The Crow and the Moon

The Old Familiar

2012-01-20T15:18:00.000-07:00

In the night, in the darkness,
the old familiar steals around.
Emerging from corners of my room,
from the stillness and shadows
is a sad repository of memories
I can count on always to cheat
me of comfort and sweet sleep.

–

2012-01-14T20:07:00.002-07:00

Autumn - its magnificence and spell-binding colors

found even along a stretch of country road.

lark's call

2012-01-11T12:46:00.001-07:00

after a lark's call
silence amid
the deepening snow

.

Brittle Leaves

2012-01-09T10:47:00.002-07:00

It's a difficult thing, admitting we've
grown too old, no longer denying the truth
and staring deep into our mortality which
until now we've not wanted to accept.
In those flourishing days of our youth
we often felt as if we could outgrow
our skins, but now we feel as if we are
shrinking too far into aging, grey husks,
finally seeing how we're at the autumn
of our lives while it gathers around us
as brittle leaves swirling about a lamppost.

--

The Painter

2011-11-28T07:39:00.002-07:00

If only he could paint what he feels
deep within, and not just what he sees,
his paintings would be transcendent.
But anymore, what he feels is elusive, hidden
somewhere beyond the descriptive,
beyond the stroke of his brush and the
complexities of his paint, beyond his ability
to put emotion and insight to canvas.

He's begun to question himself,
no longer the confident painter but now
far too introspective and unsure of his talent,
a talent that used to reveal itself with flare,
color and a successful style. Melancholy
has set in, frustrating any attempts
to get beyond the feeling of hopelessness.

Someone who would never equate
himself with the great painters, knowing
the limits of his own talent, he
nevertheless wonders, could this
be how Van Gogh felt in his despair?

--

snow against the window

2011-11-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

softness of snow
against the window –
her kiss brushing by

.

snared by frost

2011-11-18T13:59:00.001-07:00

winter morning –
an abandoned spider web
snared by frost

.

sparrow's song

2011-11-05T07:50:00.006-06:00

even on gloomy
days, the sparrow's song –
warmth of her smile

autumn leaves

2011-10-25T11:14:00.013-06:00

autumn wind –
the ground's turn
to display leaves

--

he's forgotten
how many years it's been . . .
falling leaves

--

falling leaves –
many sad memories
gathering today

.

Hardwood Floors

2011-10-22T17:41:00.006-06:00

It’s the smell. The smell of hundred-year-old
hardwood floors in this old school I recognize most,
floors grown thick and corpulent with untold layers
of pine-scented oil - floors darkened, smoothed
by the trample of children herded, then corralled
in dank stables down these long corridors. I also
remember the confinement I felt, pinned within
these stables, wanting nothing more than to be free,
with the wind of youth brushing my untamed hair.
–

2011-10-18T14:52:00.000-06:00

The Corner Space

2011-10-08T11:32:00.004-06:00

My son has started writing
poetry and it really pleases me. He's always had
a creative mind and heart, but hasn't had much
opportunity to express himself. This is now
a catharsis for him.

by Eric S. Gossett

I remember that we had too much clutter and how
irritated I was that even dust couldn't cover everything.
I also remember our shopping trips to buy the clutter
and the unknowing looks from clerks who didn't realize
they had just sold us a part of our lives. We stacked clutter
in cabinets and closets, shifting older clutter to the attic,
and even found a piece for a particularly lonely corner space.

It felt so strange when we divided possessions and made
decisions on who got what, again moving the clutter, and
all the while I was emptying my heart. Today I sit quietly
in this house, watching through a window as autumn leaves
tumble over empty brown fields, and the weather
seems to mimic my emotions. There's a chill in the house,
and corners echo of better days, days when we weren't
as strangers. I know it's my imagination but that
empty corner space now appears to mourn from the shadows
as if it were a corner of my heart, its loss and mine wedded.
--

Magnolia and Dogwood

2011-10-05T17:29:00.000-06:00

It's deep night, damp and sticky with the
residue of southern heat which refuses to
totally dissipate this far into the night.

The night is thick with the voices of insects
and sleepers sweating atop their sheets,
committing sins in their vivid imaginings.

Dreaming, I'm standing by the wide river
wishing I could fly with the breeze through
the trees, the soft, warm, cradling breeze

that comes up from the Mississippi River.
It stirs the boughs of cypress and oak trees
and arouses a wind chime's music somewhere

down the dimly-lit street, while scattering
a newspaper like huge leaves; a wind that smells
of magnolia and dogwood blossoms and

river mud. A full moon casts long shadows
which melt into even darker, yet benign
shadows. The night has compiled its secrets,

mysteries, transgressions; surely that is the
charm of night - it frees the mind to settle not
on what seemed important during the day,

but on the longings kept locked away, hidden
from the disclosing light, struggling to break
free and take wing with this night wind.

--

Drawing on my memories from Louisiana,
where I lived nearly nine years

urgency

2011-09-30T07:44:00.002-06:00

He feels the terrible urgency of aging,

a foreboding, a sense of something

left unaccomplished

which constantly

claws at his thoughts when he should be

enjoying what life he has left.

It's a cautioning

that the time allotted him to find

an answer, to seek fulfillment,

is escaping him.

What has he done with

his life to merit existence on this orb,

to warrant another sunrise,

another soft rainfall?

Such questions go without answer.

running free

2011-09-24T15:12:00.007-06:00

The old dog drags his tired

body into his familiar curl beside

my chair, sighs heavily and enters

once again that dream where

he runs carefree and painlessly

through the sweet meadow grass,

a meadow known only to him and the

suddenly-young man following.
--

a brisk wind

2011-09-18T15:48:00.011-06:00

There's a brisk October
wind sweeping the ochre
and rust farm fields today,
although the calendar
shows it's mid-September.
That late summer hazy
that had hung above us
for weeks now, warm
and comforting, takes up
with the blustery wind and
is migrating with the early
departures of waterfowl
and summer vacationers.
The fragrance of burning
fields, pungent but yet
somehow sweet-smelling, and
mildly memory-provoking,
charges the senses as it weaves
among the parched, plucked
corn stalks, while from a
distant corner of the field
an animated scarecrow,
clad in shredded polyester,
flags a ride with the wind.
It too seems to sense time
calls for it to move along.

--

the spring creek

2011-09-18T10:26:00.006-06:00

of night rain

2011-09-13T19:03:00.002-06:00

humid night
each swell of the curtains
brings the scent of rain

--

midnight rain . . .
the leisurely flow
of my dreams

.

cottonwood fluff

2011-09-02T17:44:00.000-06:00

cottonwood fluff
drifting to earth . . .
my gentle dream

--

summer sprinklers –
how quickly damselflies
congregate

--

father's photo –
nearly as diminished
as my memories

.

morning smile

2011-08-16T17:20:00.000-06:00

dewdrops
on the rose petal –
her morning smile

.

honeysuckle scent

2011-08-03T17:54:00.004-06:00

humid night
honeysuckle scent from
an open window

--

summer moon –
the shimmer
on a quiet lake

.

the eyes

2011-07-31T17:15:00.007-06:00

There's something in the eyes of a dying dog
that speaks of awareness, something beyond
the pain, weakness, and the dimming.
Perhaps I read more into those eyes than was
actually there - but I really don't think so.

the dying dog’s
labored breath
. . . winter’s leaves

His dark brown eyes had grown larger, fathomless,
as deep as a well holding all the mysteries of life
and impending death, eyes at once sad but knowing
he has been greatly loved and will be greatly missed.
Isn't that all any of us could ever hope for?

almost home
after walking my dying dog –
a rock in my shoe

For my beloved dog Little Bud, who died of cancer - gone, but as they
say, not forgotten.

regretting nothing

2011-07-07T17:09:00.000-06:00

warmth of a summer regretting nothing

I don't often try one-line haiku

--

our old house . . .
the sad turn from love
to memories

Something from the past

.

the cherry tree

2011-07-02T10:27:00.003-06:00

summer evening . . .
the cherry tree
ripe with promise

---

swirl of dark clouds
above the prairie
. . . awaiting prognosis

A haiku written as my wife
awaited a melanoma screen -
turned out fine

--

her morning air
. . . not of haughtiness
but of gardenias

.

morning mist

2011-06-27T20:58:00.000-06:00

morning mist –
within the swirl of gnats
a tangled angler

--

autumn lake –
leaves rock in the wake
of a trout's ripples

--

birdsong!
it amplifies
the dawn

.

Fried Pickles

2011-06-20T18:38:00.006-06:00

This is a verse I've been working on for several years, have published it twice for perhaps an hour and then deleted it out of shame for the man I used to be and the destruction I caused. But I got to thinking - I'm no longer that man, no longer slave to the compulsions that drove me then, and this is something I have to get out of me. Please accept it for that purpose.

Through the muddle of far too much vodka
I remember seeing Natchez's gleaming lights
across the tumultuous Mississippi River,

the multicolored bulbs along the docks,
neon extolling catfish and fried pickles,
and I recall the sun biting into the horizon

and odd pairs of lights following each other
hurriedly on the bridge that always scared
the crap out of me whenever I had to cross it.

I remember the dissonant hum of cicadas
clinging to cypress trees and the sultry
heat that followed an infrequent rainstorm.

I also recall how she turned so sadly
and walked out of my life forever, taking with
her all I had known of recent life but alcohol.

At the time I couldn't retrieve what I had just
lost; I was too far gone into my alcoholic
addiction to realize how our lives, including

our children, had just changed so dramatically,
and how they now would only be mine sporadically.
However, with the passage of all these years

I no longer wish for the life I once had, especially
that terrible compulsion toward self-destruction
which brought us to the divergence of our lives.

I no longer live along the river, no longer
hear the tugs as they ply the churning currents,
and strangely, I no longer remember her face.

.

A few haiku

2011-06-14T15:43:00.001-06:00

the butterfly
wanders where it will –
wheelchair path

--

dark mood —
a butterfly lifts me
into the light

--

on the grass where
the dappled fawn had lain –
dappled sunlight

.

Water's edge

2011-06-06T18:02:00.004-06:00

If he could

2011-06-06T14:26:00.003-06:00

If he could describe the gnawing feeling,
or truly get in touch with it, perhaps
then he'd settle for the life he has made,
not the one that consumes his dreams.

so many ripples
upon this lake –
so many years

--

fog thickens
at the river's mouth –
this loneliness

kiss

2011-05-26T19:39:00.001-06:00

her kiss
would feel twice as soft –
alone again

--

an aspen leaf
rocking on the stream –
afternoon nap

--

old man's doubts —
raking last fall's leaves
into many piles

.

listening to the rain

2011-05-18T14:34:00.015-06:00

empty bed . . .
listening to the rain
after it leaves

--

wild gooseberries –
these bittersweet memories
of childhood

.

ah, spring!

2011-05-13T18:01:00.002-06:00

spring downpour –
at each stoplight
two stoplights

--

her sleeping body
traced by predawn light
. . . scent of roses

--

the damselfly
shows me its blue –
what a spring sky!

.

Leon Russell

2011-05-07T10:29:00.001-06:00

Never too late to teach an old dog new tricks - you've heard that a gazillion times. Well, I have just discovered Leon Russell, wonderful singer/songwriter - check him out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4sMSSm0x2A&feature=related Where have I been?

And for your entertainment, one of The Stones' best songs - Wild Horses http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFLJFl7ws_0

cricket's song

2011-05-06T13:08:00.001-06:00

waning moon
the cricket's song
drained by a spider

--

jasmine tea
under a crescent moon
I cup her hand

.

night shift, and more

2011-05-04T21:15:00.000-06:00

night shift
I curl around the spot
where she would sleep

--

dawn reflections
a trout's rise
moves the mountain

--

her parting smile
a wind-blown petal
kisses my cheek

.

2011-05-02T09:49:00.009-06:00

this moment, when I stop and listen . . .

a whispering stream

bird lullabies

2011-05-01T16:48:00.003-06:00

Early dusk and it's as if
the birds have memorized
lullabies; they've quieted
to delicate refrains
as the summer sun descends,
flame orange and spent,
to its western berth. Birds huddle
deep within the cradling
catalpa trees and murmur
in their soft way to one other,
barely audible to those who
would listen. Perhaps they're
reassuring each other
the night will not be long.

a few more thoughts

2011-04-27T14:02:00.003-06:00

cicada husks
cling to an oak –
her empty words

--

spring puddle –
the small girl
curtsies to herself

--

a few haiku

2011-04-25T18:45:00.004-06:00

dawn reflections–
a trout's rise
moves the mountain

--

roadside cafe–
the crows take lunch
out back

--

waning moon . . .
the cricket's chirr lost
in a spider web

The Stoop

2011-04-21T17:28:00.002-06:00

This is a poem I've been working on for a year or more - started when caught up in a measure of depression and reflecting on how I might have ended up, had it not been for divine intervention.

He was an elderly man, clothed in desolation,
a gray man fading into the stoop on which he reclined,
as if he were already turning to dust, disintegrating.
He coughed, and coughed again the rasp of an ailing
man, a rattle vibrating from the fathoms within,
and he fumbled for his pack of cigarettes
as if to reaffirm his intention of dying should his
bottle of cheap wine not propel him into oblivion. He
was muttering, muttering secrets to himself, or of himself,
or perhaps proverbs to show someone, anyone,
how enlightened he could be there on the gray stoop
as dust and the remainder of his life swirled about him.

fly at the window

2011-04-20T17:25:00.005-06:00

A fly intently drills
at the picture window,
seeing the possibilities beyond
but cannot reach them.
The older I become the more
I feel like that miserable fly
at an impossible window.

spring offerings

2011-04-14T11:12:00.000-06:00

a book reread
. . . yesterday's rain
now today's

--

scent of spring
between her breasts
. . . lilacs opening

--

early spring
longing for the chirr
of those damn crickets

lavender nights

2011-04-01T13:39:00.000-06:00

The wind carries magic
this spring morning,
scent of lilacs, memories
of golden days and
lavender nights with you.
How long ago it's been-
the depth of innocence,
of youthful lust, that strand
of something bright, clear,
sweet coursing through me
with each thought of you.
Closing my eyes you can be
beside me, warm, vibrant,
and then, just as easily, faded,
like the promise of my life.

April sun

2011-04-01T13:37:00.001-06:00

sunning ourselves–

a fox squirrel

and my mood

A few offerings

2011-02-04T19:16:00.001-07:00

morning mist
climbs with the geese
winter pond

--

in the hollow
of the oak–
hollow of a nest

--

crinkled leaf
in this wrinkled hand–
brittle wind

--

convergence–
an eagle's wing
and the morning sun

winter mood

2011-01-29T13:09:00.000-07:00

warm spell

— the snap in my

winter mood

frightful howl

of the winter wind

. . . these age spots

Anthropomorphism

2011-01-24T22:00:00.000-07:00

Our oldest dog, we have four, spends much of his time at my feet, snoring loudly, snoring like an old man, and I wonder if I snore that much when I sleep. After all, both he and I are about the same age, figuring in dog years. I love him a lot, he's getting a little grouchy now and is proving to be more stubborn. He doesn't like to be bothered when he's intent on sleeping. He's even getting a little more snappy in his advancing age.

Funny how dogs and humans can equate in certain traits, characteristics. Anthropomorphism is the technical term. Each of our four dogs have their own personalities. They don't always act the same, but I love each of them dearly. Back to the oldest dog. He's having a little trouble getting about and is taking some medication for his joints. I'm taking some medication for my joints. Both he and I groan and moan, although I think I tend to be the worse complainer. Maybe I'm the more snappy. I bitch a lot. Anyway, I hope he can live to a ripe old age comfortably, and I hope the same for myself. It will break my heart when he dies.

mountain shadows

2011-01-14T12:16:00.004-07:00

from mountain

shadows . . .

a sun-tipped wing

lowering clouds

. . . a kestrel pirouettes

to its prey

--

remembering its
path down the window–
night rain

Gray abounds

2011-01-13T14:10:00.005-07:00

It's winter again.
At least I can say I lived to another winter,
but that seems to be all. Gray abounds -
sky, tree line, snow-crusted earth,
all one dismal tone. The black fleck of a bird
breaks the monotony, but it's flying away
from me, carrying my dreams in its grasp.

Please hang with me

2010-12-28T12:09:00.000-07:00

With winter there's a greyness that seems to settle into my psyche and all creativity is gone, at least temporarily. I don't have a lot to say to you, I don't have much in the way of poetry to show you, and I apologize for this blog which has nothing to reveal to you. I've thought about dropping the blog, except I know from experience that my muse will return and I can again open myself up. Please hang with me. Thanks, friends.

Message of the Road

2010-11-16T12:09:00.000-07:00

The road to the South Hills always
has a message for me, always wants
to whisper something secret to me.
This autumn day it's the glorious
message that the hills have groomed
themselves and are ready for me
to be overwhelmed by their beauty.
The hills await me, the road says,
and the road reveals to me how
the hills have clothed themselves—
brightest autumn finery brought out
again this year from stuffy, hidden
trunks, with gold and yellow dresses
now covering the spindly legs
and knobby knees of quaking aspen,
while brilliant saffron sashes gird
the expanse beyond the trees,
with the willows trimmed in scarlet,
and ochre meadows completing
fall's wardrobe. Above it all, the
cool bluish veil of mist hovers softly
between trees and mountains on days
such as this. Of course I'm perfectly
willing to be lead by the road, for
I relish where it always seems to lead—
this road will never lie to me.

The Cold Chasm

2010-11-10T14:12:00.011-07:00

He used to devour them, wives that is -
sweet, delicate things who gave him
their hearts, three in all over the dark years,
destined sooner or later to look deep
into his vacant eyes and know the desolation
those eyes offered, to comprehend
the cold chasm of pain to which their
innocence and credulity had brought them.

Today two of the former wives stand
an appropriate distance from his grave
and the restless band of participants,
immediate family to be sure, those
who tried but could find nothing else
to do on this blustery day. The ex-wives
each scoop a handful of damp earth
and with spiteful satisfaction throw it
into the gaping mouth of his grave.

Love of bayous

2010-11-09T10:09:00.002-07:00

There is no other night like a bayou night,
the air pregnant with expectancy and
mystery, mingling scents of wisteria, trumpet
honeysuckle and gumbo mud like some
Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive
golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite
the nearly full moon, a night in which
fireflies pulsate like so many flickering
neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects
is propelled toward an unattainable crescendo.

Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous,
letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly
gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark
is waiting just beyond the searching lantern.
At times the wind moans like a sated lover,
at other times it howls wildly, but it's always
present and always vocal to those who
would listen. There could be fear in such nights,
or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent
with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous.

Errant son

2010-10-31T22:24:00.000-06:00

I feel guilty each time
my shadow darkens her stone.
Ever the errant son, my visits
to her grave come once a year -
Memorial Day, penitentially, flowers
in hand. However, the preacher
said her soul is no longer there,
so I've adopted that excuse.
Mom, I know you're not supposed
to be there, but if you are,
forgive me, again. Your son.

Most excellent chord

2010-10-06T17:28:00.006-06:00

It's probably always been there, this
transcendent connection, a strand
to the ethereal, a most excellent
poetic chord smothered by youth
and denied each time it rears its
beautiful head, left to writhe, waiting
the day when age and character
finally fashion the person into a poet.
What use has youth for deeper emotion
other than lust? What use the forming
of feelings into higher expressions,
so often ridiculed by the young?
Comes the day, however, when beauty
and sensitivity prevail and poetry flips
on the switch to enlightenment.

Bits of Me

2010-09-25T14:29:00.012-06:00

It's turned cooler this close to October
and all of the hummingbirds, the Rufous,
the tiny Calliope, even the Black-chinned ones
have chartered flights for warmer climes,
southern getaways as it were - all the way
to Mexico. It's probably my advancing age,
but I sense (or wish) they've gathered up bits
of me like they do nesting material and taken wing,
retracing the route back to where their
hearts began. I envision them musically, like
thousands of precious notes strung out for mile
on end, playing on the breeze as flutes and piccolos
strains of Tchaikovsky's "Sleeping Beauty Waltz".
Or could it be a vague wanderlust resurfacing,
the drifter's instinct I apparently inherited from
my father who once hopped trains, a tendency
I abandoned while still a young man after having
been battered around and wounded emotionally
in my carousing and left totally disheartened.
Whatever the source of the longing I'm feeling now,
it's strange how I miss the continual visits by those
diminutive birds as close and very dear friends,
suddenly having disappeared without word.

on mating for life

2010-09-16T10:06:00.002-06:00

A mourning dove dead in the grass,

its tawny wings clasped rigid, prayer-like

and I realize with surprise the sadness I feel.

Its once darting, discerning eyes are being

swarmed by ants, eyes now shriveled and

as sightless as gauzy windows no longer

capable of seeing the world. I've heard

doves mate for life. Perhaps that's where the

greater part of this sadness lies. I wonder -

am I to be this dove, or is it to be my wife,

the first to die and leave a mourning mate?

Sweet Journey

2010-09-02T08:12:00.004-06:00

She stares into her canvas, drawing
to her brush a blood-red droplet
of paint for another flower, her hands

delicate, as diaphanous as the wings
of a white butterfly, with blue veins
running lace-like a precious pattern

from her thin fingers to her heart.
She knew she was terminal, but
death was uncharacteristically

slow in fulfilling itself, as she sought
week by week to finish her painting,
not a masterpiece, she would say, but

a sweet journey of the heart, as if
retracing a memory-strewn passage
back to her beginning. She paused

at times in her wanderings along the
sunlit, fragrant path of that canvas, too ill
to crawl from her bed, or encountering

the world from a hospital window,
the shadows of her death intensifying.
The last time she painted with me

she seemed to be telling me her death
was near, and thanked God for the years
allotted her. She died several days later,

her canvas, her life, largely incomplete
but her true journey now underway.

(For Dorothy - missing you)

The Hummingbird

2010-08-30T19:05:00.009-06:00

Praying on still more
of the sugar and water challis,
the homemade nectar,

it kneels briefly at the shiny,
blood-red throne
swaying just shy of heaven,

a hooded monk on the wing,
it genuflects several times
while vocalizing its disdain,

sips nervously of my offering
and then scuds away without
so much as a blessing, save

for the assurance of its
repeated appearances.

The Canker

2010-08-27T17:38:00.003-06:00

The parallel between
spring and winter,
the fateful juxtaposition
that reverberates with
"life - death", "born - buried"
is barely noticeable
to the young except
for a kind of private itch
somewhere in the psyche,
and develops to a nagging
public canker the more
advanced in age we become.

The Moon, My Shadow and Me

2010-08-24T14:03:00.002-06:00

The moon catches me off-guard at times,

like when I walk out on newly-fallen snow

with that bright ball at my back. The moon can cast

a startling shadow, disparate in its movements,

unconnected to me, heeding its own will as if it

hosts dark thoughts and memories it won't share.

It can try to outpace me, and given the chance it

curves over mounds of snow, disappearing

and reappearing, elongating, foreshortening.

It's as if it wants me to give chase, or at least

try, so we can partake of folly together. Only

when my shadow is on a building, a wall,

perpendicular, erect, will it reconnect and become

a part of me once again, part of those things

of which I dream, my hopes, successes, failures,

sharing this journey which has become my life

and regardless of its resolve, that of my shadow.

Light Less Bright

2010-08-06T17:39:00.011-06:00

I wonder if her death has been duly noted,

whether the trees in the forests became hushed

and the wind paused for a few respectful minutes,

and the rivers that run wild, grew briefly tamed;

whether anyone noticed light was somehow less bright,

and a star that was out there, flashed and disappeared?

In her honor, did the fragrance of wild flowers flood

the woods and did even the tiniest of creatures pause

in their wanderings, not comprehending the why,

only aware that something good that was there, is gone?

(In honor of Dorothy, 47, my painting partner,

who died Thursday, Aug. 5, 2010,

of liver disease - she is with God)

Natural high

2010-08-05T19:23:00.000-06:00

Three dogs asleep at my feet,

a fresh jar of sun tea brewing,

a wonderfully cool summer day,

hummingbirds visiting the feeder,

squirrels running through the trees,

white butterflies gyrating in the yard,

the sprinklers tapping their tunes,

my sweet wife humming as well,
God just happens to be on my side,

feeling good, what more to life

could I, should I, ask? Nothing!

Be content, you fool, be content

with this very natural high.

When Love Left

2010-08-05T10:21:00.001-06:00

I don't know when love left.

Now, in the tangle of stale time and

the necessity to keep it a secret

from myself, I don't even know

when the craving

for her, her body,

her mind, her love in return, all

decided to vacate my heart,

apparently deciding

the effort wasn't worth it.

I thought it could never happen,

thinking that this thing,

this thing which

was never labeled and never really

protected, this thing I will call

love, would be a permanent fixture

in my life, and that

like two monogamous creatures

destined to live and die together,

we'd endure forever.

So sad that I couldn't even count

on the love of my life

to be just that.

(Of another life and a sadder time)

Strange Domain

2010-07-29T20:17:00.000-06:00

How I love the steady rain,

or perhaps more to the point,

why do I love the steady rain?

Since childhood I've loved solitude,

not loneliness, you see, but a quiet solitude,

a peaceful place where thoughts collect

without fear of being disclosed to others.

Why? Well, I can't actually tell you, except

that it seems I've sought the real "me",

to know more of what's in this mind,

in some fashion much of my life, and

failing, it would seem, for as long, thus

I love the encompassing feeling of rain,

the blue shadows at dusk, an empty park,

the lamentable call of mourning doves,

seclusion in a stand of autumn aspens,

or laying beneath a shedding fall oak,

an overcast but benign winter sky,

a field of snow unbroken by man,

the soft fall of large snowflakes.

Yes, within such tranquility it becomes

easy to explore the strange domain

contained within this head of mine, perhaps

I'd even let a few chance thoughts escape.

Stretch of History

2010-07-23T13:29:00.003-06:00

Second installment on The Oregon Trail poems:

The bone-white wagon tongue,
its carriage long ago disintegrated
and fallen into splintery planks,
laps thirstily at the dry sod along the
edge of the trail, finding only
parched earth and no water, burrs
and beetles instead of hydration.
The dry stalks of Indian grass,
burned rust red in the summer sun,
clink and snap against each other
as if an ordained primordial rhythm,
mimicking the clicking of ‘hoppers
as they pass from stalk to stalk
and me, on another visit to this trail.
More prairie than desert, but still
more a place to leave behind, only
insects, lizards, hawks and the curious
chickadees seem to make it home,
this dusty stretch of history.

Verse for Jan

2010-07-22T14:59:00.001-06:00

Twilight has edged its way in,
the sun being tamed by the advancing night,
while among the darkening cottonwood
the chorus of songbirds grows muted,
relaxed and that intimate,
beloved magic enters our
golden domain again.
The air grows headier
with what I call your essence -
the scent of every blossom
that ever was, ever could be, seems
to be a part of you.

I could say romance permeates the air
but over the precious years with you
I've learned that being close to you
doesn't always have to be sexual.
Rather, it seems the measurable times,
the cherished moments are those when
we are alone together and each can embrace
the other's smile, keenly aware of what
the other is thinking, feeling
and dreaming without it being
put to words. Indeed, the best times
are simply those when we
can quietly look into
each other's eyes.

The man he was

2010-07-18T09:36:00.002-06:00

This man is lost to the intervening years,
thank God, and the new man has emerged.

The walls reflect nothing,
allow nothing, just the dusty
depression of a room within
a house within a faltering marriage,
barren of love or hope of continuing.
Only a break in the blinds allows
a razor's shard of light through
to the suffocating heaviness of the
dark room, slanting across the floor
to the feet of the man in his chair,
the man he is, a diminished shell
now, devoid of dreams and plans,
of sexuality and a passion to live,
longing for the man he was and
the life he failed to appreciate.

Disquieted dreams

2010-07-12T20:56:00.000-06:00

One last verse concerning my brother, who died recently.

He grew old before his time,
and I think he wasted away
because of his frequent dreams,
the disquieted dreams in which
she came to him from her grave,
softly and fragrantly in the night,
smelling of gardenias, to sooth
his anxieties and whisper those
love words he had longed to hear
again from her. I think he chose,
not consciously, but happily
none-the-less, to allow himself
to flow ever faster with that
current, the natural flood of
aging, to begin to drown in it
and to let himself grow ragged,
unkempt because he was actually
no longer alive, but fragments of him
returned with her nightly to her grave,
and that gravestone beckoning him
to come, take his place beside her.

first blush of dawn

2010-07-07T20:15:00.001-06:00

In the bleakness
of predawn the fear
is there, as it always is
when I struggle to awaken.
But I know the fear
will begin to dissipate,
the pulsing heart will
diminish before I get
both feet on the cold floor.
Morning coffee
and a pinkish gold
breaking through the
shuttered window and
I know I live, that fear
is temporary and strength
increases with each
moment, and I'm aware
that I didn't really lose
her love despite
the dream and I know
love will endure, and I didn't
die. All things flourish
with the first blush of dawn.
I only wish the dreams
to disappear, for good.

indefinable surge

2010-07-07T20:00:00.000-06:00

A fiber, a strand
of something bright, clear
and sweet rushes
through me each time
you touch me, each time
I dare to think that you
might love me as I love you -
the most wonderful
yet indefinable surge
which enlivens each cell
of this aging body.

Cell by cell

2010-07-04T19:08:00.000-06:00

How unfair this aging process,
this melting down of tissue and
disintegration of bone and sinew,
this deterioration, cell by cell,
and the muddling of the intellect.

A goodbye

2010-07-04T19:03:00.000-06:00

This will be the last verse concerning my brother - naturally he's been on my mind and I know you realize that. But a final goodbye is in order. Thanks.

We said goodbye to you, brother,
and no one heard our hearts breaking.
All that could be heard was the capricious
wind snaking its way through the
bulrushes along the river and up through
the spray of flowers on your headstone.

What could not be heard was the
catch in our breath as we tried futilely
not to weep in front of each other -
a foolish attempt, for what comes from
the heart at a time like this needs to be
felt and expressed, for it is true and good.

The way it should go

2010-07-01T19:19:00.000-06:00

How appropriate, dare I say
"appropriate" without diminishing
a life, his life, that this is
the way it should go with
the pot of flowers I kept trying
to resuscitate - the brilliant
vermilion blossoms, struggling
against poor earth and little
water, kept trying to show
forth their infinite beauty.
How appropriate is it this day
the flowers finally gave up
and died, their struggle futile,
that my brother too should die.

haiku musings

2010-06-30T20:21:00.000-06:00

girl in shorts

the whistle of a dove

taking flight

--

river's mouth
an osprey disappears
into mist

--

midstream -
drifting spider silk
snags an angler

One with my father

2010-06-29T20:26:00.000-06:00

I don't know - maybe it's all the emotion with the death of my brother, and his beautiful military funeral with a nine-gun salute and the folding of the flag which was presented to my neice, but it was difficult to remain sober and not cry - I failed the attempt. We all did. The military part of the funeral was definitely the most emotional. My brother was a Navy veteran. Maybe it's the cold realization that he really is gone, that my mother is gone, that my father has long been dead.

My brother had several heirlooms belonging to my father, including a pocketwatch that I had coveted for years, and a mustache cup. These two items I knew of, as well as a 1888 edition of "The Bible Gallery" illustrated by Gustave Dore' that I remember drawing in when I was about four or five years of age. Gorgeous thing with a blue velvet cover.

My neice said she had my father's pocketwatch, which she was going to bring to me at the funeral, but didn't know anything about the mustache cup or the illustrated bible. I had figured these things were long gone. But following the funeral, my neice came up to me with the pocketwatch, as well as the illustrated Bible which she had found going through my brother's things, as well as my father's straight razor.

I've always been an emotional sort, but I could not believe these riches, my father's belongings - of which I had none prior to today - were now in my hands and belonged to me. The emotionalism of these things was profound for me. And an old photo of my father, which I never seen, lay in my hands - I'm going to share it with you because he looked exactly like me at his age. People had told me I look like him, but I didn't really know because I was three when he died of tuberculosis. I know now, however, and I felt so overwhelmed it's hard to describe my emotions. Wonderful, to say the least. I suddenly felt I was a part of my father, I was now one with my father, which I had never felt before. It's a glorious feeling.

Here's my father, obviously a real farm boy:

For folks who know

2010-06-26T19:32:00.000-06:00

Just before waking this morning
I was dreaming I could still walk with
a cane - I found myself walking in this
very shallow stream, wading nicely
as it were, with just the cane - lift one
leg and then the other, no longer tripping
and falling. No need for the walker,
no need for the wheelchair, just the
single cane and I was free again. Mom, who
died about six years ago, was in my dream
and I was showing her and my wife how
I could suddenly wade in the stream
with just the cane. It felt so good. Then
I awoke and after taking a few minutes
to clear my head, struggled to my feet and
with the aid of the walker, dragging the
bad leg along, I made my way into the
kitchen and brewed some really strong
coffee. If I was going to have to be awake
I may as well be damned wide awake.

Perception of Life

2010-06-25T18:50:00.000-06:00

Today has been a strange day, overcast, the air heavy with unexpected humidity (unexpected for Idaho) and the fragrance of neighborhood flowers fairly lingered with the lack of wind - I think my brother's death has made my perception of life around me much sharper. I'm glad to be alive and feeling things - I'm thankful I have a wonderful wife I love and who loves me - a far cry from several years ago when I was deep into my various chemical addictions and cared for nothing but that chemical escape. The bottle, the pill, the snort - whatever. I believe in God, and I've come to realize that God gave me this life, this opportunity to sense all the beauty around me that He created. I don't want to waste anymore years. I guess that's poetry material.

THE TEAR

The tear of a brother
who is slipping into, out of
confusion, oblivion,
dementia.

A tear of recognition,
of reassurance.
How to weigh
this tear?
How do I
preserve it?
What value
this tear?

Priceless.

Death of my brother

2010-06-25T18:11:00.000-06:00

My brother died yesterday (June 24th) after a struggle with lung cancer and dementia at a veterans home in Boise, Idaho - he once again developed pneumonia, several days before his death, and he lacked the strength to overcome it. I feel so strange today, so sad that I've tried writing three verses about him and each time it seemed I was more the focus instead of Bingie - my brother. Each time I posted a verse to my blog I went back in and deleted it. Everything I write seems to fall far short of what I want to say. I wrote a haibun several months ago after his first bout with pneumonia and I'd like to reinsert it in my blog today. Forgive me if you've already been acquainted with it:

Bing is my older brother. Visiting him at the veterans home, he appears a shadow of the man he once was and seems far older. Doctors say he has dementia, and now they've found lung cancer. Having just survived pneumonia, his normally bright blue eyes are gray and distant, confused. He doesn't seem to blink. He watches other aging veterans move about the visitors area and doesn't speak unless asked a question, then replies with few words.

seasoned aspen
buffeted by a bitter wind
shuffle of old men

Bingie has always stuck up for me. Always. He has been a caring older brother and as children would allow me to tag along, pedaling me around on his rickety bike. Now I lament that there is nothing I can do for him. I was afraid he didn't recognize me until as I was about to leave. A single tear has appeared in the corner of his eye and is making its way down that pale, wrinkled face.

a leaf flutters
in an abandoned web
. . . these gray clouds

a few haiku

2010-06-21T17:11:00.000-06:00

ancient pine
the sun climbs
limb by limb

--

daybreak
a canyon wren singing
just above silence

--

dead crow
the sheen of the sky
on its wings

Dream hawk

2010-06-16T18:23:00.001-06:00

Gliding just above the aspen thickets, nearly scraping
the huge lava escarpments, I ride this exquisite dream hawk
for all it's worth. Then dipping and hovering as the
kestrel, I am soaring with the updraft to where the air
thins, I'm faint, and the world below is somehow irrelevant.
I can even see my bed below where I lay dreaming.

Strange how I got up here in the first place: propelling
myself upward by kicking my legs and suddenly I'm about
ten feet off the ground, feeling curiously free, and then
no longer needing to kick but instead glide, soar, hover. I like
my height about tree-level and prefer gliding. Normally,
I tend to get queasy and fear falling at the upper heights.
But this time, in this dream, I am brave, choosing to challenge the
clouds and with no fear whatsoever I "loose the surly bonds".

cumulus
a hawk spirals down
the updraft

To Laugh

2010-06-16T11:32:00.000-06:00

We'd laugh at life
if it weren't so serious
we'd laugh at death
if we weren't afraid
we'd laugh at pain
if it didn't hurt so much
we'd laugh at circumstances
but we'd get nowhere
I suppose, truth be known,
we'd laugh at everything
if only we hadn't
forgotten how

Of Reversing Time

2010-06-15T11:57:00.000-06:00

Oh, the sadness in your beloved eyes, that
woeful turn from bright blue to grey, and
the callous years etched across your face,
god, but that I could reverse the slow,
methodical spin of earth and cruel time,
take us both back to when our love
for each other burned, raged, and there was
no purpose in this world but our purpose.

--

spring sounds

2010-06-14T10:52:00.000-06:00

from the depths
of the mountain laurel
spring sounds

--

spring colors
a swatted fly
on the window

--

a fallen leaf
in the stream's swirl
. . . awaiting prognosis

--

late spring
butterflies replace
falling maple pods

To Dream

2010-06-12T17:08:00.000-06:00

I would hope to die, soon,
should I grow too old to dream,
to believe in something,
anything, to feel the red-hot surge
of ambition and love's pulsing

--

Honeysuckle days

2010-06-12T16:58:00.000-06:00

At times, certainly not often enough, on a
balmy evening when the early summer breeze
weaves itself ever so softly among the honeysuckle
vines and back to me, and the world becomes hushed
and golden with the sun sitting suspended just
above the horizon, I catch a glimpse of the magic
of my childhood. A warm and sweet time, lush with
the burgeoning innocence of youth, it was a time
when everything had its brilliant color and those
colors were honest and full of depth, even
within the shadows of the increasing dusk.

The world held no fear for me then, no doubts, no
discouragement, and no inkling of the sadness
I would cause and encounter in later life, and thus
I looked to the future as if it were guaranteed to be as
gorgeous and fragrant as that honeysuckle. However,
the world, from the many thousands of days
since I first marveled in it as an child, has grown
colorless, stringent, fearful - or is it the melancholy
I seem to have been born with that's destroyed that
childhood joy and sense of real beauty - a question
I ponder frequently and one for which I have no
answer. Unadulterated joy no longer comes
and I doubt I would recognize it should it ever
intrude again on this aging and corrupt being.

--

father of my invention

2010-06-07T20:10:00.000-06:00

-
Forgive the tardiness of posting this piece - I started it around Christmas but just recently finished it. I simply want to share it with you, even though it's seasonally tardy.
_________

He died when I was three
so to say I knew him, I couldn't.
But to say I missed him -
that was simple enough - I
did, immensely, everyday,
but especially
around Christmas.

At an early age I knew the
emptiness of not having a father
around, doing things
a father would do with his son.
But the pervasive loneliness
was compounded at Christmas,
perhaps because I could sense
enormous sadness in my
mother's demeanor.

Mother did what she could to make
Christmas special for my
brother and me, material
things, but there was
always a sense of deprivation, a
sadness even though
I never knew him. You
can feel deprived of something you are
not familiar with. It's easy. Look about
you at those who did have fathers.
The hollowness was
always there.
Always.
It still is, even at my age.

However, as a child I often dreamed of
him - gave him a face of
kindness, a face I could look
into, recognize up close and at a distance.
He was a father who always came home.
I gave him warm eyes that laughed at the
dollar-sized snowflakes outside,
gave him big hands to form snowballs
for me, and to pull me to my
feet should I
slip, and I gave him a
magnificent heart, a heart large enough to
encompass all that was special to him,
which would include me.

Mom remained a widow,
worked hard, got paid little.
But she made a life for the three of us
and tried her best
to make every Christmas
better than the last.
Regardless, and perhaps
selfishly, just beyond the
tinseled tree, the
crinoline bows and the presents,
I saw his eyes which would look into
mine and I saw a face I could never touch
but that I love to this day.
In addition to all that, I gave him a
love for his family that would have made
every day significant. He would
have made a huge contribution.

Occasionally, when I smell
coal smoke mingling with pine from
trees across the way, and
if the air
is crisp enough, the snowflakes
big enough,
it will seem like Christmas of the past,
and I will remember father, or at least
the father of my invention.

birdsong

2010-06-07T19:50:00.000-06:00

birdsong
the volume amplifies
at dusk

--

her morning air

not of haughtiness

but gardenias

kitten's carcass

its soft hair melds

into dry bone

this dark mountain

a mirror of myself . . .

the brooding

windswept plains

2010-06-06T21:29:00.000-06:00

sky above

these windswept plains

my emptiness

lightning strike

enjoying the jolt

of morning coffee

scent of lilacs

2010-06-01T19:15:00.000-06:00

Spring's blossoms, the beautifully scented blossoms like lilacs, bring me close to what I would consider heaven on earth. The fragrance is beyond description, as you all know, but the poet will always try - what's a poet for if not to share. A couple of lilac haiku:

dawn colors . . .

a chittering of goldfinches

among the lilacs

midnight window

sleep deferred

for the scent of lilacs

same wind

2010-05-31T17:46:00.000-06:00

-
Down from the icy Sawtooth crags
and through the winter-laden landscape,
the cold wind eventually dips to the
creek we loved so well as children.
Continuing on, it threads through the
hollows above the creek, sculpted even
today by stooped cottonwood trees.

Twisting above granite outcroppings
and lava boulders, the wind courses
the giant arteries of this canyon,
passing among quaking aspen, river willow,
and snarled cottonwood, shorn by now
of every dryly-veined leaf.

At ancient volcanic escarpments the
wind bears south, scraping hard along
canyon walls. Upward it moves, out of
the canyon, slowing and sallying about
the hillocks, the gullies, and the poplars
until it finally comes to stir ever more
gently, warmer even, my dear friend,
around your gray marbled headstone.

Primeval of days, this very same wind
blows for eternity upon eternity, polishing
and purifying even the roughest of
the earth's elements and impediments.
This said, at this hill's crest where you rest,
there is no need of further refinement. Feel
how the northern wind quiets for you,
as if it knows over whose stone it passes.

wheelchair man

2010-05-28T18:27:00.000-06:00

-

The following presents not only one man's struggle in old age, but the connectedness of a man and a dog. Normally they share a love of each other, but even as casual adversaries they can share a certain bond, or even destiny:

The wheelchair man wheels himself down the
street, stopping to drag his paralyzed right leg
back onto the footrest. He's grizzled, decrepit,
smells of filth, tobacco stains his unkept beard.
He tries to grin but minus teeth his grin is a slash.
Leaning sideways, he purses his lips, spits tobacco.

The wheelchair man wheels himself down the
street, occasionally kicking with his good leg
at a diseased black dog that skulks in shadows
near a meat market. Following, the stray bares its
yellow teeth, nips at the man's hand as he wheels.
A well-placed kick and the dog briefly retreats.

The wheelchair man wheels himself down the
street, stopping under an overhanging bush. Pulling
a bottle from his threadbare army coat, he throws back
his contorted face, draws long on the whisky. Tucking the
bottle, he kicks again toward the dog, puts a finger to
his nostrils, blows several wads of mucus, wheels off.

The wheelchair man wheels himself down the
street, stopping short of the school where he knows
children may throw rocks at him and call him names -
"gimp", "crip", "asshole". "Bastards"- he always retorts.
Under a leafless tree he spits brown juice, drinks,
pulls the tube from his urine bottle, empties it.

The wheelchair man wheels himself down the
street, struggling more than usual to keep himself
going. He's cold, miserable, feels faint, and spits mucus
flecked with blood. The black stray sits on its haunches
nearby, watching the elderly man's distress. The old man
struggles against the brutal wind in making it back home.

The Wheelchair man fails to wheel himself down the
street this cold day. His wheelchair sits to the side of
his shack, empty of the gray man since his death, and rusting
in the early November rain. The old black dog snarls toward
the emptiness of the wheelchair, coughs yellow mucus,
licks his wounds, then crawls beneath the man's porch.

From under the man's porch the elderly black dog
will often wander aimlessly down the street, stopping short
of the school where children will throw rocks at him.
It's bitter cold this day. Under a leafless tree the dog sniffs
the air for the man. Looking about, he growls at nothing,
lays where the old man would stop, scratches flea bites.

border issue

2010-05-28T18:13:00.000-06:00

border issue . . .

trumpet honeysuckle

climbs the fence

mountain sunrise

no dew on the grass

where a doe slept

river bend

. . . a tug and its horn

disappear

sensing the ghosts

2010-05-24T12:57:00.000-06:00

-

The Oregon Trail - Sensing the ghosts
of pioneers who traversed the trail
a century and a half ago:

Tall prairie grass, wind-swept and
burnished gold, whispers with the
long-dead voices of all who passed
on this trail in their dream journey
to Oregon, or even California, or who
died, disease-ridden, exhausted, to be
buried just off the rutted trail
under a lonely stretch of sod
or cairned atop a barren lava bed.

Hawks hover, then spiral effortless
high above, as they did so many years
ago, dark against a soft patchwork
quilt of azure blue sky and creeping clouds.
The occasional click of grasshoppers
is barely audible in the billowing, brittle
grass shaken by the interminable wind.
Dry bones of beasts and hapless humans
dot the edges of the trail, mute testimony
to the brutality of the westward rush
and the following of the Oregon Trail.

morning mist

2010-05-21T17:27:00.000-06:00

morning mist

lifts from the forest

. . . a haiku rolls in

--

rainy night . . .
a loon on the lake
echoes my mood

--

dawn colors . . .
a chittering of sparrows
from the lilacs

--

parting gesture–
a windblown petal
kisses my cheek

northbound geese

2010-05-20T14:35:00.000-06:00

skimming

the belly of a storm front

. . . northbound geese

hunter’s moon . . .

the barn owl’s silhouette

shifts on a limb

final shovel

2010-05-18T15:34:00.000-06:00

flight of a lark . . .

the final shovel of dirt

on my friend's grave

walk in the rain . . .

why is it she's still young

and I'm older?

--

farm auction -
the gravel falls
on his dreams

going back out

2010-05-15T22:50:00.000-06:00

-

Going back out,
that's what he fears most.
To resume his last
miserable drunk,
homeless, loveless, broke.
Scratching up money for a fifth
of whatever he's drinking
- vodka when he's semi-flush,
cheap wine when he's not.
Lacking the guile to beg or steal,
he washes dishes in a dive
for a meal and a bottle,
sweeps out bars for drinks,
knowing he can't hold a job
much longer than a day.
Scavenging cigarette butts
from barroom trash cans.
No place to get out of the cold
except for the missions
and flop houses.
He hates the flop houses
with their toothless managers
spreading their shit-eating grins.
He dreads the city winter
as the cold seeps in and wraps
its tendrils around him,
and he fears seeing one more
sooty gray dawn with grizzled men
like himself mindlessly shuffling,
searching for the next drink.
He fears the back alleys,
fears he's destined
to live in their filth, huddled
in whatever hole or box he can find.
No longer caring for himself,
just craving alcohol.
That insatiable craving.
And it's the grayness he fears,
the empty, pallid expanse
of his remaining years
and losing people who
used to love him.
He's frightened of going out
and not coming back.
And he fears thoughts of suicide.
He has no answers to why he drinks,
why he gives in to the bottle.
His mind cannot or will not grasp
that last thought.

---

the river

2010-05-15T22:11:00.000-06:00

-

The Mississippi River laps noisily, sucking debris
back into its current from along the water's edge,
to be deposited 30 yards down river, and with the next
churning passing barge the same debris would be sucked
back in by that hungry, always hungry river.

I skirt the brackish gumbo mud, ducking under
leaning cypress trees as I searched for a fishing hole
that would provide both shade and quieter water.
The Louisiana heat and the smell of that river, of eons
of mud, of live and dead fish, all manner of rot, some
unspeakable, proves somehow intoxicating, alluring.

The cacophony of cicadas and flit of blue damselflies
is interrupted occasionally by the low mournful blare
of a passing tug as their pilots wave happily to me.
I don't know them, they doesn't know me, but they're
also loving the day. Days on the river were to be savored,
along with the slow swell and pull of the wide river
as it ebbs, swirls and sucks its way to the waiting gulf.

As I grow older I am content to sit by the water's edge,
hypnotized, anesthetized by the river's ages-old flow.
My dreams, my life will not go on, but it's comforting
knowing the Mississippi River will continue its drift.

--

gumbo mud and kudzu

2010-05-15T21:53:00.000-06:00

-

The old farmer hung back,
as rickety and battered as the
‘50s Allis-Chalmers tractor upon
which he leaned, hunched,
clung, as if the auctioneer's words
might carry him off as well, like
the implements he'd treasured
much of his life, machines upon
which he had toiled and sweated
and which had helped him chisel
out a meager existence in his
40 years on the farm. His wife was
dead now, his children scattered
like the clucking chickens and hissing
ducks, all he had left were memories
and the old homestead, and it was
leaving him bit by bit on the backs
of creaking pickups and low boys
and stuffed into the cavities of shiny
new Cadillacs and Buicks. The cruel
wind had snuck in from the southwest,
stealing a little more soil from the
threadbare farm, swirling and sucking
at tattered curtains still hanging in
the mouths of hazy windows left ajar.
With each piece of his life leaving
down the gravel road, a draining
of life's energies closely followed.
If it could rust like the kudzu-strangled
farm machinery strewn about its yard,
the old farmhouse would certainly
be gumbo mud by now. The decaying
farm equipment, leaving from just
another sad auction, speaks of dreams
lost and lives ended in the quagmire
of delta clay and clutching kudzu.

--