never see it all

-
I thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why….

An oak tree in spring bursting green phosphorescence.
Three babies born, from the flesh between us.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why….

Two hummingbirds hatch and learn to fly.
A speechless man in fear reach out as he died.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why…

A winter moonbow in a rainy western sky.
Seen enough poetry to make a skeptic cry.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why….

Old friends fall in love, who suddenly act shy.
Letting you draw close enough, to hear your private sigh.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why….

Seen my fear and loathing turn me from my God, to strife.
Seen more Haitians lost, than folks I’ll meet in life.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why…

Thought I’d see the day when I could say goodbye.
I still catch my breath, when you catch my eye.

Thought I’d seen it all,
don’t ask me why…..
-
-
(I find myself caught at the end of the day, tired, over-stimulated by people in need, while I wish for continuity, and then hate the repetition of routine.  I can stop and look at the change in the colors around me, and cry for more while I mourne if there is less.... The same goes for relationships, which I have to look at with the same eyes, as they continue and re-cycle and renew and cry for more.  Just when I thought I'd seen it all and didn't want any more.  Here's to my man, of 24 years young to husbandry.)
-3-31-2010

Mineral King Backpack

-
I go to the Mountain




I go to the mountain for air,

Ghostly breathless, climbing each stair.



Ahead, or behind the vision’s so clear,

But each step is imprinted, dusting the air.



The pain of ascent wracks every ribcage

Setting a pace, atmospherically engaged.



Restful alpine carpets off-trail,

Surprises of buckwheat, sage, cilantro to inhale.



Jeweled, ethereal, silver-orb strands

Stream down waterfalls through my hands,



Into snow-fed, icy, ripple-mirrored lakes

Of moonlight, granite, countless fish-wakes.



Wind carries the waterfall’s rush

Conjuring a sleeper’s hush,



To reawaken with a gusting slap

Against the cozy tent-fly flap.



Pushing through the dustless pass

Songs of mosquito, wolf and grouse,



Whispering secrets

across treeless peaks.



I came to the mountain for air,

And carry it in my chest,

A molecule, a pulse,

A place to breathe,

A place to rest.
-

Gratitude High on Altitude

Gratitude to Boy Scouts of America High Adventure Training Team, San Francisco Council:

1. Rancho Los Mochos is “Scouts Own” for "HAT"

2. though you may not see the best sunset tonight.

3. The atmosphere's stable, not a cloud in sight.

4. But rotate one-eighty degrees to the right

5. with true north to the left, and you just might

see an impressionist painting in alpenglow light.

The night opens up with a waxing gibbous

6. and yellow wildflowers closing like tiny “ButterBuds”.

7. My tent’s vents filled with wild cilantro scents,

8. bellies filled with hot mouth-crunching breads.

9. I'm sleeping, warm and painless, upon a "Big Agnes".

10. Rancho Los Mochos has the best food for H.A.T.

11. you will see the best sunrise after owls' last flight

12. when the team is preparing and goes to great heights



13. for my S.P.L. to have high adventure in sight.


1. Ron Milligan

2. James Hood
3. Gary Ely
4. Lance Byard
5. Don Hall
6. David Chase
7. Paul Nakao
8. Jim Belak
9. Dave Latimer
10. George Yee
11. Dewey Phillips
12. Hank Helmholz
13. Terry Pearson
14. photo, Sawtooth Peak, Mineral King, 2007, before Vic Karpenko adjusted my pack!
Thank you, Dick Smith and team, for all of the work these two weekends. Have fun trekking!

waves

-
She sits awhile in shadow
staring at the unlit window,

and turns the music up
from the driveway in her coupe.

She rubs her hands, cold and gnawed,
wheel-worn where too tightly held,

like reeling in an empty line,
or rolling over one more time,

chewing on some week-old bread,
or kneeding down a hardened bed.



But oh,
still it comes,

in and out on waves,
like hot showers on winter days,

or like a cold, chocolate shake
into a searing belly ache,

like caresses through long hair
on a trapeze in ocean air.
-
All rights reserved.
photo by Jillian Standish

Spring Blooms

-

Festive remnants strewn

in wind brushed mounds, overhead

the party still blooms.

-

Survivors?

-
What are the fingertips’


connections to deeds?

I.E.D. blasted,

arms exploded,

radically slicing

amputating endings for

funerals unattended,

hamburgers on strings,

gauze sausages ballooning,

fingers shrinking,

flesh degloving,

scars webbing,

firmly re-grafting.

Once,

mind connected to pen.

Now,

it's, " Please,

pull up my pants,

socks,

shoelaces,

bottle caps,

and put my glass to my mouth."

-

All rights reserved.
Illustration from Google images.

Horizons

-
Green blades pierce vistas

while clouds catch my falling gaze

March is maddening!

Turn Turn Turn

-
When I turn a phrase,
it turns me on
to turn you around
if you do a good turn.

It turns me red
to turn inside out,
then have you turn your back
in a turn for the worst.

You turn me off
when you take my turn
and turn what I've said
upside down.

I prefer you listen in turn,
turn your key and unlock,
try turning a corner,
or turn over a rock.

I've one turn today,
don't turn white as a sheet!
I can't turn back the clock,
so I'll turn up the heat.

Tuesday Toes

Who in immutable ways,
makes machines for art?

A nation in infancy says,
"How do you spell art?"

Power, in imagination plays:
well fed, paid, and rested for art?

We hunger, for hope, love, and days
where the soul's footing is in art.