Comfort

The fall soccer season ended this weekend with the MCAA tournament. In our last game we were ahead 2-0 at half-time but ended up losing 2-3. Needless to say, the team was pretty disappointed. Also, I read some E. E. Cummings on the car ride which affected the style somewhat.

Comfort 10/23/10
The smell of sadness
softly settles
among the
silent spaces
between the
blades of grass.

yester-moment's madness is
forgotten in the so
(so so)
oppressive, down
cast eyes around.
and yet that chaos is
the forefront thought
in every mind
in a wilderness
of short-cut grass.

leaden feet remember
the feet of fire
flying past
heavy hands recall
the sound of air
filled boulders rushing by,
somehow distant, like...

in a dream when danger
rushesnearand
you are
paralyzed. to move.
and noone can wakeup
from where our chances fled
and it all comes down to this
to this
this:

are we many
or are we one?

for if despair
can kill the one,
man
y are finished

For islands small are whelmed by waves
But granite cliffs a redoubt make.

and as the minds of everyone
fall
far and far
away
it feels like we are
falling stars
alone in skies of night
no constellations to unite
us.

And miles away,
across the grass
the green clad mass
casts echoes of joy
through hollow air.
And if you squint your eyes
and breathe the humanity on the wind
(not so) deeply,
they almost feel like one...

Tomorrow mourning
we sat around
our cluttered break
fast board
and shared in sad camaraderie
and eggs and buttered toast,
no banner to bring home and hang, merely
One
another's words to pass the time.

And the
man
y green
men
of yesterday
use their phones
to call their folks
to tell them
"what a game we(I) had"

Battle for Beauty

Battle for Beauty 10/9/10
The sunrise smears its colors beneath the clouds
like bread with butter on the bottom...

like Dr. Seuss
remember: all those funny people fought for
nothing,
for butter-side up or butter-side down...

Who would fight
after catching a glimpse
of beauty like this?
Or who could keep from war
after only a glimpse...
For everyone longs for the
better-side down.
Is this why we fight?
For a nothing of a
beauty-chase?
For where is a
beautiful nation?
A unified land?
Is this why we battle
when we gaze at the clouds
with their better-side down?

Facing True Death

Facing True Death 9/14/2010
"That vacuum's getting awfully heavy."
as she wrapped her wrinkled fingers around the wine glass stem,
fingers hard (as the pieces of a fallen ring,)
and soft (as the ribbons of eighty Christmases.)

She glanced out the window towards the porch sipping wine
not thinking about the bigger porch in Bayside
long ago
where they used to sit
in the warm summer sun,
and where too many farewells were said.

She looked at the window and saw only the glass
and her grandchildren sitting near,
polishing off their chocolate pudding,
and she clung all the tighter to the slender glass stem.

For there is nothing past the glass (except the porch)
There must be nothing past the glass (except the porch)...

Then why is the stem about to break
from clinging far too tight
to an almost empty glass?
The bottle's nearly
gone...

And she knows that time is short,
ever shorter
the children's laughter sounds old,
somehow older
like a memory from a nightmare
to forget
and that vacuum's getting
awfully,
awfully
heavy.

Unmade

Unmade 10/2/10
a thousand eyes,
designed by One who sees
all things

whirring wings,
designed by One who need
not rest

an armored shell,
designed by One who cannot
die
for long

And careening into nothing,
Flying in and out of sight,
To land lightly like a leaf
On the very edge of night
Where it lingers for a moment
Till its final fleeting...

Hand.

Sweeping down like a scroll unfurling,
Crushed legs and withered wings
That tumble down, no more to hover o'er the deep,
And the hand goes back to wipe off
One that was a fly; but, rest my soul,
it's dead.

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.