Tag Archives: poem

72 – Etc.

Observations, thoughts, etc. with line breaks.

Sunset, Nevada
hazy citrus sky swimming in a champagne cloud.
the painted pale blue mountains: a curtain of curling waves.
the setting sun a flaming disc of death.
the hot steel of the railroad tracks burning beneath,
and glinting like a diamond-edged knife.
the earth is harsh, dry, orange and arsoned.
the sun is a killer.
black asphalt cuts through it all: an arrow into the horizon.

Colorado, South to North
the stillness of the train cars beneath the ageless mountains
the white clouds looking down like gods
casting shadows the size of cities
almost dwarfing the mountains, cliffs, and bluffs
which are this West’s forests
these huge, vertical masses pointed skyward
but growing smaller by the ages unlike the trees which press ever higher
and the people whose numbers grow greater
but, yet, like these mountains and cliffs
their wisdom erodes

Dreaming in Taos
i crawl from my tent
and upward peer brightly—there is the moon
and overhead the trees
shaking silver in its light
shooting stars skip like stones across the sky
like fingernail clippings flung from a god
into this landscape illuminated night
and the small tree beside me, a companion
lying down black in the grass
sleep comes gradually

Sitting and Writing, A Dove

There was
A White-tipped Dove
Hooting before I walked inside
To get this pad
To get this pen
And now
I’ve returned to my spot
On the little wooden steps
That lead nowhere
Among the tall, green grass
Which the morning sun shines through so well
Next to the old Cottonwood
Adventurous, onyx-black ants venturing
Up and down
Climbing into and out
Of canyons in its gnarled, crevassed bark
And the dove is silent.

Instead, the screech and chatter of magpies
And the rapid, staccato hammering of a Lawrence’s Woodpecker
On the old tree behind me
It’s tallest limbs naked, dry, bare
Prodding at the sky like an historical monument
One without a plaque, without a name
Without much significance at all
Largely unknown but to those
Who know to look.

And the soft “churr” of crickets
Nearly imperceptible in the background
The background which we move upon
That an arm, a leg
A gesture
Thrusts up from
It is the background against which all our monuments
All the daily minutiae manifests itself
Expresses itself in relief
If one sits still long enough the dove may return
To softly whistle her call amongst
The cacophony of the day.

48

Friday, 05/06

Oklahoma observations
thus far: flat
level, even; hills (east of Tulsa):
rolling, undulating,
up, then down, then up, then down,
rolling long and rolling slow like a rolling ocean swell
from one horizon—
that may simultaneously look so small
(just a piece of thread caught and held in the wind)
yet so immense it is,
and ever, and ever, and ever out of reach,
—to another,
ripples on a pond from a thrown stone

Trees speckle the plains that in places are swollen and bulging,
writ in harmony with the landscape they tie together
like various notes on a musical score—a soundless melody;
Scissor-tailed flycatchers and eastern kingbirds perched on wires and fences,
alert and fluttering off at my approach along the road;
Cows sprinkle the landscape all across
like poppy seeds on a bagel, or fleas on a dog’s pelt;
And the roads—long and black like cauterized wounds threading their way through

Wasn’t intending this to be a “poem,” but I like it more than just a list, and it provided me with some entertainment—the editing.

44

It is so nice to be in a place.
Simply, to walk
Leisurely.
To look at the greenery,
And to
Hear it innnn the winddddd.

To wonder
How it came to be here, and
Why it is shaped so.

To watch
Sun and shadow pitter-patter
In the grass, playing a game:
Each chase the other around.

The birds’ song
Interrupted only by silence.
And that is no interruption at all,
But the space between the sound and dream.

Where am I?
Where is this place?

Here. Only here
The miracle of Being may be observed
Anywhere
And Anywhere may be everywhere.
And within Everywhere is a Somewhere.
And Somewhere may be anywhere.
And within any Where is a Here.

My Georgian World

Georgia winds.
Oh! Georgia winds.

Oh, to be a cow
up there on that hill
Stolid, strong and stout.
Immovable.

Or, to be,
a lank, slender blade of grass,
tall and supple,
bendable and flexible.

Or, maybe a tree,
roots deep in the earth,
Wide, wide branches spread so, waving
Madly,
gladly,
in the wind.

To be something other than a cyclist
Who yet must contain
all those qualities—of the cow, grass & tree—
Within a single skin,

A framework of nerve, muscle, bone and blood.

16

The seventy and eighty degree days that I had enjoyed earlier in the week had vanished, displaced by a cold front that swooped in the day before I left (highs were in the fifties, so I wasn’t exactly suffering). As would be typical for me I had a stiff headwind to fight against on my way to the Amtrak station the morning of my departure. I had to cycle hard to make it on time; this wasn’t helped by my missing a turn (also typical), and lingering too long at The Daily over my breakfast and coffee. I did however make the station on time, and no one bothered to make a fuss over my trailer, thankfully, either (always a slight worry).

The train ride went as any train ride ideally should, and that was without hiccup, or holdup, delay, or catastrophic malfunction. I’ll spare the details, because there are few. However, just three seats ahead of me there was a rather peculiar woman with hair like straw, and a face worn and creased like an old piece of leather, carrying with her a large, wooden cross, perhaps three feet tall and two feet across. She also carried a couple of battered, old suitcases which she asked me to stow for her in the compartments above. She sat with her cross for a while but later placed it in another storage compartment on the other side of the train. I overheard her say she was on her way to D.C. to protest something about The Affordable Care Act, but as she was talking to another woman in the seat across the aisle I wasn’t able to glean any other information regarding her intentions. I’m not sure if the cross was supposed to act as some sort of prop for a performance she was planning, or if it was just something she carried around on her person wherever she went, although, I imagine that would get rather wearying after a while. Anyway, most of the nine hour train ride she wasn’t even in her seat. God only knows where she wandered off to, but she had this dirty blanket that she would drag along behind her just like Linus. What curious people we stumble upon in our wanderings over this great, big land.

My mom kindly picked me up at Union Station, and so marked the end of the first beginning of my trip. And now the second beginning will commence in short order. I have an Amtrak scheduled for the 18th to Durham, NC to visit a friend and, after spending the Saturday there I will be on my way back to Charleston, then to Savannah, and then west to…

 
The blue sky above is law
Reflected in the wetland’s still, brown waters
And the cotton fields yet unpicked

poem-1

Writing by the far off, flickering
sometimes invisible light of cars
Willow tree’s branches dangling majestic all around me
digest and dissolve me.

All the lights of D.C. contained in the Potomac River
And all the lights of past Washington D.C.’s
Back to the beginning
Before there were lights
Before there was a D.C.
When the native men and women of that world glided
Quiet
          upon its glittering surface

In dugout canoes and kayaks
Like swans

The Potomac is a time capsule
And only It knows what may be found drifting in its currents.

Everywhere
the sound of motorized vehicles
Omnipresent, incessant the sound
Like cicadas on a humid, summer’s night