Dream History

The waters of Lake Vermillion run like childhood
through my blood.

In a recurring dream, I sit with Grandma
on a dock bench over Wake ‘Em Up Bay. She
tells me stories about fish, birds, and boys.

Wearing bright colored swimming trunks,
and black numbers in big white circles
on their bobbing backs and chests,
super tan dead men float in the bay.

I think they look like Ken dolls.

Grandma keeps spinning yarns
like the corpses are nothing but logs bobbing by.
At one point she stares out over the bay,
“Musta been a big storm last night.” she says,
then she spins a tale about this frog who became a prince.
She ends with, “But that, my dear, was before you were born.”
and lights shine from behind her eyes somewhere.

The dreams vanish until years later, after Grandpa passes.
They visit again, but this time stories spill
from my life into Grandma’s ears, and she laughs
while the well proportioned bodies buoy about the bay.

Partly Forested

My folks’ home sits on Holland Creek
between the Bob Marshall Wilderness
and the Mission Mountains in Montana,
where one measure of time is fire season.
Summer lightning hits trees and choppers pinpoint blazes,
trying to get there before the fire gods flourish—
before they raze habitat, houses, and pieces of lives.

Deer parade in single file through yards,
eating black moss that hangs from lodgepole and ponderosa,
eating seed spilled from Mom’s big feeder out front.

The valley is a grizzly corridor between two ranges.
Phones ring out sightings of mountain lion and bear.
“Keep an eye on your dogs.” or,
“Sherriff found a lair.”
Five-toed, foot-long tracks in new snow
end spring walks with the dog.
“Griz tracks west of the campground.”

Out the window, the lingering creek
reflects evergreen ghosts
that capture last night’s snow .
Perfect postured pine stand together
dense along Holland’s eastern shore.

Out back, away from the creek
Dad cleared a boatload of trees
and turned them into tables, shelves, and bird feeders.
Pulling down pine with tractors, Dad and his saw-mill
create a partly forested paradise, civilizing trees
to protect his home from lightning fires
that turn everything to ash.

Frozen Falls

The snow covered path
rises and turns
beneath our feet.
A crow follows and leads.
From ponderosa to ponderosa,
it keeps track of our trek.

Silence staggers,
when we listen
for the sound of the falls.
The crow lands
on the final rise
in the trail,
to monitor our ascent.
Caw! Caw! Caw!

It flies to the top
of Memorial Falls,
and points out the obvious.
Again and again
the crow screams
while it stands atop
the sarcophagus of water
trapped in flight.

Video Gem

Joni Mitchell - Night Ride Home

The Punch Line

Other kids bully me,
and then ignore me or laugh.
Like it was nothing.
Like it was one big joke.
Like I was nothing.
I am a joke.

The punch line?

I'm all alone.
Not one person eats lunch with me.
Not one eye catches mine in the halls.
The teachers don’t even notice me,
or them,
or what they do to me,
or what I do to myself.

The real joke?

They get away with it every day.
They get away with kicks, spit wads, and pushes.
They get away with web sites using code words
to call me fat
to call me retard
to call me anything but friend.

The stupid punch line?

One day you’ll look back on this and laugh.

Momologue

How can you be lonely in a room full of people?
Is there something wrong with you?
Allison Thompson’s mother said
(Mom, hands on hips, mocks her)
“Your daughter stood in the corner
at my Ally’s boy girl dance party.”
You stood in the corner.
Is there something wrong with you?
Allison Thompson is already dating.
You could use a date.
You never have any friends over.
You stood in the corner?
Is there something wrong with you?
How can you be lonely in a room full of people?


This is one of several pieces I'm working on with a middle school voice.

These Ants

These ants climb up the garbage can
and into the dishwasher door.
These ants crawl through the cupboards
and under the kitchen floor.

These ants crawl up my pant legs
and beneath the covers, too.
Every year when springtime comes
I don’t know what to do.

Jainists carry ants outside
or sweep them from their path
The time to free that many though—
(Well, you work out the math).

Puddles of Terro poison
entice these ants to drink,
and then infest the colony
to send them to the brink.

Reinforcements never linger long.
They soon replace the ranks.
While Terro lowers numbers some
these ants are tough as tanks!

to the Russian Federation

Seven Russian Federation visitors hit my blog
the first three, within hours after I post "John Trudell."
It quickens my heart, let me tell you!
The other four Russian Federation visitors
appear after "What Happened at Alcatraz?"
and I think—
It can't possibly be a coincidence.

Are you checking up on me?
Is there an underground interest
in John Trudell in your country?
Are you my big brothers?

If you are spying on me:  F Y I
My blog is not worth your time,
unless you use it to learn English.
In which case, there several venues
more congruent to the pursuit.

If you are stopping by at random,
or because you search for poetry & prose,
or other specific oddities—
well then,
welcome.
Make yourself at home.

my mother's kitchen

Voices ‘round
the butcher block
unravel family yarns.
Twisted perspectives
take off on tangents
until tears roll down our faces
and our eyes turn red
as laughter snakes its way
through embellished tales
feasting on stories
in my mother’s kitchen.

hidden beneath a sestina

Eddies of wind dance tornadoes of sand
twisting cyclones that give it new power.
The monster rises to eat up the land
and the children all run toward the tower.
Poppies spring up into fields unbidden
the escape to the tower is hidden.

New flowers keep the monster's form hidden.
(It prefers green vegetation to sand.)
It feeds on poppies with greed unbidden,
and succumbs to their deep sleeping power.
Up in the turret, the children tower,
marveling miles of the poppy bright land.

Their usual view is arid bland land.
Or, the sandstorms keep everything hidden.
Mesmerized they look out from the tower
to appreciate the dense flowered sand.
Not one can forget the monster’s power,
and the children’s pulse quickens unbidden.

The monster always arrives unbidden
before it gobbles up gallons of land.
It gorges on dirt with voracious power,
quaking plates that the sweet Earth keeps hidden.
Fields of red poppies devour the sand
their roots bind up the ground ‘round the tower .

Whispers of legends breeze through the tower,
children, monsters, and poppies unbidden.
Trillions of poppies once rooted in sand.
Their red-papered petals peppered the land.
The kingdom’s children keep secrets hidden,
quickening pulses apprehend power.

The Earth shudders and detonates power
to crack open her shell near the tower.
Right beneath where the monster sleeps hidden
children see the Earth unlock unbidden.
A gaping gash is exposed in the land
and the monster swirls down buried in sand.

Children remember power unbidden.
Red rings the tower when spring hits the land.
Stories stay hidden in red-papered sand.

Boycott the Circus

Boycott the circus!
Don't go there anymore!

They keep elephants chained for days
and days and days and more!

They beat their flesh with bullhooks
then parade them all around.
You stand and cheer and whistle,
and keep the elephant bound.

moon on the wane

Sophia swings from side to side
in a round white hoop on a chain.
Talons pull then propel her ride.
She controls the moon on the wane.

Colorful wings that never fly
spread out and in swinging flight feign.
Back and forth—caged up with no sky,
She swings in her moon on the wane.

Sophia’s kin on pirates ride
and fly to relieve the mundane.
A pirate’s life she’ll not abide—
no night flight through moons on the wane.

We met Sophia at Petco
to my belch, she belched a refrain.
She would not survive if let go.
She’s stuck with her moon on the wane.

She winds that swing up like a towel
her claw hands maneuver its chain.
She cackles and shrieks from her dowel
as she spins that moon on the wane.

his taciturn madness

Solitude breeds inhibition.
The hermit becomes comatose.
He can’t rise up to fruition,
while his taciturn madness grows.

Nations change names while he hides there.
The mighty Missouri still flows.
The hermit hums with no despair,
while his taciturn madness grows.

It happens as he hums one day,
so the queer hermit's story goes.
With clarity, he feels okay,
while his taciturn madness grows.

blue-mooned sky

for Thyra

Where do you go for an answer?
What words do you eat when you cry?
Soothe your travails through a dance, girl.
Twirl deep beneath a blue-mooned sky.

Eternities pass in instants.
Enlighten the eve that is nigh.
Conjure a cosmic convergence.
Twirl deep beneath a blue-mooned sky.

Answers emerge when the search ends.
They gleam in the quiet mind’s eye.
Inhale the moments thought transcends.
Twirl deep beneath a blue-mooned sky.

Mr. Frank

Mr. Frank it’s time to travel
far away from earthly trappings.
Once set free, life will unravel,
in tapestries of angel wings.

Mr. Frank your spirit glistens
Existence is a fragile thing.
Human beings seldom listen
when rain falls on an angel’s wing.

You heard every whispered story
then made the tellers feel like kings.
You uncovered hidden glory
within the folds of angel wings.

Your energy will dissipate
and all will be remembering.
We left you at the graveyard gate
beneath a marble angel’s wing.

Burn

Fetch your obstreperous children
from the hands of Prisoner Joe.
He takes them to bed and eats them
and forever makes dark your soul.

Fetch them and send him to ashes.
Tie him tight to the staircase pole.
Laugh when the flames lick his lashes
then forever make dark your soul.

From This into That

January runs slow and smooth,
February with choc’ late grooves,
March and April bring blooms that soothe,
From this into that our life moves.

May sings songs of creation
The sun rises early in Junes,
July and August vacation.
From this into that our life moves.

September mulches October,
November holds big harvest moons,
December’s deep snows can sober,
From this into that our life moves.

That's Right!

The woman talks out one half of her face
clenching her fists near the sides of her thighs.
“I’m going to see my killing relatives,
that’s right. They better watch out
if they know what’s good for them.
My killing relatives. That’s right.”

She punches a finger into the air,
looks at me sideways and says,
“I got a restraining order out on them.
A restraining order out on my killing relatives, that’s right.”
She looks away and rocks back and forth,
moving her tongue around inside her crooked mouth.
Her eyes shift under sweeping gray bangs.
“They been trying to murder me my whole life.”
I ask the obvious,
“Why are you going to see them,
if you have a restraining order against them?”

“I’m gonna sue their ass in court, that’s what.
In court. That’s right. My killing relatives.”
She accuses the air with a glare and persists,
“My killing relatives.” followed by “That’s right.”
shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

Again and again she agitates her way through the world
lined up behind me for the late night cross-country bus
home, to Montana. Land that I love. That's right.

Threes Hour

I.

Right where it crosses Highway 87,
a man in a long coat
seemed to glide across River Drive North
stopping lines of traffic in my rearview mirror.
Tall and lean with a scruffy beard
and auburn hair peeking out from a hat,
he held a bow in one hand.
With his other hand
he plucked the string of his bow
while he strode up and onto the sidewalk.

Traffic continued and I considered the gentleman,
drove on home, and let him go.

II.

About an hour later,
on Smelter Avenue,
across from the Best Friends Animal Hospital,
I spied this odd little guy.
He wore green knee-length shorts
with suspenders over a heavy white shirt.
A green vest, and pointy green hat
topped off his ensemble.

A thick red beard spotted his chin.
At the NW Bypass intersection's red light,
I looked in the rearview mirror.
He was gone! He must be a leprechaun.
I turned to see he had merely crossed
to the other side of the street-
an odd little man, indeed.

III.

Heading south
on 38th Avenue North,
something dropped
over that white vinyl fence
on the east side of the road
and caught my eye.

A young man sporting a long coat with tails
and a short maroon top hat,
pedaled his bike down the curb
and into the oncoming lane—
empty except for him-
arms out--sitting tall.
A whistling jester weaving balance
back
and forth.

chewed thumb

Last night the dog was chewing on something. History tells me that Hopper eats things that no living creature should ever ingest. Hanging my arm down the side of my chair, I reached my thumb into his mouth to pull out whatever it was he was eating, and he started eating my thumb. I felt his tooth grind it. The pain was immediate and intense. I whacked the side of Hopper’s face with my other hand and startled him. The chewing stopped. “OW, OW, OW, OW, OW” I ran to the kitchen sink and ran cold water into the wound, and forced myself to look at it. A 3D W jagged in the tip of my thumb. The nail had a hole near its base on the side. It looked like Hopper almost pulled the top off it backward. I called Len and threw up. I don’t think Hopper had a clue that he hurt me. He kept chewing whatever it was he had, and likely ate it. My thumb will heal, but the nail might fall off first.

The moral of this story? Never put your thumb in a chewing dog’s mouth.