Posts for June 5, 2025 (page 14)

Every overgrown trail
awaits the tread of tires-
patiently hoping for company,
to sop up spilled beer and for campfires.

Time doesn’t wait,
and the roads never wind their way towards home.
Ruts, and weeds, and excuses
for how things are too far gone.

Ages ago,
or maybe only a decade 
was a trail of a man-
a long lingering legend whose story won’t fade.

The muffled songs that spill onto a mountain at night,
the feeling of an impending world 
that just doesn’t seem right-
transforming a broken figure into the dust of a star-
thus begins the story –
the ballad, of all that we are.

almost fourteen hours now–
must be around three a.m.–
clock doesn’t work anymore,
so I can’t be sure

but I must get there,
I will get there–
my life has been on this road,
piling on the mileage, 
to reach this point

still have some gas,
according to the dial–
might just be enough 
to get me there,

this old car has been
a friend, more reliable
than lovers,
quiet as a church mouse

she cradles me in leather

I like her best at night–
like this–
her lights illuminating what lies ahead,
the dash, full of bright dials with red needles

I always know how she is feeling
and she knows me–she knows
I must get there–

other cars on the road,
I don’t know–I suppose
they, too, are on a journey,
with a destination they
must reach, but

not like me
I will not be detoured,
I will not slow down,
I will not release my grip
on this sweaty steering wheel

My journey will end soon,
I will shut off my car,
the dashboard turning,
suddenly,
dark and silent, and
I will exit–
stretch my legs–
pull out the ticket
given me, and stand–
in the line I will create–later,
I will enter–
the stage will light up,
the music will start–
the universe will shift–
and
I will be
in the same room
as
Taylor
Swift!!!!

She whispers across the dunes, like smoke on the wind
liquid black eyes gleaming

She pauses, muscles taut, tasting the wind 
and a trace of my perfume 

Afraid to move and break this fragile communion
I whisper softly, singing prayer into the night

An offer of thanks for this connection of souls, 
for her ethereal beauty and grace

She stands braced and watchful, 
two delicate speckled shadows drifting to her side

I smile the knowing smile of mothers, 
that eternal universal knowing

She dips her head in acknowledgement,
chuffs softly to her fawns

Then like a dream remembered, 
they vanish into the gloaming

Drifting silently towards the rising moon, 
leaving only a glimmer of wild trailing softly on the breeze

I’m in a unique

atop this crest
the divide of this continent
waters flow either left or right
Atlantic or Pacific

is it here that choice occurs
that comprehension of one or another manifests
the sun rise hints at the edge between sky and craggy mountaintop
the breath of bird twitter wakens the window pane
a slight shift in the air suggests spring  long dormant
so high above populated concrete and asphalt

I spend five more days
spend or save
pay out or earn
here atop this mountain the world of existence means something different
I won’t stay for the final song
this is a temporary expenditure

I can though weave the moment and minutes
staring from this vantage
integrate what it affords
and carry it in my pocketbook of time as I keep on this trek through fields and flora  life

What best improves the farmer’s soil?

What gives reason to our toil?

What makes us work until we boil?

A bumper crop of hay.

What’s better than money in the banks?

What makes us bow our head in thanks?

What makes me reach and stretch my shanks?

A bumper crop of hay.

What makes a buffer against my fears?

What puts weight upon the steers?

What makes my mules find second gear?

A bumper crop of hay.

What helps me face the winter’s bleak?

What makes me smile from cheek to cheek?

What’s the greatest treasure I work to seek?

A bumper crop of hay.

What tops the milk with the thickest cream?

What haunts my ever waking dream?

What puffs my chest to split the seams?

A bumper crop of hay.

We work it hard between the rains,

With it there is no need for grains,

It’s a math that challenges our best brains,

A bumper crop of hay.

Once it’s baled and barned we take our rest,

And count ourselves among the blest,

It’s security that gives such zest,

A bumper crop of hay.

You thought I was dead. 
Maybe ja, maybe nein. 
But does it really matter,
mein Schnuckiputzi, now that
I have all these brand-new,
shiny-faced disciples?

It doesn’t have to be the blue iris. Give me the splendid silent sun. Give me a field where the unmowed grass grows. A blue true dream of sky or a few small stones. Just pay attention, tasting touching hearing seeing, then patch a few words together. I thank You God for weeds in a vacant lot, fresh corn and wheat, spontaneous songs, nights perfectly quiet, silence in which another voice may speak. 

(This poem is composed of lines and phrases from “i thank You God for most this amazing” by e.e. cummings, “Praying,” by Mary Oliver, and “Give me the Splendid Silent Sun,” by Walt Whitman.)

the baby points to 
violets in the window 
and gurgles as if

to say “look at that
so  purple” …
his first haiku moment