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.