Walking

Hi, last time i tried this, all i got was "to a fish" so i figure it's worth another shot.
I find myself once again in the middle of NorthCarolina on a weekend.
Storm on the way and truck needs loading and driving. But i don't care.
I'm in the woods on a beautiful trail, all forrest gump.
I run awhile, then i walk, then i gather.
Two stones give me spit as the miles fall behind.
All is well,
the walk is good.
Damn the truck,
bring on the storm.
Gotta run, now, i ain't no mushroom!
Have a lovely weekend.
-forrest

A Reason

A Walk, a drive
a train-less track
a rush of cold encase,

find a reason

she was,

- i know,
and you were too
when yesterday lit up the northern green

comets though
and swordfish, too
are children's books of
old man fantasies.

But walks
there on the edge of nothing

still spin copper kettles

of cure

find a reason

hope the amaranth
in autumn petal
dive the depths of corn blossom way

there she be
lay in rest
inside her tentacle mercies

cup of soft full
honey played in harbour of soft whisker

white

she knew the day and commanded the frost of night.

yes, she did.

So a walk it is
along rot gotten tracks
the reason far away and yet always so near
laying just around the bend

of forever
follow the smoke of last nights coal
it is reason enough
and walk aplenty

~rick

Once Ago

Forgive me friends, I found myself feeling limerickish and the next thing you know...But I suppose there is a place, where yesterday meets tomorrow and basks in afterglow. But we'd have to close our eyes to get there.

The sun came up this morning

on the winds of once ago

not just the same ol same ol sun

but a friend i used to know

we talked of days of glory

when cannons thundered low

and also sprigs of trembling touch

of girls from once ago

he rooster ruffled golden gilt to scarlet bedded play

as on a stump i leaned to spy the ease upon his way

he smoked a lantern never pitch that spun me into lull

then painted me a stormy sky

of fretted once ago

i've sentried wars and ended floods
i've crisped the winter snow

i've scorched the green to desert sand

yet bid the flower grow

i've watched your folly, your fits your foil

your sin and its ghastly toll

i've learned what is will always be

fresh squeezed in once agos

i watched his tired eyes fall shut

and felt a deeper cold

and went to find a shaded me

I knew from once ago.

rick

Fist Of Moon

some things
can be felt,
touched, slow handed
but not held.

a flame,
a wave
Lennie’s mouse,
-a kiss, drawn and quartered .

a flame draws,
with its warmth, and slightly drunken dance
and it comforts
-but it burns

Lennie meant no harm,
not knowing love
is much larger than good sense.

Neil Armstrong
sailed to the moon
all tin foil gorilla
but he couldn’t
bring it back,
scratch and grunt.

and if he could,
and if he had,
who might own it?

how much would Disney
charge to ride it?

no,
better off where it is,
belonging
to us all,
and dreams to it.

ever held a wave,
all shimmering glisten
nursed by a tempest sea?

it has moods

it can tickle
it can soothe
it can whisper
-but it can scold

whoever holds the wave
holds the mood.

dare you?

some loves,
like kisses
of an evergreen
swooning to memory
are too big
for holding

they should flit,
free and gentle
grazing many
with evergreen kisses
like the shadow of a dove
released
not knowing a home.

a flame distant
just rightly so.

this love
that poets imagine only
should wade waist deep
into a cleansing wave,
a wash
that passes through and beyond
the unfiltered soul.

Lennie’s mouse
set free
of the tight clenched fist.

Neil tried to bring the moon back
in weightless pockets.
ebay says so

but even ebay
can’t barter the moon
-silly man.

~rick+

Winter

This was sent to me by my good friend, Karen, who was too cowardly to post it herself. It makes a nice companion piece to my screw up fish post. Enjoy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I found this beautiful winter poem and thought it might be a comfort to you.
It was to me, and it's very well written.
ENJOY!



" WINTER "
a poem by Abigail Elizabeth McIntyre







SHIT!!!

IT'S COLD!!!!!

To a fish,

Snow On The Tracks

they’re not tracks,
really,
they’re rails

rails of contract
and ownership
manipulated
regulated
capitulated

tracks are heavy,
but free.
they are what remains
of what has passed
the ticket lost
in a coat that never was

rails are not tracks
at all
except to me

snow upon grass
belongs to the footprint
but the life was in the fall
before the footprint
and that is where I look.

rivers
know beginnings
and endings
in the polluted circle
we call life
but it is the quiet rush
in between
that draws me
to its baptism.

there,
close your eyes,
can you see it?
as it plows barrel like
and headstrong
a thousand boulders
wiping clean the memory
of a thousand hillsides
of tortured remorse

I look softly
but I look deeply
to the tracks
falling away
from the freeway
of man’s twisted hell.


I’m glad for the distance
and bend
for it burps me fresh babe
and I hunger for more
from the breast of longing

rivers are for memories,
snow, ice, stones
and promises
the tracks of yesterday
the light of tomorrow
a kiss not handshake
whipped not stirred.

snow upon the tracks
tells me to come on
tells me it’s late
but not too
so
and racing
only leads backwards

we have rivers to cross
can you hear it say?
memories to polish
or erase
as you choose.

and tomorrows
that require
a journey

look up and smile
ear to ear
as the snow gives
you life
tickling your neck
in the thunder of your hope.

sell your omens
to the blacksmith
and find your track
in the impossible
that treasures your life
if only the key
you’ll use.

and when you come to the river
stand full to its blood
then fall, fall, fall
and flood it
with tears of joy
having found peace
having found life.
having found yourself
in the ghost
of rail less tracks
and a pillow
of virgin snow.

~rick

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