Sunset Symphony

Sunset Symphony 9/25/10
Stuffy seats
and quiet chatter are
little company for waiting ears,
worn-out programs
rolled up or
tossed
on the floor under
the musty smell of an old brown jacket
on the seat in front
of me.

The lights fade like the gloaming of the coming night
and a drifting wand appears in the dimming space
like the farewell ray of a sun just out of sight.
Then soul-moving colors float out with glorious grace.

A long streak of oboe-gold shoots low
across the stage, surrounded by cello-red,
while pink violins dash brightly out and glow
from joy of the chase where the pipe and the piccolo fled.

The flutes frolic with four French horns
in bursts of silver and purple and shining glee
that an ocher bass chases in the hope of another morn
and fills the sky to the tune of the timpani.

The orange slowly leaves the air
and all is dark and blank and bare
till clouds return in evening-wear.

Outside Bozeman Contest

If you read the magazine Outside Bozeman, you may be familiar with the "How Far will you Go?" contest. Each season readers send in photos of themselves with this local magazine from all over the world. There is recognition for the best photo and the best letter. My family sent in the following photo of us on Ghana's highest peak along with a poem that I wrote that ended up winning best letter. Sure, it wouldn't have won a poetry contest, but it was kind of fun. So here it is.


In Ghana we sought out the mightiest peak.
We crossed over mountains and valleys and creeks.
We packed very little, just sunscreen and hats,
Some water and cameras for pictures thereat,

And also our Outside Bozeman.

Our backpack was heavy, however, because
The writing within it most certainly was
Heavy-laden with sarcasm, humor and wit,
Cool pictures and info most cleverly writ,

There in our Outside Bozeman.

We hiked to the top of Afadjato's trail
In the African sun, with much sweat and travail
To the highest of peaks in the Ghanian lands,
From the northernmost nooks to the southernmost sands,

Bearing our Outside Bozeman.

We carried it all the way straight up the side
Of a mountain where switchbacks refuse to abide.
Then we got to the top and we gazed at the view,
And the Ghanians shared in the wonders anew:

The wonders of Outside Bozeman.

For none had experienced such brilliance of prose,
Or witnessed such art on such sleek cellulose.
With cameras we captured their great admiration
At the pages of Bozeman's most fine publication,

The magazine, Outside Bozeman.

Litter

Litter 9/11/2010
The hard work of men is spread out in black
across the highways of our nation,
a great itinerant expanse of track
spreading like veins across America.

Bearing the weight of lumber and wheat
and families traveling home,
tired souls and weary feet
home across the mountains and plains of America.

A great web of cars leading nieces to aunts
and husbands to wives after rainy business trips,
like the stage of civilization's uniting dance,
uniting us, America.

And the laziness of men is spread out beside
this achievement of better men.
Beer cans and plastic tossed there belie
the character of the people of America.

They quietly mock the sweat-earned road
and the very ground on which they lie.
They mock the land which, bought with blood,
Somehow looks less than America.

First Day of School

This one required a little editing, because a few people to whom I showed it interpreted it differently than I was hoping. Hopefully it's clearer now. I've mostly been writing blank verse lately from lack of time, but I'm hoping to try some new styles soon. We'll see.

First Day of School 9/8/2010
An apple crunches at the end of the table.
Peanut butter and jelly squeeze out
from wheat bread walls
uncomfortably packed too close together.
Chatter tip-toes through the room
like some tired typist's tapping
fingers late at night.
A few old friends fill too much space,
their boisterous words
go drifting through the air
like a lone guitar in a concert hall.

Months go by...

A peanut butter and jelly sandwich
is munched and chewed.
A quiet laugh about the peanut butter
squeezing out the seams
is lofted through the air,
but no one hears.
The little chatter waltzing by
ignores the noise.

Somehow this day is not so different from the first.
Minds are still on lunch and classes yet to come.
The rarity of voices is old as ever it was
and yet...

As a few solitary voices envelop the room
and surround the feasters sitting close,
silently enjoying the familiarity of the noise,
it's not so loud that you can't hear
an apple crunch at the end of the table.