The Wait

It’s the earliest breath of spring,
before crocuses,  
and our midwest snow
fakes its own death
in struggling grayed heaps.
Snow will have more to say between now and April.
 
The moon lies low and on its back
near the treetops
as if dreaming
of basking in warm, humid summer air.
A flowing breeze runs gentle over us
mild and chill,
like an air conditioner breaking down.

Stars, blurry and distant tonight,
have retreated to summer’s arm’s length posture.

A sigh from my dog who’s shedding,
we are tired of this crusty, treacherous
unpredictable snow
that holds us up
solidly
one minute and drops us to the ground the next.

Come, spring, come.
We need you. 

Sunday Still

Good to know
I got my Self back
and the world feels
right again
after having gotten
smashed up a bit there
with too much
falling as the past
dictated

but not as the present warranted.

(Untitled)

Let us sweep our sins
up into a gentle pile
all hair and crumbs,
dust and flower petals
let’s pour them good-bye
into paper boats
and sail them at dusk
wading into the water with them
before touching them with fire.
Even these should not die alone.
Let’s watch them grow bright,
upward release their ghost black smoke
and sink, seething their last breath,
extinguishment,
into the mothering arms
of deep waters.

(Pine)

The Pines have a feel all their own.
In spring,
they are low down languid
and swoon to the fresh moist earth,
flaunting their bright red cones
and fat latex green appendages
that will too soon grow stiff
and ward off our pink fingers.

Cool in summer,
in attitude, and in fact,
they are shade themselves,
and can change the color
of a sultry humid heat wave
to a chill respite, just by hanging around.

In winter, they stay dressed,
standing watch, patiently,
sometimes rocking back on their heels, hands in pockets,
massive
while all else slithers under ground
and draws up within.
but Pine
Stands, greeting the snow
and wind, singing
mournfully to them
Dancing in the white cacophony.

Summer Share

Three kids hovering
a half block up the street
small cavalry on bicycles,
timid independence in summer-grime clothes.
Growing in short warm months just before middle school,
misunderstood and misunderstanding.
Trying to make sense of this world,
advancing on from tabula rasa.

They have spied
and want to pet my giant black dog,
unsure how to proceed, taunting each other
in place of taking action.
Wearing their tender selves on their sleeves,
they are naked as Eve and Adams
before the fall.

I take steps toward them, and
my dog is delighted
he loves kids especially and bounds forward,
then hesitant a moment,
reading the breath of fear issuing from them
as one voice
before I say, “don’t worry!
he is friendly!”

Distrust of my motives vanishes in a flurry of
dismounting, kickstands,
excitement, six hands caressing
slick black fur
their hearts soaring above
self consciously grinning at the alien adult,
venturing questions, offering
information,
I knew he was Lab and Great Dane!
I knew it!
The girl has nothing good to say
about herself,
the boys’ edgy self-confidence belied
by their darting eyes
searching for approval,
all wishing for nothing more than
love and acceptance from this dog and adult.

I ask my dog for all of his tricks,
glowing, he knows we are showing off,
anxious to perform the hardest ones
impatient with sit and speak,
all of our faces beaming with joy.

We five now share gilded pages
in this year’s summer chapters
and the kids say “aw!” when
I say we have to go,
the sun is going down,
we have our own adventures
to tend to

yet I hold warm bright the
sweet surprised smiles they give
when I say
“good meeting you guys!”

Something

I imagine that ex boyfriend,
if someone ever asked him
whatever happened to that woman?
Telling the tale of me with
horror-stricken inflections,
the tilted head of dismay:

She! went out at night! in the woods!
without! a! flashlight!
and all winter long, too, even in the cold
and the snow,
I should have known
just by that,
that tells you right there
somethings seriously wrong
with her
well she did like sex,
but that’s a sign too, isn't it,
that shoulda told me right there,
somethings really wrong
with her
and she spoiled that big wimpy dog of hers
my dog is half his size and could have beat
the shit out of him,
and wanted to,
that would have taught him
something
but she got pissed at me for encouraging that!
I was trying to teach him, she needed to see that
and the things she ate! Curry and hot peppers in everything,
she spent too much time
cooking and not enough time cleaning
and not enough,
never enough time with me, she always made me
so
damn
mad
but
I didn’t say anything
because
I’m a forgiving man

and her always laughing at things like an idiot
I was going to take her on a dream vacation
better than she could ever do for herself
she should have been
so grateful!
she needed to be on antidepressants
I know that for sure, there were so many signs
but she wouldn’t listen
and that’s another sign, that shoulda told me
right there,
somethings really wrong
with her
I told her she smiled too much
but she didn't take that seriously
she should have
moved in with me, I would have made her
I would have
stopped her
making me
so
damn
mad
all the time
no, somethings seriously wrong
with her
I should have known,
I could tell right away
she smiled too much, but I gave her
the benefit of the doubt,
I don’t know what I
was thinking.

May 22, 2008

I could say these words in latin
and they would sound like a prayer
so it's a good thing I don't know latin
and cannot hide them:

Let this fear be lifted.

Now that I've seen it,
this Fear, this one mutant in particular,
raking through the brush
savagely, carelessly,

seen it in the wells of my binoculars from a cliff,
named it, still from a distance,
elbows buried in the grass,
while hunched safe under cover.

Later I'd lived with it roaring high above my head,
reducing all other fears to cowering anemics,
licking their lips, eyes averted in the shadows,
diminished forever.

I have stalked it singly
for days on end, living on my wits in the deep
wet forest

and then

finding it vulnerable, sad,
I fell
up into its eyes,
one with it for that slight
intake of breath before

survival instinct overwashed and I raised the knife.

And now
now that I've weighed it, measured it
numbered and cataloged it,

skinned it, made a shield from the hide
salt smoke jerky the meat
now it's time
to stop living with it

and finally let it go.

Not dropping its remains off at the thrift store,
thinking it may still have some value
to someone, to some grim, unknown soul,
No.


I've had my belly full of it,
and so has the world
grown tired of the stench of it,
like a hog farm behind a hill
immovable, invisible,
growing more revolting daily.

Let it be of the ether again
and free,

its form picked up
   soft
    by the breeze
      reduced to a dust strand
riding away

turning gently to its true form:

      nothingness

May 8, 2008

An offering to the god

It's that time of year again
the time when the light is just right
and in a rainy monday turns certain reds
to gold, to the living red sun,
a liquid extracted of fire,
wiry and so tender soft in my hands.

it's the time of year
when those white fairy flowers
bloom in the lawn like felt
bones or little hairy wands
waiting for you to come

and visit the land of life
for just one transient moment

it's that time of year when
people change
and eyes are bright and
you can't believe the luck
your heart soaring
and the time of year
when I was in awe of the perfection,
weeping over it
blind, anticipation

the time of year for walks
on gray rainy days
and nights

without touching
it wasn't yet that time of year
but soon.
Soon it would be.

It's the time of year
for fiddle heads
also fuzzy with felt
and red hair
and leathery unfurling feathers
rubbery thick
like the whispers of an eraser
curious to the touch
childlike squeaky resilient.


And the Dutchman's breeches
it's the time of year for them too
not in flower
not yet
but so velvet and damp in the new night's air
tender breath

It's the time of year for looking
into eyes from a distance
on another gray rainy day
in an silent lunchroom
for an unexpectedly
long, longing time

and it's the time of year
to stop holding back
it's the time of year to
spread my arms wide and live

for myself

my joyous self

 

 

April 22, 2008

In the valley
trees and little grasses,
tiny plants,
miniature versions of their extravagant summer selves
venture forth into the world.

The moss, so courageous green
in the afternoon sun
covers these ancient rocks
and their hard, sharp and weary angles
with their velvet lives,
green warmth.

This path, hidden from me all winter,
now a disused track of mud,
a few untrodden leaves and sticks
and my solitary footsteps.

Stopping by the great dead tree
white and pink and gray naked,
shed bark everywhere under it
in piles, like my very soul,
mi corazón. It will not be reduced,
refuses to fall, still upright, standing.

Among brittle dead leaves
intrepid blood root flowers,
and pink hepatica
so soft and fragile.
Below, my agile creek rolls around rocks,
all glow with life,
my venerable friends of spring.

Far away church bell
shimmer sounds, like snowflakes
melting slowly on warm window pane
before my eyes.

April 15, 2008 (Rabbits)

We get our March in April here

and the trees are full of
bellowing wind, issued
straight from the earth's
diaphragm
with opera star force.
It wants to move my body
it's so
sure of itself.

The trees are combing wind with their
leafless fingers, working
the knots out.
Last year's grasses lay low safe under it
as they did for snow.

There's a palatable sense of
magic tonight
the bowl of this land sits
wide
open to the sky
and long gray shadows
spool out under the half moon.

Already a half
and the month,
another one flying away
under my feet.
Through my fingers.

The mud tonight is delicious
and black
having retreated to
places where it can sometimes
be avoided as I long for spring
while somehow
impossibly,
I also find contentment, here, now.

The coyotes
I hear
when the wind relaxes for a moment.
They'll want foolish young rabbits
when spring comes.
So I'll be happy for this
respite in between

and not wish an end
to come rushing at them

or me.

 

 

 

April 11, 2008 (Sold)

I'm completely sold on this chocolate thing.

Good Chocolate.
Pulling open the thick paper,
watching the white lines
that form on the edges as you tear,
the pleasure of ruining
pretty paper.

Then the gossamer gold foil,
so like a negligee
under a woolen business suit.

The bloom of scent,

satisfying thunkchrungh of teeth
slowly
chomping
on firm velvet solids, the
feel of it collapsing in your mouth

and melting on your lounge,

 

bearing the sweet and bitter.

 

April 11, 2008

So good to be home again

here in the big wide meadow,
denied all winter.

The soft rain touching lightly
on my Flecktarned shoulders,
my cheeks of smiles.

Quiet highway, birds chirping
faint frogs cheeping
Black dog nearby,
underbrushing,
and visible
but not for long.
He'll be hidden there
in the tall bright grasses
and the glommering great pines
before I know it. Thank gods.
My dog, and me, in this misty
rain, feeling
so full of love
for myself and the world.

Things are happening.

 

April 9, 2008

Now that I've finally grown up
now I've stopped letting things like
the dirt
in my car or fear,

nameless wandering drifts of fear,

keep me from it,

now I have friends and walk through
my experiences with people
open,

I feel bigger in my skin
no longer like a Cinder Woman

made of brittle, hollow gray.

 

 

April 7, 2008

The frogs, the chirpers
are suddenly back tonight, back,
after so long away, after this endless white smothering
slippery, out of control fright winter.

It seems like a minute ago
(but it has actually been a few days),
that the ice on the trail finally had holes
of leaves and mud
laying around everywhere like lazy pups.
I hadn’t been able to run this trail
since December
and now it’s suddenly back, whole, victorious.
Returned to this planet from another dimension
bearing frogs in its wake,

and the greening of the moss and bits of grasses here

and there.

03.27.08 (if you like)

It’ll probably be
one of the last snows of spring or, winter
if you like.
The trees,
damp and chill all day,
soaked up the soft heavy snow like
they were dressing up
as flocked xmas trees.

But these muscular black and coal trunks,
in their roving,
singing patterns,
animate the woods with their
vibrant, dancing, bodies.

The air sighs as my car passes,
gust enough to send
tattered, damp rags of snow
tumbling down
on my dirty black car.

We are at the forest.

My teeth tremble with delight
at the dark tree filled vista,
behind it, a prize, the ribbon remains of daylight,
rolling gentle between the night above and earth
I stand on,
a gentle, milky, vast lingering glimmer
of pink. 

 

01.14.08

On this spark-crisp night
in small maple forest,
shadows that come out
from under massive dark trees
cast themselves freely
over light silk snow.
Swirling, embracing,
slate cloud calligraphy scripts
spin themselves wide
across the soft impermanent page of rolling hillside.

Coming out of those restless, silent woods
and on to the smooth and stubble drifted plain
the snow is dazzling.
Effervescent, it takes over the stage,
magnetic and alive,
glorious and joyful
under our pared little moon.

I stand still to see
if the brilliance of its presence
belongs to itself
or is owed to the patterns of
far away stars reflected.
The shifting wild glimmer says no,
star light is too stale and weak
to sustain one so vivacious.

Perhaps I see a frost specter, caught, alive,
in the earth’s embrace of lights much closer;  
the free and innocent small of the moon above
mixed equal
with my bestial heart beating brightly
here on the ground below.

05.21.07 (Map of the World)

Fresh lawn-dried sheets
and no more extra blanket tonight.
It’s late spring
And I’m looking at a map of the World
Of Wisconsin
Lying in bed.

What a funny place it is here
with writers and naturalists
and dog lovers and political activists.
I’m sure
these people are everywhere in the world but
Here is
where I’d landed when
I opened my eyes of love
to see them.

Awareness of the journey
begins the journey again,
In my life, in my heart,
through these new eyes.

This is where I want to be- where
I found myself to be myself.

I read my own book
and found it lacking.

Found I could do better,
And by gods I am.

 

11.24.06 (Elusive)

In this sideways morning light
Making cappuccino
Feeding my dog
While the sun pauses on grass, hill,
bird feeder and fallen leaves before
Beaming through this newly all-my-own kitchen, its contents finally put away
Findable, reachable, accessible,
All at my fingertips.
Caffeine on my lips.
Ready For Action.
Except
You, only in my thoughts
Of course.

This morning though
Along with your image in my head,
and your imagined body
Arms and legs
Hands
Chest
All of your parts
Along with your thoughts
Manners, beliefs, great humor, smarts
All neatly would fit with mine.
Humming synergy.
The feeling attached today is exited anticipation
And not anxious sadness.

Probably
My wishes are thinking for me,
Possessing my beliefs; sympathetic demons.
But this morning,
I will let it be so,
Allow myself to live in the phantom of love that could be.
I’ll believe for now that it is going to happen,
That I need only wait,
Gift myself today with a
Luxurious bedspread on my heart
Lying open, artfully displayed
Deep velvet and silk pillows piled up for you,
Illuminated by fire.

All of the different ways
I have tried to avoid
and then tried to stop
wanting you have backfired on me.

Avoidance brought me closer to you anyway
As if I were walking circles, lost in the woods.

Finding this, I thought surely the more I know
The less I’ll like.
Yet this trusty scheme failed me.
And that was a shock.

Other’s affections and attentions became
New wooden yardsticks to measure you by
But I accidentally made them into a birdhouse
And painted it Crush Pink.

So unlike me to be such a fool, I think.

 

But that might be a lie.

 

I secretly hope so.

01.07.07 (Creosote)

Victims of emotions long, long past
Send their unrequited anger out in bursts
of argument and
suffocated
         irrational
                    venting
about normal, every sunny day things.
Not the real sins committed and unnoticed
by an ancient perpetrator,
the real sins committed against them.

These real sins. They’ve left a mark.

Trying to burn the knowledge of it
out of their throats with screaming,
They try to
Blow it out of the hollows of their hearts,
With yelling and smashing,
Scour it out with their angry tears
And the grit of bulging eyes and red face.

But yet there it is, still.
A molten tar, still silently, seethingly boiling
there on the heart.

It got its start
In their childhood
and their parent’s childhood
and their parent’s childhood.

It twists in their hands
And in their minds, unquenchable
And unidentified.
Its source instead judged to be today’s innocents
Standing around them like tender fawns,
Guilty of being ghosts and mirrors
Of their childhood
and their parent’s childhood
and their parent’s childhood.