Monthly Archives: March 2016

Six Word Memoirs

Heart like a river–seasonal flooding.

Dogs were there when I needed.

Years crowd around me: sit still!

Too Full to Talk About

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and right-doing there is a field. I’ll meet you there. When the soul lies down in that grass, the world is too full to talk about.

–Rumi

Crummy Limerick for the American Election

The GOP uses dog whistle words
for decades to rile up the turds
who are paler than tanner and racist in manner
and can’t tell the Greeks from the Kurds

Nabokov, Vonnegut and You

Nabokov said falling stars are cigarettes thrown away by guilty angels when the archangel passes by.

Vonnegut said pillars of salt are the dead who could not let go of the past.

I say the bright light that shone in them shines in you — it is there whether you can see it today or not.

The Ferry Boat

The sea has no memory.
A field of chipped granite
moving back and forth
over a sediment of soldiers.

Where the warships collide
is a canyon where sailors
wait to jump.

A sunken fighter plane lies
covered in sargasso seaweed.
Eyeless windows, engines mouths for starfish.

Above, a ferry boat wanders
the night-fogged sea,
a blinkered tunnel
without an end point.

What carries light to such places?
Seeds of stars are falling,
trying to turn things around.

Strange Creatures

I love the craft of poetry. Notice how John Looker’s slant rhymes seem to disappear inside his poem Strange Creatures.

 

Moments before, the sea was breathlessly calm. Suddenly the surface ruptured and a head arose, dripping, dark. Then onto our beach it came, lumbering heavily, tossing its head with a roar. Somewher…

Source: Strange Creatures

Uprising at Malheur Wildlife Refuge

In January 2016,  heavily armed protestors took over the Malheur wildlife refuge in southeastern Oregon. The were protesting the  government treatment of ranchers who broke federal law and the basic idea of publicly owned land.

A brothel sits in a painted desert
at the end of a long smudge of county road.
Pickup trucks surround it like the
hungry nursing children of Kali.

What memories cannot be contained there stick out,
running down the sides of the concrete block building,
across the road and out of the painted day.

The cordite smell of heat lightning mixes
with the red clay dust of the road
stirred by an occasional smattering of rain.

Overhead, sky horses pull
their rough furrows to the horizon
as the first Canada geese of spring take them in stride.

Below, at the wildlife refuge,
a bloom of deadly narcissus 
makes a stand against all Spring storms
with guns and loud lamentation

while geese and owls,
return to make their living
in the green shoots of cheatgrass
and the slow ways of newborn field mice.