A Summer Day on the Feather

(I wrote this poem in college and I even got it published in the Internation English Honor Society's Literary Journal, "The Rectangle" (vol. 80, 2005)).

Fly-fish the glassy river.
A trout slaps the water
while my retriever bites at him;
and the flies buzz in my ear
and the mosquitoes bite my arm.
My campfire produces
a faint trail of smoke but no fire,
and the sun burns the back of my neck.
Reluctant to leave, I lay my line
on the water and watch
the stone fly drift
lazily with the current.

A Great Poem I Did Not Write

For my loyal fans (all two of you (he he)), am unsure yet if I will get any poems posted before Christmas, as the next three weeks will including packing and loading a storage unit. So in the meantime, I have decided to leave you all with a fabulous reading of a great poem written in 1895 by a lawyer named Andrew Barton "Banjo" Patterson. Enjoy.

It's official

It's official now. As of last night, I'm an...


Official NaNoWriMo 2007 Winner


And with one day to spare.

Intentional Postponement

I know I have not posted here in quite some time, but my creative poetic juices have been kind of dry. But I will intentionally not be posting here for the next month because of a more important commitment: NaNoWriMo I do, however have a few poem ideas mulling around in my head, which I will try to get to sometime around Christmas.

Between Us

What we have is good,
but to explore it

further

would change

how we
see
each
other,

and it may not be
for the better.

Best, sometimes,
just to keep things

as they are.

I Walk Through Damp Woods And…

my heart stops as
wings beat
like a loud roar
and a blur of brown
as the grouse darts in
and out of birch
and spruce.

My gun swings up.
I shoot and
miss.
Air and trunk are all I kill.
Eight shots. No prize
to show. I guess
it will be beans
for chow once more.

(I've been reading Dumas' "Three Musketeers." And in the story, Aramis writes a poem using only one syllable words. I thought it would make for a fun exercise. And this is the result.)

Picking Blueberries

August in Alaska—
a cool breeze, blue sky.
A few clouds intermittently hide
the sun.

Sitting in the damp, spongy moss
on the side of a hill near Esther Dome,
I pluck three blueberries—
one to save for a blueberry pie,
the other two to eat.

Savoring the succulent tartness,
I stand to leave.
My butt is purple.

Lethargy

Sticky, dank air
sucks energy
from muscles,
leaving body
limp,
tired,
wishing only
for a blast
of cold.

Sonnet 10

(FYI--This is the last of the sonnet series. Hope you've enjoyed it.)

My hope and joy, my passion and desire,
is found in only one and that is you.
And you ignite within my soul a fire
that burns intensely when I am near you.
And all I want to do is worship you,
and be with you for all eternity.
You make me whole, your presence makes me new,
like nature when the spring time sets it free
from bondage of the winter’s iron hand,
who seeks to kill the life of all that’s good.
He hates both you and I and what you’ve planned,
and would destroy us only if he could.
But you’ve freed me and I belong to you.
Words can’t explain how I’m in love with you.

Sonnet 9

I am alone and death is drawing nigh,
abandoned by the world and left for dead.
The earthly light is fading from my eyes,
“But even still I’m with you,” you once said.
And in my darkest hour you’re still there,
to comfort me and calm my strongest fears
with hope of promised life for us to share,
and nevermore shall be, from sorrow, tears
I long for your return. You guaranteed
to take me home where I can be with you,
and see you clothed in all your majesty,
and all of earth and heaven be made new.
So help me Lord to fight until the end,
and not forget the reason I you send.

Sonnet 8

I do not understand the things you do.
The reasons for you deeds from me are hid.
You do not think to ask if I approve;
and I’m left wond’ring what you did and why.
I look around and see injustice reign,
and wish that you would do what’s right and good.
But who am I to question why the pain
runs rampant through this world. What I should
do instead is to give you your glory,
for by your love and for your glory you
have saved the world and I’ve no need to worry.
Because you promised that you’d make things new,
forgive me for my anger and my doubt.
From now on I’ll love you in and out.

Sonnet 7

As vast and deep as all the oceans are,
or better still the wond’rous heavens above,
a non finiteness filled with countless stars,
still greater yet is all your mighty love,
bestowed upon this vile sinner here,
who turned his back on all you did for him,
ignored your pleas and left you standing here.
He broke your heart by following after him;
he thought that he could make it on his own,
and so denied your love and help for him.
But now he’s out here and he’s all alone,
and all your tears are filling to the brim.
But through it all you never left my side.
With love you called me right back to your side.

Sonnet 6

Created for a purpose I was told.
But what that purpose was they never said.
They taught me I should look for it like gold.
But believed the search would last ‘til I was dead.
Confused and lost, I lived in self defeat.
But then you slowly fanned it into flame,
that deep within my heart created heat.
To live by my desires wasn’t shame.
To crucify my passions–that is wrong!
For they are what that makes me come alive;
they give me hope to live and make me strong;
it’s part of who I am. I feel alive!
You gave them for a purpose, now I know.
That you’re my greatest treasure I can show.

Sonnet 5

I see your beauty everywhere I look.
All nature points to you and gives you praise.
And made in only six was all it took.
And through creation all your glory’s raised
throughout the earth and to the heaven’s above.
You made them for your glory and our pleas’re.
You made it all for us with such great love,
which only through your son can it be meas’red;
Sent from his throne above to earth below,
to rescue us from death eternally.
And how to rightly live to man he showed.
He served us then he died to set man free.
I gaze in awesome wonder all around,
Thanking you and falling on the ground.

Sonnet 4

Trapped in sin, held captive by my guilt,
all was lost; I knew that I would die.
I could not save myself. These walls he built
were strong and thick–they rose up very high.
I had no hope; despair was all I knew.
Condemned to death, I was his mortal slave.
But then you payed my debt and made me new
and freed me from this dark depressing cave.
You showed me that your love can conquer all;
neither height nor depth, nor life or death
can separate us from your love. Your call
is stronger than the devil’s chains of death.
Because of what you did for me that day,
I rose went forth and followed all the way.

Sonnet 3

Hated and despised by all the world,
they turned their back and left me standing there.
I am told that I have nothing by the world;
I should give up ‘cause no one even cares.
They say you don’t exist or that you’re dead,
I’m wasting time believing in your love.
But I guess that’s something they don’t get.
That evil still exists because you love,
and wish that none should perish’s why you wait–
to give us all a chance to trust in you,
to reject the world’s lies and bait,
and receive the peace and love that comes from you.
By your love and willing sacrifice,
I now have hope to live; that should suffice.

Sonnet 2

I cannot count the times I felt depressed
about my life and wanted just to quit.
I seemed to fail despite my very best;
I was tired of our life and wished to leave it.
Go on with you? I really didn’t care.
Our life together hardly meant a thing.
And I dismissed all memories we share;
giving up was far much easier a thing
to do. But then you rescued me.
You filled me with your strength, you made me strong.
Like a cool wind that’s blowing off the sea,
my soul’s refreshed. Together we belong,
to face the obstacles he throws at us,
while resting in your strength to this I must.

Sonnet 1

(I was browsing through my doc. files on my computer and I came across some sonnets I wrote in college for a Shakespeare class. So I thought I would post them one at a time for the next few days until I get something new done. Some of these sonnets are better than others... And I am certainly no Shakespeare. Enjoy.)

Before my birth, my fate had been d’termed
that I, forever would belong to you.
Though seasons change, and time does pass like wind,
our love is great and will remain ’ere true.
It took some time for me to understand
and realize that I’ve always needed you,
though still I fail and need your gentle hand
to guide me back to you. You always knew
what I would do and yet you still love me,
a vile wretched sinner and a fool,
who’s tried to make it on his own. I see
that now I need to live by all your rules.
I can’t escape nor ever hide from you,
and so I’ll live my life for you anew.

John Kerry’s Nose

Just the other day,
when I got out of bed,
I opened up the paper
and nearly hit my head.
When I finally came to,
I shuddered with surprise.
I saw John Kerry’s nose
starring back into my eyes

As I read the article,
I was filled with lots of horror.
John Kerry’s nose was
ten inches and a quarter.
And every time he tried
to give his wife a kiss,
his giant nose intruded
and the chance was always missed.

Now it’s sad to think some people
prob’ly laughed about his face,
and I wonder if it hurt
his presidential race.
But a lesson can be learned
from this tragic incident:
If he had a smaller nose
he might've been the president.

A Hiaku

All the leaves are green,
but they will all turn to brown.
Everything must die.

Highway 50

Heat waves shimmer on the horizon. Warmth radiates
from the blackened tar on Highway 50.
The late afternoon sun paints an orange glow as it fades
into a distant land, and
shadows from the mesquite slowly lengthen across the desert floor.
The air is heavy, weighing on him like a burden.

Shoulders slumped, head down, he trudges onward,
feet grating across the loose gravel on the side of the highway.
His sleeves are half rolled and his coat
flung over his shoulder. Sweat soaks
his shirt under his armpits and on
his back and chest. He wipes the sweat glistening
on his forehead.

Five miles of walking seem like thirty.
No town is in site, no car seen.
How he found himself stranded in the middle
of nowhere, is a mystery to him, but part of life.

Why did I leave? he wonders. He knows
he had to. It is the only answer, and always will be. Yet
still he feels lost at times,
and lonely.
If only for some company, someone to share the adventure.

But who in their right mind would want to follow me now?
He asks, laughing to himself enjoying for the moment,
the humor of situation—no money, no car, no plan.

It’s a wonder he made it this far.
His car was old, too old really for a trip such as this:
fading paint, bleached by the sun. Rust, eating it away
like a leprous disease—
the tail pipe already half gone. The doors
and the steering wheel squeak,
complaining of automotive arthritis.
It clanked and groaned and sputtered for thousands of miles
and not a few years,
finally coming to it’s dusty grave
on the side of a highway.
She was good to him while she lasted.

A breeze of any kind would be welcome,
but none comes. Just the sparrows and cicadas,
the heat and sweat. He stops
for a rest. Sitting down on the gravel, he thinks about water—
water he does not have.

He repeats the question, Why did I leave?
But he cannot relive the past.
And the journey must still be
completed.

Where he is going remains a mystery.
Some unseen force, or person, is deliberately guiding him.
And as a restless believer he follows, searching
for something—
a home, a sense of meaning, of purpose… a hope.
But he may never find a home, not in this world anyway.
So he sets his mind on another.

Must keep walking he mutters
to himself through lips crusted dry from lack of
siliva. Slowly he moves on

toward a noise. He squints his eyes now, in the heat,
just to see what lies ahead.
In the distance, appearing out of the mirage of uncertainty, the first
car he’s seen all day.
It is a sight he has grown to appreciate.
He stops to watch it approach,
heading in another direction—a convertible, with top down.

The driver, young, beautiful and care free,
black hair blowing in the wind, white sleeveless shirt
stretched tight over her chest,
smiles, waving a strong, but delicate hand.
He waves back, smiling for the first time in a while.

Dust from the wind blows into his eyes as she
disappears into her own adventure.
Rubbing the dirt
from his eyes,
He continues walking, faithfully,
as the twilight fades into the western night.
And the cool breeze of the desert wind whispers...

On an Autumn Morning

Orange, yellow, and crimson leaves
piled high on the ground
underneath
half naked trees.
Woodsmoke rises from chimneys
and mixes with the dampness of morning.
The crisp air cuts my face
as I walk
with my dog
through the quiet neighborhood.
I can see my breath
each time
I exhale
and I feel
cold
inside my skin.
I can hear my dog panting
beside me. I soak
in the colors and aromas,
the silence,
the peace.
A breeze whispers by, blowing
the leaves across the street.
I pull my coat
tighter
around my body
and hide my hands in the pockets.

I can see through a window,
the people inside,
beginning to stir.
The wife, half dressed and still in her robe,
hair wet,
scrambles to get breakfast ready
and wake the kids
at the same time.
And the husband races back and forth,
from room to room,
looking for
something important
while putting on his tie
and brushing his teeth
simultaneously
And the kids,
half asleep,
stumble slowly down the stairs,
rubbing the sleep
from their half closed eyes and trying
to adjust
to the bright
light.

From behind me
a single car drives by–
the driver,
only half awake, but already
late
for work.

I turn a corner;
Captain follows.
It’s time
to head home.

Rhyming

It's kind of like mining.
You work really hard
But don't get very far.
Unless you get lucky
And the waters aren't mucky
And you fall in the mode
And find the mother lode.
But when all's said and done
And you've had all your fun,
You don't tell anyone
It was only good timing.

A Valentine Love

You look so beautiful and soft,
you smell so sweet and good.
Your rich dark skin,
dressed in silky white,
makes my heart yearn and
ache for you.

It’s the raw ingredients,
combined in perfect unity,
that make you so perfect in my eyes.
The eggs alone won’t do,
nor just the milk and sugar.
But just the right amount,
with flour,
salt,
vanilla,
and soda,
baked to perfection,
it’s what makes you,
Cupcakes,
so lovely
and desirable to me.

And yet,
for all my love for you,
I know that others
need you more.
And for this reason I give them you,
and your heart, a perfect ring.

Limerick for St. Patrick

There once was a man named Sprocket,
Who reached in his dirty pocket.
He pulled out a mouse,
It was covered with louse,
So he jammed it in a socket.

Where's the Love?

Graffiti walls,
Rundown buildings;
Homeless people,
Gangs aren't pretty.

Where's the parents?
Where's the families?
Where's the love
That should be in this city?

Drugs and booze,
Much depression;
God, please show your love
To this lost and lonely nation.

A Ballad of Badness (You’ll soon see why)

Once upon a time ago
in a land of grapes and juice,
there lived a man who couldn't stand
a little bit of muse.
One day he ran across a very
burly, long haired cat,
but he was late in seeing
and the burly cat went splat.
He cried a very long, long time,
until his wife said stop.
He looked around but couldn't
find the woman or the shop.
"The shop," you ask. "Where did it come?
It wasn't there before."
But that's because his wife had died
when running through the door.
The man went slowly on his way,
for he was late for work.
But his manager had fired him
for calling her a jerk.
His day got worse as it progressed,
until he went to bed.
But then his dreams picked up the slack;
he wished that he was dead.
But death comes in a blinding flash,
not in a boring dream.
But even bullies from his youth
weren't even quite that mean.
His life is such a tragic tale,
a dull one we might add.
And this ballad I have writ
is really very bad.

Letting Go

Standing one the edge of the highway gazing
at the panoramic view of the
tundra and the Alaska Range—
snow capped mountains, spruce trees, and fields of
fireweeds and lupines and
forget-me-nots—
a sense of pride and awe
flows through my veins.
Deep within my heart is a haunting
I am helpless to understand;
it is a privilege I have not been granted.

As I breathe in the wild air, I feel alive,
but alone. Overwhelmed by the immensity
with no one to share this moment.
It’s a hard country to live in.
Only the strong survive.
Those less fortunate
soon return home, where it is
easier. But not me.
I leave for other reasons.

The land holds tightly to my heart—
a vise that won’t let go.
It wrenches away a part
causing searing pain as I
prepare to embark on a
new life.
But I let it go—
my only gift to a place,
I love too much.

Taking one final look,
collecting my last memories,
I walk slowly back to my car, feet
grating across the gravel.
And shutting the door, I start my car, and
looking ahead I drive away,
never to return.

Escaping

Lost in a world only I know,
my mind drifts as an autumn leaf
carried along by the wind,
taking me places where time is void.

Standing in a field of snow,
I am enveloped by silence and my down parka—
a solitary figure in an world untouched—
almost afraid, even, to breathe.

The snow looks soft, a smooth pillow,
polished by wind
until all edges and ridges
are round.

And quietness hangs upon us, the land and I,
like a gentle, but sturdy hand
resting on my shoulders,
until my senses fade
into nothing;
and I’m left with
only
my sight.

If I am still, and try real hard, though,
I can hear a bird,
a Solitaire,
enchant this world with it’s sweet music—
like Tumnus to Lucy
in those magical woods

It was winter there too, I think.
Always winter, never Christmas.
Yet it seemed so calm;
a stark contrast from that world of chaos
she came from—
bombs and death and
quarreling;
evil brothers who always tease.

Perhaps that is why I am here today,
looking for my own escape.
a chance to rest, to remember what
Love is, the same Love that came
One silent night.

But how can one find peace,
when all the world screams of
pain and sorrow?

News from another earth,
of car bombs exploding,
shredding buildings,
stealing life from those
trapped in the middle.

But it remains too distant,
like the mountains that stand proudly,
only inches tall,
guarding the horizon,
until they suddenly loom,
massive and daunting,
before your eyes.
And you hear about the school,
just a few miles from home.
Twelve students dead, and one teacher.

It makes your own life,
the deadlines,
the meetings,
the projects,
seem so trivial and pointless.

That is why, perhaps,
I do not move from where I am.
To move would only spoil
the beauty and magic
of this perfect, winter day
in the woods of my own
imagination.