Wednesday, October 31, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Two Hawks 


Two hawks
at their
stations.

What does
it mean,
only

this wind
and light
between?



THE FACE 


The face
of sorrow.

Not seeing
anything

but pain.
Don't put

a name
on what

you're
offering.

Just
give it

as if
you have

enough.



Tuesday, October 30, 2018

AS MY FATHER SAID 


So do we become
as they were, those
our fathers fought?

They bring their ovens
with them, and mean to
use them. Over,

as I say,
as my father said,
my dead body.



from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: How Far We Go 


How far we go to
get there, where we've

no desire to be.
Yet we do it and

do it repeatedly.



DON'T TELL: 10-29-18 (9) 


Don't tell too much.
Leave room for what

happens in the
dark. This is where

the poem lives, loves,
where it lets go.



Monday, October 29, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Black Hawk 


Black hawk
on a bare

cottonwood.
You notice

the nakedness
of things.

So does he.



MULCHED 


MULCHED
10-26-18 (7)

A mulched
universe

at the end,
where all things

work and wait
and begin

again.



Sunday, October 28, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Emptiness 


Emptiness
is not to be

sought. It will
find you when

it is ready.
In the mean-

time, patience.



COYOTE TAUGHT HIM 10-25-18 (7) 


COYOTE TAUGHT HIM
10-25-18 (7)

Coyote taught him
to walk and chew gum,

to walk and see this world
and write poems of it.

Except for death,
there's no going back.



Saturday, October 27, 2018

A FRIEND'S VOICE 10-26-18 (1) 


A friend's voice,
the waiting.

Nothing clears
the horizon

but sun and
that bird which

calls out its
loneliness.



from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Crows Complaining 


Crows complaining
about the cold

act as if they're
surprised. What?

Is this your
first rodeo?



Friday, October 26, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: Somewhere Crow 


Somewhere Crow
has nothing

to say today
into a grey

sky promising
nothing. He flies,

wind against him,
towards a farther

darkness and road-
kill for supper.

Shelter is not
even half a

home, he knows. What
he hopes for is

sun tomorrow.
What he pushes

against, his own
unnumbered death.



WHICH IS 


WHICH IS
10-25-18 (1)

Which is emptiness
and which silence?

Is it sun or the shine
of everything?

Stride and heart-
beat in the walking

out, the coming
back. The lonely

hawk, its birdness.
It must be silence.

The world is full.



Thursday, October 25, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: The Cranes 


THE CRANES

Ah, the cranes have turned
from the color of autumn

cornstalks to fly-away
grey. You know what

that means, and so do they.
It won't be long now.

Winter is a-cumen in.



THE LONG REACH 


The long reach
from the Grand River

here to the Keya Paha --
grey skies, and blue,

wind and silence,
the love longing makes

when what we need
is what we have.



Wednesday, October 24, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems: So Much 


So much
sound

in the
silence.

You don't
notice

until
you do.



I HAVE BEEN A FRIEND OF TREES 


I have been a friend of trees
but now I kneel for the grasses

which can truly tell us how
much we've lost. Get down close

and listen. You'll hear them
say everything falls away

too fast, too fast and far.



Tuesday, October 23, 2018

from The Wishin' Jupiter Poems 


WHAT POETRY NEEDS

What poetry
needs
is silence--

between the words,
between the lines
and stanzas,

before you start,
and afterwards.
Yes, sound.

Metaphor.
Image.
But most of all

a great stillness
at the edge
of meaning.



TRUTH ALONG TEXAS HIGHWAY 380 


"Road may flood."
Dust may blow.

Cotton may pile
up like snow.



Monday, October 22, 2018

THE GIRL 


Languid
and angular
the girl

has nothing
and needs
nothing --

she walks
her shadow
away, and

from where
you stand
you can see

she's stronger
than she looks.



Sunday, October 21, 2018

SOMETIME THURSDAY 


Sometime Thursday.
Rain. Waiting

for a woman.
Everything

in the distance
disappears.

I would tell her
all I know,

if I knew
anything for sure.



Saturday, October 13, 2018

YOU WILL SEE 


You will see
I don't

use the word
"plastic"

in my poems.
That's because

poetry
and plastic

so seldom
overlap.



Friday, October 12, 2018

LOOK 


Look
at what
I talk

about,
and what
I don't.

This will
help you
define

our art,
what it
is, isn't.

See?
It's not
so hard.



Thursday, October 11, 2018

IT COULD BE 


the furnace kicking on
or the train coming through town
or a jetliner overhead.

All the things it could be,
it is. You take apart
this world at your peril.

The house is warm.
The freight gets moved.
Passengers arrive.

What we think we know
comes back to haunt us.



Wednesday, October 10, 2018

WHY AIR? 


Why air?
Because breath

requires it.
Why white space?

Because the answer
lies between.



Highway 285, Mile Marker 132 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 285, Mile Marker 132

The difference is distance.



Tuesday, October 09, 2018

AT DENVER AIRPORT 9-12-18 


The angel she is
doesn't know she is.

Her eyes say, "I know, right?"
referring to the dogs

on the woman's lap
who's in the wheelchair

she's pushing. "I know,
right?" my eyes agree,

and she pushes on,
the angel she is.



Highway 20, Mile Marker 28 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 20, Mile Marker 28

Snow
on the mountains,

How the storm
works them.


Monday, October 08, 2018

GIRL CAUGHT IN MID-MOTION 


The push of her
against herself.

The tenderness.
Her angular

loveliness.
All the things

that she will be --
suddenly.



Highways 60/84, Mile Marker 362 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highways 60/84, Mile Marker 362

The short grass bleached
in this sun and somewhere

hope for an old poet.



Sunday, October 07, 2018

Highways 60/84, Mile Marker 366 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highways 60/84, Mile Marker 366

Sky
at the end

of the
universe.

I have
been there.



Saturday, October 06, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 403 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 403

Owl and
eagle
and hawk.

Railroad.
Men
at work.



Friday, October 05, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 377 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 377

Sometimes a bird
and sometimes

a piece of trash
caught a bush.



Thursday, October 04, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 372 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January  2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 372

Snow hides in shadow.
The jackrabbits have
not been so lucky.



Wednesday, October 03, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 363 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 363

When I speak of God,
you know I'm speaking of
the star dust which calls us.



Tuesday, October 02, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 347 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 347

This land reminds me:
I have what I want.
I want what I have.



Monday, October 01, 2018

Highway 70, Mile Marker 340 


from
NOTEBOOK: NEW MEXICO
January, 2016

Highway 70, Mile Marker 340

This greater flatness,
short grass, and cattle,
a long way from home.



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