after dinner curl

curled in feline C
curve tail to touch
nose-whiskered tip
in dream-timed breath
modulated flesh waves roll
fur-soft purr sounds sated
of dinner's lap o love
is my daily joy
this cat

First published in Angel Animals 8-13-05.

Miles--our Love Cat

Morning Light

We land on an island, or grasp a raft of floating debris. Can we catch a rest before the next storm? It is a broad expanse—this sea of life.

Morning Light

Some call it God, My Lord or Master.
Heavy the measure of justice in yesterday’s night.
Fight each reason remembering the riches
For all is of the holy cup.
I thirst. I drink.
I recall the laughter of last vacation
a month before winter.
The storm last night:
Listen to its answer in the moment of hours.
Call in the cards fanned to stretch the ages
of metered justice and reason’s plight.
Freedom is my cup
and its charge—
this morning light.

Still Lake

Though it is October, summer isn’t over without a day on the lake. And friendship really never ends.

Still Lake

Shady dock. Red canoe.
Green algae paints the water line
on rock wooded shore.
Red and yellow bottomed turtles sunning,
plop from logs as we approach.
Gold-leaf boat sails beneath
the web-wrapped snag.
Water skippers playing tag.

Muskrat swims along the bank,
circles, circles back and back
to hidden mud leaf,
rush and reed.
Dead trees tell of bridge and ship
builders’ ancient dream.
Beam and masts still stand
unused till after world.

Breeze touches lake away from shore.
What fish jumps in silver
light so near afar?
Two ducks quack-flap off
from willow shade.
Love for life, or fly away
from rendezvous of water feast,
leave by south and northeast.

Pasture of apples, gold and red,
electric fence protecting
from waterfront and beast of trek.
Reflect sky travel on the dock,
thirty of the summer’s clock.
Boys sharing, comparing
tools of survivor’s trade,
happy in the shade of this still lake.

(I wrote this five years ago after a day with friends near Lonsdale, Minnesota. Seems like it was yesterday.)

The Stool

Sits under a tree on the boulevard of a busy street. Was lunchtime for one, and a feast to the eyes of this driver’s mind.

The Stool

Set it anywhere
An artist will see it
A musician will hear it call
And the audience will approach
Like the players all walking on stage
Seated prominently talking
The street now calls
To the stool.

Prop of supposition
Launch pad of reason
Rather the wisdom beyond
The easel, the pen of the poet
Invisible space and white of mime
Life shines all around me
Take it or leave it--
The stool.

From here
She catches each color
As it comes from the cotton wood
And a Saturn with plastic sides.
He trumpets the horns of
Smokin’ trucker John
Playing long with
this soul on
A stool.

My subject,
My inspiration
On three legs or four or
One -- steady as the gold leaf diving
Where do we go from here?
The dreams of people
The seeds of trees
A stump or knee
Or stool.

Cinnamon Roll

Here's one from the past. The cooler weather brings back the experience.
I was working in the yard and came in to the scent of my wife's fine craft.
:)

What waft doth freshen man’s heart with love
but the scent of dough bake rolled
and rising from the hearth o’ pantry’s oven.
Aroma home and hot with butter.
What better way to say she loves me,
than with the roll of honey loose,
laid with nuts and dripping in twist this treat.
Could hardly be said much better
by her fond touch and stretch shared later
in night chamber’s down of goodness drifting.
Hot and tender. Soft pull and chew.
The love of woman makes sweet the home
and did I mention cinnamon roll?

written 3/27/03

Autumn Rain

Cold this morning.
Warm hearth.
And hearts overflowing at the window.
Our breaths alternating
with the wind
blown in from the near side of winter.
Only yesterday I held your hand and asked for yes.
And now I hold your hand and remember
all the yeses, and all the times two made one.

Listen to the autumn rain.
A thousand lovers tapping.
This window.
Our hearts.
Remember.

Staircase

I wrote this one earlier in the year when considering the Pope's demise. Not fully understood when it came in, but the words and rhythm flowed. Seemed to go beneath the contemplation of his death.

Staircase

Enter now
A stairwell white
Plaster walls this spiral way of even steps
Twist down the walk that tightens in its turn
Then rise of step drops further than the tread.
I tilt my head and even knees bump top
The tiny box of twisted, plaster steps
Wind down from white-wash caste
To bleeding brown on browns and tan, the taste
And black with blood from others past lost in descent
Dried and crusted in the cracks of these crocked straits.
The light above has vanished
And I bump down this funnel of apparent death.
Cannot lift legs or heels to catch the last tread ledge
Only gravity now rules
And I slide
A final pull this spiral trough bent in a twist of fate.
My face wipes abrasive wall as arms reach where dim light once shown
And hands cannot grasp even the last foothold
Yet, I still hold this pen, this light.
You see its message here.
Unless no one has found the truth of this trap, this pit.
I write to find the sun.
Where ink-black still shows on tan
Perhaps to gain the white of precious paper page
No plaster surface walls
Call the readers from the grave to see this script
And wish it to this paper page
Spiral light or winding, dark descent.
Written on the walls of hope or discontent.
Journal of a journey through this lent and back to light by writing of the fall.
White paint of plaster, spiral way still holds the light
Of a window to the sun
Shines now hopeful by this pen
Would that you read and do not follow me.
Though free at last I, soul, wrenched from the wedge of flesh and pit
I join the light
My eyes are open now
I was asleep
There is an easier ascent.
Than pulled by passions of an underworld.
I see you read.
And know that rise and fall are on the same staircase.

Love Notes of September

Nature surrounds all lovers. Leaves start to fall. It’s a love affair with life—
of sight and heart, hills and forest. Joy is the height of anticipation.

In the light
of wood-green hue
and the sun of lovers’ rite
maple trees release first leaves.
Birch, ash, and oak
join the fun, each one
by one,
two and three—
love notes from trees to earth—
take courage, dive
and gentle
down.
Light with sound.

The clock of earth talks
from forest wall,
Tick, if dry. Tok, if not.
One word for each is heard—
Tis-kit; Tok-ut—
and a thousand silent thoughts
collected in sky’s basket,
memories of ancestors seasons past,
cousins hugging earth
in air-light bed,
anticipation of sisters still
clinging to the branch.
Skydivers inner cry
in free-fall of love
at autumn’s celebration just ahead,
as a million-fold
applause and screams sound
from the jump seats
in the wind.

Still green shows peace,
this circus tent.
Yet daring sprigs capture
in yellow-fire torch
sunlight more precious everyday
before most notes sent
tumbling out to play—
flyers of the trapeze to please
wild grape, Virginia Creeper
forever climbing in the bleachers.
Stars shed by wind
and earth’s attraction
whirl and whip to train the beast
of mind’s attention.

Orange and red replace
the color of spring,
and summer’s dance.
Love notes, sheet music
light on earth before
winter’s down comforter
lies, too, with love
on this forest floor.
Earth color to remember:
green, yellow, orange and red.
Love notes of September
make up each lover’s bed.

washes the darkness

The random order in chaos, catastrophe, anguish—and its aftermath—sometimes shows through.

washes the darkness

still
dark yet
there is a peace
in the night ending
energy in the silence
between the lines of clamor
and ambient sounds collapsing
clocks talk to raindrops in the wind
three tones chiming

tin chimney
glaze pane
and deck

peck tick tock
ping ping pock
din dance rock

solid the sound this still dark world
when morning of this day
breaks out in light inside
and flooding white
the page of day

comfort in the still dark song
solace overtakes lonely in
soft light sound washes
clean the darkness
of grief

washes the darkness

The Last Day

On the last day
the angle of sun showed heavy
the growth of seed
and rich tree leaf before the turn
to follow harbingers aflame
in maple branches crimson-gold.
And afternoon gem-jade
—was emerald in the spring—
and olive greens turn white
with wind, advancing clouds—
the front of one last thunder storm.
Bird of wild wing seeks harbor
broadside the arbor forest wall
backdrop by ceiling flashing
bright and black.
Fall now calls the end
to multiplying fast the growth
since solstice is a memory running on
the last day of summer gone.

Dance of the Scythe

Hanging on the peg, standing in the corner of the shed, or laying at the edge of ready field—the scythe called to me. The S-curve of its body, thin and strong like a young athlete, a figure skater that comes alive in the strong hands and able command of a simple and perfect man.

It calls to me, still a boy. Watching Dad’s few strokes in two-step cadence-count through grain by the corner of the shed and metal gate showed me its grace and power. I watched expertise, and knew it too was mine with the scythe of hand and heart. Perfect balance, saber-sharp blade, the mating of handles with hands—man and implement—one, in a labor-love affair. Grass, grain. Clover, or vetch—command of the scythe in harvest of earth’s lush cover. Delight in this, and the beauty of the planets in motion. It was all mine—I knew. Long strokes, thin bite. Draw the tip of the blade right to left, cutting clean, and swing it back so its dull edge re-rights the uncut stand pulled by the previous swing. Pull, backstroke. Pull and back. Clean cut, sharp swath, five foot wide, and back again. Gives more energy then it takes. Stopping only for breaks of admiration and Mom’s lemonade.

The dance of the scythe is a corner of heaven called then by its name on the farm. We called it work. But I knew better. This was love of the dance—the dance of the scythe.

6/2/01

September Prairie

On the drive through the native rolling prairie of the campus at the
Temple of ECK in Chanhassen, Minnesota, it struck me...

September Prairie

Grasses of the prairie this September
In hues of gold and red, blue and fading
Green to silver-gray.
Seed heads thick and leaning heavily in bough
Each shaft a bow bent in archer’s tension
All set to release the magic of summer’s end.

I glimpse beyond this season, this earth’s thin mantle
Each an attempt to cover yesterday’s mistakes.
But September prairie grass is most sincere.
Even burnt black grows green in Spring.

In an Envelope

There's a lot of poetic fodder moving through. For myself it's most anything with light or sound or feeling. This week a friend sent me a notice of an art show including her work. It took me like an anxious dog on a leash. So I ran with it.

In an Envelope

Came to me in an envelope
Manila yellow with lines
Straight and squiggly
Last one named--was mine
written in the hand of one carefree
in the practice of precision.
String around red button,
floppy and dog-eared.
Woof, woof. Good boy.
I open it up.

Yup.
Reach in and pull out card stock,
four-color and folded, glossy brochure
of an international flavor.
With my name on it
I peruse the presentation.

Trees and hills and red-roofed monastery
On a river to match the sky
purple backdrop
of distant mountains
all seen through the window
with red pots on its sill
somewhere in Southern Spain.
Can travel there anytime I want.

Notice now a window in the window.
The scene: a mural on a brick wall
painted by an artist who loves
the trees and hills
and the far side of the river.
And painted by the artist who loves
the art and the trees and
the hills and the river
and the mountains
and the mural
and the wall and the window.
Captured by the man with the camera
who loves the artist
of the painting
of the mural.

Sky and mountains and river and hills and trees
and monastery and window sill’s red pots
and window in a window.
Who’s inside the window?

The artist with a ladder
The artist with an easel
The artist with a camera
The brochure of an art show
Inside the yellow manila envelope
With my name on it.
What is your inspiration?
Woof, woof.

New Depths

Inspired by the English translation of “Agua” via an on-line translator. Not so good to learn the meaning of the original text, but great poetic suggestion. Though I don't know Spanish, the romance of the language comes through.

At surf’s edge I repose in the peace
of your presence where I lost you
know you are here,
yet all I have
is your smile reflecting
in the calm of morning mist
and waves,
your hair flowing
through my hands
I touch my feet
and the sand
gives way beneath them
I go to new depths
of your love.

In-Plane Misery

From a recent plane trip:

Crowded in-plane misery and cramped, this flight.
Do I shiver in a blanket, vent screwed tight.
Or air nozzle twisted left full-open,
blowing slightly on my head.
Thigh-to-thigh, hot ears,
knees knock hard and bruise against seat-back.
And sleep? Not me, except my feet,
would rather that they run.
Please! These seats,
I feel, require sweat and blood and tears.
I hear the whining of the engines in my ears.
The pressure causing baby’s tears and
howling for the making of this long flight out.
The hours splayed from minutes by my mind—
Each one, another calling of the law, physique.
Please, uncork the stopper of this knotted
Ball of matter in the bottle: time and space.
But even in this misery, I tap the ether of My Maker's smile
And know that this is just a finite flight.

Notebook and Bic

Picture this one in spiral-bound form instead:

This notebook does not loose its charge
and shut down unexpectedly.
I close it when I want.
No glitch in code demands re-boot
or sent lo-mem report.
I see the end, some fifty pages hence,
and carry extra pens.
Can write all night and
anywhere I carry
this notebook and my ClicStic.
I think I will quit now to
recharge my spell-checked mind.
I tire, so I close notebook,
un-click my Bic and go to sleep.
What I wrote I know
is saved in black and white,
with only my own errors when I awake.
Goodnight notebook and Bic,
I thank your ballpoint tip.

Tree Climbing

Me in the spring maple that inspired this poem.

Tree Climbing

Sitting at the forest’s edge
You reached to me
And I remembered why I was born.
I stretched from rock to your arms
Limbs lifted me from earth
The maple tree, the fir.
Climb higher, you said
Reach for the sky, like my cousins and me.
Limber limbs. Strong and supple.
Bounce the spring of wind and sun dreams.
The life up here. The power
Strikes fear in the hearts of every mother.
Come down, you fool!
Keep climbing.
Bounce a little for the thrill.
Reach and pull higher still—for the fun.
Remember, I have opposing thumbs.
Lived here before.
Keep climbing.

Four limbs in a hundred arms of safety
No danger. Can’t fall.
I’m in a living thing.
You love me.
Oak and ash and alder.
Remember when I faltered?
You were there, a seedling.
Now we swing and sing with wind and birdsong.
So long from fall through winter.
Now to spring again.
Keep climbing.

Steps to sky and higher
In your loving arms.
Chestnut, beech and walnut.
Feed the feet that reach from earth to sky.
I climb the trees of reason.
Can you tell me why?
Our hands and limbs love sun and rain and wind.
Wave to lift the light hearts to the sky.
Up here I see forever.
The eyes of the horizon are upon me.
From earth to sky
Keep climbing.

In a tree a child ever grows.
Love of life—the sap within our limbs.
I sing within your arms. We know.
O climbing tree.
A child ever growing in a tree.

                      ak— Spring 2002

Song of the Waters

What's in your heart?

Not by pen and never voiced, not even thought,
but still a dull ache, a begging for freedom
not experienced this life
or a million past.

What’s holding back the waters before the flash and burst?
Before a trickle knows there are others
joining rivulets and streams?
All heading to the same sea of souls.

Sing your song--even a sad one.
Wail for your lost love
or the cross at Carver Beach.
Even a tombstone has an ear for woe.

And when the tears flow freely,
through haze and ache is freedom
clearly the cause
at the center of your voice.

Wishes not experienced do someday
break out in song of volume,
song of the waters
to the sea.

Horizon of Skies

When life did lack excitement
Grand rapids and sunsets did not touch me.
People were but the buffer to this life’s long day.
Work and play, dinner and mating
Did lack in its stretch
Till a soul took the breath
Of my smile.

In life complacent, when naught moves you to poetry
Note thee, there’s a soul you’ve not met yet.
Look beneath the rapids,
And beyond the horizon of skies.
Deep in the heart of God is a smile
You’ll remember
Your own.

it whispered

.
did not call the name of my god today
in honor of all others
whispered in my ear
i hear your voice
is a secret
that can be heard by all
.
this link is only one
of a million more
a billion
each
our own connection
honors all
.
i did not call
it whispered
honors all with love
respect for brother's sister
we are one
.