Monsoon

Monsoon

That isn’t something

Someone from the plains might say. 

But it’s been raining and

Raining

And the wind 

Is more 

Winds

Different behavior and velocity

She realizes how 

All things must change 

And how the 

Cottonwoods out back 

Behind the stable,

Toward his house root

Deep and reaching down,

Belonging, 

Longing, really, to the river

She wonders where he is, 

Late coming from the river

From the storm

Along the Little Huerfano

In the new morning 

Skies the bluest blue

Yarrow thick, a-blooming

Tiny daisies, bellflowers

She looks out toward the stable 

Where she has her garden,

Nail up some trellis 

On the south side, there, 

She thinks, 

This summer,

Hollyhocks

Beautiful velvety furling in  

Warming morning sun

Out there in her garden.

She wakes up from the dream and 

Here they are. 

It is the summertime.

She watches him coming 

Through hip-high bluestem 

And wheatgrass on the path

From his house

Under the cottonwoods 

Along the river 

His blue and white unbuttoned 

Shirttails lift,

Rustle of river wind, 

Thermos glints.

She made a funny loaf of sorts. 

They sit together in the brightening

Nothing’s ever changed. 

There is no time now,

She sees it in his eyes, he sees in hers 

The barest nod, the 

Slightest shift of 

Faint wind 

In morning stillness

They catch 

The old deep quickening 

Sultry current, 

Knowing precious in the air 

That this is all there is 

Coming into Memory

https://youtu.be/j1W9M0RT2oE

Burn

What do you do with rage?

I’ve never experienced such rage.

It brings me to my knees.

They report that he

Holds a little stock

In a pharma churning out pills,

He has a bunch;

Blatherers on the tv

Report this as if a punky white kid

Grabs a couple of drawers of moola

From the A&W

When the girls bring your floats 

And burgers out to the trays on the

Driver’s side 

A friend in another town says

Her chum thinks vitamin c

Is the answer & laughs in her 

Bubble of ignorance as she 

Moves about, all hippie 

Spreading germ

And Jesus she, I guess, means well.

I don’t have time anymore for 

Bullshit 

I know whatever I do I 

Must color in the lines

But it sure as hell doesn’t mean

Meditating, or tweeting, or praying,

Practicing mindfulness, writing letters,

Knocking on doors, 

All that too-fucking-late shit 

Or believing in anything at all, 

Because this parchment is already

Shredded, it’s been smoking,

And no one makes anything whole

From the smoke of treason. 

Can we help one another 

Now to find how to prevent 

Obliteration?

I don’t know, do all of the above

Like we think we try to do, 

But it won’t be enough, I tell you 

Look. 

The falls of spring, spring rains 

Are rushing, 

Wider than Niagara,

Taller than Taughannock, Victoria

No one in his or her right mind 

Takes a canoe or a raft or a boat

Any known life ship

Over such falls, 

But here we are

We do it.

 

On Rain

https://youtu.be/2xhmPectY9U

Tonight I thought to capture
Pink moon, but sky, clouds said
No, this is what you need to hear
And so I walked out into darkness, finally
Stopping for rain
Hesitant, some things flooded when
I returned inside,
Flooded into a little pool
The sound of rain
Shimmering in my mind
Like the pond now into
Its new spring
Looking back
Out into the night
Maybe
I think,
Maybe

https://youtu.be/tQWgKvvbT1g