You were sharp|ning grass
With your eyes | sit & fixed
Again | a substitute for mow|n
Machine chug|ging along lug
Nuts, molar friction | u - r - n .
Lawn stretches of up|beat
Beach | was there even wind?
Filet a cannonade me | see
The crayons fly | in a circle
A head | towards blu|er | stretches
There | where clouds resemble.
Light is a commodity, scream!
Silly | man | omnibus no teacher
Not even a man. Well still: Lorine
Niedecker e|merges like new
Breath, pulp come together
Mis|hearing cranes, a making
Multicolor wax, bending fuse
Forge |X| fissure for left foot |
Right foot,—we'll find a job a kind
Of game | it’s just planes turned
Paper crane | creosote guardians
A dead lean-to shouldering volts.
Gentle Earth, I beg of you -
Whisper to us the first sign of spring.
Annul this wintry despair
And a season of life anew, bring.
From the depths of Baja
Carry the warmth in upon a draft.
Poke the sunshine through grumbly clouds
And send it down as a gilded shaft.
Clothe the desert with the raiment
Of fleeting sheets of white rain.
Implore the wildflowers that they
Bestow upon us a fantastic display.
Help the button-face of the brittlebush
Peep over the dead, crumpled brush.
Bring forth the canyon penstemon.
Make the Mexican lime cactus flush.
With one quick stroke of rain
Paint the delicate creosote yellow.
Order the Engelmann’s cactus to raise
Their trumpets of fuchsia and blow.
Tempt forth the birds to sing - listen!
I beg, usher March in.
April and the clocks forward spring,
our cricket practice gets in full swing.
Nets to untangle from their poles,
players to call and enrol.
Gang mowers to grease and oil,
the team kit-bag to disembroil.
Green stained pads to whiten bright,
fixture lists to expedite.
Mend the sight screen's rickety panels,
coax another season from my flannels.
Wash and iron the umpire's coats,
the score-box to creosote.
Tea urns to scour,crockery to rinse and clean..
a team captain's tasks routine,and unseen.
Cricketers good,indifferent,unsung,
across this land in a timeless sport played for fun.
A creosote frown mars
the stony landscape.
Time’s sundial remnant
a tilting chimney shadow
circling a homestead memory.
The foundation survives
the dream remains
tangled in ivied struggle
longing for the sound of footsteps
the creak of long silenced boards.
Uprooted stones, thrown together
solidly different
yet settling ever slowly
into a new place
bonding in a shared need.
Alone now
tarnished stones
pay silent homage
mark the passage
of timeless generations.
©8/8/2021
August 2021 NA'S Poetry Contest
Date judged 8/14/2021
april starts clocks forward spring
practice in full swing
nets untangled from their poles
players to contact & enroll
gang mowers greased&oiled
kit-bag dis-embroiled
grass-stained pads whitened bright
fixture list to expedite
fix sight-screen broken panels
coax another season from my flannels
spring-clean changing rooms dried with mud
re-lace boots& re-stud
wash& iron umpires coats
then score-box to creosote
tea-urns to scour crockey to clean
a captain's tasks routine unseen
dreams of 50's in the sun
games won by just one run
cricketers' good indifferent & unsung
this national game played just for fun
Winding lines of cars
Stop and go on black paved roads
Driving down the shore
Bright umbrellas pose
Sitting on a sandy beach
Lolling in the sun
The smell of hot dogs
salty air and creosote
Float in mid-day air
Little children play
building castles made of sand
near a deep blue sea
A delightful book
Floppy hat and Coppertone
Fill a summer day
A red setting sun
Sunburned skin and tires eyes
Tell it's time to leave
Tail lights glowing red
pinned against a blacked sky
Guide the way back home
The Last Spike
Helios orb peers cautiously
with guarded optimism
through cracker-slatted clouds
as Thor's divine implement
shatters the morning stillness with the clap of a sonic boom
Mere mortals assigned Herculean tasks
trill a gospel cadence,
their labors heralded as glistening ribbons stretch yon and hither,
a tribute to their genius
and their genesis
Now, as the celestial cotillion materializes
in the ebony overhang
the spinning Mother bids 'Adieu'
as the last rough-hewn iron phallus
penetrates the porus creosote-drenched flesh
with a tempered satisfaction
known only to Gods.........
And those men who will be.
("Hell On Wheels" final episode)
Desert Morning
A stiff little north breeze, still cold from the night, shoves warm condensate into my fists and face from my coffee.
It was good to assemble that coffee.
Then a little weed.
A beautiful new morning sun and sky.
All my senses are awake and acquiring data.
The same thing the quail are doing.
And the coyotes. And some hawks and a snake or two.
Then the sun is warming us and brightening.
The wind changes south, grows a little.
In a Juniper grove surrounded by Joshua Trees.
The Great Basin Rabbitbrush look on fire.
You can smell the rain yonder.
Sweet Creosote!
Sitting on an old rock where the Indians sat.
Waiting for the unfolding.
Waiting for lazy friends to arise.
Back Creek Smells
My nose senses the unseen,
Like a final Act’s scene,
When I arrive near the Bay,
I sense my sinuses are gray,
From inhaling the city.
Fish scents replace the gritty,
Creosote soaked wharves,
Instead of perfumed scarves.
Smelling imitates tasting,
Licking’s like nostrils basting.
Something’s earthy of water,
Meet mother Nature’s father.
The odors of Back Creek,
Have no comfort for the weak,
But a fragrance it has,
If it was music, it would be jazz.
The tent of Autumn is wet,
Nights as dark as creosote,
Days that fall like
Mother apples which bruise
With cold sweetness.
The impending conspiracy of
Frost;Laburnums stripped to
Bare frames, each fox pulled
By the neck into the
Hedgerows.Let go, curled leaf,
You are tired and dragged with sleep,
And can not look the snow away.
Talk to me
Creosote poisons
Rattlesnakes bite
And the white bird sings
In the night
There’s a hollow in the night
Following the footsteps
Your eyes are cryptic
You got a shadow over you
I can see your soul
I can see your face
There’s a shadow over you.
Evil is your friend
Circles flat and long
Bring me back to you
There’s a shadow over you
Cooking on the edge of town
Taking children down
You’re all black inside
There’s a shadow over you
You got it all to yourself now
Nothing but ashes
Left to stain the trees
There’s a shadow over you
Black as the night
I can see the circle twisting
As the beer cans hit the ground
There’s a shadow over you
Evil is your friend
You leave them alone
Dead to be found
There’s a shadow over you
Hanging to the ground
Like the shadow on the door
Your soul will be bound to hell
There's a shadow...
let us say the summer that year
was a cliché to its lovers.
And its once open windows stood
firm
against Prying Eyes.
Perhaps the silver
smoke of automobiles rose toward the waiting sun that
climbed so eagerly. we didn’t know.
Summer was a witness
A watcher
Tracking our movements, counting our
numbered pulse beats
our Numbered Kisses
—of sweet desert rain
when the creosote bush was thick in the air—
our crimson liquids
moving fast through
the chalks of our skin
And the rouge on your cheek seemed
almost translucent to me
as time itself, sifting between
Hourglasses broken shattered
With memories tainted
stained—
and let us say that Dandelion perfume lingered on our parted lips
—it was pungent, maybe, as the saline tears
where lashes are sieves—
clinging to the pads of our fingers.
our identities
veiled by tiny white seeds
that may,
In the winter (when the sun cracks along its crevices
like melons in the heat),
bury themselves deep into our pores, Waiting
For that last Dandelion seed
to surrender
The gravel grinds
Beneath the tires of my car.
Bumpity bumpity bump,
Air rushes under the car
For a split second
Until the old rubber
Hits the pavement once more.
All the houses are behind me now,
The gas station too.
The town is in my rearview,
Fading into the background.
Outside my windows,
There is nothing
But the empty desert
And the scattered creosote.
A snake here,
A jackrabbit there,
My speed slows.
I am in no hurry;
I'm going nowhere in particular.
Just like this road,
This strip of dirt in the sand,
This road that leads
To Nowhere.
The reflections of early summer sun,
Glistens again on my windows this year,
They blend invisibly ready for fun,
Laughter of children is all that I hear.
The heat is drying my old wooden walls
As for the first time my door creaks open.
Frustrated the squeals, they can't find their balls
Like me ignored, quite simply forgotten.
Summer's fun just thrown inside at Fall's dawn.
Just left like me, through rain and winter's snow.
I'm left alone at the end of the lawn
To watch as endless seasons come and go.
A touch of creosote keeps my wood fed,
Sat at the garden's end just the old shed.
Written 30 May 2008
April and the clocks forward spring,our cricket practice gets in full swing.Nets to
untangle from their poles,players to call and enrol.Gang mowers to grease and
oil,the team kit-bag to disembroil.Green stained pads to whiten bright,fixture lists
to expedite.Mend the sight screen's rickety panels,coax another season from my
flannels.Wash and iron the umpire's coats,the score-box to creosote.Tea urns to
scour,crockery to rinse and clean..a team captain's tasks routine,and
unseen.Cricketers good,indifferent,unsung,across this land in a timeless sport
played for fun.
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