The other night
Visiting in a dream a foreign land
We waited in expectation
The arrival of a group of alien dignitaries
Somehow involved in guiding the culture.
When they approached across the sound
In a dark and rough hand-hewn canoe
I ran out to take pictures
Only to find a half dozen or so headless chickens
Standing patiently in their effortlessly gliding craft.
Superior alien advisors in the form
Of small dark brown headless chickens,
Baffling for sure,
And frustrating when I couldn’t get any pictures…
A sure sign of dreaming or just a block by aliens.
Yet the humor of the moment didn’t escape me
As I turned to tell another baffled guy
To look up Mike The Headless Chicken
A real thing that survived almost two years
With only a brainstem.
Which provides some clue I guess
To the symbol of superior beings without heads
And thus complicating brains
Dark and primitive in their dugout
And yet still, within the absurdity of it all, superior.
(11/20/24)
There is a hand-hewn log cabin,
Nestled in the rocks of a Colorado peak.
I so long to go and spend some time,
In his home in the pines at peace.
My lover is a strong mountain man,
Who chooses to be alone, although
He has never given up on me,
Calling me to come from my home.
His suffering in his soul broke him down,
And he chose to drop out of his world,
He saved me one piece of his heart,
Said “You’ll always be my only girl.”
I thought I could go on without him;
That I required a city life,
But time and my heart has told me,
I just long to be his wife.
floodwaters pour out my ears
like some Black Plague fountain
with spitting angels
life can be hard to look at
images spilling into boots
filling with blood and ignorance
everyone a con artist of some sort
on the inside if not the outside
can't be avoided even for saints
maybe worse for them
with their eyelids ripped off
to a ghastly panoply of suffering
that meditation can't touch
that subjective blinding can't anesthetize
we somehow feel guilt for it all
instead of hunting down the guilty
and driving a hand hewn stake
hard into their 3rd eye
we'd rather shrug and justify
duck down a hooker's alley
bake a cake pet a doggy
watch paint dry mop the floor
than roll the dice and
learn to swim in it
like black swans
It was cut down in eighteen hundred seven,
a chestnut tall, stretched half to heaven,
hand-hewn with axes by Georgia pioneers,
to build up a barn for pigs and steers.
Still standing today, a miracle that,
browned by time, spans spaces vast,
the mere size of the log does amaze,
you just don’t see twelve by twelve these days.
Wedge-shaped marks along it’s sides,
the scar of axes, by strong men plied,
a signature of their years on Earth,
doubt they thought we’d admire their work.
For so long has this great beam stood,
American Chestnut was one hell of a wood.
How many beasts slept beneath in bays?
And what of the teens seeking rolls-in-the-hay?
All clasped tight by some wooden pegs,
the outside done up in classic red,
and still in use, after all these years,
almost brings a history buff to tears.
But this is no paean to some lost past,
just appreciation for things that last,
Could you imagine the price of house and land
if all the work was still done by hand?!
I just think we should reserve spaces
for the masterpieces of bygone ages,
because it’s sublime to run fingers through
a building made of logs hand-hewn.
(A Salute to Robert Frost)
A fence of hand-hewn rock spans miles
of wind-swept road through fields of grain.
Uneven edge of rock, worn smooth
by storm’s hard breath of gust and rain
withstands the force which seeks to bend
or break a monument of time.
It hugs the earth and thumbs its nose
at energy so misaligned.
It boldly stands today as yore,
protects both wheat and corn for miles
and welcomes only human form
to walk beyond its stalwart stiles.
But flush against its weathered brow
there leans a heavy-laden tree
with pungent scent and rose-red glow,
forgotten apples hanging free
for horse or deer or bovine teeth
to reach across unyielding stone
and quench a thirst or hunger keen
with only crunch to thus intone.
May some always so hang, unpicked,
may much escape our stated plan
a fruit or such forgot and left,
to nibble sweetness with no blame.
DREAM HOME
Our home will be of stone from the mountain
And wood from forest cedars, hand hewn,
With a fireplace large against winter’s domain,
And a concertina in the evening playing a tune.
An acre of soil I’ll clear with my strong hand,
For the turned earth will feed us well;
And in our small boat we’ll cross our river and
Follow its flow to the sea waves and swell.
As the sunlight sifts down through the trees
Brushing them all with dust of gold,
We will be caressed by a soft breeze
Which the garden will welcome to its fold.
Just listen - as the clock measures and chimes
Our delighted years of prosperity golden !
This home will stand for the length of our lifetimes,
For the lives of our children - and then for their children.
. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
NOTE
Inspired by a beautiful folk song from Canada called “Perhaps in a Shadow”
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