The roads are young Next to old mines Their abandoned tools Rust under partial skies Between pine, cedar & fiddlehead fern Scattered as remembrances Remnants, filtered, fill A monochrome story The history of desire
We take pics Searching, digging For images & stories Miners with phones Manufactured from extractions By otherness who unearthed the Silica, Cobalt, & Lithium To preserve the likeness Of the barn that leans Of the old growth Of the green gems of water Its opal pools Repurposed
A group of teenagers Run around the wilderness Sit under a coniferous Writing poems with emojis Acronyms and abbreviations While an app wants to know Name License plate number Car model How many in the party? Reason for your visit
The path follows a simple circle Through hemlock, cedar, & ash Smooth Like a freeway of dirt Only the creek works hard Passing under footbridges An August trickle
Today, I hear the rain fall Slicing the month into two dry halves Branches droop under the weight of the new moisture Fresh drops, warm With summer inside them
Apples will begin to fall Blackberries ripen Hanging on to the moisture of last spring’s slanted rain From seed, plant, growth Love and again
Hi everyone! I’m pleased to announce that Spillwords has published my poem The Ocean in their Featured Posts column. Check it out below using this link or the image below! Give it a little love by liking it on the Spillwords site. Thanks! It’s kind of ironic, since I’m on my way to the ocean right now!
Inside a Gifford Pinchot Forest night Denny and I, with his Wasco legs Cupping our hands to make an old whistle Like the hoot of an owl to settle our minds From the fears of the directionless twirl of sky Those fires of Warm Springs The silence of the river’s falls The countless ghosts of oolichan.
Upon hearing the tones from our small soft hands The deer stand still, freeze in their tracks Only the heat of their breath moves Their black pool eyes, starless earth sight. Like the solemn overstory that extinguishes The travelling of stars All relativity stilled The planet, a jar, hermetically sealed Each branch in the maze of Douglas Fir Above our heads Are old stories still being told anew Our voices, with purpose, retell them to each other.
Stories of disappearance Stories that burn Denny says, “Little Fish, You have so many names.” And we know all about burning Such dry kindling, which are our bones Denny and I, the last ones That will end here with us without anyone knowing Just ask the dust.
The forest hides its mirrors in lakes and ponds And the stick people dance around their shores Denny & I saw our reflections for the first time When we took a drink Our spirits stained a huckleberry purple
Upper Twin Lake during a cold but dry winter. Mt. Hood peaks over the tree line. I won’t be posting as much, as I am in the midst of organizing material for a classic publishing medium. Thanks for all your support!
We sleep in the abandoned house On top of a worn, rough carpet. Small creaks are heard underneath From floorboards, that are Exposed in spots Revealing coats of wax and stain.
We wait for morning’s blur Pushing ourselves up With scuffed hands, still soft After the night’s search For baubles & bits worthy of trade From dumpsters, the urban Pandora’s Box.
You found a book, still new Though its cover is creased Said you’d become a writer Said it’s already been written ...Somewhere.
The city seems to flicker. We wait ‘til afternoon To take a shower at the center Looking for a cure to the night.
In the rec room There’s television news in the periphery Featuring the fallen... Car wrecks and shopping malls Losses of temper & savings accounts. Fashion zombies writing best sellers. Cops, cops, and more cops. Snow at five, touchdown at six. Stay tuned for murder at eleven.
The walls at the center glisten But so does everything. Oil shapes our safety From the gloves that handle our births To the glossy final finish in a box. Life unravels in microfibers. Even the old floor we sleep on Is topped with a polymer that flakes Its bits colored like peanut brittle.
An insane medium sits in a corner Next to a group of schizophrenics. She says, “Pick a fate. Any will do. But it must be done not as you, but by another you. Amass! Amass! Be a mass cookie cutter Fender bender, beach comber Record collector, gas cap aficionado, murderer. This isn’t reality TV, this is reality.”
We pick perfection as our fate One where our bare Feet glide across a tiled floor All smiles To a refrigerator filled With presents to ourselves, where The fat has gelled inside our ground beef And broccoli, still firm In its plastic bag. On shelves, there are jars of berry preserves As red as the day they were picked. There is a real bed, with a comforter We would make love.
Millionaires and sports heroes have come to the center to serve turkey to the homeless. It must be Thanksgiving. A news crew is here to tell the story About how real they are How clever they are to have picked their fate. They seem uncomfortable handling mashed potatoes. The medium smiles at us and helps herself to a huge portion Of cranberry sauce. She says, “Fate is that little dog that won’t stop barking At everything and nothing.” And she laughs, mimics a dog bark. Her lips are stained a weird kind of pink.
The cooked turkey is greasy, Oily. It’s basted in something unique. Our fingers become slick We lick them dry while heading back to The abandoned house Carrying leftovers.
You’re wearing your jeans The ones you have worn a hundred times. I know them so well I’ve memorized the weave Of their blue threads and The one button that won’t stay buttoned. It is as if you’ve written these memories down Inside of me...somewhere. We lie down on the ragged carpet Waiting for the night. I kiss your lips. They are softer than any other Lips in existence.
MoonCat 