Momma said Momma Said
Sometimes life is so bogged down in the fire that needs to be built if you want to raise the temp to 60 degrees, the wood that needs to be cut for next winter as you eye the dwindling stacks in the wood shed for this winter that Norm gave you, the weeds choking the garden till you can't breathe, the tiller that won't start and the words that won't come even if you didn't have to waste time bringing wood in or is that just an excuse--all the lists. This whining will be brief though wining would be preferred--a vintage over-priced Oregon Pinot--oops there I go again. The words would come but they would be slurred. My good old inspirational friend with MS, Doctor Herb(acious) Orange, (what a name for a horticulture teacher) that no matter what difficulties he encounters can always say, "Life is good!" I'm already feeling better but the words still won't come and the firewood still isn't in. Ah, the word horticulture I love. From the latin I wasted 4 years studying instead of small engine repair I could get that tiller running, hortus=garden and cultura=cultivating, agriculture. When I taught Intro to Horticulture at Clark College, I would always start out with this politically incorrect pun I heard years ago which seemed appropriate for beginning students: "You can lead a hor-to-culture but you can't make them think." So I am trying to think: What poems for today?
The thing about leaving home is there is no firewood to carry in only a thermostat to turn up that magically brings heat
Leaving home why
Every place we go
No matter how nice it is
Stars as bright food as good
We say it is not where our heart beats
Where there are no voices but the echo we own
The deck room framed big in garden
How nakedness is free
No one watching only the trees
Screams of joy not heard
Sense of peace no paranoia
Doors not locked
Windows free to open air
We wonder why we leave
To remind us there are crashing waves
Mountain paths to find
So happy to stay home
Sometimes you wonder if bringing in the wood has a higher meaning than just staying warm.
Bearing Gifts To Nothing
Can man ever change his flaw
Single I stand not wanting to be right
Asking only the chance to plead my cause
I cannot say but here is my light
Generic masses hold tragic failings
They die of greed or mutiny
In Dutch phantoms or Caine sailings
Swearing oaths god damn their inability to sin
Who will kill you ugly hydra
I can only pique make you madder
Only to suffer as poor Phaedra
Does truth care does it matter
Blame the gods for such faulty workmanship
Or the stars not you dear Brutus
Your fathers worshipped the flag why not shit
One mans questions are koto notes in the wind
Island or continent time grinds to sand
Despite our breathings for all our toilings
So I try to forget I am a weak man
Foolishly bearing gifts for nothing
When our horse loses, when life looks empty and bleak there is always this hope.
From Despair
No spring will come
They have won
The rats have eaten my seed
The tulips are frozen mush
Hope has died
Me too inside
Kerry off
Carry on
The world must grow smaller
To touch each man and woman
So there can be no lies
Where we look into each others eyes
Sharing love as lovers do
Sometimes the words come but they were not the ones we wished.
Suicide By Cop
When a poem must get out
Coyotes howling
Doors unlocked with found keys
Fleshy cells remembering another night
When I saw your eyes in my head lights
Not a deer on the highway
Looking up at me like that one in Grass Valley
Pleading but knowing death
Was close at hand
Wanting it to be over and gone
I hope you died instantly homogenized
Reformed into something better
But why did you make me a murderer
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