poetry

mud people

mud people

Then there were the first humans, whose job it was to offer prayer, tell stories, and remember the passage of time. Made of the clay of this earth, the mud people of the first creation did not endure; when it rained, their bodies grew soft and dissolved.
– “Creations” from Dwellings by Linda Hogan

mud people
we soft squish
puddle and
wear away

tears run rivulets
into furrows into
cracks into
crumbles

we have no hard
to hang onto
no set stone spine

instead we bend bow sway
pray palms high
heart pressed low to
earth’s chest listening
to pulse and wave
pliant supplicants
consumed by awe

all we need
is to make:
prayer / tale
sound salve
time taste

and for you to please take
what our muddy palms
hold out open
trembling

poetry

museless

museless

I don’t have a muse
someone outside this realm
who whispers words to me

even so
sometimes my antennae go up
and quiver saying
right now the universe
is ready to reveal something
if only I stop
and leave myself at least as open

sometimes I feel a little lonesome
with no otherworldly guide
only this exceedingly wonderful
boatload of beings
each pointing a way
in fallible tones
not possibly conflated
with the certainty of madness

poetry

a poet paying taxes

a poet paying taxes

it’s time to add up every pen and pencil
notebook business card visor
from the last year
what did I use to make what I made?
then I’ll pay my town their tiny portion

I don’t mind the tithe –
it’s the terrible reckoning,
weighing what little went in versus out,
reading the silent critical subtext
embedded in the unassailably impartial numbers;
it’s the unflattering appraisal
of the value of my time
here –

that’s what I’m avoiding tonight
wrapped in a wool blanket
with the laptop decidedly closed

maybe tomorrow I’ll have the strength
to add the columns up
or rather
subtract what it all cost me

poetry

wndr poet

wndr poet

I am the poet at the door
I take your word
and add an L
I lie on my belly
sensing all the stifled heartbeats
and stealthy tiptoes
most don’t detect
in the cage of my chest
like elephant language
in a register
too low for normal
while you wander and wonder
I’m glued to my seat
making sights into symbols
wounds into sounds
tapping a button
that slaps a thin metal key
against an inky ribbon
then falls onto a leaf of paper
winnowing your life
to find the dense rich
nutty grains

Tonight I read about the wndr museum in Chicago. When you walk in, you give a single word to one of their resident poets, who then writes you a poem to pick up as you exit.

poetry

happy trees

happy trees

spring fills in the paint-by-number mountainsides
and broad swaths of beige-grey lighten up overnight
it’s a green so new it floats like mist
a luminous glow suspended above crowns
like a saint’s nimbus

you can’t make out a single leaf
instead there’s a cloud of burst buds
as if someone took a fan brush
rubbed in the taste of early snow peas
and dabbed the scene to life

the aspen stands come in the way they go out
patchy
one sprawling clone flashes on at a time
your brief chance to greet each individual
before it fades into forest

poetry

Bev’s Stitchery

Bev’s Stitchery

the bell on the glass door jingles
I step in and it shuts
me into the vacuum of
the silent craft store
white walls pitted with peg boards
things to do in all directions
and no hands to do them
except two

he had been at the windows
watching the traffic
this tall lean grey-haired farmer
so utterly out of place
so clearly not-Bev
but the only possible proprietor
and I’m not sure whether
I’m relief from tedium
or a nuisance

I tell him what I’m in for
and he leads me straight there
ma’am-ing me all the way
it’s a simple transaction
I pay cash to keep things snappy
but I can’t stop wondering
where’s Bev?
I look over the register postings
for a clue:
a funeral parlor?
hospital?
prayer meeting?
craft show?

but no, there’s something in the gravity
with which he turns off the open light
as I leave
something about the disjunct
between his stiff Wrangler jeans
and the women’s notions
I believe he’s spent his day within
that at home I look her up

Beverly L. Vancura Zabloudil
born in rural Nebraska in 1942
married to Ray at 20
mother to Raylene two years after
moved to Buena Vista 1965

In 1977, she took her love of sewing and crafts
into the marketplace.
She bought out a fabric store,
and Bev’s Stitchery was born.
When she wasn’t quilting,
she would have a crochet hook,
knitting needle
or cross-stitch needle in her hand.
She said that you should never
have time to be bored.

She died in hospice in 2015,
preceded in death by daughter Raylene
whose 2012 obituary says she
loved quilting, crocheting and needlework,
and she taught those and other crafts.

Ray’s 87 now
and has already added his name
to the headstone they all share
for at least four years now
he’s put in his own long hours
in the empty shop
keeping the lights on
to keep them near
not knowing
how to bind off

*text in italics taken from their public obituaries

poetry

new to the neighborhood

looking down at El Capitan Lodge from the slopes of Taylor Hill

new to the neighborhood

they peek out and test our scent
Goldie the ground squirrel
popping up from the rocks at the edge of the deck
the pair of pine grosbeaks
decorating the aspen before leaf-out
and the mountain chickadees
unabashedly evaluating a nest site
while I gawk five feet away

in mid-morning
violet-green swallows careen about the eaves
regardless of where we are
and any time we’re in the woods
the gray jays find us first

I try to strike up a conversation
introduce myself
but their eyes are on our palms
wondering whether we’re handout types

exactly 28 minutes after
hanging up the hummingbird feeder
I hear him pause midflight
I rush to the window
just in time to see him take a sip
seemingly not to his satisfaction
then he buzzes up a story
looks me in the face
as if to say
puh-lease!

we’ve seen deer tracks in the dirt
and woodrat scat in the shed
(beside the ripped-open recycling)
and this evening
a ball of sunset glow came trotting
down the hill to the east
lighting up the family room windows
jovial, unconcerned

we leapt up
and as if to put us in our place
the red fox squatted
marked her territory
and nonchalantly kept going down the road

we’re summer people, after all
unlikely to make friends
(despite our best efforts)
glad to settle for some
curious new acquaintances

poetry

eating apples

some things are hard to swallow
thirty years believing
nothing was going down
all that ending
in daily chitchat
about nonsense

my grandfather
after his stroke
begging for ice
me not knowing
which was compassion
giving in or denying him

immune tonic
so vile I shake
each time I take a swig
sitting there on the shelf
through my coughing spell
an open challenge
I’m not ready to meet

the orange pills
that let me run
and keep my sight
but claimed my gut instead

our sweet son
grimacing at an apple
refusing to obey
his need to please

oh as antidote
to all the bitter herbs
stored in my little chest
I’m gonna chew on pine needles
and Old Man’s Beard
swallow big draughts
of sun and snow
wash them all down
with muddy meltwater
and the strong tea of tannin
make my own tincture
of silence and time
wait for the healing to come

poetry

meringue mountains

meringue mountains

the black peaks sport a smooth white mantle
glossy in afternoon sun
the texture of whipped egg whites
not yet baked to toasty brown
cornices stretch along ridges
like pulled marshmallow cream

from here the slopes seem airbrushed smooth
but put yourself there
stung by angular crystals
blasted by wind with nothing in its way
all sculpted and smoothed
by a chisel and hand
we’re too small to see

poetry

baking on the boat ramp

baking on the boat ramp

in not-quite-spring
when the world is more
white than green
and the campground gates
still slumber
you and I
find a steep bit of sun
make ourselves stars
or corpses
either way
we bake on the boat ramp
like dough on stone
letting the photons
wave their way
into our bodies
to cook out the cold
keep death at bay
put some Vitamin D
-elight into each
preoccupied cell