Walking the Fox

I don’t enjoy walking the river when it is this intense.
The rush and roil make my head light as foam
and turns my feet sodden and heavy.
I loose my thoughts.
I start thinking river questions.
Questions I haven’t asked in generations.

Where am I going?
And when I get there, where will I go then?
Are there other rivers like me?
If there are, do they find like I do
that every bend is new and familiar
all at once, that each old tree I see
I have never seen before
and have known for centuries?
Do they watch with the same eye,
one at once the length and width of my course
but small as every drop of water?


I, also, wonder where I am going.
I ponder the absence of any final destination.
I puzzle at why when I look,
the river wears my face.

Dusk, on a shore, one loon cries

I know this place in my heart
that I take energy from
Deep purple sky still black lake
a loon cry unanswered not repeated

My friends say this is a lonely place
full of sadness and melancholy
I have to agree
but this is where I live

If I could change anything
it would be this
There would be a small campfire
and maybe another loon

tired

I am tired of being a cripple,
can I get an Amen.
I don’t care if the moon landings fixed,
look where it took us.
Wine, cheap or not,
both end up piss.
Sure time slips away,
it brings us along for the ride.
I am a poet fueled by wine
and some real good pills.
The poets that I know,
that I really truly know,
ain’t all that far away.
We are grey but bright,
at ease with our words,
willing to let some things pass
because we’ve all been there.