My Poetry Poetry Uncategorized

Moment to Live For

When around the dismal corner
I drive,
Windows open, autumn air hard
On hands,
See your eyes brighten open like
Fast films
Of flower blossoms blooming, since
You had
Expected to take the bus.

My Poetry Poetry

Whiskey Haiku

Warm amber ardor
Sweet rye sun, charcoal filtered
Joy-propulsion juice.

Commentary Journal link Uncategorized

I Have A Tumblr Page

Well gawl-ley, Sgt. Carter.
Don’t remember signing up, but there it is…see the link right—here:
I reblogged a funny picture of a dog in a marijuana field.
I learned what a gif is.
I posted one of those.  It’s really funny, too.  I’m dizzy with a sense of accomplishment.
It’s been a technological whirlwind.

It’s been a busy day.
I follow an arty tumblr page by someone called Alicia Crider.  There’s a lot of tasteful nekkidity on it, but it’s art so it’s okay and I should be fine because I don’t go to church.  I had a big crush on a girl whose last name was Crider for a day in 1986.  I met her in a diner the day the USS Challenger crashed.  We both cried.  I smoked one of her cigarettes and fell in love with her even though I had a very pretty, very nice girlfriend.  That night I realized that I couldn’t recall the girl’s first name, I’d been so busy repeating her last name so I could look her up in the student directory.  Not that I would have done that.  It wasn’t Alicia, though.  That much I’m sure about.  There weren’t any Alicias in western Pennsylvania in 1986.  At least, not that I knew.

My Poetry Poetry

Morning Portrait, 8800′


Morning Portrait, 8800′

Strong, slight sundressed girl, all sinew, all arms and legs,
steps from the den of  cool last night, sweat and woodsmoke,
dawnlit, shoeless, wincing into sub-alpine August;
She squints, fidgits, runs fingers through thick twists,
tangles of gold from straw and
squares rope over bone shoulders towards the east.

She is twenty-three years old, a woman rubbing sleep from her eyes,
calming morning medusa-strands with a plain ragged ribbon.

She wears freckles, no paint:
No hips to speak of, can’t do without a belt;
a thumb to forefinger encircles her wrist,
you can read her collarbone from a mile off.
Yet those shoulders lugged sixty pounds,
twig figure legs, quick on the slopes,
laughed at switchbacks, through scratching, fragrant sagebrush,
gold splash mules ears, lodgepole, aspen,
and rock to get up here.

She can work
the red handled pump
with one slim arm,
mumbling that
strength is all angles.

she bends to caress blue columbine,
straightens, shuffles, wrinkles toes in dirt and pebbles.
She grins,
bats an eyelash, strikes a blue tip on the door jamb,
sweeping arc to spark to flame,
a hand cuppped against the breeze,
lights her cigarette.

Still a work in progress, I did about 17 drafts of this back in the day, with at least one more to come.  Probably many more.