Salt

I tell a story,
and my words are a grain of salt
on a roasted almond
in a bag of trail mix
near a shopping cart
in the grocery section
of a big-box store
built in a growing town
on the western edge
of a sprawling continent
wrapped with an ocean
and spinning on a planet
flung out into space
amid the endless stars.
And those stars,
like salt,
tell a story.

Bread and Wine

You say I must eat your flesh
and drink your blood,
or I have no life in me.

And so I shout,
"Not just into my mouth, Lord,
but into my heart as well!"

From the Diary of Horatio Fookes (1855-1895), Who was Killed While Assaying Lindsay Spur on the Eastern Face of Makhagiri

October 17 – Weather clear. Feeling well.
Should summit tomorrow in good time.

Walking Along the Columbia

Lisa and I saw everywhere the signs of stirring:
cherry and plum trees heavy with pink blossoms;
a nesting swan and her mate, looming white in the marshes;
bright green blades of grass emerging from the haggard straw;
a heron perched regally on a stone in the shallows;
dog tracks across the sun-warmed mud;
scaups and cormorants diving for fish in the lee of the jetty;
and a black cat eating a baby squirrel.

Foraging

My hands plunge spear-quick
into the sun-streaked pool,
but the quicksilver words
escape me.

Cropped

The mowing of this hairy hill is like a backward harvest:
The combine, with its buzzing mouth, comes rolling
over the crown, leaving a lane of stubble, and
the thick, standing stalks fall aside. Then
the billowy piles are gathered up
and discarded, while
the barren field is
combed and
kept.

Three Sons Under Seven

Sometimes I stop to stare amazed
at what my boys have done:
the messes and the wreckage left
behind each busy son!
The couch is split from jumping feet,
they've drawn their artwork on a sheet,
I'm feeling ready to retreat,
and this day's just begun.

I try to stay on top of things,
but they outnumber me.
For every mess that I clean up,
They start another three.
The bathroom's shot -- the bedrooms too,
there’s no sense asking why or who,
the only thing that’s left to do
is love them, honestly.

A House Removed

This blackened ruin
smokes and sizzles in the rain,
bleeding pools of ash.

The flames have eaten
all that fire could consume,
but the stain remains.

So the sky pours forth
to wash the field with water
where children once played.



(For Alycia Nipp.)

Toys in the Dark

Bare feet softly sweep the carpet
seeking safe passage
through this minefield of sharpened playthings.

Ohhh, I'll play your game, you rogue!

My friend Vinnie has inspired me to finally do something with this here dormant blog: I'm going to take up the NaPoWriMo challenge and write at least one poem a day for the whole month of April.

If it goes well, I might strike on a few ideas worth developing further. If it goes poorly, I can always pull the plug and delete all of the embarrassing evidence. At the very least, it should help me knock some of the rust off and get back into the habit of writing regularly. So, we'll see.

Here we go!