Winter

Winter

What a weird way to experience this. . . 


Something forgotten : everyone has a right to life.


     no matter the purpose or value 


I stood outside
on that cool night
watching the clouds
caught in streams
of wind pass me by.
   

seams stretched
by tufted fingers
and downy swirls
layering, stacking
the only distinctions
being darker and darker

 
The pines stood silent and watched
as I watched the moon
open up the clouds. For a brief
moment, maybe more.
 

Luminous
as if the light
were a broom
brushing away the cloud
and confusion

Layer after layer—
yet, the moon shone
through. And I, the
    sentinel—
as if it needed an audience


the wake of clouds piling
  back over the heart-orb

sinking deeper into these
  inner layers

Tonight

Tonight
the Aspen is
clacking
in the breeze.
It’s very similar
to the nails of
a raccoon
on the branch,
shuffling leaves,
climbing limbs.

I hear it
because
I listen.

Orion’s Belt is robust
in the Northern sky.
Has the archer been
fattening up for the
winter?

These dandelion
leaves are
translucent
in the moonlight—
like my mind
and the river of
words that flows
through.

Frolic Gentle Observer

A walk through the
neighborhood
is actually more like
frolicking
through the neighborhood
i stop
to watch bees
diligent and effortless
in their work
dozens of them appear from
the orange poppies
then reemerge elsewhere—
there’s no telling how many
a car door slams and i think
how silly or
simple i look and i
get embarrassed
for being the
gentle observer—
so easily amused
but we shouldn’t
be embarrassed, the gentle
observers, in being able to
take joy in simple pleasures

pass under a horsechestnut
look upon the mace fruit
green with youth and i know
because science tells me
that the fruit is the product
of the flower, that is, the
fruit comes after the flower,
i can’t help but think that
perhaps the flower
is a veil around our attention and
that the fruit was there
ripening all along
and with the withering of the flower
the fruit emerges like the bee
under the scope of our attention
and i think. . .
perhaps that’s all i’ve ever been—
a gentle observer

Hands All Over

What border edge is far enough? What wall plenty high? Domesticate. Eradicate. The human race. Highways snake like veins, or a river, or a blade. We carry always with us the guilt of fear. Investment. Property. Economy. Paving the world. . . we’ve got our hands stretched over a dying fire.


The state of Washington terminated the remaining members of the OPT wolf pack in Ferry county, while we camped in Mt. Rainier Nat’l forest. Isn’t our search for freedom in the confines of these borders, under flags, sort of ironic? It’s a battle that has continued throughout human history, our battle with the wolves.


Modern Poetry

The modern Poet towers over me, standing on piles of words, handheld degrees, like a decree, held tightly against the chest. Why is it that modern poetry makes me feel so small every time I venture to read it?

Outside the window, moment after moment, the night sky flashes in a brilliance of lightshow. Bursting from the shadow of memory, thunder rumbles and rolls on and on into the dark. We all stop. Rehearsing the truth in my mind, I had nothing to say. The dog trembles in tremolo. In the shatterd nightsky, crackling eggs. We momentarily left our houses, built on convenience, and entered a bliss built by the ancients.

Robins

When robins hunt it’s only a guessing game, an approximation, or so it seems. They scatter about and peck and move. Though there does seem to be some guiding principle. Each one is a sentinel unto himself, and a sentinel for the group. When you watch the robins hunt you always find there to be more of them, hiding in the shadow or bushes, than you noticed at first glance. Stoic as they are, they also seem to be pretty clumsy; a worm slipping the grip of their beak, almost seems to have become expected for them, as they pass it off with a few more pecks of dew. Very cautious, they comb the corridor of grass and soon are out of sight, hunting just beyond view.