Big Brown Dog, and a Roadside Poet

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Everyone deserves to be a poet…for one day.

A knock off…laureate on display.

Fortunate, daughter, it is your day.

I found the river not lost but…wandering.

The water so clamorous,

that pockets of everyday living…can flow, in and around you.

Decisions that can be left for another day.

Battles, won or lost, whether you go or stay.

Coarse, they are, these headstones or markers, along the way.

The big brown dog always aware of impending calamity.

Roots boulder deep…

So much so, they could arise the dead from their sleep.

“It must be not enough to be the voice of someone else’s reason.

It must be enough to be our own reason.”

But these are dreams we dream…when we have no other dreams left.

Blue collar workers of rhyme, denizens of word theft.

Course, there are dried, deadlock, beds…

and, one wonders who else has come before to steal time?

But I have just got my broken feet back on the ground.

And, am not prepared to settle down.

The big brown dog…she does not care.

Taking it as it comes.

Life…that is.

More or less, as long as, there is a roadside rest.

And, the occasional, foot bridge requiring an athlete’s best.

So, it is myself, and the big brown dog…with big brown eyes…

Myself, mostly upright.

She, in a habitat of brown leaves.

Down by a random stream.

Dreaming a roadside poet’s dream.

 

the Last Resort

‘Cause there is no new frontier…

We have got to make it here!

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You call some place paradise…

kiss it goodbye.’

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broken bits of a song…

every time I’ve heard it sung…

there is no admittance for my wrongs.

even in the midst of a rural confession

good time notions are interrupted by the footprints I have left on the ground

I am ignorant in the dirt… of any lesson

the Snow Storm – Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Fastened to the Earth

It is not the colorful display of flowers that enlists me.

Though the warmth they bring.

I await eagerly.

The majesty of a tree…I could ponder, again and again.

Its weight.

Its shelter.

Its ability to defend.

There is truth to the pine, the ash, the birch.

An honesty to being fastened to the earth.

And, even as the solo branch, lumbers to the ground.

It does so without remorse.

And, with little sound.