Category: Poetry

In the Land of the Sloughs

May 12, 2025

People, Poetry, Short Stories

Danny sat beneath the Washington side of the Interstate Bridge    
14-years-old, drinking a six pack of Lucky Lager 
Stolen from a warehouse near the railroad tracks. 
Warm beer. 
Lucky L had jokes underneath the bottle caps  
Silly verse on jagged tin, which he 
Stuffed into pockets of his Fort Vancouver jeans 
Worn out to near dust before the school year started 
Purchased in the boys' department of Sears 
On Main Street, a block from Kiggins Theatre 
Named after someone he didn’t know 
Or for that matter, gave a shit about. 
  
A few feet above his head 
Cars travelled from one state to another 
Cool-like, 70 miles-per-hour plus. 
Their tires sounded electric… 
Rippling…as if they were lost static 
Flying into ether, with a polyrhythmic crunch. 
They hit sections of steel 
Truss thumping upon truss 
Large pulses of movement. 
The world felt like it was breaking into pieces. 
Any minute, he expected it all to come undone. 
Any minute, he wished for something to come undone. 
  
Next to the Interstate Bridge 
Sat the Thunderbird Inn at the Quay  
Its deck dangling over the dead river 
Supported by a maze of oiled logs 
Poles stuck upright  
Into the shallow muck of the shore. 
A victim of the Bonneville Dam 
Creating a wooden maze, a black forest underneath 
An invitation to a secret mission for a bored kid 
With nowhere to go for no reason, irresistible. 
Danny thought “Remember that kid from a few 
Years back? 
The one who drowned, crawling 
Underneath the Thunderbird?  
What was his name?” 
He didn’t remember. 
But he remembered the kid’s crewcut.

The Columbia River never moved 
Unless you swam in it, against the current 
That’s when you look towards the shore 
And notice you weren’t getting anywhere 
Like being leashed to the banks, chained 
While the river licked you with its green tongue 
Of pea soup ripples and algae blooms. 
Never drink it, but swim until  
The big ships come, hoping to ride the wakes 
Like a lost rollercoaster car. 
  
Danny only crossed the Interstate Bridge 
When the Multnomah County Fair was at the Expo 
Past Jantzen Beach 
In the land of the sloughs. 
He hitchhiked rides 
Passing under the green arcs of the bridge 
Expecting an epiphany  
Even if it had no meaning. 
He had enough money to get in, but none for rides. 
He chased girls for hours until his boredom reached 
For a wallet sticking an inch 
Out the back pocket of an undercover cop 
Who dangled a two-year-old on his shoulder. 
The cop was quick 
Had Danny’s head twisted backwards 
Like a Lucky Lager bottle cap. 
Other cops, dropped their camouflage 
Swarmed in around Danny 
As if they had found DB Cooper. 
The child never fell from the cop’s shoulder. 
Danny’s head twisted in slow motion 
Amid the midway of games 
Where dimes were tossed into dishes 
Balloons never stopped popping 
Softballs missed stuffed dolls  
Basketballs hit the rims of small hoops 
And the occasional cheer of winning.

The bridge through an old piece of glass.

Old Growth

April 25, 2025

The old ones  

Who witnessed centuries 

Of life, love, & lingering seeds 

In soil, of grasses, and youth 

The greenest and driest 

Of our leaves 

All born of the same soil 

Connected by roots and rock 

On this soft shell blue marbled  

Mist...manifested 

Long before thoughts coalesced 

Into abstracting objects of speed  

And decay 

While days accelerate 

For reasons that can't be wrenched 

Nor pried from the hardened pitch 

 
Lives measure outward 

Until years have aged  

Their weathered bark 

Skin 

Yes, I speak of our skin 

No longer supple & smooth 

Furrowed, rumpled by  

Love’s attempts and its fruitions 

As if all truth and heartbreak 

Have folded in upon themselves 

 
Movements forward and backwards 

Are figments of a collective imagination 

Enveloped in ideology and romance 

Still 

The old ones, reach for the sky  

With only the wind to aid their voice 

Adding 

To lucid stories of the embellished heart 

While we, the amplified souls 

Listen

A trail near a lake called Burnt Lake. Might be a little hard to see on a phone.

This is the trunk of an old growth tree. There not many of them left. They look a little different than other trees.

Movements

April 14, 2025

Poetry

A cougar is perched up high in a yellow pine, hidden. Below him, a trail cuts through grasses, and I see his paw print in bare dirt, formed when the mud was thick. Now, it’s dried into cracks, wrinkles in earth, his movement of the past solidified. He doesn’t worry about me, the noisy one, whose feet crunch upon leaves, dried long before the last of summer appears.

The turf is so dry and brittle. It’s a fragile crust. One hard step and I think the entire world would crumble. Flowers of the new spring have already begun to wilt, dropping petals. Their flakes stick to my socks, scratch my ankles.

Even now, the grass begins copying the color of the sun. No matter how good of a watcher you are, you can miss their intricacies, their dance with the wind, a courtship of eons, and their ever-slow movement, a reach for light.

Breaking into the sky, Adams, Hood, St. Helens, even Ranier surround themselves in blue. Their heads adorned with hats made of clouds, attempting to pierce gravity, the last mystery.

Sometimes I worry about movement…the sun, the earth, our movement…my movement. It’s too easy to believe in one singular movement, especially my own.

The cougar will come down from the yellow pine at dusk, when it’s difficult to see him. He is the color of the sun. He will use the sound of the dry flowers and deep grass… and when the coming night quiets the wind, he will search for the slightest movements.

Somewhere near the Klickitat River.

Eastern part of the Columbia River Gorge.

18 comments on Movements

Cold River (A Murder Ballad)

April 7, 2025

How cold this river runs  
 
How cruel this river runs  
 
All light is caught in a freeze  
 
Here, the water has no peace  
 
All is numbed by an endless rain  
 
I swear the moon has a crease  
 
Her voice is just below the ravine 
 
I try to silence the refrain  
 
Her song echoes above the trees  
 
 
I see her in the river’s current  
 
I think I can catch her  
 
Bring her back up  
 
If only to the coldest of sunshine  
 
My fingers slide upon her skin  
 
But she slips through my grasp  
 
So, I look downstream 
 
To catch a glimpse of her  
 
 
I drink from the hidden lake  
 
Clear, cold, and clean  
 
I dance upon winter’s snow  
 
On the edge of everything  
 
The leaves have fallen low  
 
No telling what they’ve seen  
 
Soon the river will meet the sea  
 
Where all lies will finally cease

When the Willamette River meets the Columbia River, the latter breaks up and forms a delta of islands until it converges downstream. (A clue? Is this poem really a murder ballad?)

The Clackamas River near an interesting little town named Three Lynx.

Consider

March 31, 2025

April is still cruel 
And this city? Still unreal.  
The snow will melt 
Daffodils will bloom 
Arrows will still fly 
Even Cupid shoots them 
With awkward aim 
 
Are we mistaken to listen to the wind? 
That whisperer that works 
Its way between warm clothing 
...Tickles, biting softly 
On the ends of our touch 
Imprinting its song on our necks.

                                                          “I would have never thought 
                                                          You would become my lover 
                                                          Having passed you 
                                                          In the hallway a thousand times 
                                                          Among the smell of floor wax 
                                                          Cafeteria food, and 
                                                          The slamming of locker doors. 
                                                           ...Excuse me 
                                                           I’m younger than that”

Now, in the city of Yonder 
Stands our orphan 
With his gun 
Walking along the edges  
Of an eternity of assumptions 
The quickest way to freeze 
Us into madness...oh, do not 
Ask what is it? 
Even Dorothy killed two witches 
And I swear 
The sky has been etherized. 
 
For I have known it, known it all 
Have known evenings, mornings 
Afternoons 
Have known 
The familiarity of strangers 
My nose buried in their bosom 
Of warm, warm skin, bared to 
Gravity, orbit, & galaxies  
Moving...moving... 
Moving

                                                        “What a Sunday drive it was 
                                                        Unplanned, without directions. 
                                                       The heat of summer blew 
                                                        Into our rolled down windows”

O you who turn the wheel  
and look to windward, 
Consider.

In this poem, I abstracted lines of famous poems and lyrics to shape my own poem out of them. Along with the poem I added on of my abstract images. Thanks!

Mono No Aware

March 17, 2025

Cherry blossoms upon brittle limbs 

brave the last chill, the wake of winter. 

Gathered lovers, having shed buds 

from hibernation, adorn pastel dresses  

of heavy chiffon, the color of faded hearts. 

Waiting for warmer touches 

the soft ebb of spring’s smitten sun.

Knowing 

the ground awaits their fleeting bloom.

A digital doodle of mine.

The Millisecond

February 17, 2025

Poetry, Short Stories

Back from the grocery store, keys jangle as I place them (hopefully) in the spot they’re supposed to be found. I glimpse my cat asleep, dreaming, head down, buried in his bed, concealing his moustache. A paw is curled over a nose and hind legs stick out straight…awkwardly. Ears twitch, flutter, and slant. Eyes blink, bat, while closed. A muffled meow slips out trembling lips.

I know he dreams of me, the wizard of dry food, good witch of treats, Dionysus of catnip. Then, I am also evil magus of loud voice, mystic of flea medication, Charon, ferryperson to the veterinarian. Still, after all I’ve put him through, he will look up at me with those blue eyes, forgiving me for all my offenses, thanking me for all my kindness.

Then I remember, I forgot the cat litter. I shout out a well-worn expletive. Evil magus strikes again! This wakes him and there is a questioning look on his face. Well, let’s say it’s not really a question, but a realization. One that all who have an animal friend or two know. It says, “What’s this crazy human up to now?” It is in this moment when the reason why the universe exists is revealed…if only for a millisecond.

Generated by AI, “Almost Intelligent”. Your truly

This is number 2 in the cat series. For number 1 click here.

9 comments on The Millisecond
Falls

February 14, 2025

Poetry

They are fat during the spring melt, thin when summer wanes.

In winter, snow slows their progress, placing a halo of ice around them.

In autumn, they play with leaves and rain, and an occasional evergreen branch.

There is always mist and a rainbow in its midst when the sun comes calling.

Calm with their frenzy, stoic as they giggle, tender power.

Dippers plunge themselves underneath their crest, unafraid of the current and the long tumble only a couple of feet away

While sparrows and tanagers sing hidden duets and soliloquies to the sky.

The ravens dart above, in ones or twos, preferring a casual conversation about reason and magic, which are indistinguishable. For here is where skeptics and believers meet.

Around them

The forest can be still, quieter than comfortable, with the movement of shadows, the changing of light tucked deep inside.

But you know this is natural and your fear is combined with a sense of calm.

Other times, the forest yells, trees vibrate like vocal cords, rivers force their voice up into the blue and gray sky between the trees and though you’re quiet, your body hums along with their voices.

Some sweet water springs last year ‘round. You drink, even when the water is high, soaking your shoes and socks while you reach for the wildest water you’ve ever tasted. Every sip is your first.

There are still a few old growths standing, with roots, twisting around themselves miles long, like fingers running themselves over the stomach of a lover.

The smell of pine is as thick as syrup…until

You hear one.

As you approach, that pine smell is pushed down into the ground, taken away with the spatter, eventually moving downstream with the creeks.

In each season, you hear small nuances in how their water…falls

The twist of one note, a change in the rhythm of their syncopation. They are full of distortion yet never abandon harmony.

And I think of something silly.

They are like us, you and me.

For I remember when I held your hand…

Here

…Listening…to them

While the heat of summer scorched the world, and the rain of storms washed us away.

I speak these words… softly… so that you might hear.

Lower South Falls in Silver Falls State Park. Complete with someone about to walk underneath it.

39 comments on Falls

Green Street Planters

February 3, 2025

Underneath the bridge 
Old bricks  
Hold onto streets 
Unaffected by wind 
Weather fronts 
Rolling tires 
  
We walk them as 
Train tracks slice through  
Gazing at high grass 
Growing between the mortar 
During a downpour of days 
And the cold slant of weeks 
 
There are others there 
Tents, rigs, and schizophrenia 
Blue tarps & wagon carts 
Their bikes  
Ride rough 
Over the bricks 
 
Waiting for trains to pass 
We still watch the grass  
Bent by the weight of seeds 
Swaying with the train’s draft 
Raindrops, faces, and reflections 
On Amtrak windows 
 
Further up 
The streets throw away  
Their numbers  
Taking on names 
Of everyone in particular 
Where bricks give way 
To multi-layered pavement 
And rainwater moves easily 
Into green street planters

Slightly Bent

25 de Abril Bridge – Lisboa

The Tasks of Psyche

January 13, 2025

A series of waterfalls 

Too small to be named.   

Here, she seeks the frozen 

Stillness 

Sounds of water 

But it eludes her 

That soothing Wilderness  

Of ruffled current, soft noise, & gentile fear. 

 
She looks behind, for mountain lions 

Who do not appear in solid form 

And the bear who skips winter’s sleep 

Just footprints in snow. 

 
They meet her at water’s edge 

Through snags of rhododendrons 

With lost springs at their feet 

Nothing left except desire 

That sip of the coldest waters 

Hearts exposed  

To cool air & curled wind 

Outside of skin, coat, fur, and claw 

To witness 

The soil stray         among

Hearty leaves, fragile flowers.

Frozen Lake Pamelia in early January 2025

Mt. Jefferson poking its head up into the sun from the dark forested bowl of Lake Pamelia.

Kitty footprints. There were a few tracks near the lake. That’s a big meow.