31 March 2010

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,
Make yourself at home.

24 March 2010

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.

22 March 2010

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.

18 March 2010

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.

16 March 2010

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.

15 March 2010

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.


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.

13 March 2010

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.

12 March 2010

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.