The Moose

The young Bull Moose sat in the passenger seat of the Chevy with his head stuck through the cratered windshield. Stunned, he stared out ahead at the warped red hood and an enormous oak tree. Beyond that was darkness.

His front legs were pressed underneath the dashboard, one crossed behind the other, like a giant brown clown in a polka-dotted Volkswagen. He sat on throbbing hind legs, squirming slightly for a moment, but for the pain he was unable to resituate. The left rear leg was badly broken and the left haunch stung from a deep laceration where he had broken through the glass. It was quiet. He did not move.

Bridget slouched with her head pressed between the driver’s side window and seat. She breathed shallowly, slowly. She was still unconscious. The seatbelt cut across her neck, and shards of broken glass lay on her lap and the dash, twinkled in moonlight. The glass caved delicately over her face, a threatening chandelier. Her legs were shriveled up against the seat, a mess of broken bone. The cold November breeze stirred at her temples, lifted faintly at her blouse. She was still rosy with the flush of adrenaline that had flared in the fraction before she hit. It was quiet, except for the wind gently shaking the glass to a tinkling chime. She did not move.

The Lake

She (layers like Earth Mama
hot magma (a warmer core
of water (fluid, not stagnant
(pouring forth like
an ever-giving Waterfall (but
no I don't want
to give (retracting back
into her shell (it's safe
in here, and comfortable (old
patterns playing across the walls
(like in a dungeon,I am trapped)
that close in like cops
cornering their kill) not moving,
getting fat and lazy) discarding
circles for an ugly square) disintegrating
into well howabout some dust) returning
to essence and back to the Mama)
there's Trees growing
(calm and strong (Ice avoids them)
and rocks too
-ing the layers (and layers)
dancing in the moon's shadow
furtive glances
there's something there
(she seems to stop
but there's
something
))

Questions

How is it
I feel your absence--
a black hole in my gut--
but I cannot feel Earth turning?

You're gone--
I know this--
yet the questions suck away in my belly.
The world lies still beneath my feet,
but I know it is spinning.

Questions (Vers. 2)

How can I
feel your absence--
a black hole in my gut--
but I can't feel Earth turning?

I know you're gone,
yet the questions suck away in my belly.
The world lies still beneath my feet,
and I know it is spinning.

Questions

How is it
that I feel your absence—
a black hole in my gut—
but I cannot feel Earth turning?

You’re gone—I know this—
yet the questions suck away in my belly.
The world is still, beneath my feet,
but I know it is spinning.

My Colorado-Version 3

My Colorado

is seen from the driver's side
of a Jade green convertible:
latticed prairie
(starillions of yellow flowers and dusty shrubs)
greets a sky
woven of white and

the blue of your eyes.

is a sweetly scented wind,
a sunflower sagebrush bouquet
laced with thick perfumes:
cow shit, dead skunk,
and the warm, aching stench
of Daddy’s cologne which
seeps from Jade's porous left seat.

He sat here only just days ago.

is ahead, west, projected:
warrens of stone,
mazes of gullies and caverns,
networks of aspen and pine,
all of it
plaiting stardust into mountain—
the land lifting out of plains is

a song I know by heart.

Colorado, (you
always
remind me)
home.

Grasshopper Baseball (revised)

No concept of the game
No knowledge, even, of its
Existence,
The gladiator is
Snatched from summer sunlight and
Held in a close, dark room,
Confused, until
The pitch and then even more
Bewildered in the brightness—
Suddenly spinning through the
World remembered—
The tall grass,
Dry and sweet,
Waving below
Brings comfort as
He moves through
The air towards
Home.
The crack of the bat
Sends a brief, jolting
Shock of pain through everything
Just before he leaves the park—
Homerun.

The Dying Wall (revised)

The ground vomits up the wall
In a green, gray, brown mass of stone, moss and dirt,
Spewing forth a line of boulders
With some rocks scattered to either side.

Twenty feet later, the dilapidated wall
Falls back into the earth which first belched it up.
The soil swallows it back under and
Digests it into pebbles, then sand, then dirt.

Long ago the wall kept captive herds,
But now it only serves to support the moss
Which drags it down, down into the ground
While the earth thoughtfully gobbles it up.

Highland Shrapnel

Growing out of the ground,
The same brown of worms,
Rusty metal squirms
From sundried earth,
From fiery hell,
Into frigid brightness,
Into cold ocean winds,
To serve as shelter
For a wren;
Sitting patiently and peacefully
Waiting for winter to end—
The expired bombshell
Finally found a friend.

My Colorado--second version

My Colorado

is seen from the driver's side
of a Jade green convertible:
latticed prairie
(starillions of yellow flowers, dusty shrubs)
greets a sky
woven of white and

the blue of your eyes.

is a sweetly scented wind,
a sunflower sagebrush bouquet
laced with cloying perfumes
(cow shit, dead skunk,
and the warm, aching stench
of your cologne which
seeps from Jade's porous left seat)

you sat here only just a light-year ago.

is ahead, west, projected:
warrens of stone,
mazes of gullies and caverns,
networks of aspen and pine, all of it
plaiting stardust into mountain--
(the land lifting out of plains
is a song I know by Heart)

you taught me.

Colorado,
(you
always
remind me)
My home.

My Colorado

is seen from the driver’s side
of a jade green convertible:
the latticed prairie,
(starillions of yellow flowers and dusty shrubs)
greets a sky
woven of white and the blue of your eyes.

is sweetly scented on the wind
a sunflower sagebrush perfume
(laced with whiffs of cow shit and dead skunk)
and the warm aching stench of Tuscany cologne
which seeped into Jade’s pores
where Daddy sat just days ago.

is ahead, west, anticipated:
(the land lifting out of plains is a song I know by heart)
mazes of gullies and caverns,
networks of aspen and pine,
warrens of boulders and stone,
All plaiting mountain out of stardust.

My Colorado
(and you always remind me)
Is Home.

Grasshopper Baseball

No concept of the game
No knowledge, even, of its
Existence,
The gladiator is
Taken from summer sunlight and
Held in a close, dark room
Confused, until
The pitch and then even more
Bewildered in the brightness
Suddenly spinning through the
World remembered—
The tall grass,
Dry and sweet
Waving below
Brings comfort as
He moves through
The air towards
Home.
The crack of the bat
Sends a brief, instant, jolting
Shock of pain through everything
Just before leaving the park—
Homerun.

The Hike (Revised)

Ascent
We start late.
The sun smirks down.
We climb quickly,
as if gold still plays in those mines.
Lungs burning, knees springing,
thrusting off of stones
and roots lodged in dirt.
Smaller rocks,
long ago chewed up and spit out by monsters,
crunch underfoot.
I only hear the munching
and my wheezing breath;
All I see of mountain
comes just before each footstep.

Pastoral
Clouds unzipping the sunshine as I open my yellow pack;
My pink and tingling hands shakily unscrewing a blue Nalgene lid;
Our souls unearthing mountains, reading rocks, studying granite volumes;
Water caresses our lips like a kiss,
saturates the throat, swells the belly.
Water stirs our eyes in wonder:
a bowl of blue extending out from a bottle-green valley;
a vale dotted with brunette boulders and golden grasses,
surrounded by crags and walls of stone,
seeded long ago from molten movement and grown by shifting plates.
The trail switchbacks across her,
dirt fingers bent across the rocks.
I breathe; stretch the soreness into a dull sensation;
The joy of fresh air, the achievement,
The satisfaction.

Decision
I’ve never seen it.
There’s reason enough to move forward, up the slope:
For the satisfaction of triumph—
Not of conquering the mountain,
But of conquering myself.

Second Ascent
We start upward.
The storm builds overhead.
We move quickly,
As though to reach the clouds and stop them.
Knees cracking, eyes scanning
For rocks and obstacles
And roots wedged in dirt.
On the ridge above,
thunder cackles like the ghosts of miners
heckling our weakness.
I only feel the grinding of my teeth
and of the rocks beneath my feet.
All I see of mountain
rises above the rock in thunderclouds.

Descent
We gorge ourselves
on GORP and granola bars
before we run;
Like deer fleeing a looming predator,
we high-tail it down.
Stumbling across scree fields
with heavy ankles,
bound to betray.
The only sounds:
jacket sleeves rustling,
thunder growling.
The sky spits on us,
I lick the spatter from the corner of my mouth.
I pause; look back at the storm,
smell fear on the wind,
swallow pebbles.
We slide and trip down the hill,
Sometimes running and
Sometimes falling
on a monster’s rejected rocks.
And then, sometimes stopping
to look up and admire
the beast of mountain.

Finish Line
We did it.
There’s reason enough to celebrate:
(and a cold beer sits on the edge of the tub
While hot drizzle pours over me)
For the satisfaction of success—
for the mountain in my legs,
for the mountain in my heart.

Waking the Child (revised)

Cedar dashes through the pines,
the dazzled weave of eyes, hands, feet
and red squirrel’s queried voice
bear out his unspoken bond with the
life of the forest

His marvel over things seen and unseen
repeats this motto: “Be as a question.”

Through his wonder
I awake to find:
we all ask questions within—
but a child puts his Heart in his mouth.

Diindiis hangs in the balance,
the giggled twirl of golden leaves
and blonde upside-down hair,
the feet of a blue jay wrapped nimbly
around Birch branches.

His monkey’s eye view reminds me that the
seer chooses his every perspective.

Through his delight,
I awake to see
we all desire joyful lives—
but a child puts Heart in his action.

Their Heartspeaking
is what teaches me,
not about finding my
inner child, (for she was never lost)

She has been stifled, sleeping and dreaming,
waiting for the right time to awaken.

I set her free this morning.
The question: what animal would I be…?
I ran, arms wide—wings spread—
swooping, the call of Owl on the wind:
Wake up, child! Wake up!

The Dying Wall

The ground vomits up the wall
In a green, gray, brown mass of stone, moss and dirt,
Spewing forth a line of boulders
With some rocks scattered to either side.

Twenty feet later, the dilapidated wall
Falls back into the earth which first belched it up.
The soil swallows it back under and
Digests it into pebbles and then sand, then dirt.

Long ago the wall kept captive herds,
But now it only serves to support the moss
Which drags it down, down into the ground
And eventually the wall will cease to stand up.



This is an old poem. I just wanted to see how this whole posting thing worked. New stuff is on the way!