poetry

Swamp Monster Ballad

Swamp Monster Ballad

when that rain it starts a-drummin’
you’ll know he’s drawin’ near
and that moss green giant monster
‘ll make you quake with fear

his long legs they’ll start a-pumpin’
and his nylon it’ll flap
and the sound of his cavortin’
‘ll send ya racin’ to yer Pap

through shaking fingers ‘gainst yer eyes
you may dare to peek
at this wet and wild wonder
who never seems to speak

no, his frenzied dance is silent
splashing’s the only sign
of this disco-dancin’ boogie-man
who rises from the mine

oh he lives down deep amongst the dark
of Kentucky Boy’s steep shaft
and comes above to jig about
when he hears the thunder crack

‘specially in a new moon storm
or so I’ve heard it said
and ev’ry month when that orb wanes
my heart it fills with dread

for if his damp hand claws for your’n
and gets it in his grasp
you’re doomed to waltz away yer days
in his cold ‘n’ clammy clasp

so when you see that lightnin’ flash
or hear the thunder boom
best scoot inside as quick as ya can or
puddle-dancin’ ‘ll be yer doom

poetry

managing panic

managing panic

you may do your best
to turn off the part of the brain
that sees the river below
and wants to contemplate
the thin steel wire
connecting you to existence

the part that’s sure
that although you know
how to put one foot in front of the other
you may well fall/fail

those feet then dangling in mid-air
your body unsuccessfully
contorting to get grounded
your heavy self stuck
in the no-man’s land
between here and there

even if you do
reroute those synapses
your gut may still betray you
flip-flopping through
unbidden sensations
of worst-case scenarios
begging your brain to acknowledge
the distance between
yourself and safe

you are still being
your own kind of brave

meanwhile, your smallest son
bounces from one swaying beam
to the next, grinning
while the other one pauses
gets down on hands and knees
on a narrow platform
high above the river
to joyfully peer into a nest
and your husband cracks jokes
no dry taste of fear
in his mouth all day

but you still stepped out
of your comfort zone
into thin air
one shaky limb at a time
sometimes remembering to breathe

you did your best
to bypass your wiring
and persuade yourself to trust
the support would hold

poetry

Cedar at 9

Cedar at 9

chances are he’s barefoot
in a puddle
singing a song
he makes up as he goes
hips swiveling
Cubs hat bobbing
feet splashing mud everywhere

he’s the warm spark
that grounds this family
and lightens us up
the lucky energy that keeps pumping
when we’re about to wind down
our pug-loving chicken farmer
who right now is testing
just how much adrenaline
one hammock can hold

poetry

19 summers and winters

19 summers and winters

so many photos
of us
out-of-doors
grinning
the land’s beauty
humming about us
in every direction

what luck
to find another soul
who loves life
that way

and to still be here
together
ready to walk out
into whatever waits

poetry

Playing Life

Playing Life

you start out a slender pink or blue peg
cede choice as the spinner dictates a fate
pop in a peg to ride shotgun
go into deep debt buying a house
acquire children traded to the bank later
play the market & mostly win
seek revenge with glee
covet white men on white bills
(G.I. Luvmoney)
and on the Day of Reckoning
choose between millionaire or tycoon

but our kind of life is outside all this:
soft snow on green-black pines
empty car idle in the dirt driveway
muddy shoes drying here by the fire
a warm snuggle-nuzzle equaling
all the wealth there is

poetry

snowman’s forecast

snowman’s forecast

it’s corn snow
barely packable
more the stuff of shave ice
than snowman

but they’re off
in one of the last drifts
packing their palms with icy white
till their warm blood goes cold
and skin burns red

in the end
he’s pint-sized and perky
stick arms aligned with the poles
pointing the way we’re headed:
a year with no winter
three summer solstices in a row

poetry

snowshoe hare

snowshoe hare

the boys hang out the kitchen window
to watch each hop
each twitch of the nose
flipping from brown to white

what sends them over the edge, though,
is when he washes his face with his paws
burying his forehead in his hands as if in shame
then stroking his cheeks and whiskers clean
oh my gosh he is so cute!

Alex calls him Dirty Harry
this huge gentle soul
midway between unnoticeable rock
and drift of white snow,
now in 1970s basketball player phase –
sporting tall white sweatsocks
and terrycloth headband
(his so-long ears haven’t quite browned yet)

each hop reveals those ludicrously long hind feet
that allow him to nearly hover above the snow
instead of postholing like us ungainly apes
and when he turns we glimpse his
diminutive bedraggled white-centered tail

his warm brown eye regards us calmly –
no talons or fangs:
nice enough neighbors

it seems he feels

tonight maybe he’ll sleep below the deck
his heart keeping time with ours

poetry

fire

fire

coals sleep in ashy coats
barely breathing
until the log is laid

when the stove door shuts
a roaring wind rises
charred bits turn to sparkler
showering the unsuspecting
wedge of wood
with arcing stars

I like to watch
the big blocks stop fighting
allow the undeniable heat
to loose their internal suns

with a whoosh
they go from tame tan
to fans of blue yellow red green
all at once
consumed, crackling
throwing heat
lignin turned to light
the long tough fibers
collapsing from letting go
the metal box creaking
from trying to contain
energy years in the making
while rain thrums on the roof
hoping to put it all out

one time that was me
trying to tamp down
the urge to say something
but every time I tried to go dark
something still glowed like red hot glass

we’re stars
every one of us
burning inside
to light up the dark

poetry

fitting in

fitting in

the pattern’s designed
with only so much wiggle room
our limits marked off
in clear straight lines

even so
we are artists
choosing how thick to lay the mortar
how even to space the edges
how close to the plan to stick

we take rigid angles
and make waves
flowers bloom
where we come together

old young in-between
we’re each getting our hands dirty
planting our own bit of soul here
trusting we’re part of the plan
and leaving something to last

poetry

porcupine

porcupine

crawling up the rough road
headlights beaming a swath of light
a pile of pine needles
comes to life
straightens out
and trundles across the road
its spiky fur flops around
black at the base
tan at the tips
he’s unaware
it’s a bad hair day

aww
we all say
it’s so cute.
I want to give it a hug!

(maybe not)

in no rush at all
he’s lost in the brush soon enough
just another first
in our long year of new