Found Poem: Eastbound I-80, Ogallala, NE
Stay in your lane. Wait
to merge.
Crossover ahead.
Do no pass.
Stay in your lane. Wait
to merge.
Crossover ahead.
Do no pass.
Neither fact nor action makes for the truth
It’s a lilt on the tongue, a gleam in the eye
It’s a telling a story of heart
Caught me a fish then I told the whole tale
The weight, the length seemed like a waste of breath
So told about a different part
Quiet waters on a quiet day
Willows were draiping their skirts in the water
Under their shadows, pools of fish nips
The air was as big as the sky
The shadows were long and deep
It was all so big, when I caught the fish, it too…
But what do you do with the guy
Who want’s to see the facts and figures
My favorite mitten, such a sweet motherland.
I can show my hometown on the palm of my hand.
Cradled by lush forests, hemmed in crystalline lakes,
Harbors and havens boast a low risk of earthquakes.
I’ll tell you the truth. It’s paradise in summer.
(Go south for the winter. Up here it’s a bummer.)
Auto manufacturers and sports teams to cheer,
No lack of Lions, Tigers, or Sleeping Bears here!
I crushed my cigarette into the
My tongue remembers the delicate map it
traced across your skin,
venturing boldly forth to traverse the unknown,
and plot a course for my hands to follow.
Mountains of muscle resting below sun
warmed deserts of skin.
Criss crossed rivers of vein meandering lazily
in all directions.
Delicate fields of fine, soft hairs that stand to
attention as I pass through.
I survey, silent and unwavering.
Leaving behind only ghostly trails
of my devotion.
Before science, someone
had to take the blame.
When Greeks and Romans wore togas,
they decided different godds were responsible
for natural phenomenon, like rain and waves,
olive trees, dawns and sunsets,
and even the rifts between people
and changing seasons.
They also needed epic characters who
they could ask for help when they felt stuck
forming a song or a play or a poem.
Someone divine to plead to when
we sense creative drought and doubt,
when we get out of practice.
Nine Muses offer the solution.
One or two add spice to love letters.
They all still carry the weight of artists and storytellers —
we praise them and we meet them
where they are, which is everywhere,
including the deep woods, the markets,
the campgrounds, the shallow
gossip, the bottom of your pocket,
the missed text, the bleak breaking news.
They lean in as we wash brushes
and work toward our word counts.
They steady the hand that cooks,
that lectures, that mends, that heals.
When we’re crafty, aligned
and questionably lucky,
they nudge us to action
before we have the chance
to sit still.
Grandmother’s letter to my future father
My daughter is leaving
coming to you
hopefully this letter arrives
before she.
If only plans had worked out as first arranged
the wedding in Spring & she had not insisted
coming to you
beforehand.
I trust her to your care & protection
the paths of love & passion run side by side
at times intertwined, indistinguishable
keep yourself well in hand.
One doesn’t have to be bad to make a miss-step
when in love as much as you two
that mistake could easily be made
& love would turn to hatred.
2 Samuel, Chapter 13.
If you can’t bare it any longer
be married at once
you know what I mean
enter life together.
without
a blemish
without
a regret.
I had gone to the field to fetch the horses,
They were leaving my farm today,
And as I saw them knee deep in bluegrass,
I was sorry to see them go away.
They are not mine, but here on loan,
Or at least left in my care,
It’s a silly thought, but I hope they’ve enjoyed,
Their time spent grazing out there.
I know I shouldn’t anthropomorphize,
And I know these are my own thoughts,
But my mind flew off on its flight of fancy,
Before the horses were caught.
It’s a long long way, to the cold northern state,
To which this pair will go,
And it’s sunny here and bluegrass waves,
And the pleasant Spring breezes blow.
I hear the thrush from the timber’s edge,
And I see the swallow dive,
I see the clouds overhead like billowing ships,
And I’m happy to just be alive.
I imagine then how sad I’d be,
To leave my Kentucky home,
And be whisked away, to the far off north,
With no choice of where I roam.
I felt like I’d betrayed them,
As they trotted up to me,
They nuzzled and bumped my shoulder,
As they searched me for their feed.
“No feed today, fellers.” I said,
As I haltered both of them,
“Your time here’s up. You’ll have to go,
And I patted my old friends.
“Sure it pains me some to see you go,
And to have to say ‘good bye’,
And I hope you’ll remember this old place fondly,
When you stand neath a foreign sky.
I’ll tell you both you’re welcome back,
And don’t hold this against me now,
We both knew this day would come,
And you were only borrowed to plow.
Spring’s near gone, and the corn is in,
And you’re needed somewhere’s else,
So, do your best and take care now,
And look out for yourselves.”
Remnants of your lawyer self
present a case to my heart.
Part of the suit is still there.
accented by leather shoes.
But jeans and no tie spell song.
No matter how tight you grasp
poems in those shaking hands,
the closing argument sings.
