In November we started scrubbing deep the kitchen, all the nooks and shelves to shine. We moved our tables, sturdy wood to weep a sparkling cider, red oh red sweet wine. The silver borrowed, polished to a glean and placed next to wares upon the line, our first to cheer our found and held small peace, to use this time to gather family grace. We found ourselves with many crops to reap that year, a year we loved our fields in time, on Carriage Drive, our turkey cooked lean with sweetened yams and cornbread dressing, fine. Around the fire each hand was held to greet and eat some baked squash massaged with thyme and to the pies each family foot did race around the counters topped with flowery lace. Though hardships come and some traditions break, our family fires our fed for feedings sake.
Fifteen Minute Rorschach Couplets This is not a flitting ghost or a sleep more of a promise that I must keep.
A time to share whether or not of sadness, of gold times, or silver times, or of less.
Tell you my story so I can be read, a story of virtue, values, and bed.
No longer to hide behind my titles, follow my children from their cradles.
At this moment of freakish slumber I have found myself more and more sober.
Welcome readers to the power of mine, listen to the silence, this writers time.
Here it goes as if an awakening, a soft rumble of my ego breaking.
So here cemented by sleepy eyes, kept up at night by my babies soft cries.
Shrouded by ancient clay and wailing walls yet also by melodic waterfalls.
Cutting Wood Axe just sits dulled, alone, waiting to be swung through tempered pine, swung
hard, to hit history, a source of fuel, creator of flame, air
cold, morning, barely sun, me in slippers, to toss the heavy blade
make the wood stack in the stove burst into flames to bring our home warmth.
Another Day After Easter I find myself upon my knees here, I work the day after Easter sorting single strands of fake grass.
I am picking remnants of Easter, broken plastic egg shrapnel pieces, as if magic, appear and dissappear.
Melted chocolate that is stuck to the couch, hardened, to be found hidden next year, a basket whose handle, a broken slouch.
A line of purple peeps staring at me, each peep molded to be a perfect match, I smile as I chip away this memory.
Hannah with her fancy pastel dress, Sam, daper, in his yearly suit and tie, another Easter Bunny success.
The Octopus I.
Hey you there octopus longest shy tentacles branching shy tentacles Oh you there octopus such shyness exhibited tentacles fearfully exposed from far away this is just loving touch spirit of far away loved ones, friendships gone.
Hey you there octopus deep within coral reefs hidden in deep low tide having a strong desire flock with the schooled ones tentacles fearfully exposed from far away cover your shyness by millions of octopus chores in the dark cave world.
Oh, you there octopus.
Our Rear View Mirror A month or so ago, my son did pull the rear view mirror from a home above our dash, a scar upon the glass, it fell upon my seat, so pushed it with a shove into my glove compartment, always full of trash and trinkets treated without love.
From when we took you from the hospital and strapped you in secure and safe and sound, with every mile I glanced behind to call your name and wished the time would come around to see your smile when leaves begin to fall, our journey started with each mile of ground.
The time had come for me to see your face to carry conversation every mile, but now a new addition took your place, some old, some new, we longed for quite awhile to see within this rear view mirror, grace, not one but two young hearts to hold a smile.
This time a third did take your place in back, you, son, you, daughter, facing towards the light and son again to brighten up, no slack in belt to hold him, children buckled tight around each seat, the color plastic black, to safely follow rules, this backward rite.
But now, this mirror broken won't reflect your face to join the other two who ride, no longer able with my gaze detect and so to move without a backward tide the future with no mirror to select, we can only keep the move forward.
A Carol for my Father The dance we danced, not quite a waltz, not quite a dance at all. A stumble towards light.
My dad was a teacher, taught me to be a drinker, a drunken foot soldier, to never have a dry well.
I vowed to treat mine better, make things a little saner, make them feel greater, this is the story I will tell.
Today we finger painted paper mache masks, like the painter my son is, his laughter, color and humour mixed well.
The dance we danced, not quite a waltz, not quite a dance at all. A stumble towards light.
An Elegy Written at a Mountain Cemetery A day or two had past in darkened home, our spirits soared with hope yet worn and thin, with sleep upon our eyes we packed our bags with gear to keep our children safe and warm, to hike across the way to Callahan and walk among the pine, among the twigs.
Elias slung on chest and Sam beside my feet, with Hannah close behind, we fell upon a trail through deep thick brush, a trail that lead our step with lightened thoughtful stride, behind we left America to sell its memories tall in pine, behind our sail.
When Sam who ran ahead did call our names and we did hasten up our step to see that nestled deep within this pine was found a plot of land where death had made a claim upon this mountain scene, a silent plea to rest forever lost in natures sound.
We sauntered past each stone to read the word of families lost in time, each solemn verse of dream, each buried deep within this soil. I held my children close with each new chord of song the birds above, solemn, rehearse a memory of seasons filled with toil.
This old America, this wealth here in the trees, to live each dollar step by step, to move the family away to mansions in sky, to provide peace and solace, families, each generation in this plot, this grove of silence set in front of our soft sigh.
Elias cried a little cry, while Sam was knelt beside a mound, and Hannah slept without a sound, a pillow made of grass. With spirits lifted by this walk, this land, with faith renewed in decisions we kept, we gathered up our gear to walk the pass.
Old Rabbit Cages The older frame of rusted chicken wire wraps round a red and rotten wooden frame surrounded by some ragged yellowed pine where rocks and time eroded by the rain now hold the slightly colder springtime air where once the rabbits waited for the fair.
When I was young I painted a still life of common objects found around the home submitted it along with other craft, on both sides pets and animals well known in pedigree, on grounds no longer seen, a ribbon time eroded in the rain.
The Swimming Hole Out by where the warehouses are, behind the greyest building the Truckee River ends itself in muck and grimy current. Beyond a cover of river brush, beyond the sticky mud free living Protozoa swim with their protoplasmic flow.
I the Anorma multiniga came near the hole swimming through the thick fresh water algae, behind which swung flagellate towards a small patch of light, illuminating a path of crud, old mattress, home to the Rhizoclonium Hookeri show.
Here I found Ephelato gemmipora, where shallowing water fell upon mud, he held tightly to his jail time spent, and Anorma brevis drunk on wine wailing for the dead, her two sons fighting to stay alive under the undertow.
Here I found Squaloraphyra stenostyla not caring for the product of her binary fission, she was all spent, it took all her energy, her spirit lost it all in flood of change, sacrificed her simple soul to see her loves bud grow
among the commensal and the parasitic here flailing to rise above the muck, to believe in luck, against there want to use fragile cillia and swim away from fallen reed, empty bottles, bags of dirty clothes, and other signs of low.
A CLEAN HARDWOOD FLOOR Our tattered, temple of kitchen "wheat-hued, wood" weathered, scratched scars, deep scars Grand Canyon, gouged crevices.
Saturate, scented oils deep down, deep down, cleanliness cradled, cork shine veritable varnish, of Visqueen,
goodbye bare, bare wood, a fabric free, gentle footfall, a labor of love, to truly love a region to roam, roam and roam.
Westward Expansion I sit crosslegged underneath this blooming sage at an overlook of valleys expansive stage
to watch the sun set at horizon of canyon once again with thoughts on current lives companion,
where does family go around this western daydream does the horizon end with this brilliant sunbeam
shall I pick up kids pile them into pickup truck keep westward movement my hand at some Steinbeck luck.
Cumin, Coriander, and Cayenne Oregano, mixed with a mist, tumeric, basil, cumin, chopped to dry alone, A red pepper, garlic, garlic powder, cooked with butter and duple verses.
The balsamic vinegar, and again sweet smells, peppercorn, with salt crystals, flavor full to touch, coriander seed, a mustard, Mediterranean with cayenne to spice.