1985

1985 was a good year. I was a younger me, just rightly so. I think I may be a younger me this coming year also. I will walk fresh and smile just rightly so. Walk with me.

I remember the water,
and
wondering of its
silent, murky capture

oblation
in perfect
split

the incense
of life
in death

I remember,
salmon
oblivious
in perfect
determination.

loss
the only matter
in a world
full of help.

I remember
hikes
in crazy trespass
Cheechaco
to a practiced
brutality.

I remember,
moose
rumbling freight trains
on side-split
tracks
making perfect sense
out of nonsense

headless monsters
grazing
the green bottom
of terrified ponds
and how gravity
tickled
the flow
of their up rise
in frameless
masterpiece.

mosquitos
tents and Beamers
Melinda
and the history
that chased
me.

I met God,
that summer
in desperate
bargain.

I chased Katie
and met Frosty
on his way down.

I made bad coffee
on sand spits
an earthquake coughed up
in mock
laughter.

I made money
and spent
it.

then I returned.
but
not all of me.

I wonder,
do I wait,
there,
for myself?

~rick

Auld Lang Syne

ran into an old friend today,
unexpected,
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
killed
by scorned neglect.

a killin field
only safe for
slum dog rabbits.

he never asked
about the family,
he always knows
anyway.

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

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

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

he didn’t ask
what’s new
or hers past
knowing
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
asleep
the beer is kind,
and the friendship,
revisited.

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

~rick

Hope

I

I

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

Understanding

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
distant
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

patience

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

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.

~rick

Nicole and Dan

I know most people assume I only think and write nasty, acerbic shit, so forgive me if I take a short break from the negative. I've been reflecting on my children, and how they've managed to grow into absolutely wonderful, brilliant adults in spite of my leadings. I encouraged their drowning in lakes and jumping from cliffs. I told them the dastardly tales of my youth and of my foibled history. I've led them in poverty all over this country and taught them that Pepsi for breakfast was perfectly fine. I've never imposed a curfew on them. I've never grounded them.

I've never had to.

For some reason they've just always had a weird knack for doing what's right and it still drives me crazy. It's so not me.

So I guess I must credit their Mother, though she swears it isn't her. Anyway, I was thinking on them a bit lately. This is what resulted.

Nicole

I have a daughter. I love her dearly. She's grown now. A mystery always. Always sleek and under the radar. Words are used only when necessary.

the harbour
it looks still
and peaceful
from this hillside

I squat
ancient observer

was a time
the time
when I worked
the dock

she stayed close
back then

her wake was playful
her conning tower
flowered
to the stars

I rubbed her
I smoothed her
I polished her
-she let me

but the day
has grown on,

the shadows stretch

her wake is strong
and
full of purpose

she polishes
herself
in her movement

a barnacle

wouldn't dare approach

so I walk the hillsides
that surround
her emergence

ancient observer

she goes out now
much farther
much deeper
reinforced
by the learning
of her engine,
the motive
of her rudder
and the pull
of the tide

others watch
and give passage
to her sleekness
as she slowly disappears
below the surface

one day,
she won’t return
neither good nor bad
it just is
the way of life

so I walk
the hillside
ancient observer

and dream of where she’s going
and hope
her bunkers filled
and her seams dry

and I hope
as she slides
beneath the surface
that her periscope
will rise once
and turn
to look
for the
ancient observer
who looks from squat
upon a windblown
hillside.

Dan

I have a son. I love him. He's brilliant, and funny when frustrated. Loves to argue. Dabbles in everything. Extremely creative. He always tries to do the right thing-nothing like me. I wonder where it will all take him.

a strange one,
this long, lanky
bird.

a hard thinker
from his roots
of tender lily

I don’t miss
the times we had
so much
as the times
we never had
and should have.

a boat builder
of tobacco sticks
he might have seen it float
-had I seen it float

he believes in science
and logic
and modern man

my belief in such
lies fragmented
in the craters
of a war
beyond this earth.

he wants,
I think,
to be battleship
but one that swerves
to avoid sea turtles
or stops to rescue
broken birds

I don’t know how to tell him
why
he can’t be both.

I just know he can’t.

he’s stronger than me
he will be battleship
in the name of progress
and logic.

I wish him well
but I wish him
stars over gps
and enough trouble
to keep him spirit

me,
I will take the broken bird
and tired turtle
and swim for an island
that knows no
anchorage

and dream
of tobacco stick boats
and a little boy
who once sailed
a plastic lid
across a lake
with a sister
for crew.

and miss the times
we never had.

(I sorrow greatly for any love I ever held back. I know them to be forgiving)

~rick

Making Sense Of It All

I have a problem. Nothing in this world makes sense to me anymore except crazy lyrics to washed-out old songs. Funny, I remember a time when I thought I had the world figured out, but didn’t have a clue what Bernie Taupin was trying to say. Go figure.

Making Sense of it All

Levon,
Levon likes his money…

Google gave me directions,
last week
clickety tick
flippety whirr
zip! zip! zip!

we’re on a first name basis,
this Google fellow
and
I

he’s very helpful
and I trust him

so when he said left,
left I went
with a thank you
so very,
very much!

Levon wears his war wound
like a crown…

he was big
mean
and ugly
this Pennsylvania
troll
with stomp your ass
boots

I told him about Google
and the beauty of
mornings
all sunshine
and enlightenment

you know, right?

he didn't know.

he only
bit
and chewed
and nashed
and puckered both
our asses

I guess
to someone-
somewhere,
$18,550.00
is not so large
a traffic ticket

Levon sells cartoon balloons
in town
his family business
thrives…

I’m thinking Brazil.

will the mean man
from Pennsylvania
follow me
like Popeye Doyle?

the Rio Connection

my purse-cinched
employer
feels rather bad
and wishes me well
from tenth story
windows
mascara’d by the
glare

Jesus,
blows up balloons
all day
he’s on the porch swing
watching them fly….

another man
who loves peace
and good prayer
went quail hunting
on God’s
Texas ranch

not sure he had a license
though,
he thought
he did

feathers and ribbons
everywhere,
all
tangled in stars and stripes.
but the taxidermy man
can clean it up
with speeches
and bugles

now the quail
have taken arms
against the liars
with un-apple pie names
but I fear,
for quail are not always
so bright
and the pound
of flesh
must be sliced
and broiled to perfection.

take a balloon
and
go sailing…

I went into a bathroom
today
and sat down

the wall said,
“die niggers!!!”
and
“Mary Jo is a whore”

dangerous,
these quail
of very little brain

…
while Levon
slowly dies…

I listen to the man
of eloquent speech
and secret
birth
and wish to believe
his banner of hope
but aged cynicism
stews a cold shoulder
in dented pots

he was born
a pauper to a pawn
on a Christmas day
when the new york times
said God was dead
and the war’s begun
Alvin Tostig
has a son today…

Bob Dylan
has a Christmas album
I guess William Shatner
was busy
I think Cat Stevens
felt too much
and now,
thinks too much.
John Denver
wouldn’t give the Russians
ten million
to fly their space ship
then nose dived
a puddle
near Pebble Beach
perfect.

Stevie Nicks

now blasts Lindsay Lohan

for poor choices,

huh???

and Jesus,
he wants
to go to Venus,
leaving Levon
far behind…

Toby Keith

says he'll put a boot

in the ass of all

who don't fall in line,

and sings that

he likes that her kids
cry down the hall
while
the Dixie Chicks
dislike senseless wars
and oil driven
bombs

now Toby
wades fields of
green confetti
while
Natalie smells
of rotten
tomato

in banishment

How do we like him now?
just fine,
thank you

And Levon likes his money,
spends his days
counting
in a garage,
by the motorway…

I remember the young man
laying lifeless
in blood and

a runaway's tears
at Kent state.

It’s fading,
though.
was she fourteen?
does it even matter anymore?
the man who pulled the trigger,
the American soldier
who STILL eats
apple pie

and toe taps to Toby,
he who aimed
and pulled
does he remember?
67 rounds in 13 seconds,

damn, that's some shootin!

and they fixed bayonets.

did you know that?

we bayonetted our children.

-in Ohio

Cuz he likes the name,
and he sends him to
the finest school
in town…

I remember,
many years ago,
a woman with twin
daughters

just one year old.
-can you hear them
pleading for a pick me up?
anyway,
she left them alone,
in the house,
while she went out
in her yard,
in the Maine cold
to hang laundry
or some other
such malfeasance .

this rebel

wore mittens,
white ones,

to keep her fingers warm.

A hunter shot her
dead.
BLAM! BLAM!
right through the heart.
clean as a whistle
dead as a doornail.
the little girls waiting
must have wondered
of the sound,

and the cries of "Dear God help me"

that the neighbor lady heard.

how dare she wear white mittens
in her yard.

they bellered and arm waved
in uproar
and
the invading survivors
were driven
back to Iowa
where they belong.

ungrateful bastards!

the hunter lost his license
and was greatly
inconvenienced
and all was well,
once more.
Her name was Karen Wood.
do you remember?

my friend, Google

can help.

if we reached up
and spun
the sun
would we get
another turn?

or just more shots?

he shall be Levon
he shall be a good man
in the tradition
of the family plan.

{since I've penned this, just last week, a 23yr old girl, a college student collecting frogs with two friends for biology class, was shot dead. BLAM BLAM!! right into oblivion. Her friend was only shot through the hand. Guess that one can't go on the wall. How frikken bad can one want a deer? Do deer in Virginia and Maine look like students and mothers? A year or two ago in Minnesota, an old guy hunting from his lawn chair in his driveway shot a horse out from under a young girl next door. Everyone but the young girl and horse thought it was a hoot. LOL}
~rick

Northern Sky

Well, if there's any I haven't completely offended yet, this just might knock the fence-sitters down. Sometimes we find ourselves out of our element and in the rush to blend in, stumble into something better left to experts. I've spent many years in the South. Being a foreigner, it took me awhile to find my way. But the truth is, I'm Northern. Always will be. I just need to be a better visitor to the South.



Disclaimers;

Warning #1- The language in this piece is rough and raw. If you are offended at all by such language, you may want to skip this read.

Warning#2-To all my friends south of the Mason-Dixon; please put on another layer of skin. I know the south is beautiful and the list long as to why so, this is just a tongue in cheek post about finding myself far from home.




how
I’ve swooned
and wooed
to the southern belle charm
just a hip swagglin whore
eyelash batting her way
into
confederate ranks.

oh, yes,
she slapped my sloppy white ass
while bubble gum popping
to my school girl giggle

“well, mah, aintchu a perky thang!”

why yes, ma’am, I demurred.
all rubbin my ass,
sweet and shy

I flashed my tah tahs
and threw up at Bristol
got banged by four
under a peach tree in Atlanta
and two-finger whistled
a Dallas rodeo
while he slipped his hand
down my panties
to take my temperature

she always said,
“ya’ll come back!”
but that’s the problem;
she always said it
and she always called me ‘Hon’

my ass got sloppier.

not sure if it was Bubba’s BBQ
or Bubba’s cooking me
over his rusty tailgate.

now don’t get me wrong,
ain’t nothing wrong with Bubba
or his bent up gate.

ain’t nothing wrong with
Earnhardt or Bristol
or getting fucked
under a peach tree
by boys baked
in the jungle heat
all ‘baccer plug droolin

but I woke up
one day,
all tramped out.
.
I smelled it fore I seen it.

I tried from the window,
but it was too small.
So I kicked open that door,
that mother son of a bitchen door
and stepped outside.

There it was,
higher than I remembered it.
smoky,
bronze and gray
and three sheets to the wind
yet stone sober
and beautifully stoic

the northern sky.
My Northern Sky.
The sky that coddled my wet dreams
in moose shit
and bear scratch.

the sky that froze the moon white
and lured me to hidden wonders
the sky that made me one with the universe
on starry nights of chosen solitude.
The sky that understood Christmas
and strong armed spring behind the rockies

it shouldered me,
now,
in the doorway
through mournful cries
of a weeping wind
that a cypress
could never translate.
but I could,
with the help of a pine
and a hungry grayjack

the southern lady
wouldn’t give two shakes of a stick
for this bullshit we call North

blizzard sittin
to a five gallon bucket
on a twenty below field of scarred ice

mosquito slappin
to the last sunfish
on a loon guarded lake

snow shovelin
cable jumpimg
pipe freezing son of an ornery ass mother

we’re too stupid to make money at a yard sale,
we just wanna get rid of shit
and our barbeques
are mostly just hamburger


A girl hardly ever
gets banged by four guys
under a tree
cuz it’s too damn cold,

pine needles hurt
and she’d slap em silly
for the try

So now my ass
is not so sloppy
I’m relearning
“good deal” and “you betcha”
and I’ve become invisible
below 72 degrees


my perfidy forgiven,
the Northern sky
has come to scold

and take me home.

~rick