Jumping From Clouds

How do we get from here to there and there back again and somehow make sense of it all? How did we get there in the first place? Maybe we just went to sleep one night and woke up to find our dream was real and our dilemma sure. Ah, if only one knew where Jacob kept his ladder!





today,
I jumped off a cloud.
soft you suppose,
and why would I,
you wonder.

but see you here,
it is only soft from below,
as it entices your thoughts
to dangerous levels
in treachery’s drift.

to those of us
who cower
from lofty advantage,
we only see
the hard below
and the black
above.

I mused of exploration
but how does one measure
depth
of cotton mirage?

I thought of
gathering,
but my pockets laughed
and my eyes
googled the result.

I thought of breaking
it’s spirit.
rope and ride and
wrangle the yahoo!
but it slumbered
to my threat.

perhaps,
I could accouter.
a sun roof?
no,
that would be redundant.

A stereo?
the thunder would laugh.
wipers?
the rain falls down,
silly!
whitewalls?
who could tell?

I spied a girl,
in a field below.

she was spinning shitties
for no particular reason
and no obvious audience,
save me.

she had a sun roof,
a stereo that knew
Kate Wolf
and whitewalls.

she cared nothing
of the rain.

So I jumped off the cloud.

but she was too fast,
too wild,
and I missed.

Now I ride the cloud,
but I can no longer
jump off,
or know fear.

I miss the girl,
and I miss the fear.
~rick

Storm On The Horizon

To see an approaching storm, especially in an alone morning, is to inspire my soul to pass beyond my body and grab hold of a thunderbolt and ride it to someplace magical. Someplace other than me and the chains the blue of a false sky have applied.




gravy black
in cauldron bubble
rising
inside out
in summer spill

slow motion rollers
Brutus
in leathered walk
and steel bands
of outward press

thundering
heaven’s prairie
it drives
the chariots of terror
with whips
of bone and feathered iron
across dreams
smothered in platinum

but rough cut
dreams
in leathered passion
thrive
and prosper
in the vibrato of fury

iron sharpens iron
and trembling
comforts fear
as one moons
to another’s terror
in twisted ambiguity

the daylight
peeking from corners
frames the somber
portent
of wild unrestrained
while assuring relief
through chastisement

This,
the place,
the cradle,
the hope,
the bed,
the tomb,
where thoughts
are bred
to be borne.

dreams to be inspired.

hope to be polished.

fear to be ridden.

~rick

Dragonflies & Butterfly Fish

It was a thousand years ago, and somehow just yesterday.

Public beaches, jet skis, fishermen and her to he on a hot July afternoon. She always was the one with brass balls and a way with water. His choices were obvious.

should we?

I suppose not.

I will.
I know.

is not my smile
enough?
yes.

is not the whiteness
of my raised chill
enough?
more than.

watch me.
see my hair
float, then lay.
see my arms
orchestrate
as humble wheat
to August wind.

this I see.

do not my eyes
paint the wet around me?

yes.
in deep-sea mascara.

The fish,
how they wag.
the dragonflies
who light upon my shoulder,
all speak approval
while to all others
I don’t even
~exist.
-
do I exist
to you?
yes.
the dragonflies say so,
and I believe.

this moment ,
this chance,
will swim to distant shores
in the wake of
butterfly fish.
and the coupling of blue-green
eyes
will fly
on the magic
of dragonfly wings.

yes,
my tears
that hide
and strain
behind my tame torn heart
say it is so.

so come to my depth.
I’ll light upon your hips
and teach you
what dragonflies
and butterfly fishes
have taught me.
-
will you?
will you come to my depth?
yes.

and he did.
and they swam.
and the distant shore
waited in vain.
~rick

The Golden Boy

hooves
upon hard pack gravel
spoke beauty
in time-scape

the fruit boxes
all in toss and stain worn
coloured the grey
of no match.

the loveliness
of the Mexican bride,

of her smile,
in the window of the rusted truck,
asking directions
from the Pennsylvania Dutch
went far beyond
digital ability

and painted the desert

of Kentucky gloom.

a thousand images
in a single frame
and yet-
it was the boy, always the boy,
the boy
with the strawberry-blonde
twist
and the smile
of a thousand golden joys
turned back, looking
over the buckboard
that froze time
and rendered hearts
useless
in the glory
of harvest nuance.

~

for his mind,

his spirit,

his beauty,

could see beyond our vision,

into a tomorrow

we may never know.

~rick

The Power Of Suggestion

A man went for a walk one day. On his mind were the things which held title to his sleep, and chains upon his heart.
The walk took him past houses in smattered settlement, churches of ancient hollow ringing, and schools of broken promises.
His walk was deep-pockets down and fevered brow, and he tried to hide himself in shrunken mobility.
So many hopes in so many yesterdays now echoed in the wash of empty buildings and long ago schemes and they followed him in silent maniacal laughter.

To the children of chalk and jump rope, he smiled and gave way. To the bent, squat widow with an armload of store in paper, he nodded to her solitude and armored grief.
His slurred steps eventually led to a park, or so the sign said, but it was empty and un-peopled and that was enough.
He found a bench of carved graffiti and moldy bird shit and sat down to settle the noon squabble within. The pond was inviting, speaking in mist, “Come, drown here.” So he looked away. He looked to the sky, but the sky stared him down in folded shun, saying, “You’ll never know me.” He looked to the ground and the ground said hello.
It was here, bent sullen upon a beggar’s bench, that it came to him. At first, as just a shadow burying him deep, and then as voice.
“What troubles you, friend?” The voice prodded.
The man in the cage said nothing.
“Mind if I sit?” And the voice did.
“Perhaps things are not so bad as they seem,” the voice crossed it’s legs. “Perhaps I may even be of some assistance.”
The man glanced over but not up. “Oh, yeah. How do you figure?”
The voice shifted a bit closer and cleared it’s throat.
“Well, if it's money you need....”
For the first time, the man looked up, but only to the voices chin, and interrupted it.
“Well,” the man acquiesced, “money would help!”
“I see,” the voice straightened, “and how much money are we referring to?”
“Oh, I’d say a hundred thousand dollars would do quite nicely.” The man clucked in cynical fashion.
“I see,” the voice paused. “That is quite a sum, to be certain.”
The man looked away. “Tell me about it!”
After a period of silence, the man stretched to rise but the voice stopped him.
“What if I were to tell you, that I am prepared to give you the money. All of it.”
The man looked to the voices knees.
“Give, huh? Just give.” The man sneered and looked away.
“Yes, That’s quite correct. Just give. With just one condition.”
The man raised his head in mock agreement. “Ah, of course. A condition,” the man continued. “ Like seventy percent interest payable next week.”
The voice put it’s hands to it’s knees and rubbed.
“No, nothing like that. Just a verbal commitment.”
“I see,” the man in the cage replied. “And what is it you’d have me agree to.”
“It’s very simple really. You give me your soul. I give you one hundred thousand dollars. Deal done. You’ll not see me again.”
The man grinned and rubbed his chin. “Let me get this straight; I say, ‘here, have my soul’ and you give me a hundred thousand dollars, and I don’t have to pay it back, and you disappear. Is that right?”
The voice stood once more as shadow only. “Yes, that is correct, Sir.”
The man kicked at the dirt in amusement. “Well, OK, Partner-you can have my soul. Now where’s my money?”
The voice turned to leave. “You’ll find it on the table when you return home. Good day.”
And with that, the shadow gave way to light and the man was once more alone.
The man stood and looked about him. The pond and sky no longer spoke to him. The burden on his shoulders had shifted to the pit of his stomach, and the voice was nowhere to be seen. He walked home and smiled not to the children of chalk. He glared to the women of stoop and groceries and bitterness poured gravy on self pity and gorged itself fat.
There was, of course, money on the table, neat and to the penny. And he was never again to know the voice. And of what he had said, he had only said. Words of false alarm.
His problems abated, for a time. Then new problems came to fill the void. But the voice never again came in offer. Had it ever really been real?
Perhaps it had all been a dream.
But his thoughts changed. His heart changed. The sky changed. The moon turned to steel and the sun to molten hourglass.
Just saying something doesn’t make it so-does it?

~rick

Teaching Hummingbirds

I live deep in the, well, -shit. Far from anything resembling a town or village, if you please. But what we lack in two legged beasts, we more than make up for in birds and critters. Idiots that we are, we feed them as if they’d starve otherwise. Or maybe we just like playing God. Anyways, hummingbirds come by the dozens daily. Thirty at a time. Four feeders of four openings but it’s never enough for the greedy buggers and they never seem to get enough. They really are quit rude and their language awful. I must teach them proper manners some day.






the bar is open,
come one, and come all
portals to nectar
sweet julep
of crimson.

I’ve put one here,
and there
and filled them to full
admission is free
and the ambience
floral
with just a hint of
ant.

I’ll be your host,
please have a seat.
now, now behave!
there is plenty for all.

but behave you do not!
pooping my porch,
sneering your buzz
shagging the slow
and chasing new guests.

such language! I never,
and what right?

now you, over there,
and you, wait your turn.
no fighting, no scolding
no shagging, be nice.

oh, no? so you say.
shoo shoo
impetuous rascal

I’ll take them away.
yes I will, wait and see.
I’ll teach you of manners
and how you should be.

is that boy on my yard?
hey you! get away
who ate the last cupcake
and drank all the wine
I’ll pee where I want
to claim it as mine.
ooh, Fay Johnson looks good
through the hole in the fence,
I think that she wants me,
it’s only good sense.

if only you birds
could be civil,
like me
you’d live in a house,
and not in a tree!

~rick

Summer Visitor

How many times had he walked this path? Daily and for the few years his legs had known.
Just a dirt trail along the riverbank that led from house to town and back again. Sometimes it was to go to the store for his mother. Sometimes to visit a friend. Sometimes to fish or just sit upon the rock. But always, it was plain and uneventful.
A few others knew the path, but no one he looked forward to running into.
All that changed on July 17, 1972.
It was hot, as usual and the bugs flooding the weeds screamed out in anguished rituals of mating. A fish could be heard jumping occasionally beyond the cattails lining the shore. And the smell, the ever-present smell that rivers in July give off permeated the way.
He swiped along the dirt with the stick he had picked up and occasionally picked up a large rock and heaved it over the cattails just to hear the splash. When he rounded the bend where the boulder offered faithful rest, he glanced up and stopped mid stride in shock. There, sitting upon the rock, his rock, with one knee cocked up in all it’s sunburned glory, was a girl. Not just any girl, but a pretty girl. Young and strange and beautiful.
There, sitting upon his rock.
She was wearing only her underwear and they clung to her, obviously wet as her pants and shirt splayed the rock to soak up the hot sunlight.
The choices available to him were immediately taken away as she sensed his presence and turned to meet his gaze. He felt embarrassed and trapped, but she only smiled and turned back to the river.
“What’s the matter?” the words carried out over the water. “Haven’t you ever seen a girl before?”
He didn’t answer . He wasn’t sure how to.
She turned her head and lay it on her arm, which rested across her knee.
“It’s OK, I don’t bite”
He moved a little closer, but still didn’t speak.
Even in his youthful unknowing, he couldn’t help but study her. She was about his age, maybe a little older. Long dark hair that knew no certain direction, and her body had shape. He was amazed that she wasn’t embarrassed to be found this way and that she hadn’t shrieked and raced to cover up as he would have expected.
She looked him up and down in a way that made him feel naked even though he was fully clothed. It seemed she looked right through him to someone else on the other side. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight and she again spoke.
“What’s your name? Mine’s Miriam.”
“Jeff,” was all he could muster, and was even surprised to hear that come out.
“Jeff is nice,” she offered. “You live close by?”
He turned and pointed to where he had come from. “Yeah, bout a mile that way.”
“Well, pull up a rock, Jeff, plenty of room for two.” She moved her jeans over a little and patted the rock.
Jeff knew the girls from school. He knew the girls from his church, from his neighborhood and from stories both told and read. But he knew nothing of a girl like Miriam. She was from Bloomington and was staying at her aunts for a month while her parents went to Europe.
She talked. Slow, easy and plain. When she smiled, her breath fell on his face like buttercups in a spring time pasture. Some times her arm brushed his own and he shivered from the connection.
She talked- he listened. She talked of the city, of rivers, of dreams. Of growing up in Bloomington. He too, cocked a knee up and his eyes, too, began to sparkle, as the rhythm of her spirit caressed his youthful heart.
By mid afternoon, he too, stripped to his underwear and they waded the soft mud and swam to gentle eddies.
Several nights later, they swam under a full moon while even their underwear kept to the rock.
Miriam taught Jeff how not to fear. She taught him how to kiss without worry of failure. She taught him how to grow, how to dream. She taught him of passion without shame. She taught him of love and of leaving.
By the end of summer, Miriam was gone. Back to Bloomington. The rock was barren once more, though he put his nose close to find just a trace of her scent, a scarce trace letting him know she was real.
He didn’t heave large rocks over the cattails anymore, but rather skipped small stones and he wondered why. And he thought of Bloomington, and of damp white underwear, and love upon the sand.