AT THE CREEK

by her creek of solitude the ravens are calling
and over the smooth rocks water is falling
flowing from the mountains where moss and sedge
caress with softness the roots and ledge
beneath branches of cedar and birch bower
shine the light towards the forest flower
more quiet than dreams and softer than ringing
the birds with their zen notes are singing

the high-voiced chickadees feeding at day time
they whistle summer songs of winter-time
when the raven's shadow lurks and branches hurtle
the chickadees fly for cover under branches of myrtle
when rain and rays of sun grow together
they sing with Buddha not to worry about weather
and below the rainbow of feathers unfolden
there is yellow and green like golden

she sits by the creek remembering childhood
listening to the sounds and colors of the wildwood
holding the silence of youth without fashion
words of the beats mixed with heartbeats of passion
rock and blues strung together with laughter
like the chickadees above in the forest rafter
far from the city and that black alley
here in the moment above the mountain valley
not caring or being sore of any losses
sitting at the creek staring at the mosses


credit photo Wayne Pitchko

SUPERMARKET ART

he was strolling down aisle four
a solitary street towards frozen foods
fatigued by plenty of breathing
and too much Kerouac
searching for his canned whore

walking all day without shopping
a death march of overstocked shelves
rushed by the deadline of failure
and too many uppers
running towards more pill popping

he stopped at the congregation of boredom
a self-conscious row of soup cans
touched by visions of pop art
and to many Camel cigs
Andy Warhol silk screened some

DEAD LOVER

I started out as a fallen seed
some offspring of a mature cedar
growing up next to a pine
stranded beside the creek
like two parallel soldiers standing guard

seizing the warmth of the sun
never talking
sometimes whispering in the breeze
we grew together
branch by branch we started holding hands

as the years went by we became closer
entangled in each others branches
we fed our friendly woodpeckers
shared our space with a squirrel family
listened to the advice of the raven

surviving another forest fire
thinking we would die together
cuddled in each others arms
always saluting the sky
life started to change

being attacked by the pine beetles
Jack started to change color
green..yellow..rusty red
turning blue with grey spot
slowly I watched him die
in my arms

DESERT PHONE BOOTH

fifty miles from the interstate
in the middle of Black Rock Desert
riding on a rented bicycle
bound for Burning Man
stopping at the last phone booth
when the phone rings

within the absence of my shadow
and my lost soul
I let it ring five hundred times
before answering the calling cactus
from the motherboard of Burning Man
lighting up the booth one more time

after three hours of waiting
and trapped by the miseries of mystics
I heard her pause
then cough five hundred times
before turning off the lights
for the last time

NO FINGERS

he wrote his last poem drunk
a man in pain that couldn't write
an unemployed wino who couldn't work
or light his cigarette

he lived in a small room of madness
living lessons never learned
an east end preacher who couldn't preach
or turn the pages

he died in a skid road hotel lost
with his sleeping bag beside him
an old poet who couldn't read
or tie his laces

CHECKMATE

like a ghost that hasn't made peace
with the black rooks
she lies with them
inundated by the shadows below her
one move at a time
a white queen surrenders to the rooks

when one move was not good as another
remembering the knights last move
that plumbs deep into her soul
she made a gracious bow to the audience
with abstractions without smoke or flame
moving without pawns to protect her

forgiven forgotten and unfulfilled
Plath headed for emergency exit
towards the darker intensities
and sunless depths of the sea
looking for that distant flame
she turned on the gas

WALKING IN HIS MOCCASINS

we should all walk in his moccasins
a wide path beginning in the plains
walking up snow covered mountains
along rivers towards the oceans
across the lonely deserts
battling the dark nights
where the stars lead the way
towards that full moon

where the buffalo flies in the sky
with visions sent by the Great Spirit
and day and night dwell together
respecting the sacred web of life
preserving the land that is sacred to all
like the silent footsteps of spring
and the changing prints of autumn
the earth is part of us

where the ravens swim in the ocean
with powers of the medicine man
and colors live in harmony
remembering the wisdom of elders
knowing the stones are wiser than you
like the warm footsteps of summer
and cold truth of winter
we are part of the earth

if we walked in his moccasins
we would see the width of his plains
feel the warmth of her mountains
look after the rivers and oceans
sleep in their deserts
share the darkness of the night
with the brightness of the stars
circling the full moon together

HOLDING HIS DREAM

he didn't see the days of freedom
only imprisonment for subversive political activities
troubled by critics
disappointed in love
always holding that Bolshevik dream

from the vantage point of Novodevichy Cemetery
he reached out for himself
beyond his rose covered bed
with two hands of rejection
holding his red dream

indulging in fantasy and suffering
frustrated by thoughtless lies
alienated from soviet reality
Mayakovsky the revolutionary poet shot himself
with his gun holding his dream