hidden under the roof

an owl face
two dark jewels
in a feather nest
is an archaic messenger
a watchman.

thank you

mother for birth

father for fear and forgiveness

sister for endurance

grandmothers for lost opportunity and beauty

grandfathers for absences and imagined men

friends for smiling and bailing out the same boat. 

Driving back from Horserider's wall, New Mexico

Men that stay up in the mountains
for years,
a marathon of months,
go to dark places
and save up their words.
And Jim talks.

favorite horses
helicopters in Vietnam.
other ranchers,
how to take care of the grass.

He tells me about every woman he has loved
and about his high school reunion.
He had one wife
and gave his sons good names.

Jim has certain regrets.
He says that his type of life
is good if you can find a companion
who doesn't mind the rain and snow
no shopping.

Before I climb out of the trailer,
Jim tells me that I've got country in me
and what I need to do is find
a tall, cool drink of water and a piece
of land somewhere.  I said that
sounds nice, Jim.

(untitled)

I’ve spent most of my life

feeling like I wasn’t meant for this world

that everyone had staked a claim already

and I was too late, I didn’t register for the race.

I used to think that I was built for old horror,

that real devastation: war, hunger, murder, rape. 

But now I’m not so sure.  Maybe I’d be that

pale aristocrat vanished in the halls

of my own mausoleum.  Either way

I try and enjoy the ease of America

I like feeling anonymous, without the

dictation of tradition.  But then again

without a community, that anonymity

can feel like drowning.  So many births

today.  We are learning how to navigate

the new waters of the new neighborhood,

one with relationships made of interests.

The next generation will feel centered,

but for now, I feel unhooked, and my

hand reaches for the canyon sides

as I drift downwards.  

material/reflection

Sad poems are fine,

they invite mood:

a purple rainshower,

fog in the street.

The real

worrisome words

are in the daytime,

hard sunshine.

The middle of the day

is a wide flat road

with no past,

nothing.

reflection

can be dangerous

in full white light,

so my body fills the day

and I write by night.

hurricane lamps

Small orb questions:

requests for comfort

the deep throat of rain

and true wind whipping

will drown a person standing

alone.  But with eyes we

are anchored here, holding

hope accountable.

turning a quartercentury

How did so many years go-

a thief on a motorbike

escaping on frosted mountain roads;

a trip into secrets with the zip

sounds of a buzz burned engine.

This vast country

swallows me respectfully.