September brings…

 

September brings…

September brings a turtle to my bathroom 
sleeping on the glass-top scale 
where the digital gods 
declare her weightless 
as if an angel in a shell 
has alighted 

September brings hummingbirds 
carb-loading at yellow pinhole flowers 
on my red plastic feeder 
for a thousand mile journey 
to a tropical spa 

September brings turkeys 
de-bugging my garden 
while squabbling and gobbling 
like families evermore 

September brings adolescent deer 
graduating from fawn school 
shedding their spots for 
fashionable brown coats, 
flashing white tails 
like flinging caps to the sky

…..

Hear me:

San Gregorio General Store

 

San Gregorio General Store

How I love the young woman 
with slender fingers who takes 
my book from the shelf—blows 
dust from the top—bends to read 
my poems apparently near-sighted 
index finger following words. 
I feel caressed.

Her black leggings are torn, 
a train-track from ankle to thigh 
that I travel with my eye. A dancer? 
Sways her hips to the bluegrass band
but—Oh!—scarlet drops fall to the page. 
A gushing—her hand to her nose. 
“Crap!” she says runs to the bar
grabs a napkin drops the book 
among beer glasses and she runs out 
to the barbwire ranch land
pressing her nostril. 

How I love the swarthy man 
in cutoff jeans wide hat
looks like an off duty cowboy
on a stool at the bar
lifts the bloody ruined book 
pinches a quarter tween thumb and finger 
looks questioningly at old George
who shrugs and accepts. 

Limping favoring one hip
takes the book to a truck tailgate open 
watched by skeptical black angus 
under soaring red-tail hawk
where the young woman is waiting
with a grin and a bottle of wine. 
Together they read. 

…..

First published in Misfit. Thank you editor Alan Catlin.

San Gregorio General Store out in the ranchlands of coastal California has a little bit of everything and a whole lot of genuine character. A bar, live music, a few groceries, lots of hats and sweatshirts and coffee mugs,  exotic soaps — oh, and books (sometimes mine). It’s a special gathering spot for us locals and also seems to draw folks from all over the Bay Area. 

Hear me:

Resurrection, Body and Soul

 

Resurrection, Body and Soul

Before bedtime, shriveling old Edith 
sheds clothing to bathe 
while shivering old Josh 
bundled on Adirondack chair
watches, guards her. 

Join her if you want. Lake water 
jolts the heart, firms the flesh. 
Ask Edith.

Waves slosh. Owls call. 
Edith beckons, laughs. Come, jump. 
Don’t worry how you look 
because I look worse and anyway
it’s dark and nobody’s peeking. 

Swim among tiny fish and silent mussels,
a Milky Way of freckles, head to toe. 
Soft clouds of body hair.
Ghosts of breath from your lips. 
Loons howl—this air is haunted.
Your body, the lake, the night are all one.

Clears the brain, says Edith. 
Keeps you fresh, keeps you wild. 
Restores the soul each night—
to a saint, to a child.

…..

First published in Please See Me 
Thank you editor Steve Granzyk 

Hear me:

Three Things About Routine Surgery

 

Three Things About Routine Surgery

She is under the knife
inside a maze of hallways.
I could pace, read my phone 
and simply be near 
in case she suddenly dies or something
(in which case how could I help?)
but no. I walk into rising sun and sit 
at a cafe window where a mosquito hawk 
with hair-thin feet is testing the glass— 
up, down, a barrier, a desire.
Shut out. Like me.

She’s in good hands with shoulder sliced, 
a bloody hole where Dr. Eakin 
is drilling bone, implanting metal.
Afterwards, he will phone me, a brief call. 
I will phone our three children, grownups all.

I will be there bedside 
when her eyes will open, 
when a nurse will ask her 
to rate her level of pain 
on a scale of one to ten. 
She will quibble about the impossibility 
of assigning numbers, and then 
she will choose her favorite, “Three.” 
You’ll see. 

…..

First published in Please See Me 
Thank you editor Steve Granzyk 

Hear me:

Bears in the Wild

 

Bears in the Wild

Lily runs, each day, three miles. 
She’s in love with a boy who is farther 
by a thousand miles.

We’ve hauled her on family vacation 
to a cabin on Lake Chelan, Washington 
where there is no phone. In fact, no road. 

We walk a trail to Stehekin, the town.
Lily insists she sees bear tracks
and I insist they are dog tracks
explaining some dogs have large paws.

We meet a bear. Near Hazard Creek. 
A she-bear. Not aggressive, 
nor particularly impressed by us. 
We are very impressed by her. 
She walks a wide arc around us, 
pausing to relieve herself, perhaps an opinion, 
and then ambles on toward town
like a simple fact of nature
that cannot be stopped.

It is Lily’s birthday. 
She was born outdoors under a pine tree 
next to a cow pasture lit by a full moon.
From such a beginning she will go 
to med school, become a doctor. 
Of course we don’t know this yet, 
only that she is no longer ours.
In the wood stove Rose bakes 
an ersatz angel food cake. 
For candles we light little twigs 
poked into the top. Indulging us, 
Lily blows them out, all 17.

From the cabin I watch 
as she wanders down to the dock. 
Gazes up at the almost touchable stars. Sings.
She’s looked at clouds from both sides now.
Clear through the dark her voice carries 
easily to the cabin. To the owls in the air, 
to the bears in the forest.
To a boy far, far away. 

…..

First published in  Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen

Hear me:

What Shitwork Is

What Shitwork Is

For a summer resort as a teen
my job was cleaning latrines,
three months at minimum wage.
Nobody said, “Good job, well done.”
But it was.

I’ve repaired septic tanks from within. 
Mucked in mud laying pipe. 
Scraped asbestos. Hot-mopped a roof. 
Shoveled bat guano. 
Nobody gave me a medal. 
Just cash.

Be humble. Do your share. 
Society will be better. Civilization more civil, 
you a stronger you, it’s really true, 
more worthy than those fat cats in their mansions 
who I dare not mention by name 
or they’d send legal thugs 
to bury me in lawyer manure.

Forget latrines. Think billionaires.
They bought the networks. Bought Congress. 
Bought the Supreme Court and filled it with muck.
Learn about salvage, about repair. 
Learn to fix rot at the foundation, 
then work toward the top. 
Town council. Statehouse. Governor. 
Step by step go higher. 
Then ask what shitwork is.
And let’s get busy.

…..

First published in Rat’s Ass Review: Such an Ugly Time
Nominated Best of the Net
Image by Jean Francois Millet

Hear me:

That Photo Smudge

 

That photo smudge

Not an ancient 
fingerprint
but the blur of ghostly 
great-grandfather Lewis
on a rope swing, Missouri,
flying out over 
Little Piney River
to drop into 
clear water among 
startled tiny fish.

Too fast for old tech
but captured in black, white, blur.

Now here this photo 
my child Joshua
on a rope swing, California, 
caught midair 
frozen full color
swooping over Rocky Creek.

Twisted fibers extend upward.
We hold tight, swing
    —jump.
Never let go.

…..

First published in Northampton Poetry Review 
Tom Harding editor

Hear me:

Trillium Spring

 

Trillium Spring 

In Maryland we play Monopoly 
by made-up California rules: 
Earthquakes destroy hotels. 
A single game lasts in sunshine forever, 
Elaine’s rule because her dad 
was killed in Korea. 

Elaine delivers the Washington Star
with wildflowers plucked along the route
but never trillium which dies too fast.
Sometimes I help. She’s poor.
On leftover news she draws crayon faces, 
men with golden halos.

One day she gives me a portrait of myself.
No halo. Stupidly I say: Nose like an Edsel. 
She runs out in tears. I follow to the bathroom.
Elaine has eyelashes of wispy smoke.
I—I’m sorry—I meant—I—I kiss, 
over the sink—above the scent of soap
like an exploding wildflower
and then with impish smile 
she sticks out her tongue, the deepest richest red.

Earthquake, game resumes while I puzzle 
over unexpected wetness of lip, 
the strange surge down to my legs. 
Too young or too bewildered we never 
kiss again until her family moves to Ohio
when she pecks me goodbye.

Later half a century my nose 
almost an Edsel. Each Spring 
trillium bloom with burgundy tongue. 
Come close, inhale the subtle musk 
but don’t kiss—or you’ll touch pollen 
that clings, a game without end.

…..

First published in  Speckled Trout 
Photo by Will Brown

Hear me:

Second Growth Wood

 

Second Growth Wood

Blue wing dragonfly
With hairy legs — my oh my!
New tree growing where the old one stood
I took my first steps in the second growth wood.

A hole in the fence by the buckeye tree
Cross the creek at the gravel bar
Up the hill picking blackberries
To the shack on the hill with the junker car.

Shotgun lady lives in there
Her temper's always sore
Rotten apples all over the yard
Throw one at her front door.

Run run as fast as you can
She saw you throw, screen door slam
Down that hill where the sawmill stood
Just some rusty machines in the second growth wood.

Amy would go there to watch the birds
Woodpecker, quail and blue jay
She had an insie, I had an outsie
We checked them — every day.

Hooty owl — musical song
Sounds like Amy, then it's gone
We never knew we had it so good
She was my friend in the second growth wood.

I carved her name in a cedar tree
Never could say why
Her dad got transferred to Oregon
I cried that day she said good-bye.

Dragonfly, big as a bird
Sits on my shoulder - how absurd!
I'd go back if only I could
To that first autumn rain in the second growth wood
To my first broken heart in the second growth wood.

…..

Lyrics by Joe Cottonwood, music by Will Fourt
From the podcast of my novel Boone Barnaby. If you search Apple podcasts for “Boone Barnaby” you’ll find the podcasts, which include the music. It’s free.

Hear the song: 

Coyote Railway

 

Song: Coyote Railway

Coyote railway
Follow the tracks
Go out at sunset
Sunrise come back
Ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote comedy
When you don't see
A big wet nose on
The back of your knee
Yip yip yip yip ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote toothpick
Mouse tail in teeth
Pups on the hillside
Playin’ games hide and seek
Ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote freight train
Rabbits in line
One day you're starvin’
Next day you're fine
Yip yip yip yip ow - ooo - ooo - eee

Coyote romance
Will you go with me?
We got no money
But we can live free
Ow - ooo - ooo -  ooo - ooo -  ooo - ooo - eee

…..

Lyrics by Joe Cottonwood, music by Will Fourt

Hear the song: 
Coyote Railway 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nFZzqe1Zpts&feature=plcp