
is the cruelest month,

but it’s only one out of twelve,
an abridged Stations of the Cross
devoted instead to our

procession of days,
where weather always wants in
while the soul only wants out.

Weekly Worded

2010-03-27T17:34:00.005-06:00

Beware the Ides of Idleness

In the middle of the day
reading a book
the spell begins.
Sunlight through a window
warms me.
The sentence I am reading
unravels and slips
to the bottom
of the page,
then drops
knotted
into
my
lap
and tangles
around my ankles
tugging me even deeper.
Cushion and recliner tip, footrest
extends, and then I levitate like a magician’s
assistant. I’m never sure how it’s done, but for a short time
the earth vanishes.

Weekly Worded

2010-03-20T21:10:00.005-06:00

Paranoia

There’s two of us inside me,
one that does the talking,

one that worries
we’re being talked about,

whispers and insists
on a closed mouth policy

so secrets don’t get out.
The first one asks

what you’re up to,
the second suspects it’s bigger

than nothing much.
And it gets more complicated.

The first one opens curtains,
the second installs blinds,

the first one reads the mail,
the second shreds it.

Both leave the toilet seat up
but one does it on purpose.

We won’t say which,
since accusations find

their way like grit into grease.
One slips right off to sleep,

the other lies awake
inventing new pins and passwords

in case the two should separate.

Weekly Worded

2010-03-13T13:57:00.002-07:00

A Drift on the Inland Sea

The white sea recedes
as the winter softens.
A week with our heads
above freezing, the brain

drifts toward thoughts
of spring, of soil crumbling,
dry steps down from the porch,
songs from a few lost birds

returning. Even the moon
appears warmer, the tide
and flow of snow
wicked away by the trees

like candles sputtering to stay lit.
White sea of old waves
thinned as the season ebbs,
detritus of leaves in the sodden grass.