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.

Yesterday

I heard a song today about leaving
and a friend read a poem about the road
where the wind insistently repeats
gusts of approval to the grey clouds.
It’s 50 * but it looks like snow.
The leaves are still green and
refuse to submit, so the wind
claims the dead branches,
the birds nests, and the rummage sale signs.
It isn’t even noon
I’m ready for bed.

UNJUSTIFIED POEM
　
Black holes never cry.
A stone was a rock
when it was young.
Arrows of love from
the Gods of war, away!
Away! Away to the space
between mine eyes and
save me from
lisping Shakespeares.

TABOO CONVERSATIONS
　
I was joking with my friend the other day
‘bout smoking stale tea, how tea was a name
for pot ‘way back, beatniks drinking wine and smoking’ tea.
Giving Bourbon as a cure for cowlick, whining,
or to counteract a sugar buzz; this is okay.
But joke about smoking’ a little Gange, some Buddha,
or Humboldt County homegrown and Holy Shit!
Smack me upside the head with a fry pan!
Didn’t matter her and I burned one together.
Ain’t my fault her father called and ruined her buzz.
I guess respectability will do that to ya.
And me, old reprobate, part hippy and part biker,
part stoned seer/prophet/poet
still willing to let my freak flag fly.

WRONG TURN SOMEWHERE
　
Starting to write poetry wasn’t
the best idea I’ve ever had.
It all seemed so innocent.
A limerick or two, a lousy ballad,
love poems so bad they hurt.
That is all it was ever meant to be.
I would have been happy with that.
Then the poetry turned into songs,
each one filled with its own music.
The words became Shamans, holding
mysteries, and the answers to mysteries.
Suddenly, it seems, I am become a midwife
trying at the least to not drop a poem on its head,
at most hold it up to the sun and announce
“ Here is another.”