My Poems.

These poems are very much written out of a sense of observation. Every work of art is photographic in that it represents a certain moment and thought process. Time moves on but those moments are captured forever. They will constantly be reinterpreted and the artist may evolve to the point of changing the reasoning behind the work but the work, itself, will always be a snapshot of that certain time.

"Regional Photographs" is an ongoing project. This is a small part of it. It is, basically, a series of small portraits of one massive community. Some would read a section and say "California" while another may say "North Carolina" and neither would be right nor wrong. These people can be anywhere but the reader will recognize them in their own way, put them in a city, state, or country the reader understands. They are just pictures found in a box under a bed without names, beginnings, or ends.


“the question of domestication”

this herd of deer is the answer. the flicking ears and slim legs and hair that is the brown of a childhood sandbox. the alfalfa blooms they eat taste like sugar and their long pink tongues nervously touch their black lips as if the sweetness were essential to their existence. the does sniff the wind and watch the hills. the bucks watch the edges where all of the danger of this world hides. the fawns run and jump or sleep in the sun. it is simple.
the letter in the mail today
said she would lose this house.
her son’s bad lungs were acting up.
his cough a rattle in a tiny chest.
she never knew her father.
her son would never know his.
she watched her child sleep fitfully on the old yellow couch
and licked her cracked lips
imagining a gentle life she had once seen.





“regional photographs”

Man, mid-fifties to sixties, straw cowboy hat down low
Over eyes without humor
Staring at hand as if there were answers beneath the skin.
White-tipped mountains beyond flatlands behind him.
Eight-thousand foot peaks far enough away that his hat
Brushes the snow.
Color but looks black and white.

Little girl on rock touches the water with her big toe
Squeals at the cold or just the wet.
Looking up at something unseen in an unclouded sky.
Her yellow t-shirt says “i love louisiana”
In indigo letters.
Small black mutt on her left
looks at her foot
Like it could be a meal.

Three young tan men
The color of fake Indians in old films
With overwhelming sunglasses
Drive a car that is impossibly red
Like a firetruck full of wrecked cardinals
Down a boulevard lined with palms
That match their hair
All spikes and sawed edges.
The middle one lifts the corner of his mouth
And this is all that distinguishes them .
Triplets without the blood relation.

Absolutely tiny boy on stage
Faded rust colored curtain with golden tassels behind.
From a string around his neck
Hangs a sign that reads 47.
Other children sit off to the left
Out of focus
white blocks for chests.
The boy’s eyes are wet and if he blinks
The tears will fall in sheets like a gale
But there is also a sense of control
As if the boy refuses
To let the weather turn.

Two girls sit on a windowsill of an abandoned house
Smoking pilfered cigarettes from one mother or the other
Talking about boys who pay no attention to them.
The boys are actually interested but too shy
To act humanely.
One girl has dyed her hair a beautiful and rich purple
And it is in pigtails
She is wearing a green shirt and yellow pants.
Her blue shoes have pink laces.
The other girl has a mousy brown bob cut
With a nailpolished red barrette that serves no particular purpose.
Her floral dress was bought by her older sister in Copenhagen
Ten years ago.

They whisper and laugh and touch hands
When something becomes too shocking
Or perfectly witty.
They love one another
In a gentle and kind way that allows total honesty.
They are the friends that will wonder about each other
When they are having children
Getting divorced
Watching death and dying themselves
Even though they will not have spoken for decades.
They flick ashes into the overgrown yard below.
They do not like the cigarettes
But it gives them a reason to be here
Near each other.

The Reading of Epic Poetry: A Breakdown of El Cid.

Roderigo Ruy Diaz of Vivar is one of the great folk heroes of all time. He is undefeated even by history. By this I mean he has withstood the inspection of his enemies throughout time. This speaks loudly about the actual man, Roderigo, and the mythic campeador, el Cid. There is humble faith in the poem and there is arrogant megalomania and the greedy are constantly vanquished. They are unlucky and not in favor with God. God is the pivotal point of the poem. All things done that could be construed as unethical or ungodly are punished. El Cid is the instrument of that punishment. The poem serves as a goal for which the ethical should strive for and, also, the concept of redemption for all injustices.

The poem is broken into three cantars, sections, that each represent a period of change in the life of Roderigo and the Spanish kingdom overall. Cantar one introduces us to el Cid in the beginning of his exile from King Alfonzo for having taken a bit too much liberty with the tax collection. Roderigo is still loyal to the king and plans on proving it. He has a buffer period of ? days to leave the kingdom or his life will be forfeit. On his journey from the kingdom , with sixty of his knights who remain loyal to him, he continues to gather a following. He has the respect of the people for he has really done nothing of consequence wrong. El Cid’s righteousness while under persecution is the thing that saints are made of and the lasting quality of the story to the Spanish realm and her subsequent colonies is the power given to the good and godly.

Roderigo fools two nobles into giving him money for two chests full of sand that he says are full of gold from his tax collecting career. This lie seems to be acceptable because it allows him to build his holy army. It is important to note that the lies told for the benefit of God are acceptable lies. The fact that this poem is put to paper by a monk seems more than understandable. The nobles take the chests and never looks in them because Roderigo asks them not to, simple as that. This too is respect and power, it is also fear. This can easily be related to the fear of God. Many faiths have this concept but the monotheistic triumvirate of Islam, Christianity, and Judaism make certain that their one god is feared by all others. The Christians and the Judaic people even have a hard time with the idea that their god is also Islam’s god. It is an illogical battle, using this fear, with allegiance to the same god but under different leadership. Suffice It to say that within any faith there is the liberty to say what must be said and to do what must be done if it can be attributed to the one’s god.

Roderigo has money and more men and horses and begins to rampage in the south. He is fighting the Moors . These people are considered infidels by the northern Christians. These are enemies of the king. He wins battle after battle and his second in command, his “right arm, Minaya Alvar Fanez is sent back to Alfonzo’s court with booty for the king. King Alfonzo is very pleased with the compeador’s winnings but cannot see fit to allow Roderigo back into his good graces. This could be a motivational factor, a way of saving face for the king, or a way to continue with the story itself. Historically speaking these people all existed. Were they all that we see within this poem? We cannot be sure. We must understand the bias of a monk writing at this time. The early thirteenth century was a time of great uncertainty as to where the world stood or even how big it may be and how it worked. God was the only thing that many people could be sure of. The Catholic Church was the voice of the Christian God on earth and it had an immense amount of influence over the people. When life was short and brutal then the promise of a blessed afterlife held much sway. This monk, in 1207, knew that propaganda was the way to the people’s hearts and souls. If they were given hope in a better life, and a way to live this life they had in a better way, the Church could be assured of allegiance in a time of trouble. With the Moors knocking on Europe’s door, and in some places making themselves at home, trouble was at hand.

El Cid builds himself a very nice little kingdom to the south of King Alfonzo but he never threatens the king’s authority. With every battle won he send Minaya north with horses and saddles and swords as a percentage of the spoils. He proves himself to be a loyal vassal and the king, after first forgiving Minaya, forgives Roderigo. It is not a simple affair. It takes much rebuilding of trust and proof of loyalty. This seems to be a teaching point in the poem. When challenged one must work as hard as one can to defeat the foes in a faithful and loyal way. We are meant to see Roderigo as a fortunate son. The words “fortunate” and “luck” find their way into many sections of this poem. They are often found near the descriptions of battle and conflict. They are often very near any mention of the Christian God. Again, it cannot be stressed enough that good fortune is a direct result of faith and good dealings with the men of God. Although Roderigo is exiled without cause it can be looked at as a test of faith.

It is in the second cantar that Roderigo takes Valencia as his own and defeats a massive Moorish force with but a few hundred men. This is when the king truly forgives him his very minor offence. It is the section of the poem where we learn of the nobility of the realm in a little better detail. These people existed but were they the same people as we see in the poem? Historically we begin to find some flaws in the story. That is fine when the poem is read as an ethical folktale and not as history but the lines often blur. They are blurred for reasons. The author, again being a monk, has a very good reason to show that the monarchy and nobility can be small minded. Only God can be perfect. However, even men of God must be careful in calling out the nobility. The Infantes of carrion do not hold up to historical inspection in reality. Roderigo’s daughters marry well as a matter of historical record but the use of the brothers as an example for which to serve some ethical lessons has some basis in reality. There were, in our monk’s time, some seedy nobles. It is certain. The idea could also be to keep all the nobles in check so as not to challenge the church authority. Whatever the case the poem is not completely accurate from an historical perspective but it is, likely, the most accurate of the epic poems that remain today.

The third cantar is basically a lawsuit. The Infantes of Carrion have married the daughters of Roderigo. Now they prove themselves cowards and petty men. This section begins with a lion escaping its confines at the court and the Infantes hiding. One ruins his tunic, which can be taken one of two ways I think, by hiding behind the wine press while the other hides beneath the couch. This is not just a monk’s representation of the nobility, or the Churches, but the society at large. The oppressed commoners and lesser nobility have their feelings about the powerful and those feelings are expressed through oral and, eventually, written folktales. This third cantar is very interesting in that it shows the intellectual workings of justice as opposed to the physical battles. The heroes use their minds and rhetoric to vanquish their less intelligent and fairly evil foes. This is also a lesson to the society at large. The mighty can be taken to court. It is important to remember that, technically, the Infantes are of a higher social status through their bloodline than Roderigo. Although this is the case, just as in the unfair treatment of Roderigo by the king, the people support el Cid. This makes a good amount of sense because the people have very little power and can project themselves into the role of el Cid in their daily disputes with those of higher standing within their own lives. This is the everlasting power of a document like this poem. As an oral tail it carries great weight when it is told at festivals and gatherings but as a book it can be read for all time and it becomes difficult to manipulate the story from the words on the page.

The poem closes with Roderigo winning his suit and the subsequent championed battles that come from it. His daughters marry better and the Infantes are publically shamed for their cowardice and arrogance. El cid continues to live a godly and blessed life and it is historically accurate that much of the royalty of future European monarchs can be traced to his daughters, in reality, marrying into princes within the monarchy of Leon. As an historical document the poem is more accurate than it is not and this is a true feat of scholarship and entertainment. It proves that the actual feats of the compeador were awe inspiring and life changing events to the point of remaining legendary throughout the centuries.

This church had a hand in this legend that was easy to see but it is very interesting to think of the poem as a challenge to power and what that could have potentially meant to the church. If the nobles had power and the church had similar power and that authority was shown to be corruptible would it not be logically possible that the church could also be major purveyor of injustice? This, to me, is a monk with great faith in the likelihood of right always defeating wrong that has no fear of offending any higher powers if those powers go against his god. This poem and this character el Cid reflect, if nothing else, the infinite triumph of good over evil. It is an ethical discussion between a real monk, a real knight, that knight’s legend, the society it was written for, and the one that it helped shape. Because of these layers of meaning and perspective it becomes, truly, epic.

More of the new poems.

I am tired and somewhat ill. The weather, although lovely, has changed too quickly for my particular constitution. I have learned to accept this.

My writing as of late has been heavily influenced by a few fine people. Two scientists who are excellent conversationalists and a third who I wish would speak to me a little more. Jim Harrison, Tillie Olsen, Cynthia Ozick, and Colin Dexter have had my eyes and ears firmly focused. This is not to say that I am writing like any of them, especially not the scientists who have their own disturbing language when writing, but that they are all with me as I observe and think about this life that I live.

Again, these are drafts. They are not bad but they are, also, not done. This process is forever evolving.



“the mice of chernobyl”

the weather will not move in for an hour
or two
it does not matter
since we have shed the hard skin
for this roof of tar and asphalt pebbles
these walls
of horse hair and newspaper
look out two panes of glass that shift the light
slightly
make everything not quite real.

watch the pixilation of a grey screen
instead of reading the words or horizons
sleep while awake.
this tomato
came from somewhere far away
it will be just bland enough
for us
to chew without thought.
sip black tea
from old colonies that still carry the accent
harvested for the economy that drowns their many
small lives.
the beef has grown monstrous on the enhanced hoof.
i am one foot taller than my parents.
a strange sort of science.

field mice and sparrows have returned
to chernobyl
given birth to a new generation.
the young seem fine.
what does this mean?





“the oracle and the witch”

a chickadee landed on the broadhead while bowhunting one evening and stopped time. an epiphany in the late october sun where the bird showed me a secret that has since been forgotten. it flexed its minuscule talons and looked sideways into my already foolish soul. this was the blackcapped bird of my grandmother’s stories. the bird that knew things about the trees and the blackwater swamp. she would smoke a pall mall and tap fire-engine red nails and talk about the little bird and the bear. it would nest in the thick black fur and the baby chickadees learned to fly when the bear swam the river for the blackberries on the other side. only one did not learn to fly but to swim instead and followed the water into the roots of the hemlocks and cedars and listened. it became something new. not entirely bird or bear or water or tree but a mixture. a piece of everything covered in feathers. it would not grant wishes but it would answer questions if they were asked properly.

i took a breath and it flew away.
the arrow quivered.
i could smell smoke.
i could see red.
the wet black eye knew
that this question was best left unworded.





“canis”

there is a difference in the sound.
the coyote’s bark has a liquid quality
not so much disturbing as out of place
in the rigid shadows of tree and rock
it rounds the edges.
the wolf touches the center of us.
that howl will open dead eyes
it sharpens the darkness and forces a brighter moon.
it is this way with battles.

some are soft and float like cold mist
bothersome but not important.
others
cannot be ignored or the knife will find its way
into the gentle and sensitive flesh.
the wolf fight awakens the bad dreams at best
the blood spills on the dust in the worst scenario.

the difficulty is that coyotes sometimes become wolves
for reasons that we are not evolved enough to understand.





“the expansive history of the weekend”

two smallish crows pick at the dead cat.
it is still a warm orange and would seem asleep
if not for its lack of eyes.
the crows take fur for their nests
and will feed after the body bursts.

a friend is in Jakarta for one month .
she says
“people stop what they are doing to stare at me.”
she is pale and blond and kind
the people are intrigued by these three rarities.
there are three dressers in her small room
so she can spread her belongings about
thinly.

we all danced at a club after we had closed another bar.
i have found that jack and coke serves me well
if the effort of movement is involved.
she danced perfectly.
this was not a surprise but to my cloudy and shaded mind
it was unexpectedly harsh
as if i thought she may stumble in my presence
show some inkling of fragility.
I thought of walking home
but that would have been as strange as my already being there.
i tried to hide my eyes
in the whiskey and cola and ice
but when she has danced i have never looked away.
this is the secret of the dervish.

there was a light rain that speckled the pages.
i continued to read
as two little girls threw a tennis ball for their dog
wiping the mud and slobber on their play clothes
laughing away the supposed indecency of the act.

in the midst of this
an orange cat died
first giving its life
then its body
and eventually
a story.

My Poems.

These are just a few of the newest. They are very much in progress. They will pop up again after I edit them. The process is as interesting as the product, I feel.



“one hawk for all the rabbits”
every other year four gallons of shellac
on the cracked pine logs.
in the early spring the wind through the screenless windows
cuts through wool sweaters
and moves the chemical smell .

it is applied in the morning with thirty-year old brushes
then we leave with ham sandwiches and pickles
from the garden of the summer before.

walk to the rifle river
a quarter-section west
look for tracks in the mud
of the animals that come for a drink.
whitetail, raccoon, opossum, coyote,
the fat round marks of a runaway beagle,
muskrat, and smaller unknowns.

follow the river for a couple hours south
we flush
the deer and the birds. making note of the thunderbeat
sound of ruffed grouse taking flight.
the possibility of a covey in the young poplars.

cut back into the woods to eat on the white pine stump
on the small hill a mile behind the cabin.
the stump that can seat five big men comfortably.
watch the wind push the tops of the trees
into one another.
look for hawks.

silently wander through twenty acres of red pines
planted in straight lines in the late fifties
where a beautiful girl and I once strolled
naked looking at the new lady slippers.

go to the shed and throw corn on the two-track.
turkeys will be in soon
then the deer
and throughout three kinds of squirrels
grey, fox, and pine.

the logs are sticky but not wet and the fumes are gone.

venison burgers and potatoes seasoned
with cayenne, garlic, and a bit of thyme
a beer
on the porch
watching a very pregnant doe sniff the air.
she knows where I am hurt.




“advice to a ballerina who could not care less”
pay attention
when the horse lays its ears back along its skull
it is time to move
away from both the mouth and the ass.

left foot in the left stirrup then up
anything else and the animal could laugh you to the ground.

the massive Belgians are supremely patient
more so than quarters, morgans, or warmbloods
but when that temper flashes
twenty-five hundred pounds of muscle and bone
will teach an extraordinary lesson.

be gentle with the reins as the lips
are fragile velvet
and a beaten horse is worse than a beaten man.
trust is only a word if the throat is full of blood.

at a certain point in the years ahead
you can sip whiskey
on its broad back
and the horse will get drunk too.



“evolution on a russian timescale”
legs crossed at the ankles
sitting against the white oak
reading turgenev’s hunting stories
coffee and lunch wedged in the roots
the dappled sun protects us from the city’s life
for these few minutes.
well north of here the blackbirds scream
from the cattails
at the animal just on the edge.






“between swans and pigeons”
the writer sits down without knowing what to do
surrounded by gifts from the dead and dying.
a petoskey stone the size and shape of a chicken egg
given by a girl who was hit by a truck when she was eighteen.
an african violet from an aunt’s funeral.
a small pink nailpolished dog
painted by the writer’s lung cancered mother
to bring laughter and comfort.
it does and it does not.
coffee cup turned by a lover’s skill
who loves no more .
the writer stands into a jacket and hat and shoes
turns from the relics and antiquaries.
leaves.

the pontiacs are on blocks
and the dogs are chained to porches
but can reach the street.
an old Victorian is being rejuvenated
in periwinkle and deep-sea green
by a hopeful young couple.
the river is one-half mile east
the downtown skyline one-half mile south
the writer is middling everything away
deciding between swans and pigeons
the sound of moving water
and traffic
life or the imitation thereof.

the writer puts one foot in front of the other.
leaves.

Tillie Olsen and the sincerity of emotion.

Tillie Olsen was a writer of short stories. She did not produce much but what she did was of such a provocative nature that one story carries the force of multiple lives. Olsen's stories have souls that live well beyond the pages they are written upon. In particular the story "Tell Me A Riddle", from the book of the same name, is a history of love, immigration, illness, reconciliation, faith, hate, and most importantly marriage. Olsen sets characters in roles that will often make the reader feel uncomfortable with the honesty involved. Her workers do not love their work. The students are confused. The men are scared and the women are unfulfilled. They are all strong even in their weaknesses. I come from a cancerous, working-class family and reading these stories is not an easy endeavor. The pain and suffering that Olsen forces the reader to feel is, in the long run, a good thing. It makes the reader understand that a number of lives have gone into the making of every one of ours. I very much recommend Tillie Olsen but I think the reader should be prepared for some dark thoughts. It is fine writing. It is poetic and strong writing. It is painful writing with much staying power.