Madras, Oregon | August 21, 2017

Bob Dylan

... and it continues 

to this day

he, a magpie, of sorts 

collected not only 

pretty

but the unusual 

head scratching truth 

missed by others 

yet seen  

for the first time 

open minds 

that open eyes 

were blind to see 

he filled his pockets

on streets and alleyways 

his clickety clacking typewriter

revealed  

now empty pockets 

a mind smudged 

with black ink 

hammered 

to white paper

messages 

from the future

revealed

to our memories

of the past.

Where have all the Bloggers Gone?

It was as though 

the Santa Ana winds 

came suddenly 

in the night 

so that in the morning 

I sneezed

and again

the warm air

now alive 

pollen 

and whatever 

more

yet the 

stilled air 

the mountains

like 

one of those 

super realism paintings

the spine of LA

with the march of peaks 

holding back 

the onslaught of sand

the Mojave beyond

we nestled on this side

the Pacific

holding us at bay

and all those writers

poets and artists 

for years at the break

of dawn

tapping their hearts out

filling their blogs

for who?

they only hoped

an audience?

awaiting the words

to spill over 

as the coffee brewed 

we had our favorites

always open for 

just one more

the mundane 

made holy 

as minds reached out

for kindred spirits

to share the moment

a place in time 

this time

our time

on this mote

of rock

we call Earth

then someone blinked 

who? I don’t know 

but time caught up

with some

as if a cane

excused one so

others never held

onto anything for long

so letting go

for them

was as natural

as it is 

for me

to hold on tight.

That Day

The foot slipped
off the rocks 
with gravity 
to blame
for the twist
and the limp
that followed
down the mountain
divided the moments 
with tiny blue 
and yellow flowers
in bloom 
the shade beneath
the pine and fir
cooled the breeze
between winces
then a large boulder
edging the creek 
provided a respite 
as the boot was unlaced
the sock pulled 
icy water
numbed the twist 
as he caught
a glimpse 
he thought
a brook trout? 
the mazy lines
olive green?
red spots with
blue halos
then gone
as his eyes
rested   
a garden of bracken 
the other side
and only later
did he discover 
a dried fern frond
a fiddlehead
in his knapsack 
the only proof 
he had left
of that moment
from a long ago
summer day.

Manzanar

If You Prefer

It was during that walk
in the woods 
or if you prefer
a forest
alone and just
sunlight streaming
to a mottled earth
of green ferns 
and a rocky path 
and the breeze 
was so that 
it enveloped me 
with a kindness 
of warmth 
until I paused 
to sit atop a fallen 
sugar pine 
and was struck 
by myself 
and a beetle 
on the log
I watched and wondered 
so exquisite a creature 
could be alone too 
but now we two
and the warm breeze 
on a mountain 
and I looked 
then on hands and knees
followed that beetle 
climbing that felled tree 
and it struck me 
that he may have been
guilty to the act 
a descendant of the party
that fed on and stressed 
that towering pine 
so that one day 
it gave up
and laid itself to rest
and now I stared 
an hour or so
until tears
flowed 
with euphoric
joy
to be graced 
by God
and that moment
so long ago
forever is
my touchstone
for this thing
called life.