Glacial Dreams Read online

  (written on my birthday 2011 after fishing at Roaring River)

  holding my fly line

  cradled as a rosary

  a holy line to connect me

  with the Almighty

  and a trout

  praying my fly line

  3-weight supple yellow

  cast upon the river

  as my prayers

  please just one today

  river flows

  trout he follows

  orange fly on the rosary line

  caught and lost

  water and words flow

  forgive me now

  i return

  line on the water

  with every cast i am nearer

  to God and the almighty trout

  both speak in whispers

  in worlds apart

  so near to me

  i meet you here

  upon these waters

  with holy line in hand

  there is no place closer to heaven

  in dreams of trout

  forgive me Lord i pray,

  i caught no trout today

  two trees died in a wood

  (seen on the way to church)

  two trees died in a wood

  withered to brown -

  not just the bark, mind you,

  but leaf and all

  keeping each other company

  in death

  as some aged couple who

  leave this life together

  hand in hand

  yet standing still, not yet

  fallen to decay and rot

  and the work of worms

  perhaps it is better to stand

  in death than to

  fall in life,

  but what strength they must have had

  when they were all green

  85 on highway 35 in late afternoon

  (one of my favorites from my college years)

  death comes easy in an automated world

  where love has no face – no smile or touch

  that i could know, only bitter

  seedless shadows of a truth unseen.

  the road is short to the next hill

  where i can see long. i have remembered

  where i was and was going, but that doesn’t

  matter now. even the wind wonders

  where dust will fall.

  the screams of a butterfly

  kissing my windshield

  disturb me,

  but i drive on into new life.

  203 West Commercial Street

  (the address of Victory Mission in Springfield, MO, also written in my college years after a night serving food)

  They wander in, leaving the cold, leaving

  the empty street behind, embracing the warm

  smiles and food given to them.

  This is a place they come, not to lose themselves

  but to be themselves, to claim an identity.

  This world has forgotten who they are, but tonight

  I remember.

  I come here to find something

  in me that is still human, or perhaps

  to find that which is not human,

  not part of this world.

  I am in their eyes, and I find myself

  at peace among them. All of us

  are searching for a sanctuary

  from the world. In this mission they have found it.

  And at least for tonight, I too have a home.

  ocean view

  (one more from college)

  clustered denizens

  of a sandy world

  display themselves in a

  ritual of color,

  bathing in saltwater

  and flaunting their cancers.

  they are asleep in the light,

  dreaming of giant

  sandcastles

  covered in pearls.

  waves rush in

  and out

  like the latest

  philosophies,

  while exhausted

  beachers

  curse the sun

  and laugh at children

  building sandcastles,

  remembering how quickly

  the waves

  take them away.

  the bowl of immensity

  (May 2006, in the dark days)

  a cup of kindness

  morning and evening

  of coffee or of tea

  trading the colossal

  for the small things

  finding immensity in the sugar bowl

  it’s not the size of the gift

  but the giver’s heart

  that fills the home with love

  untitled love poem #15

  (August 5, 2009 for Deb)

  A, mon amour,

  What can I say?

  You are to me

  As the sun to the day.

  winter love

  (Christmas 2009 for Deb)

  snow falls

  my heart rises

  i am with you

  our house is cold

  our home is warm

  you are with me

  the snow outside is cold

  the tree-lit home is warm

  and Christ is with us

  the winter days are short

  but the nights are us

  we belong together

  to Duchess

  (for the dog who found my dad below Maiden Cliff)

  you found him when another left

  you were faithful

  where others were not

  on the mountainside

  below the rocky cliff

  lost in the trees

  you found him, and i for one

  am grateful

  to the Lakewood sledding hill

  i see you now in summer

  clothed in a bright green swath

  from top to bottom

  a thing of beauty, warmth

  i could sit in the shade with you

  and talk about nothing, or everything

  and dream of the great round world

  but i know your cold, dark secrets

  your cruelty in the long, hard winter

  how you take the innocent youth

  and hurl them downhill

  speeding toward the icy lake

  oh, you are green and fair now

  but come winter you will be snow-covered

  i know when the hard-trampled slopes

  are the most treacherous

  when even the brave pause

  the locust tree, thorn-covered giant,

  in warm days home to bird and squirrel

  but in winter the terror of sledders

  grabbing at them as they pass by

  many times i have crashed my sled,

  eaten snow,

  rather than be torn by thorns

  though fairer you are clad in summer green,

  still i prefer the rush, the danger of winter

  saudade #2

  (Saudade is a beautiful Portuguese word meaning a sort of remembrance or longing. For definitions of the Moroccan Arabic words used by sellers in the medina, see below after the poem. The last part is from a vision a friend had of me, something of a saudade.)

  “Balek!”

  i will watch and pray

  i will not stray

  too far down the myriad cobbled paths

  i will take the narrow way

  “L’kama!”

  we are sipping mint tea

  burning fingers on the glass

  sweet syrup sickly

  hospitality

  “Zbel!”

  you take but never give

  but you are a blessing

  for all the medina

  “Melha!”

  i will take the bitter parting

  with the sweet remembrance

  we walked the streets

  and sipped in cafes

  and spoke of dreams,

  visions:<
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  you smelled jasmine

  while i held the hand

  of the prophet, the king;

  we walked in paradise.

  what you saw there will be with me

  forever.

  Balek means “make way”

  L’kama means “mint”

  Zbel means “trash”

  Melha means “salt or bitter”

  what lucy saw

  (with a nod to Mr. Lewis)

  look in the big book

  turn the pages

  one

  by

  one

  look ahead

  but you can never turn back

  the pages of time

  be careful what you wish to see

  who you see

  how you feel

  the book does not lie

  neither does your heart

  the keeper of the book

  is kept by him who sees all

  knows every heart

  in every world

  he turns the pages of our lives

  one

  by

  one

  and gives the desires of our hearts

  time bends for no man

  but he is no man, or every

  he sees all

  knows all

  feels all

  let him turn us

  forward, back

  and free

  flu flu

  who knew

  where the flu flu flew

  too few of you

  of poems and pens

  white star

  floating above

  the ink floating sideways

  substance without depth

  movement on stationary

  poem in motion

  to inspire is to be inspired

  to call into motion

  the idle nib

  itself a creation of the arts

  some say the color of ink

  matters but little

  yet if invisible

  the words will be lost

  poetry has no end

  and no beginning

  we only meet it in the middle

  for sally

  spending my days trying to remember

  trying to forget

  oh the things i still remember –

  i know my name

  did i tell you that already?

  for breakfast i had cold cereal

  and hot coffee and

  warm toast with raspberry jam

  and today i am going to lunch with friends

  i still have friends, they remember me,

  me as i used to be,

  as i really am

  isn’t that the beauty of friendship?

  i know my name

  oh i told you that already

  but i remember your name

  for breakfast i had cereal and coffee

  and toast with jam

  and today i am going to lunch with someone

  oh i hope they remember to pick me up

  i have lost so much

  don’t let go of me

  i remember my name

  and i think i remember yours

  you are a friend of mine

  for breakfast i had cereal

  and i will remember to eat lunch

  i have friends

  i remember me

  do you?

  please don’t forget who i am

  even if i do

  don’t forget me

  there was laughter and there are tears

  but i remember me

  i’m holding on

  don’t ever let go of me

  i remember a friend like you

  i remember my name

  do you remember?

  untitled

  you loved as fireworks

  bright and loud and clear

  but only lasting a night or a season

  but i as the tides ebb and flow

  yet are constant, in motion

  i remain where others fall

  embers

  i carry in me

  embers from the fires

  of hell

  how you put them in me

  without being burned

  i do not know

  picking poetry

  (written September 20, 2011 at the writers group, with my Morrison’s fountain pen using Noodler’s Black Swan in Australian Roses ink)

  picking poetry

  on the hillside

  i gather it in bunches

  to carry back home

  next year i should plant some

  closer by in my garden

  but it wouldn’t turn out the same

  growing cultured and contained

  poetry must be gathered wild

  to be fully alive

  rhymes and lines

  rushing down the mountain stream

  the green and gold

  touching at the stream bank

  in the late summer afternoon

  only the slippery stones will hold their place

  the fly line of life

  (April 5, 2011)

  my life is a fly line

  cast out over waters

  still and turbulent

  ever in motion but each moment still

  in its singularity

  cast in hope more than expectation,

  hope for a trout

  i seek them with every cast

  even in the backwater ponds

  too small and warm to hold trout

  ever i seek them

  and the bending space and time

  and fly rods

  to the singular point

  when a trout will be seeking my fly

  and take it