My Poetry Poetry

Clomping Down The Stairs (Winter Love Poem #1)

Clomping down the stairs,
No strength to glance back again
Steel storm door hissing closed
Lug-soled boots bang torden!
On the dry pine treads.
Yank on a soft scarf, spun around,
Teeth crack against teeth
Tongues hungry tentacles,
Roots seeking soil,
It’s snowing hard outside, blowing
Sideways, windows clatter
Your thigh insisting between mine,
Cold hands beneath your sweater
Growl when you flinch and shriek
thumbs forward, Fingers pressed
into the soft of your back
clench your hips,
a whisper:
I’ll drive.

My Poetry Poetry

This Hacked Down Hemlock

this hacked down hemlock, splayed, cracked
giant jack the rippered from her feet,
locks left for slash while toes still grip
rock and loam and clay, slain at the ankles,
clenches my muddy witness fists, having
served first (for me) as landmark, then as shrine,
once as umbrella, even, once as guardian for a
two second, tight-lipped first kiss.
Now, at the end, she retires as teacher,
a wild fine rotting pre-pulp history volume.
See here, the width of this one thumb,
covers all my thread thin years:
twenty five narrow lines clearly document
the time spent blushing hope, sweating danger,
breathing love, fear, anger, and remorse.
I suggest to you, dear wondering stranger:
All we want is nothing, all we know isn’t much,
to be thus eclipsed, and by just a thumb.

My Poetry Poetry

South of Lander

Sagebrush Wyoming
Redtail keen on the fencepost
Hundred-mile sunset.

My Poetry Poetry

Organic Crab Grass Control

Damn straight, count me in.
I’m a corn meal glutton;indian-head-corn-meal-0709-new-new-lg
love it in pancakes, in muffins,
in waffles and bread–
especially bread, sweetened with sugar,
mixed with bacon fat and cream,
bathed in sweet butter–
Oh…you meant…gluten.
I’m not a gluten.

My Poetry Poetry

weedy creek wrinkles moon

weedy creek wrinkles moon 
autumn owl shadow glides silent
mouse kneels under burnt grass

My Poetry Poetry

I Dreamt You Said

I dreamt you said:
We were just playing
Whats in my pants
When my husband
(who was some other
Husband not mine at all)
Found your keys—
what’s this one for?—
and said: so many goddamn
keys, like twenty-three
or more for doors and trucks
and—toolbox, I said, and
the apartment in the city;
you nodded, toolbox,yes.
And the apartment
in the city. 

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.

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.

My Poetry Poetry

Breakfast at the Bunnery, 9/90


Breakfast at the Bunnery, 9/90

A half dozen dirtbags
Crept from the red hills
Tie dyed and ragg-sweatered
Dusty Synthetic-fleeced
Muddied boots and sandals
And thick woolen socks;
Drowned rat-nested hurricane-haired,
Wood-smoked, marinated, saturated
Wormy, squirmy,
Smudged and smitten,
Hungry for stacks of pancakes,
Tanks of coffee, egg avalanches
Lakes of sweet, cool juice
And more more more of it all.
Oh, how eyes narrowed and
Darted, but they knew, they
Knew the boys were beautiful and
The girls—ah, the girls—more
Beautiful still.