Firewood

My wood stack has a curve to it

       each morning I look out my window

       to see if it has fallen over

stacking fire wood is an art

each piece like each word

       is irregular

the hump of one fits

the hollow of another

       when I was young an old farmer

       saw me stacking wood and said

       “it’ll fall down”. I looked at my

       plumb bob straight work and

       smiled.

       It took 20 days, the stack

       leaned like a dozing drunk

       and landed face down.

I had built my stack east to west

one side parched by the warm sun

the other sucked in the cool green shade

now I stack north to south

and like these words, these lines

have a curve to them

take pleasure in imperfections

       carress each piece, each word

look through the window

       of your life and follow the curve.

Four Poets in Search of a Haiku

if this poem had been a haiku

there would have been a bullfrog,

a bullfrog sitting

up to his eyes in a pond

inhabiting one world

but seeing another

and when we step closer to look

a jump, a splash then ripples on the water

above the pond, a butterfly

clinging to a willow leaf

opens and closes her wings,

swaying back and forth

pushed by a gentle breeze

and when that breeze calms

the only thing that moves

on these snowy pages

is the eye of the black bird

I sigh ---

if this had been a haiku

it would have been finished

many syllables ago,

the ink would have dried,

the paper neatly folded

into the shape of a boat

and set on a slow moving stream

amongst scattered plum blossoms

Smile the Moon is Watching

The frosted tufts of grass cover the hillside

like a blue white chenille spread

the round ball of the moon

hung in the eastern sky,

so bright that my eyes ached.

I was wrapped in wool

puffing a frozen cloud that disappeared

before the next breath formed.

 off to the left an owl

started a conversation

with another in the trees to the right.

 I only had a mile to go

the dog at home knew I was out here

his bark would alert her,

 another log would be added to the fire

the kettle placed on the stove.

 I smiled at that thought

and picked up my pace

Seen through the Outhouse Door

one green leaf

   jewel of the oak

   veined face turned towards the sun.

behind and to the side

   others

 leaf after leaf

 sisters of the forest.

hard thin needles gather

   in family groups in this shadowy ballroom.

thick pillars of redwood

   crossed by ochre

   peeling arms of madrone.

dust particles stunned

   in shafts sent by the sun.

a feathered blue diamond streaks

   from the left down to the right

   bounces onto a branch

and somewhere a fat squirrel

   sits back and laughs

White Crosses & Plastic Carnations

By the side of highways

     with precisely engineered curves

stand white crosses

     like cemeteries

     are cemeteries

no bodies are buried here

however death is surely present

          in the night

          out of the dark

          lights flashing

          blue, red, and white

          sizzling flares

          slow down

          a wave on through

          carefully passing other’s passing

          shining wrecks, tangled metal

          the air is thick with

          alcohol fumed curses

          a child’s cry

          a last breath expelled

                   unhh!

The crosses are always white

sometimes flowered

real flowers at first

then plastic (they last longer)

on a lonely desert highway

the crosses are enshrined

     grottoes of stone (they last longer)

but here on this spot

a white cross with

     red plastic carnations

     forming letters

     a “D”, an “A” and a “D”