I once was a serious poet
rubbing my forehead ‘til it wrinkled
Scratched my beard night and day
spreading flakes of dandruff every which way
But then I had an epiphany
writing pop songs was ten times as easy
I limited my lyrics to ‘O, Baby’
the rest of my story ~ pure gravy
The black walnut we planted is thriving,
even our honeylocust has survived.
A silver maple with six stems switching
every which way, is first to flower, last
to lose leaves. Couple of Norway maples
to string my hammock between. A knock-kneed
sugar maple, made for shade, and a young
bitternut hickory to replace the maple
when root rot takes it out. A white pine grew
like a weed, blocked the neighbor’s view but trees
make better neighbors than people. A river
birch that sweeps its branches like a girl
on a bicycle flying over the roof.
Bittersweet attacks a quaking aspen,
pursuing prey, and an unruly quince
attracts cardinals, rabbits, juncos and jays.
Two crab apples with magenta blossoms
illuminate our Spring and a red spruce
so tall you don’t notice it at all because
the foliage starts high above dead limbs
I keep uncut for wildlife cover.
Hemlocks and oaks where deer lay down their bones.
I’ve thought of adopting a yellow poplar
in memory of Dad, for the wet flat
where the silver maple's doing fine but
tulips need warm, well-drained soil, so no.
we siphon the sky
with mouths closed
except for feeding
every element of the construct
is breakable
if I just had room to manoeuvre
but once the ground disappears
the steps outside become just a shape
I imagine every which way to fall
most endings lead to discomfort
I could start simple
invert the crank
take the food from your lips
scatter it for foraging
see if stars grow
in between the stones
all my simple starts
lead to complexity I can't control
but I can't sit here
just turning the wheel
HOME IN THE WOODS
Through the woods I roam and it's home I see one good breath and my soul is released when we climbed and jumped ran and had fun and in my heart I was once again young but as I'm too old to play in the woods as I stood at the edge of my childhood.
The countless leaves in the trees how they dance so wild and free and frivolouly so unaware how rare were the days catching fire flies neath starry skies so unprepared for the chaotic way reality would play as everyone betrayed their yesterday but the leaves in the trees still dance for me.
The stallwort trees fending the breeze sway every which way chasing their leaves as their towering might empowers and inspires me to stand up to the land razing lumber man proud and unbowed saving my timberlands from which my strength is endowed my oldest friend my wonder kin.
The underbrush moist and lush a plethora of smells making nostrils swell and gives my memory a rush reminding me of the times when living and giving were intertwined like the vines and the leaves fallen from the trees in the thicket with the crickets, and the birds in the trees and frogs in the creek, calling me home.
dead ends annoy me
scattering sly little signs
sending me every which way
every turn I take
sprouts some absurd, stubborn twist
steering me slyly astray
ne’er do well had never held a job
he lived with his mom and stepfather Bob
Bob sent him out to job interviews every day
He always came back with excuses, every which way
Ne’er do well’s mother stayed out of it
Bob kept sending out the lazy chit
They are in their nineties now June and Bob
Their “child” at seventy-two has never had a job.
The Indian brave rides all alone
Beneath the mountains made of stone
Under the clouds that go sailing by
With heavy heart and occasional tear he will cry
Lost many tribesmen during the Indian wars
Though white men he killed by the scores
A war of hate from both sides
That’s why a lonely path he now rides
A fearless warrior, a commanding chief
Who had to lead his people through all the grief
See women and children killed at will
Many terrible sights he see’s still
Now he wanders in his buckskin clothes day and night
With his feather in his hair an awesome sight
With his trusted pony his only friend
He will now roam until his end
Chawathka, a last remnant of the Great Plains war
Now he rides and thinks what was it all for
Was it worth all the sacrifice
His people paid a terrible price
As they fought for freedom from the whites
But he still has nightmares during his lonely nights
And he will wander until his dying day
Under the Sun and Moon, riding every which way
Do we have illusion, tantalisingly full of confusion
Some months there seemed to be a conclusion
But still there exists some nagging little doubt
Of what is really life and what's it all about
And here is what arose, everything that is said
becomes an instant memory
And every which way, we do choose to act
that becomes an instant memory too
But the question still remains, a hint of some delusion
Is illusion a reality or is reality an illusion
It looks like a yo-yo
so it should spin round and round
going every which way
when I throw it down
it feels like a yo-yo
so it should whirl to beat the band
it's right here at my fingertips
but it's out of hand
I call him Duncan
and want to see him loop the loop
go round the world walk the dog
rock the baby and do the sleeper too
but he can push a person
past the point of no return
and what will I do then
when will I ever learn
why my yo-yo won't go yo
when I let it go
it drops to the bitter end of the string
but won't come back
or do anything
no it's a bust I just don't know
why my yo-yo won't go yo
he is coming the birds twitted and tweeted throughout the meadow that day
their excitement was felt in the wind, trees, and grasses, every which way
although not in the loop, I felt an arrival of importance was imminent
royal cardinal flew in and landed on an oak that was a robin’s tenement
the faeries and brownies flew up to a high branch to listen and learn
What the cardinal was saying, I truly could not understand or discern
but he was regally dressed with a steampunk hat complete with plume
he had the attention of every bird and fey before he had to zoom
An era of peace, love and flowers
psychedelic drugs, sex orgies, people-power
Out to shake up the world every which way
violence eventually carried the day
long hair, ripped jeans, love-beaded conformists
became ‘black-power,’ SDS, urban guerilla performists
Preaching morality, practicing brutality
~ trampled ‘neath law-‘n-order mentality
(“I of the Beholder”, 2014, original pen and ink)
My Mind
My mind is a labyrinth
Organic with its tendrils
Flowing like a stream
Following every which-way gravity takes
Clearly without a mind of its own!
It leads me through dark places
And into the light
Yet it never lingers
As any rise in my emotion
Just causes it drop off a cliff
And then I am soaring again
Or plunging as the case may be
It matters not if it is day or night
Above or below ground, in fact
I’m not sure anything matters on its twisted way
But I can’t fault this fickle friend
It doesn’t really mean me harm
As it pushes my buttons and pulls my chain
I know, like an exuberant child or pup,
It just wants to show me what it sees with love.
(9/6/25)
I walked past the cherry trees today,
Their petals, falling every which way.
As if it were pink snow: soft, light, and rose.
Taking in the breeze before being cast down to the shadows.
I stopped and stared, simply standing alone,
The world around me seemed to turn to stone.
It was as if someone had hit pause there,
With blossoms dancing through the air.
It made me think of all we lose,
Of precious moments gone that we didn't choose.
Like friends who fade from memory, their smiles coming to an end,
Or when you fight and can't pretend.
But even though they don't last long,
The blossoms still feel brave and strong.
They bloom, they shine, they let things go,
But they also signal the start of a new tomorrow.
A time when cold subsides and warmth arrives,
A small window where the blossom thrives.
If only its beauty could stay,
But maybe it's simply meant to show the way.
I wish I could plug
A flash drive in your ear.
I would wipe clean the worries
Hidden deep inside there.
I know they've been hiding
In camouflaged space.
Your very own virus
firmly in place.
Spreading infection
Every which way.
Squeezing the happy
Right out of the way.
It's time to recover,
Diminish your pain.
Pick up your tools.
Reclaim your domain.
Before long, I promise,
With daily scans,
You'll reboot and function
With plenty of ram.
How many kisses
have I yet received?
Each one building up my soul
to an eruption of happiness
The flowers yield their position from the sun
to follow her spirit
I watch them sway and turn
and look her way
She’s a God send
in every which way
healing brokenness
as it passes through her angel bones
I feel that I have now lived
getting to know her divine life
and I only pray
that she stays with me forever
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