Passing the torch

I want to tell my nephews that
some little part of our blood
comes from the Ojibwa, or Chippewa.
Not enough blood to put you on a tribal roll,
or get you out of an ass-whooping,
but now you know.
They were fisherman, and rice harvesters,
trappers and hunters.
Their warriors were feared and respected.
Yes,
we are corn-fed, fair skinned, right talkin’
sons of western Europe.
But part of us has been here much longer.
It may not be important to you now,
but some day you will notice how
you always end up back here.
It’s the blood.
It speaks, and
we must listen.

A Pinot Noir, and some tid bits.

ABOVE ME


Her face
risen above me,
the moon through the shutters
just touches the left side of her face.
She is not smiling.
Her eyes are like a cat’s,
but soft, and silver.
I think
My God,
that I should be here.
The moon just touches her face,
and still, I am jealous.
　
　
　
a few really short ones　
　
　
In my Pear tree
a bird I’ve never seen.
His song…
I don’t know if it’s sad or not.
　
　
　
A young Maple
blushing red…
embarrassed, no doubt,
to be losing her dress.

The older Maples
can’t wait to throw
their leaves like scarves
and dance naked in
new snow.




Hey Armand,
a shot and a Bud short.
And stop saying "God bless ya"
every time I mention Haiku.

Walkabout

Sorry, friends and neighbors,
but the road called and I had to answer.
After all, it is summer,
and you know how those roads are,
how the ditch mist is rich in clover scent.
And how the rumble of dual pipes
bounced off buildings and cornfields
sounds identical.
The people at the end of this particular road
shared their table with me,
and we laughed, and I returned home.
Armand, ya old fuck,
a bottle of your finest grape juice,
and a shot for the song of the road.
Damn it is fine to be back.