Dear Oregon Trail
Did you feel the grind
when wagon wheels
with iron rims
rolled slowly
over sandstone
while oxen hooves
chipped this path
across Wyoming?
Do you feel this July day
a century gone by
the oncoming thunder
a wind rising as
across the ruts
one spry girl turns
cartwheel after cartwheel
toward our camper-van?
I am father
of that daughter.
So, dear trail, are you.
…..
First published in Hobo Camp Review
Thanks to James Duncan, editor
Photo by me of her
Hear me:
NEXT 1 MILE
Wooden wagon wheels rolled
through prairie grass and alkali dust,
over Sierra mountainside from Missouri
bringing Jeannie’s great grandpa as a baby
to Jeannie’s little ranch
in what is now Silicon Valley
which she bequeathed to her sister
who immediately sold for subdivision.
As Jeannie’s last wish she gave these funky
wheels to me, to my home under redwoods.
Moon followed moon.
Worm followed rot.
Wooden spokes detached, wooden felloes
collapsed—saved for kindling.
Rims remain—giant hoops of metal,
heavy as history.
So today I drive my Subaru
from the mountains to the Palo Alto clinic
and there’s a highway sign on Route 84
left over from road construction
as you enter the redwood canyon:
NEXT 1 MILE
That’s all.
I hitchhiked the American West,
summer 1968, hearing each next mile
like a gift among the yak-yak calls of magpies
a pop song played from every car and truck:
“Soul Coaxing.” Raymond LeFevre.
Lush violins. No words.
Then it vanished, as sounds do in the air,
never Number One so never replayed
by oldies radio but launched over light years
to bounce off galaxies and return by surprise
like a lost buffalo—right here, right now
on my drive to the clinic—tune of my memory,
of alkali and prairie grass
broken by fences and strip malls as I enter
the parking garage for physical therapy.
For balance training. For my internal
wobbly wheel.
In the fireplace I burn remnants of spokes,
of felloes for warmth launching white smoke
while balancing on one foot like a
blue heron in rehab as I hum a lost tune,
as the creaky old wagon rolls slowly
toward sunset along the space-warp trail.
May we find balance. At journey’s end,
soul rises like smoke. Each mile a gift.
Look ahead.
…..
First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen
*felloes: the wooden outer circle of a wheel held
within the iron rim, to which the spokes are fixed.
Note: a year later the sign is still there, all alone among the redwoods and traffic. My balance is much improved. Physical therapists work miracles.
Hear me:
After Eighteen Days on this Planet
At the breast
baby likes to play
dive-for-the-nipple.
Like an Olympian
on the high platform
baby rears back,
measures distance,
then lunges for mother,
for milk.
Today baby grabs his own hair,
pulls. And screams.
The more he pulls,
the more he screams
until mother untangles baby’s fingers
bringing peace.
Don’t we all wish sometimes
a big hand would swoop down
to unclutch us
from our folly?
Then, oh! to rear back
and lunge
at life’s big love.
…..
Photo by Luiza Braun
Hear me:
 |
Female
Riding in my backpack
chattering gibberish
she charms the gap-tooth man
who is in a happy mood
so he repairs my chainsaw
on the spot, no waiting,
asking only for
two six-packs of Bud
which we buy
from the bodega next door.
With greasy finger
he touches her nose,
leaves a smudge
that makes me shiver—
his mark, a warning.
“Don’t tell Boss,” he says,
winking at my daughter
who giggles, who is as yet
too innocent
of her power.
…..
First published in Rat’s Ass Review
Thank you editor Roderick Bates
Hear me:
Lions in the Grass
Littlest grandson, age one, knows what lions do
but can’t pronounce dandelion as he toddles
over grass pointing at yellow flowers
saying “Grr! Grr!”
He calls me G’pa.
G’ma and me, we drive to town
to buy a new electric clothes drier.
The old one’s wheezing like me.
We find one with a memory chip
so it can learn our drying habits,
remember them as we grow older.
Bigger grandson, age four,
with mischievous smile says “You want to hear
something weird about my parents?”
G’ma and me, we both think: “Uh oh.”
And he reveals: “My mom is 41 years old
and my dad is only 40, but he’s TALLER!”
Meanwhile I’m cutting a sandwich and ask,
“You want it square or in a circle?”
He answers, age four mind you,
“I want an irregular polyhedron.”
May we remember as we grow older.
…..
First published in Storyteller Poetry Review
Thank you editor Sharon Waller Knutson
Hear me:
