town

 

Summer festival--
a dozen little towns
dot the river's banks!

 

 

 

the oarsman

 

verdant now, a forest

rises above the banks--
the oarsman

struggling upstream

 

 

 

little village

 

 

this time every year

a little village springs up --

ice on the St. Croix

 

 

 

 

Williams County 5: revisited

 

 

Williams County 5 --
pheasant children waiting
all along the road

a river of fog
 across the coulee --
   prairie greets the dawn

twice it plies
the muddy's twisted banks --
Autumn Equinox

 

 

 

promise

    Autumn approaches --
today, the river's promise,
          less certain than most

funeral in spring

geese flying home
along the Willow River --
 quite late before we leave




a funeral in Spring --
Country Western on the radio,
melt water in the field




  just across the county line
a green giant greets us
standing on a hill




bare trees, blunt tops,
all wore down in the swollen river --
Le Traverse De Sioux

frogs in the reeds

the water is high
on the saint croix river --
Ducks beneath the bridge




how placid their preening --
Pelicans ply the barges 
up the mighty mississip'




pretending to be Swans
might fool someone, some where --
the last port north



 

a chorus rises 

above the lake called malalieu --

Frogs in the reeds

the print is by Takeshi Ishikawa

rivulets

rivulets of water
 start way up top of the hill --
Mississippi flood again

funeral in Spring

For John, and the farm, the country and his family, that same small town and its neighbors tending the land and their community, its familiar landmarks and services surrounding, that allows one to come home however long they were away.





geese flying home
above the Willow River
as for Our Saviour
a little late before we leave





a funeral in Spring
Country Western from the radio
melt water fills the fields




wait, there's more ...





outside of Sibley County
almost to Le Suer -
a Green Giant greets us
standing on a hill





bare trees, their blunt tops
wore down by the Minnesota River -
Le Traverse De Sioux





" if a guy were smart" he'd say,
looking away
at an object in the distance,
you might look there, too
to see who's there,
or what was comin'
but what he was sayin' ,
was really about you"







his wardrobe was unique
flannel shirts, just red or blue ...
I cant think up a poem
about all those ears of corn






each voice in the choir
on its own, distinct
the congregation, rising
feeling on its feet






it's time to leave
the service is over
all of us together
we lift our keys
and shake them
in the air










John was an outdoors man.
You could always find him there
grading the neighbor's roads
sittin' up on his red tractor
or a tree stand in November
he'd built for some friends
by a corn field above the snow
trolling in his v hull, maybe
little kids with so he'd go slow
and once he took me fishin'
out on the ice, in wind and cold
me, a city boy, we just made a few holes
he left me with a jiggle stick
in a fold up, with Mr Heater
out of the air so I'd be warm
after awhile, a meditation later
'what's that smell' I began to wonder
just like hair and smoke and oil
that Mr Heater it turns out
got too close it burned my jacket
as well the lining and the down
to my embarrassment, something to behold
he come back and had a look
he laughed a little but - i did, too
he made it feel a rite of passage
our gentle laughter
just between he and I






John liked to toast
with a tall brandy seven
if we drank beer
it'd be somethin' old
like Hamm's, Schmidt or Buckhorn
we'd laugh so much it'd just get warm






"well, looks like we better go on in."

row

hurry now -
the wind on the water
makes it more clear

gray

a day too gray -
a river in Autumn
the color of sky

Reefer Madness

We stood around and laughed, making jokes and piling derision on some cops in Missouri today. They'd posted on their Facebook timeline news of a "raid" on a rural field somewhere, claiming a major bust of a marijuana growing operation. They had to pull the post down after it was pointed out by numerous commentators the illicit material they posed next to in their photo op was was in fact cannabis ruderalis - Hemp plant. A big to do over nothing; it grows wild all across the country still, since the day hemp was a commonly accepted commodity, self-seeding illicit patches and spurring controversy from time to time.

Sometime after Prohibition, prior to the Red Scare and the inception of the Central Intelligence Agency, a rabble rousing lobby in Government made it into a boogieman to be persecuted and controlled. So successful was the campaign that most have forgotten its beneficial beginnings. Mention it now and our conditioning compels us to associate it only with criminal behavior.

A number of us began to share stories of our encounters with marijuana, criminal, bumbling, with intent or just by chance, swapping lies and tall tales in a friendly competition of sorts. Some of the stories were more incredulous than others, while none spoke of its uses in industry. some of the more odd confrontations addressed culture as well, due its relation to the outlawed strains that put so many in jeopardy with the law.

We had a plant growing by our back door when we were very young and living on our own. It went eleven feet tall if not more. Just for a joke we threw some seeds down from the stoop to land next to a small garden. This was a result along with a handful of specimens of varying sizes surrounding it.

The cops had to visit one day - East Side was always poppin' - responding to some call or other. I was always the front man, so came out to address them in my best schmooze. And there, over my right shoulder, stood the giant sweet leaf, fully expanded in the high southern sun, its stench and stalk rising from grade to far above the deck where I stood. The lead cop looked at me and then looked right at Weedzilla but didn't say a word. I didn't move a muscle.

The state went on to charge possession with a misdemeanor eventually, a $100 ticket' essentially. Seems like pretty reasonable legislation to me.

Some made mention of more harrowing experiences, about society and lawlessness, the politicization of an issue, of the militarization of police and their training and mindset towards the public. Others reminisced about their lives growing up in various regions, revealing an homogeneity of experience, its changes, and what they might portend.

You could pick Minnesota Green from down by the tracks all day long. The first of its seeds fallen off plant material loaded on the passing cars, hemp for the war effort, and for industry and export. The country's breadbasket brought all it's production here, across the plains to The Great Woods, the northern most port on the Mississippi and a city of thieves, the most boring town in America.

A million freight cars must have passed through here in its heyday. Even now, if one has his wits about him, where ever you are, night or day, you soon will hear the train's echo down any street, through every nook and alley.

I complain a lot about this place. I wonder what it will look like in ten years?


Harvest moon --
halcyon days
in Rivertown



;;;;

Pepper Festival

a Ferris wheel and fireworks,
frogs in full voice, too --
Pepper Festival

Quick Shot: After The Holiday

Hey, Brother!Good to hear a friendly voice. Yeah, I hear it ...

Shooting off fireworks with the kids for the first time, huh? By the way, I got your numbers - hang on - hmm hmm. Boy, I can just imagine. First thing I think of is their faces lightin' up ... you ever wonder what moments they'll remember? Now there's a thought we keep to ourselves, for want of appearing stoic, or strong, or unconcerned with trifles - the first thought always for our kids, always wondering if we're right or wrong.

I sure as Hell hope you got that camera rollin' now and then. It's aesthetically pleasing - if you're good or just a lucky fella you might even catch that eternal moment, if at all possible - depending on your attention to details as they occur. That other stuff remains unrecorded - some of it deliberately - if only to exercise the mind, maybe. Years later, even, to judge your character or gauge your maturity; a marker set like a guide stone along the roadway to note the advance of time.

And then? The thrill of the Fourth when I was little boy, in all its noise and fury, popped into my pumpkin head.

"I know how to handle fireworks!" The 10 year old me piped up, looking hopefully at my Dad.

"You'll know how to handle them when one blows up in your hand". He looked at me directly, a little sternly, no malice intended but like he knew something I didn't, part of the Pantheon of knowledge only Daddy's had access to - O', would we ever rise to that level? Still, it urged me to take caution, if more for the seeking of approval than anything to do with my personal safety.

I did pretty well actually, even after we returned to River City, the City of Thieves and the most boring town in America. Plenty of trouble for a lad to get into, times being what they were. Each situation to be challenged or just ignored, at the height of your fancy for mischief. Plenty of that to go around, all right. Pre-Urban Renewal, the kids near feral and the people as funky as that Old River that flowed past at the lowest points along the Levee. Yeah, the return was a retreat really, to my "home". My father's, really, while I remained a stranger. I been one since, anywhere I go. I'm about the same age as him now.

You know what happens don't you? That firecracker with the quick wick blows up in your fingers. FUCK! Hurt's worse than frostbite, god damn it, hurts like a motherfucker for a while. So what do you do?

You sure as Hell don't cry. Not in front of anybody at least. Unh unh. Shake off those tears and just keep going like nothing ever happened ... show off the mark it left maybe.

But, what about your Mama's?


a piece of string
to hold it all together -
traces of dreams

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



;;

landmarks

mist on the river --
most of the landmarks
just memories now

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



;;

Williams County 5 Vignette

twice it plies
Little Muddy's twisting banks --
Autumn Equinox






mile markers
in every headlight --
convoy on the 13th night

alone with a mirror
trying on these cowboy hats --
Autumn sky








heat and drought,
weeks gone by and still no rain
grass as dry as tinder
an Angus calf all caught up
in a few bare strands of wire








  a river of fog
high above the coulee --
prairie greets the dawn

Williams County 5 -
pheasant children waiting
all along the road







black-tailed deer
waiting in the blowing dust,
 a last leaf falls
the only tree within
miles and miles