Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Crazy In The Mountains

she's the woman of the crazy mountains
aptly named for an adopted daughter

the snows blow fierce around her tiny cabin
buried deep in season, while inside
bark and roots tea boil in heavy scent.
just a frosted window away,
the only friends remaining
fly branch to feeder,

she paints
these, and whatever else
may happen by, be they clouds,
sunshine's shadow on the peaks
or the fox deep in hunt

but this, no one sees as no one dare
the darkness playing in the pines
where the sentry crows stand
careful watch over wonder or reason

when she makes it to town, a birth wide
is given by fear masked as respect
by those who will whisper later
to shaking heads at the coffee shop
just after she's gone

her paintings, her jewelry, her carvings,
molasses and honey, are all sold by the man
at the trading post who knows well to turn a nickle
from the lunacy he quietly admires
but never admits

she never speaks when in town
and only quietly when alone.
just a nod or a note sufficing.
if a trace of smile lingers
in her plowed field of face
it is well guarded by the eyes
which long ago stopped looking

she may have gone to Berkeley
-for a year, may have swooned to
Janis at Woodstock, and somewhere
far beyond the reach of telling
there may be a child long ago run free

she no doubt was a child herself
in a world since forgotten
and who knows, there may even
have been ideals and a God
who pretended to understand

but now another spring has come
the snows melt and run
while her tattered laundry
flies wild in the breeze
welcoming the bluebirds come to nest
in the peace of her silence

she'll die here
and no one will listen
to the song that was never sung
from this woman
adopted by mountains too crazy
to turn her away

Thursday, March 14, 2013

The Orchard

to the orchard i flew
famine to the feast
from the gate flew the troll
saying, eat as you please
but mind the caveat

some hold a poison
worse than many deaths

red ripe and delicious
were most of the apples
while others couldn't hide
their blemish
the latter i trusted
more than the former

but no matter, just the same
as only pretend to eat, did i

in truth, i took bow and quiver
shooting them all from the trees
to poison the worms that
poison the birds

yes, starve i will
but of all the deaths
mine, will be
the most honest

Monday, March 11, 2013


i don't need a new colour
this world's full of colour aplenty
~it's all part of the game

but the feel of fall leaves underfoot
July grass, heavy with dew to bare feet
an ethereal petal from the softest lavender flower
fresh off the bloom, falling softly

i've known steel girders and rusty bolts
brick upon brick, the sturdy fortress
i've been the white line down angry highways
the barb along wire, catching innocent fur

stamp and step, clickety clack
the cold of locks, the hardening
of bitter remembrance constructs
and muscles this iron tower
of pinioned solitude within

i need a new texture
layers of peaceful
gentle delight

the cool of a spring brook
ensconcing my upturned palm
a single snowflake finding rest
upon my shoulder
a light breeze from eminence,
that barely stirs

engineers need steel and mortar
blueprints, their bible
but me, the dreamer,
having fallen upon their bridge
hanging by tired grip
wishes to let go

hoping the softness will catch me
making me it's own,
taking me along

Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Truth Stripped Bare

you know, she said,
raising the knife
i really hate that song

barely taking notice
of the blood's first trickle,
she gave the look of one
having swallowed sour milk
when he asked,
how bout the movie?

finally, with time running out
and the game on the line,
he heaved one from half court

did you get a chance to read
that book I gave you?

this one wasn't even close
as the buzzer sounded
and the ball rolled to a stop
in the dark corner

this is why men fish secret holes
alone, along silent river banks
why women stare endlessly
out small kitchen windows
while drying dishes
already dry

it's why women kneel the dirt
in flower gardens
why men drink beer
in garages
why children
go outside to play

it isn't wrong
and it isn't right
just an inconvenient truth
the gentle lies
long ago spent
for the purchase
of another's soul