Four lbs and fit in one hand
and on my mind
NO
In my mind like mycelium on a forrest floor.
Flushing like mushrooms
with the seasons or rain or trauma or joy
She left home
but my mind still leaves room for her
and what is left and still
Like a tree that thinks the fungus is still there
that makes strange gloaming melancholies and whispers
She is still on my mind, in my heart and my soul.
The pieces I gave her freely are gone.
I'm detached armor, shield and sword
on a rack at home if she decides she needs them
But the rust is coming because she doesn't
Protector with no root.
Fast wisdom and a slow body never made me mad before.
But now I am
The wind in the city
has so many names
No portent of the weather
No kiss of far off trees
It has addresses
and shorter lifespans
Brought about by smaller changes
manmade and unexpected
The 4th ave breeze from rush hour
The Broadway gusts bourn of channeled winds
Whistling in the subways
and
trees
and
tunnels
But the four Wild Winds
old as time
Named for the turn of the earth
Children of the Rising and Setting sun
Great siblings of the seas
Patient carvers of mountains and sometimes angry rotations.
Constant their fickle
Their children the clouds in tow or behind
Sailors and Fishermen know them
Mountain climbers know them
The people of the city know them
but most by their children and grand children
and their doppler echos
Like the broadway gusts
flitting to and fro
without stopping
at the whim of...
The Four know the children of the earth
As Gods almost eternal paying heed to the times
With reckless abandon
Girdling mother earth pole to equator
The Cascade foothills
Stretch out like
Spring walking from winter
Over wet fields
Soon to be filled
Cold mornings still with frost
Morning eyes and long sinew
Yawn the evening sun
Exhale the clouds
then she looks around
for her book and
her dog
rolls on her side and
waits for coffee
and the sound of feet on the stairs
her eyes the grey blue
of a foggy morning
her humor as clear and
bright when the
sun burns the clouds off
comfort and hope mixed
with the challenge
to weed the garden, ready
the year and laugh
The End
“Why do people die?” she asked...
“So that there can be kids.” I said....
Muddy Water
Muddy water washed it clean
with the moss and algae
soaked woods
The clouds threatened rain
the water cold
biting my skin
And before the GLOM of
requirement
In the eve of change known
and the maybe of change
unknown
The thoughts cacophanous
dull-witted drone
The cold muddy water
washed it off
And fall is coming
The Old Man
November 17, 2017
On the Train
I miss the Old Man
Template and spring
Laughter and Work
and cigars and Love
Remembering always
how he started
I ache to know what he held
that's being lost
Life is too short to work with people who don't recognize it
The people who live to work and let their lives pass them by
There are only so many years left
Those years are mine
Nobody elses
I choose
Where
I am
I love fishing hard
Through hours
Starting early
To see a whole tide
The casting into the wind
The two foot chop
The hard won fish
Today none came to hand but I saw a wall of fog come over me with the wind
And the mountains across the bay only showed themselves once the water had passed
The bite was sparse and cautious
Except the one who bit my lure clean off
And the second one who took the shiny shrimp
Walking back uphill, a mile or more
With a good friend to drive home with
And the promise of a warm shower
I love the overcast days
The grey of the sky and the grey of the sound
The beds of oysters
Cobbly stones
Trees in the water
Bowing to their fate
And washing out past the current like a river against the shore
The jingle of a dog's collar
The wet of my jacket
My fingers pruning up
My hat's brim blowing around
Then the slack came and the waves were lessened and there was one last bite before we were done
Windburnt and sore
The body feels the tired deep into the bones
The heat coming back from the shower
The heavy sleepiness comes with the warm air
The memory stays
The green mountains
The tall firs
The Kingfisher's chatter
The incoming tide
Until the dreams come....
title: Working Hard
date: February 6, 2014
Soul sucking work doesn't come from working hard.
It comes from working hard without hope of an end.
Not an end to work.
An end to arrive at.
Work is journey worship pilgrimage
and the pilgrim doesn't always know
what they will truly learn
until the journey has come to an end.
And learning can be hard...
title: Sleep
date: January 21st, 2014
I would sleep for our country in the olympics
and not just for the extra nap.
I would do it for for our country's glory
eschewing a sleeping cap.
I know my mind when it's had sleep
its edge sharp and bright
until I cut into my stress
then I want again to sleep at night