Last night I suddenly awoke at 3 am. i swear someone sat on the edge of the bed - i saw an indentation but no form; was it Ballard, the ghost my sons say they felt in the upstairs room they shared? Oddly for me, i could not doze off easily and read - not a good choice of books, Alice Munroe's new book of short stories, the first of which i began last night was about a man who murdered his three children. OMG. So i tossed and worried about my children and about every one i knew was sick and maybe dying. There is no doubt that I am suffering from a lack of human interaction, cabin fever. My friends think this will prompt poems. I differ, cabin fever is more conducive to murder.

for J

of course, I want to help, what little I might be able
but I realize it is hard to believe there is understanding
from another. Can anyone else know the horror that you carry inside?
Is your misery so locked inside that no other could possibly
break the code? Like a returning soldier from combat zone
your internal drama seems to be yours alone.
Can you imagine that this is not so?
Can you imagine that thoughts like clouds
cannot be seized or corralled or owned?


(working on poems on a snowy day - another snowy day....)

reflections - what happens snowed in!

the routine

my day has routine marked by the sun
and chicken whims to follow sun
not set by man.

wrestling with skunk

I've heard we don't smell while asleep, to the contrary
I woke at 1:24 AM to skunk odor permeating the house
and lay with worry the culprit had invaded through
the green house cat door. I fretted over cats and feared
the goats molasses biscuits were being raided. I tried
to rouse my limbs but failed.
No smoke, just smell; no cries of cat;
I had tomato juice in case and fell back asleep
wrestling with a skunk.

for Ann who has reneged on tonight's outing

i'm afraid I have to concur; i did consult the weather, some said rain - some snow
i of course went to bed hoping for neither
rain on top of snow is not so nice
and well, we know about snow
what really looks frightful is the forecast for Friday
unmentionable stuff in the inches!

the chicken hostage

Mayan concerns

we worry that the gods are hollow masks, just ourselves behind facade,
in the tall pine woods i ponder such as the Maya
who befuddle archeologist by their seeming disappearance
tho Mayan descendants abound in Central America just as Egyptians
inhabit still the land of pyramids; we cannot fathom sudden devolution
when even the transit of Venus shouts our lives unsustainable
listen, this is the thirteenth boktune and last warning:
quit banking on bleeding bifurcated penis priests
there's no remedy in science or technology
nor in gods or ships from outer space.
perhaps we should have more aboriginal yearnings
worship Earth?