Tuesday, March 03, 2015

Google This

All along the mnemonic path
I had left little devices to
Catch those yesterdays'
New things of old.
Snares of a sort, a pinwheel
Or two. Were they spinning
Clockwise or counter?
A cleanly seen associate.
What does that feeling of
Approximation feel like?
The person, the word,
The time of that year?
What I am tempted to do
I fear will destroy that impulse
To natively remember from
Within my own mind.
Once a memory, now,
Just information retrieved.
Much of what is easy is,
Like absorbent cotton, mopping
Up for me. A dumb provider.
Sit down false necessity.
Let me do this myself.
Give me a little time,
Just a little time.

Thursday, February 05, 2015

An Appreciation of the Sun

The sun looks for me. 
It is undaunted in the
Way it searches. 
Not the naked dirty elm
Nor the highest floor
Will stand in it's way.

It sketches the winter lilac
On the house wall. 
The black dog's doppel
Passes through. 

Inexpensive zircon
sparkles in the snow. 
Glint of tiny prisms. 

The word welcome
Comes to mind. 
It floats from my mouth. 
A small enough cloud. 

The sun climbs on me
Looking into my eyes. 
It dresses me in 
What's available.
Out of the blue,
The mysterious blue,
It buttons each button. 

I celebrate mid-morning. 
Such a wardrobe. 
Such an ever-light necessity. 

Friday, December 19, 2014


The marks were of precision.
They ran from stage left to right.
No one remembered 
the shortness of hands,
the way they carried water,
the touch of the not visible life
sustained in the same way
we awoke each day and
prayed the sun up.

The televised life is a sleight.
Sparks of electricity, furious voices,
images formed from small fires.
Long lost immediacy and repetition.
Messages carried by a messenger
bringing the final message.
The thing to be extinguished.

"I hear voices," my young son said.
The subvocal is shirtless,
squinting, smoking a cigarette.
Now he wears a raincoat,
now a soft blanket over his shoulder.
Finally a dark hat pulled low.
"Don't believe everything you hear."

The u-turns are flocking.
Through a doorway a long look
grows, breaking the surface,
breathes, then branches down
into the source.

The look is taken in hand.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Finding the Source ?

So we, being Kim, me and kids, set out for Ewing Park yesterday.  Sugar Creek quietly slices through this little bird and butterfly watching park. And after a previous recon  involving Sierra and me we came dressed to wade the mighty creek in search of its source and encounter it's wild life. But even Kim's waders would succumb to the depths of this deceptive stream. First we encountered a  soft shell turtle the size of an eight piece pizza. I picked it up to see how far it would think it was going while practicing "air running". I quickly placed him back in the stream as Jeremiah had warned me this turtle was a snapper and it would eat us. Further upstream we encountered a beautiful butterfly that hitched a ride on Kim's butt. I later identified it as a Question Mark.
Not Kim's butt, the butterfly. . Later the kids saw what they described as a Rat snake further down stream. Jeremiah worried it was poisonous but Sierra quickly said "only if you're a rat!" Since we never reached the source of Sugar Creek we will make another expedition in the future with supplies and chips. 

An explanation

Trouble with explaining about poetry:The words are always carrying on a clandestine affair with each other, and implicating the thought.

                                                         -William Stafford

Friday, May 23, 2014

Free hand

I am running out of ways I can note my hand.
Laying it on a scale is hopeless.
Each assay takes me further away 
from what I am searching for. 
Like a forgetting, the space around it
becomes mapless, without orientation.
I am losing my hand 
is my hand lost?
I inquire within over and over.
 I feel like I've just 
entered another room
where I can't recall
why I came into it.
Approaching  Planck
what appears to be form
seems to be dissolving.
Hand appears and disappears,
pouring itself into emptiness.
Until I type this...

Friday, May 02, 2014


Where time was on my wrist
I find a small feed.
Less time, more minding.
Wind is blowing through my palm.
I awaken to a wren tapping
on the back of my hand.
All else is so much foam,
its false iridescence sinking
slowly into the warm waters.
I sight down my arm 
feeling the weather 
climb upon my shoulder.
The feed is like a tune that
holds everything growing.
Whether it be dark pressure
or something green unfolding
what is discrete is 
becoming what I know.
Only the faint outline of
a timepiece remains.

Monday, November 25, 2013


I said, "I'm repeating myself."
"The devil may care," he said.
"I need institutionalized," I said.
"The devil must care," he said.

We were on a junket and
everyone was talking
about the past.
I remember all these people,
the blue turban, the lost pocket watch,
the flying cap, the forecasting.

Once I was at a horse race,
losing my ticket for that horse.

"I fired a weapon," I heard myself say.
"In someone's direction."

"We pick up the path as we go,"
said the little man sitting on the rock.
"Back is gone."