At Last

 

At last

Dirty dogs with weary paws
trot the dry-weed hill,
plop down beside me 
with toothy grins
slobbering pant-pant-pant.

One dog with fur of old hippie beard
snorts at my pocket, trace of doobie.
Other dog with fluffy brown 
of big-hair New Jersey woman 
here on rocky Pacific coast
studiously with warm tongue
cleans a scratch on my ankle.

When motorcycles approach,
both dogs raise hackles, growl.
No collars. Feel the ribs. Hungry.

I walk, they follow at first,
then take the front as if all along
they’ve known the way home. 
I’ve been adopted by the mother and father 
I wish I’d had so I fry a dinner 
of turkey burgers to share. 

They are old. Vet bills 
will be enormous. I don’t care. 
In this life you don’t choose your spirits.
They choose you. 

…..

First published in I-70 Review. Thank you editors Maryfrances, Gary, and Greg.

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Southern Exposure, 1967

 

Southern Exposure, 1967

I know the white South, warn her
but she wants to see Mardi Gras
and I love her madly. 

Jackson, Mississippi has ‘colored’ restrooms 
unmarked because illegal, watched by 
a rooster man, teeth of yellow, neck of red
shouting, poking fingers in my chest,
scared by my beard, her beads.
She pulls me back on the bus. 
“Peace,” she says. “Peace.”
Which saves a lot of grief.

Beyond Baton Rouge
a greasy white man in a banker’s vest
beckons a little black girl: 
“Come sit on my knee.”
She’s scared. She goes.
He says she’s a precious peony
which he grows for the fragrant flower
though the more he says peony
the more it sounds like picaninny
as he bounces her deep into his lap.
He squeezes her ribs with his fat hands
saying he wants to take her home 
and plant her in his best soil of the Delta.
All the while the girl’s mother sits 
across the aisle, eyes a narrow slit. 
Every passenger’s lip, grim. 
Every eye, flame.

In the weird dynamic of the South in 1967
the whole bus simmers 
on the verge of explosion.
“No peace,” says my love, 
rising. “No peace with that.”
The driver slams to a stop, says: “Off. “
“Us?” we say.
“Yeah you,” he says. “Get off, hippies.” 

By the side of a swamp she sobs.
“Hold me,” she says. “Just hold me.” 
We walk a mile. 
A shack is selling fried frog legs.
As we stand by the road with greasy thumbs
a woman stops with a Plymouth 
back seat full of puppies in a swirl 
of black and white and brown.
One licks our fingers, instant bond.

The Greyhound driver likes puppies, 
lets her ride on our laps to Saint Lou.
A practice child, then nanny to our kids.
Here, meet Nola the river dog.
“Peace,” Nola barks, “Peace!” 
with a Cajun accent, meaning “I’m watching 
you so don’t mess with the kids.”
Then with a warm tongue she licks your hand. 

…..

First published in MOON Magazine 
Thank you editor Leslee Goodman
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We were poor before we had kids and then we were poorer

 

We were poor before we had kids 
and then we were poorer

This windstorm could blow a sprite away 
so in the fading-flower microbus
I deliver bright-eyed kids to school, 
our gift to teachers. Gusts of the gale 
like, kids say, a stampede of buffaloes
nearly push us from the road 
but by afternoon pickup, in the 
great outdoors, calm restores. 

With kids we head into hills snaking
up a road narrow as a noodle
patched like an asphalt quilt. 
Little hands gather pine boughs 
ripped from trees by violent air, 
settled everywhere like lacy green turf. 
Filled, the bus is pine fragrance in steel,
a forest on wheels. 

Returning down spaghetti road 
a Mercedes woman nearly hits us 
wrong side around a curve. But doesn’t. 
She waves, so sorry. Big smile—
Almost wiped out your family bye-bye. 
How absurd. To her we wish 
one reindeer turd.

In the cottage with branches and twine 
we build a tree, for free. Joy to this world!
Some day we’ll have money 
for a pre-cut symbol of Yule. 
Never so cool. 

…..

First published in Storyteller Poetry Review. Thank you editor Sharon Waller Knutson

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For David E. LeCount Who Wrote 148,000 Haiku

 

For David E. LeCount Who Wrote 148,000 Haiku

Four pens in shirt pocket 
because moments like frogs 
come, go

Red, black, blue, gray
because nature
has moods

Index cards
behind the pens, so words
won’t wander

Fresh ink 
from pen to card—
raindrops, petrichor

One life 
won’t fit
in three lines

Today we bury you
in green shirt,
full pocket

Above you
come spring everlasting
flowers bloom

Their roots 
hairy and soft,
grip pens 


(Teacher David,
reading my haiku 
you’ll need the red pen)

…..

I wrote this poem the night before David’s memorial service and read it at the service. He was listening from beneath fresh dirt on the hillside across the street.

David always had a shirt pocket full of pens, plus index cards behind them. Every day he wrote 6 to 12 haiku. For 50 years. That’s 148,000 haiku.

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Four Old Men, Digging a Grave

 

Four Old Men, Digging a Grave

on a hillside 
one with a pick, two with shovels
all with stories
passing them around—
stories, pick, shovels.

Don is the oldest, age “about eighty”
a good man with a pick
breaking, pulling clods of clay.
After thirty years in a 
San Quentin prison cell,
he chooses to live outdoors. 
Big guy, gray ponytail, 
power of a bronco
behind gentle eyes.

Terry in the Air Force was trusted
with nuclear launch codes, 
then thought better of it and hit the road, 
dirt-bike racer, merry prankster, 
grinning beatnik, psychedelic dancer,
wields a shovel like a pencil
writing the hole
as a poem.

David is bearded like a prophet,
shirt pocket bristling with pens, 
wizard of China,
heroic high school teacher
telepathic with teenagers,
can speak to horses
in haiku.

The grave is for my dog, Dakota,
who watches us from above
and it’s a hard job, the work of death.
Muscle and sweat, our language of grief.
We joke: I’ll dig your grave
if you’ll dig mine.

We agree, each canine 
has an individual personality
but also each carries dog spirit. 
As one leaves, you welcome another—
different, but the dog spirit renews,
rejoins your life
making you whole.

Terry says “When Dakota arrives
in doggy heaven, she’ll report
there are good owners here.”
A five-star review
on doggy Yelp:
Fear not, next puppy.

Four old men, digging a grave
on a hillside 
among spirits. 

…..

From my book Foggy Dog

David LeCount (top right) and his friend Don Moseman (bottom right) both died on the same day, November 18, 2025. Dakota (top left) died in July, 2015. Terry and I (bottom left) are still breathing, still have pick and shovel. We miss our friends. 

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And hear an earlier (more expanded) version of the poem:

Spark

 

Spark

I’m delivering firewood.
You’re leaning over a triple sink, 
sleeves rolled up in a baggy sweatshirt, 
elbow-deep in soapy water scrubbing
93 soup bowls in the camp kitchen 
where washing dishes is punishment
but what could you do wrong?

Your hair is a swirl on top 
like black soft-serve ice cream 
with one lock loose over the forehead. 
Cheeks shiny. You reach overhead 
in rubber gloves for a can of Comet cleanser 
(stretching, exposing belly, unaware) 
when you see me and try to push 
the straggle of hair from your face  
leaving little bubbles among the freckles. 

You smile.
Your teeth are straighter than mine. 
You say, “Want a potato chip?” 
“I’d love one.”
Sparkle eyes, green.
We’re sixteen.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you editor James Lewis.

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Librarian, Potsdam, New York

 

Librarian, Potsdam, New York

In the old stone-step library 
    housing epic tales
a glorious woman with glowing hair
    color of late-day sky
dances like a flag on a used-car lot.

Her silver dress clings—
    snakeskin with a bulge where
she swallowed a bunny.

She tap-dances 
    rat-a-tat-tat heels 
across wooden floor 
slapping stories into shelves 
    adventures in volumes
while the womb a perfect partner
    follows her lead.

She flicks overhead lights
meaning you must gather and go
    check out the legends
    or leave them behind.
She’ll lock all doors 
    caging you in
    or shutting you out
as she dances onto the stage, 
the great theater of motherhood
    tales tragic and joyful
as we all live our own drama.

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig — thank you editor Hayley Haugen

This poem was inspired by a librarian in Potsdam, New York who danced, literally danced over the floors beneath the high ceiling as she shelved books while in a corner I was among a gathering of St. Lawrence County poets. Her passion internal, oblivious of anyone watching. Her belly was high drama, her slithery dress a silver flame, her clicking heels a startling counterpoint to the slumbering books. Here’s to that child—may you grow with that love. 

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Nurture Nature

 

Nurture Nature

In pots Mom nurses 
avocado saplings 
(94 —today’s count)
in stages of leafy growth— 
root-bound, crying for transplant— 
plus a couple hundred pits 
suspended in jars of water, 
waiting to sprout. 
Or not sprout. 
Miscarriage is common 
but tossing a pit into trash 
would be like tossing a baby, 
says Mom. 

The saplings don't like this climate 
under redwood trees in coastal fog 
but that's life—you don't get to choose 
where you’re born. Ask any teenager. Ask me.
Come visit, try our guacamole. 
Take some home. And some babies. 
Please. Before they grow dotty and old.

…..

First published in Autumn Sky Poetry by editor Christine Klocek-Lim
Image by johso

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Instructions for Smart Toilet (Addendum)

 

Instructions for Smart Toilet (Addendum)

If you smell smoke
stand up immediately.
Remain calm.

Grab extinguisher first
—not your shorts.
(Always hang extinguisher 
within reach of toilet.)

Smother flames 
with foam.
Pull up shorts
if not too painful.

Reboot toilet
—or—
Call tech support.
Please
stop shouting.

…..

Photo from odditycentral.com

Note: As a man in Xiamen, China, used the “smart” toilet in his home, he first smelled smoke — right before the toilet burst into flames. He didn’t have time to pull his shorts back up, but he did manage to capture pictures of the toilet with flames emerging from the bowl. Other incidents of toilets bursting into flame in China have been reported over the last two years. (From News of the Weird.)

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Missouri Magic

 

Missouri Magic

Sitting in dirt, on our bottoms 
(our rumps, little Lily calls them) 
at sunset we wait for Aunt Meg’s 
evening primrose to bloom. And they do! 
As if spring-loaded they burst open 
flinging their scent, bright yellow
(like a smell-bomb, says Lily). 
After one night of blossom, Aunt Meg 
tells us, the petals will drop off. 
“The original one night stand” she says, 
a joke which is lost on Lily.
I’ve brought my girl from California 
to see family and the simple glories
of the Midwest. She’s fascinated. 

Across the lawn we behold fairy lights 
winking, rising to the trees.
“Do they like sugar?” Lily asks. 
So we fill a jar with blinking bodies. 
Add sugar. Make up a song:
     Firefly firefly 
     twinkle twinkle
     With these sweets
     we sprinkle sprinkle
“Do you hear me?” she asks.
They seem bored. We let them go. 

Heat lightning in a cloudless sky—
God is answering the bugs.
Locusts clatter like a freight train.
A whippoorwill calls making the music, 
Lily decides, of meteors. The air 
so full of sounds, so darkly green, 
so muggy with moisture—this night 
so thick we can hold in our hands.

For a finale we wave sizzling sparklers 
spelling our names against the stars 
and then it’s bath time, bedtime.
No rockets. No boom. Just glory.
Fourth of July.

…..

First published in Storyteller Poetry Review. Thank you editor Sharon Waller Knutson

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