At Home
Hallogen sparks peek through the grey mist Over a low muddy tide in the bay on late December
Bloody Noses
My first bloody nose landed my butt on the concrete tears and shock
Pain and people deliver it?
My second bloody noses and I landed one back the punch to the jaw
I delivered it too and the jerk of reaction?
My third bloody nose and I stopped it first Push and shove and dig in and scrap and bob and weave and taunt
Cockiness as a dance.
One day I bloodied a nose and wasn't asked to stay.
Why did I swing?
Who am I again?
My fourth bloody nose and I got up to fight but I only stood up.
Accepted the warm wet iron on my teeth and mouth.
I know who I am.
My fifth bloody nose will come and I will sit calmly fold my hands on my stomach and ask... “Why are you hurting?”
Two White Dogs
Lugnut and Old Boy bark at a four point buck eating fermented apples under a gnarled old tree
They bark at joggers fit and annoyed at the intrusion into their ritual
Two fluffy texans french dogs left and rescued and came home to the wet woods the boggy hollow
Their shift starts before mine Before I leave And ends after mine Before I sleep
They howl at the sirens of police and firemen heralds of needed help
And they greet the delivery people so that they know they may not stay long
They ward off the wild things the raccoons and opossum and yell at the uncaring ravens to begone
And the Coyote's call the yammering yelps sing a song of battle in Ranger's heart so he paces back and forth and whines – “Let me at em!”
Then in the evening they come inside, fences secure treats and headrubs and wrasslin
Until we all sleep Rex on the couch, sprawled out and Ranger next to our bed, childishly close and wary as Cerberus
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