Sunday, December 16, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (22)
RANDOM DECEMBER (21)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Not Morning So Much
Not morning so much
as the sun off
Buffalo Creek
in my eyes with wind
and the tears which
come from loving
this world too much.
THAT SUNSET
That sunset,
the horizon
far from that
farm grove.
All these years
not knowing
what I wanted
is beyond
understanding.
Some of it
this side of
what is seen.
Some of it
the other.
Saturday, December 15, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (20)
RANDOM DECEMBER (19)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Oh, Yes, Our Friends
Oh, yes, our friends
the coyotes are
methodical
taking her apart,
the dead cow
along the creek.
Blessed Lord,
they say, thank you.
ONLY FOR
Friday, December 14, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (18)
RANDOM DECEMBER (17)
The wind makes sense of dust
and of leaves in the trees.
Water makes sense of mountains.
The light knows all, without
the need to think about it.
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: The Cricket
Ever so
lonely
against
cold autumn
the cricket
stops as
I pass.
We know
the end
is not far
off. Yet
these tears
are wind,
friend, not
sorrow.
MYSTERY
Thursday, December 13, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (16): AFTER THE SNOW
RANDOM DECEMBER (15)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: You Can Say
You can say
you saw seven
coyotes cross
the field, Tom,
but who would
believe that
a hawk went down
on something
right this moment.
THE LINE
Wednesday, December 12, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (14)
RANDOM DECEMBER (13)
Without the darkness
we would not know
the return of light.
Nothing is given
that is not blessed in
a turning season.
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: The Coyotes
Some things
looked for
can't be seen.
The coyotes.
And then
two of them
come for you
out of the
blindness of
your side-eye.
WHAT STARTED AS A CRITIQUE OF MS. ROSE'S POETRY
If every poem
has cicadas
you've got a
problem. Though
I admit to
wind and darkness
in very many,
and birds and grasses
and hope for light.
Tuesday, December 11, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (12)
RANDOM DECEMBER (11)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: The Poet Goes To Work
Almost like a priest
kissing the stole,
putting on holiness
for the moment
in these hills with
the coyotes, with
the cottonwoods who
yesterday let go,
leaves everywhere,
and who, today,
let him let go.
EVERYTHING / THAT RISES
Everything
that rises
enters that which
wants to take it.
Morning is as
morning does.
Each moment,
the sun
coming up.
Touch it.
Monday, December 10, 2018
RANDOM DECEMBER (10)
from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: What I Know
CROWS/FLYING
