signs

 

elections signs

and morning glories

strung along

the back lot fence  

lost

        lost
              on wildwood road  

                      waterlilies                        

                                directionless

The Fall Of Guge

within view
of the sacred snow mountain
prideful spring flowers
denied burial in the sky
flung from the ramparts


guge

iris

one blue iris
and weeds aplenty
beneath the ornamental tree

hot again ::: yotsumono

a lone gull gliding
catches up to its cries --
Lake Mallalieu


kinetic theory
its rippling arc bending


pomade, coffee, talcum,
clean shirt, too -
the Fat Man's stick is hot again


a note with no name,
and roses, just shy a dozen




;;;;;

the flower thief

this silence gives the flower thief pause ...



closing time

Labor Day

a wild rose rests
atop a little picket fence --
Labor Day

Hollyhocks

morning clouds --
some day, she tells herself,
she'll have her Hollyhocks, too

Road Trip (revisited)

between rumble-strips
and wild flowers -
two lane blacktop





mist from the hills -
where floodplain meets sky,
ripples blur the grey




Cannon, Whitewater,
Zumbro, Trout -
the place where the river widens





prayers for rain -
the church league's corn boil
won't be held this year





Route 66 -
a flyspecked whitewash
on the wayside rest






Sunday's summer sunset -
another small town
closes all its doors



;;

sunflower

       sunflower -- the day passing slowly

             Notes From The Gean, Vol. 1, Issue 2







 

quilted jackets

late for the season
a daisy's bright bloom -
 quilted jackets

Road Trip

between rumble-strips
and wild flowers -
two lane blacktop





mist from the hills -
where floodplain meets sky,
ripples blur the grey




Cannon, Whitewater,
Zumbro, Trout -
the place where the river widens





prayers for rain -
the church league's corn boil
won't be held this year





Route 66 -
a flyspecked whitewash
on the wayside rest






Sunday's summer sunset -
another small town
closes all its doors



;;

Summer in the City

iridescence -
amidst the dandelions,
sleek crows forage
through bits of bright litter









stinging nettles,
young maples like weeds -
the mystery behind
your manicured lawns









trumpet vines
through the broken tarmac -
gangbangers on the corner
argue on their iPhones









the texture of twine -
high summer sun bakes
the old brick wall








a dusty-red wren
perches on a pail -
heat shimmer's glare
above the hot-tar roof









that musty smell,
limestone and broken glass -
the stain of fallen walnuts
stuck to our hands

Patch

I was up in the oil patch when I showed Bobby, that old Navajo elder, my brand new cowboy hat. I wanted to know what part of the country it hailed from. It definitely had a distinct presence, no doubt about that, and not something I'd normally wear.

Just what I thought. Texas. Damn straight, Missie, and a 10X besides. What that means is it's tall and sturdy, and can't be blocked no more. It's straw, like a working man would wear, but with some kinda resin coating applied so to stand up to any kind of weather, dyed white, so to reflect that noon day heat. It fits real good, nice and snug, so it won't blow off in the wind nor fall off in a tumble.

Bob, on the other hand, he's gotta 4X, which is far more pliable, so as to give with the wind or the rain, and it's shape can be shifted to almost any form imaginable.

I pointed to the crow's feather tucked in mine. It molted from one of those city crows where I come from, found in the alley by my front door just before I started on this journey. I stuck it in there for a little bit of luck. Cocked to one side, it gave that hat more than a little bit of flair.

I told him how they sometimes talk to me in their guttural city voices. Sometimes I'd talk back. Maybe ask a question directly, in my tone of voice or the way I'd look. They might look back at me then, turn their heads to eye me curiously. Sometimes they'd cry out angrily, others plaintively, a clucking sound, lonely or sad. Trying to warn me, I thought, or, just maybe, trying to encourage?

He looked at it for a time, and then said it was medicine - it can cure cancer. I figure that's a good thing, 'cause I've been smokin' a lot more lately, you know?



the hawk moth takes
its last sip of nectar -
the Bakken and the shale

Prairie Rose

A mile or two west of Dickinson, ND, and the cell and wi-fi connection gadgets are barely operable. I found if you stand on a rock you bring a signal in. But mostly I go into town now and then for smokes and supplies, find some high ground to make calls, search the state website.

Along the way I met some long-time residents, their dialect full of 'd's' in place of 'th's' and a way of speaking like old Scandinavians in Minnesota, yet oddly westernized, as though any moment they might burst into cowboy song.

Like lots of older folks they seemed starved for conversation, for someone just to listen.

This old fella come up and asked me where it was I was from, what my plans were and, mostly without prompting, talked about how the town had changed with the oil boom - real estate prices through the roof, old-timers selling out and leaving, and 'wasn't all the traffic just awful'? I commented on the trusting nature of the town's people, and for a minute he seemed to brighten some.

I forget what else it was he said . . .


prairie rose-
a barn swallow suspended
in ceaseless wind


;;;

 

Rawson

wind from the prairie
dries my sleeves-
these purple flowers
all bearing thorns





;;;

.

closing time
this silence gives
the flower thief pause




.