Cold rain falls in the river, flows down to the sea, gets into the skyline, circles endlessly. Same old rain on the wind, same old pain in my soul.

Monday, December 28, 2009

Auld Lang Syne

ran into an old friend today,
to be sure.

you see,
I was sure,
he was long gone,
even hoped so.

a dreamer,
this one,
that won’t ever
amount to nothing
cept whittlin clouds
into snowflakes.

I was out
in an old familiar
place, hummin an old
familiar tune, from
an old familiar time.

the wind was right
the season sure
the clouds asleep,
just right for carving.

he dropped by
as I was cutting wood
under these here clouds.
he winked
pockets packed
and I wiped my brow
to his knowing.

we agreed to share a beer
and a stump
carved into chair
when January whistled boredom
from ten thousand feet
of day dream.

God, it was good to see him,
though he’s such a fuck
whistles out his ass
and calls it maple syrup;
a real
piece of work,
this one.

we studied the clouds
and weighed em out
like butcher’s beef
along the ridge line
while our fingers numbed
to remembrance
and barley brew.

we wondered
just how long those trees
have swayed
and if Yankee soldiers
ever silhouetted
the sky line
in no reason why.

I showed him the chicken coop
of simple family dreams
that were cashed in
for ten cents on the dollar

the murdered cedars
that would never
make a grape arbor

and the garden
by scorned neglect.

a killin field
only safe for
slum dog rabbits.

he never asked
about the family,
he always knows

we reminisced.
of winters past
and summers
that never were,
but might have been.

we never backslap
or laugh out loud,
we sideways glance
giving comfort.

he didn’t ask how I was
he knows what I am

he didn’t ask
what’s new
or hers past
I never could
draw a winning hand
cept in solitaire
and only if I cheat.

but we drank a beer,
and pretended
it wasn’t cold
-the day that is,
and it was enough.

we of tripped up dreams
and tangled ledger.

our failures hang upon trees in Mexico
like misguided butterflies
that couldn’t
spawn a maggot
in a shit pile.

but a shrug
a beer
a broken ridgeline
and an old friend
cures all today
and hides tomorrows
where I’ll pretend
not to look.

now, the clouds are
the beer is kind,
and the friendship,

a toast then
to another year
another ten penny nail
in thread bare tires
on a bus
comin in from Buffalo.

and a toast to him
and to clouds,
and to you,
and what almost was.

Happy New Year


Monday, December 21, 2009



I began writing this in a moment, on a very bad day when I thought I had lost something dear and precious. Later, I found hope and added hope to this. I am opening comments to this because Shadow has threatened me with great bodily harm if I don't.

The village was nondescript. Except that it lay on the edge of where war had once been. The big one.
He walked the fields that lay dormant for a thousand years. He cried as he walked, remembering what could not be forgotten.
His feet fell heavy and lifted even heavier, as if clay learned roots to better torment the living.
Old women hung laundry in the damp hopelessness and men counted coins in their shops to mark time. But it was he, the conscience of their soul, that could not be ignored. They watched him and dwelt in his misery, as children scratched marks in cold stone.
The snow fell as Christmas snow should. Green chased red in never ending tag. The children lay upon beds of makeshift dreams and colored green trees under orange crayons of sunshine, as December blew through the cracks.
She did the dishes in hopes of his late return. Shame kept her from the children. Fear kept her from the window.
One of the children, the smallest, looked up out the frosted window to the neighbor's laughs, racing from window to window. And wondered.
It was three in the morning. Another hour to go as he looked to the arm of his stiff blue
security uniform of feigned importance. Spending time he noticed his wrists and then his hands. So soft. Not the brown leather hands his grandfathers wore like worn suitcases, their people's history carried all right there. His, too soft. He pulled his sleeves low. Old women in generic hair pulled greasy handles as if a basket of dimes would really matter now. Grateful husbands, miserable old bastards really- slept in peace dreaming of flat tires on buses of glory.
Glory. Yes, what glory for a tribe that once ruled the plains and now hoodwinked and babysat old white women for miserable old bastards. He looked at his watch again and briefly thought of long ago, and seasons out of time.
In the beginning was light, and the light was good. Then there were seas, and the seas were good. Then were there trees, and grass and green fruit, and it was all good. Then a moon, a Sun and stars beyond measure. And it was good. Then great whales and beasts and great birds and all that, was good also.
Then there was man and he was given dominion over all that was good.

I dream.

A village of gentle breezes where the air dries perfectly. A place where coins have no place and children roll and laugh in fields of wildflowers as men smoking empty pipes smile in feathered line and lean to friendly trees that have never seen a war.

I dream.

A Christmas Morn where every child knows love and laughter in marshmallow hugs and the green catches the red in a new colour. A December that doesn't play favorites.

I dream.
Of peace and buffalo on a golden plain of simple existence. A field of harmony in a world void of tour buses and slot machines.

I dream, because I believe. He who called it good says the lion will once more lay down with the lamb. This is my hope.
Merry Christmas~rick

Monday, December 7, 2009


There are images from our past. Music. Sights. Smells. Sounds. Some stay with us in photo-shop breakdown. I see a certain colour combination and it reminds me of something from long ago but I’m not sure what. What I do know is that these triggers alter my emotions and pin stripe my moods.
I’m fortunate that I rarely fall to triggers that take me to black and I feel for those susceptible to such recurrences. Me, I see an empty parking lot at two-am with a steady snow falling through the yellow light and the sound of a plow scraping across town somewhere and I pocket down and smile deep, knowing school will be cancelled.

the gold that white ambulates
sparkles in midnight glitter.

black painted silver
sweeps down
in exposed waves of accumulation
telling soft tales
of Winter solitude
under the lone light
of an empty school lot.

viewed in this manner,
snow is understood.

a train heard,
through blind hills
but all encompassing
it penetrates the village
soothing the ancient
luring the young
giving the wind voice
in the language of
where and when

heard in this manner,
time is understood.

the rhythm of tired waves
the stillness
of the red-tails glide
an alone child
on a squeaky swing


A grandmother’s shaky smile
a gift in tender wrap
weeping incited
by long ago scent

do you remember

the sound of rain on your tent?
the taste of your first red kool-aid?
the smell of your first barbeque?
the softness of your first kiss?
the wetness of your first good kiss?
the trust in a friends eyes?
the way of a spring storm?
the warmth of a fall breeze?
the crunch of fresh snow?

then you have understanding
and a recipe
for tomorrow’s hope.