Belated Words

Write On!

Category: Poems

  • Yellowstone: 1989

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    Bison moseyed nonchalantly huge

    among our tents, hushing with awe,

    on their way down to the Yellowstone

    to drink in saffron, morning light.

    The kids, dumbstruck, pointed in glee

    as one mountainous beast halted

    and glared; signing with oracle eyes:

    “Today I will be your token beast.

    Tomorrow you will be mine; locked

    in amber, stone and layered time.

     

    I will hoove your useless remains;

    eating grasses from cranial urns 

    recalling nothing of your holocaust.”

    Can beast, once a coveted commodity

    slaughtered for trophy, flesh or skin,

    mimic disdain? I know I saw it there.

    Guilt mandates we heap self-accolades

    for our forbearance against a token few

    free, yet still, goods for our pleasure.

    Will we be allotted a token few to roam?

  • Rose Box

    Oak and Cedar Box

    Natural, unstained, just shaped by my hand;

    every so gently, my fingers caress

    your lustrous, polished surfaces.

    Is it your innate beauty I cherish,

    or my own creation I so admire?

  • Far off the path

    Far off the path, once for wagons, horses and sturdy legs, now returned to green/growth and rut/ravaged into a faint trail I find the place spoken of, the necessary spring source, hidden in tangled vines/web, secreted away below a stone surround snugged in emerald moss; now briefly guarded by March’s pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch: the dry-stacked surround and haunting creaks…muffled thuds….underfoot of roof/tin buried beneath a century’s damp humus. No foundation stones, roof rafters or siding survive; all salvaged or burned or rotted away by nature’s plan.

    Searching for origins of myth; family tales hinted of this place; of skimpy, poor raisings and violent pasts; of one, if word of mouth can be believed, being strung by his neck in this, his yard, from this massive oak, in front of family for desertion from the war that cleaved both family flesh and a nation’s harmony myth. Voices still cry from beneath the ground, some say, but I only hear flora sway and taste the water’s cooling release; the taste savored by the one hanged in this, his once yard.

    Mountain laurel, head high, further extends the shade and boast purest porcelain, blood/pink-tinged, blossoms. Minute Bird-foot violets peer …surprised…from the knurled feet of the oak that lives with shame of complicity. The earth thrust spiraling fern/fronds upward in rampant arrays, prayerfully uncoiling, reaching for dappled pale light, offering beauty’s recompense for the chaos and raging rants of her progeny.

  • Skates

    for T

    Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack-clack…

    a stick along a picket fence;

    sound soothes as does the vibe of my hand,

    bumpty-bumpty-bumpty-bump…

    skates roar on an autumn sidewalk

    up my street lined with familiarity.

    •

    “I’ve always had a secret

    that I could not share

    about my conversations

    with the tortoise and the hare.”

    •

    Cheeks redder than red as my hair,

    eyes wind whipped to weeping,

    a swipe of a pink sweatered arm

    does my nose just fine.

    Metallic clatter off the curb….jump!

    Jump! and back up again.  Rooar! Rooar!

    •

    “Tell me Mister Hardshell,

    how do you sit so still;

    haven’t you made promises

    you’re obliged to fulfill

    and……is it dark inside your shell?”

    •

    “Listen, little darling,

    honey can’t you see,

    we’re only made to gaze and wait;

    our only purpose is to be

    and….darkness softens time considerably.”

    •

    Comes the call but the roars too loud,

    “Come in, its getting cold!”

    The cold wind swallows the familiar plea

    and there’s clacking on a picket fence.

    •

    “Tell me Mister Speedster,

    why do you run all day,

    why do you dither and dash

    in such an erratic way

    and…where are you going?”

    •

    “Listen to me sweetie,

    life is just a thrill!

    We rush and rave and cast

    about….and over the hill is the carrot patch.”

    •

    The street is still familiar….

    shorter, of course, narrower, too;

    roots have heaved the sidewalks

    to skateboard ramps, little matter,

    kids play in the street now with no

    respect, daring you to hit them.

    •

    And still, often, I lie in the dark

    listening to Mister Hardshell breathe,

    drawing first my legs, then arms and

    lastly my head into my shell and then

    synchronizing our breaths….slower…

    slower…to slower…to stop…if I could.

    •

    And there are times I chase Mister

    Speedster till my lungs ache with

    a greed for things unknown and

    anger gushes hot from every pore

    splattering those near me and

    they turn and look at me and I

    never hear their abashed silence.

    •

    Where are the picket fences now

    and a good stick with which to ply

    a synchronous rhythm, a survival beat?

  • spring place

    Off a path once for wagons and sturdy

    legs, now rutted and rocked into a trail,

    I find the source, the spring-head spoken of,

    sleeping in deep shaded vines, secreted

    by a low, sweating stone surround, finely

    encased in velvety/emeralded moss

    and guarded by pale bluebell sentinels.

    The only evidence of human touch,

    the surround and haunting creaks beneath leaves

    of roof/tin’s leaf/muffled thud underfoot.

    The jeweled woods thrust spiraling fern/fronds up

    in rampant arrays of prideful bearings

    uncoiling toward the dappled pale light.

    Minute individuals of Bird-foot

    violet and Indian Pipe peer from

    bases of old-growth pine and giant popular.

    Mountain laurel, head high, darkening the shade

    boast purest porcelain blossoms of white.

    •

    I came searching for origins of myth:

    family history told of this place,

    of skimpy raisings and violent pasts.

    Of one, if word of mouth can be believed,

    strung by his neck in this, his yard, in front

    of family for desertion from the war

    that cleaved what little harmony was here.

    Voices still cry from beneath the humus

    some say, but I only hear flora sway

    and taste the spring’s trickling, cooling release.

  • weather rant

    It seems to me, man has changed the planet and thus the weather and I don’t see that being reversed.  I am not a very optimistic person, I guess. But the earth will survive; life will adapt,some species may perish (even man) but others will take their place. I see it as part of a natural process.  All life, as we know it, may at some time become extinct on earth but it will be a process (though aided by man) out of the control of man.  Man’s belief in his power, both for creativity and destruction, is, to me, arrogant and delusional.  That is not to said that we should not be striving to correct the damage we’ve done and feeling great shame for what we have allowed to take place.

  • Leaves

    Should I be raking leaves; they’re piling up?

    My yard sleeps beneath a saddle-brown snow

    complete with two/foot drifts snug around shrubs.

    The paths and spent flowers seem content though,

    resting without pressure to be well-groomed.

    My eyes tell me this without judgment of

    their own; leaving the decision for me.

    Taking my cue from nature, I chose to

    lie fallow and rest beneath a rich snow.

  • The Moth

    Your history flows freely:

    a gently bubbling shower massage;

    effervescent revelations of sweetness,

    moist longings and caustic bitterness.

    They twirl and coil,

    these memories of your considerable passion.

    My acceptance of one entices another

    and another and with each a glance

    from gleaming eyes, demure and measuring,

    wondering at my salient calm.

    I wonder: how close can I linger,

    how long can I sooth and be soothed

    before my dusty wings explode in flame?

  • Fawn

    Along the bank of a singing creek

    drawn crouching beneath tangled laurel

    to a sandy cove by a sweet stench,

    I found a fawn, awhile dead, untouched,

    inches from the water’s edge.

    Her pliant, serene/cervine body lay melting

    molecule by molecule      returning      ascending

    and her soul held wake above      wafting

    among lustrous white laurel blossoms.

  • Squirrel Narrative

    Spiraling up and up with scratching speed,
    the squirrels pursued each other around
    the rough barked pine faster than my eyes could shift.

    I lost them in white sky glare and tangled
    needle mass; raucously harsh, screeching calls,
    marked them before their leap to a neighbor oak.

    The smaller fell, spread-eagle in air;
    missed! I thought, but spasms of tail/tick-tock
    and tendon/claw snagged a limb-tip easing
    his plummeting fall to stronger growth.

    Then, daring pursuit, the parent raced on,
    intent on schooling squirrel ways without respite;
    tree to tree with chattering leaps of faith.

    From limb to power line the parent jumped
    beckoning the smaller to follow fast; the pupil,
    leaping, slipped, then swung upright and froze:
    the taut wire of risk lay suddenly clear
    in the vastness of white opened air.

    Father/mother? chastised hesitance with
    warnings of dark omnipresent beast,
    and ran the unforgiving wire quickly away.

    The rodent/child, doubt crushed, wavered and fell,
    clawing apathetic air to the street
    where he lay and twice twitched, perhaps with thoughts
    of soft/leaf nest and of drinking water.