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.