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Photo I Like Uncategorized

Found Winter Photo: Canoe

It’s been so cold here that this photo actually makes me feel warm!

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Uncategorized

National Poetry Month: Gary Snyder

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Hay for the Horses by Gary Snyder

He had driven half the night
From far down San Joaquin
Through Mariposa, up the
Dangerous Mountain roads,
And pulled in at eight a.m.
With his big truckload of hay
behind the barn.
With winch and ropes and hooks
We stacked the bales up clean
To splintery redwood rafters
High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa
Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,
Itch of haydust in the
sweaty shirt and shoes.
At lunchtime under Black oak
Out in the hot corral,
—The old mare nosing lunchpails,
Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds—
“I’m sixty-eight” he said,
“I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.
I thought, that day I started,
I sure would hate to do this all my life.
And dammit, that’s just what
I’ve gone and done.”

From Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems by Gary Snyder, published by North Point Press. Copyright © 1958,
1959, 1965 Gary Snyder.

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Photo I Like

Random Photo Found via Google Search 4

Random photos from the internet to you, via me.

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About these posts and the photos in ’em: http://wp.me/p3AOvB-FN

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My Poetry Poetry

Lightning Trai-ku

A pencil-stemmed girl
Stands fist raised on a table
Curses defiance

Goblin black stormclouds
Enshroud peaks, squash alpenglow
Pour, blow, flash hate love.

She cackles at the wind
Bring it, motherfucker, yes
You surly bastards!

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Commentary Journal Photo I Like

Alsea Falls, Oregon

just click the link, and the pretty picture will make you smile.

Alsea Falls, Oregon.

Found this nice photo–very near where I used to live.  Thanks!

Categories
My Poetry Poetry

Morning Portrait, 8800′

Image

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.