wait up for me

Slow down! your mother cried
as the green Chrysler swerved
and fishtailed across the
snow-packed cemetery road

leading to the fresh-cut rectangle
that would cradle your father
in his bronze bed, harsh and dark
in the November afternoon

the sun pale and weak in
long November shadows,
the grave hard dug into the deep frost
of Rosehill, hard dug into the hillside.

A neighborhood cemetery,
old Oscar Peterson nearby
and Iowa Dunseth Nelson
resting just East, facing the cold sunrise.

You can see Grandma's from here,
the flat-backed Herefords scattered
along the Western slopes of close-cropped
pasture.

Grandma's, Charlie Boy, Section Five -
pastures to the West, rolling West
to the Missouri, the home place
South, behind the shelter belt.

Slow down! as we skidded over
your Mother's side of the plot,
she in no hurry to get there,
reluctant to look into that certainty,
in no hurry to bury or be buried.

We stood in the relentless November
wind, huddled in impatience,
waiting for the sun to set,
waiting for the eerie bagpipes to cease,
waiting our turn.

POV

I thought of you fondly as I passed that dead squirrel splayed on the side of the road, up by Wilma French's. Knowing you share my deep-seated aversion to the little bastards (especially after they invaded my attic), but then I've always run their chattering little asses out of the yard, even before the home invasion. I considered just that sort of bond between us, hard to explain to someone else, someone perhaps soft hearted, or we would say soft-headed. The ineffable commonality of thought arising from our mutual perspective, a point of view some might term 'crotchety,' the charm of which does not elude me. There's poetry in the world view of grumpy old men and sharp-tongued crones, a symmetry achieved across decades of experience with rodents masqueraded as cartoon characters, and the realities of survival in the wide world.

Redemption

It is mid-Lent, or late, even, in that solemn season. I came across this poem on The Writer's Alamanc for today and thought it appropriate - this is my 200th post, and almost everything I write is about redemption, forgiveness, the never-ending second chance. Hope and despair dwell within us, Lent is upon us with Easter looming - another resurrection, another Pasqueflower abloom in the woods, another sunrise awaiting.

In the heat of late afternoon...

by Gary Young

In the heat of late afternoon, lightning streaks from a nearly
cloudless sky to the top of the far mesa. At dusk, the whole south
end of the valley blazes as the clouds turn incandescent with
some distant strike. There is a constant congress here between
the earth and the sky. This afternoon a thunderstorm crossed the
valley. One moment the ground was dry, and the next there were
torrents running down the hillsides and arroyos. A quarter-mile off
I could see a downpour bouncing off the sage and the fine clay
soil. I could see the rain approach, and then it hit, drenching me,
and moved on. Ten minutes later I was dry. The rain comes from
heaven, and we are cleansed by it. Suddenly the meaning of baptism
is clear to me: you can begin again, and we are saved every day.

Poetry West

This poem came from a poetry gathering in Colorado Springs - I wasn't sure I was at the right spot, but then...

I knew, when I saw
the multicolored broomstick skirt
topped by a canvas
barn coat,
a flash of turquoise,
and silver
Vail bears
twinkling beneath a flat-top
Santa Fe hat -

I knew I had arrived
at the Poetry West
Saturday morning
coffee
klatch.

Before the Weather Turns

Before the weather turns and the winds from Limbaugh come down around us
We'll again go to the woods, to the pond where mallard drake and hen
nest, to the cliff of swallows where ragged, broken roots cling to naught but rock.
We will cross the Sunridge and climb to Raspberry Mountain, shining in the pale
afternoon sun.

Before the weather turns and the gray clouds swell and hide the cerulean April sky.

*********

Before the weather turns,
and the winds from
Limbaugh
come down around us,
we'll again go to the pond
where mallard drake and hen nest,
to the cliff of swallows,
where ragged, broken roots cling
to naught but rock.

We will cross the Sunridge
and climb to Raspberry Mountain,
shining in the pale afternoon sun.

Before the weather
turns,
and the gray clouds
swell and hide
the cerulean
April sky.

*********
Before the weather turns
and the winds from Limbaugh
come down around us,
we'll again go to the woods,
to the pond where mallard drake
and hen nest, to the cliff of swallows,
where ragged, broken roots
cling to naught but rock.

We will cross the Sunridge and climb
to Raspberry Mountain, shining
in the pale afternoon sun.

Before the weather turns,
and the gray clouds swell
and hide the cerulean
April sky.

*****
Before the weather turns
and the winds from Limbaugh
come down around us,
we'll again go to the woods,
to the pond where mallard drake and hen nest,
to the cliff of swallows,
where ragged, broken roots cling
to naught but rock.

We will cross the Sunridge
and climb to Raspberry Mountain,
shining in the pale afternoon sun.

Before the weather turns,
and the gray clouds swell
and hide the cerulean April sky.


*****

Looking at the Sky

by Anne Porter

I never will have time
I never will have time enough
To say
How beautiful it is
The way the moon
Floats in the air
As easily
And lightly as a bird
Although she is a world
Made all of stone.

I never will have time enough
To praise
The way the stars
Hang glittering in the dark
Of steepest heaven
Their dewy sparks
Their brimming drops of light
So fresh so clear
That when you look at them
It quenches thirst.

Hildegard von Bingen

For the air is alive in the verdure and the flowers and the waters flow as if they lived the sun too lives in its light and when the moon wanes it is rekindled in the light of the sun, as if it lived anew. Even the stars glisten in their light as if alive.

+++++++

The soul is like a wind that waves over herbs,
Is like the dew that moistens the grass
Is like the rain-soaked air that lets things grow.
In the same way you should radiate kindness
To all who are filled with longing.

Be a wind, helping those in need.
Be a dew, consoling the abandoned.
Be the rain-soaked air, giving heart to the weary,
Filling their hunger with instruction
By giving them your soul.

...I am a feather on the breath of God

a fetch of retrievers

it's good to have a retriever
dog
you can sit in the lawnchair
in the sun
with a refreshing beverage

wearing your oversized sunhat
and big dark glasses,
flame-orange chuck-it
in hand

and you only have to bend over
to reach that ball
when she brings it back
panting
happy to be
retrieving
whatever you throw

Iowa State Fair - 2011

except me, of course

everybody lies - dr gregory house

everybody lies
we lie to ourselves
we lie to our confessor
we lie to the tax man
we lie because we can
and because we can't
help it

everybody lies
we lie out of love
we lie out of spite
we lie about our weight
and what we ate

we lie as an art form
an embellishment
or an abbreviation
of our pain

everybody lies

Smoke Break

sometimes I wish I
smoked
so I could go out into the sunshine
and take a break

muse over the contrails
and the habits of the crows
on the light post

I would inhale deeply,
wrinkling my brow
in thought

I'd have a book,
or a cup of coffee in hand

and expect nothing

but the next breath

Moving Pains

Surreptitiously, I peer
out the window
hoping the trash collector
picks up those broken
windows and the old
screens

and maybe even the
nail-studded frames
that I snuck out
among the other detritus
of a life here
along the front range

dishes cracked and
scarred cups with
no handles
an old broomstick
that could be useful
I suppose
some day

busy busy part II

so i was getting ready to go out
when i decided to check my
email and hannah was there and we had
a chat

i stuck to my schedule, though
except that that old fat bastard cat
threw up in my chair
and the clothes weren't quite dry
and i had to put them in the dryer
again

i stayed way too long at jerry and
kathy's visiting, but
i did pretty well at the post office; then
tom allen was at the library and
i got to talking politics:
take that you republican't assholes.

when i got home, the snow
was so lovely that i had to play
outside with the dog for a while

but i did get the soup on
and the kettle is whistling and
maybe i won't get to the attic
after all.

busy busy

well, it's friday
and i should catch up
on the stuff i didnt get done
earlier in the week,
like wednesday when i went golfing
and yesterday when i did two hours
of cardio at the Y when i usually do one
and had to take a nap
(do not underestimate silver sneakers)

so today is busybusy:
i need to vac & dust and get into either
the garage or the attic
and make room for the next round
of cleaning & sorting & boxing up.

but first i'd better go to jerry
and kathy's for that dvd they are
lending me
and stop at the post office, of course

then to the library for my reading contest
gift and to pick up the items
i had on hold and maybe
chat with whoever
might be lingering there
over the paper

by that time, the dog will need
to be taken outside and
look! the snow has started again
so first i think i'll make
potato soup
and have a cup of tea

the reality of it

the foxes got her, of course
that big dog fox down by the
dovecote, I imagine
her fine bones bleached
in the rock bed
of the creek,
dry now in the remains of winter,
the creekbed she'd hunted
brave and foolish

i don't go there much
anymore
nor through those woods beyond
not as brave
i suppose
but foolish: i hang onto
the echo of her yet.

we avoid the old path, my dog
and I
missing her in the odd
moments of the evening walk.
we await the spring
when the creek again
rushes and the aspen bud out
in tender green glory and her echo
fades into a new season
her death a mere fact
in time