***

This pasture of my mind is traced with trails of habit.
Along the fence, wandering to the water hole.
This tree has grown this year with solid wood.
Reaching outward, growing to the light.
Set in our ways,
today this pattern of yesterday will give us
a place to start.





TOO MANY
Mama, papa fir,
Homogenous,
Trading windblown pollen,
Each cone a diverse family.
Grown together in a crowd.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Pushing, using the wind to attack,
maybe two in ten gain thirty springs.
That year that the wind blew so hard.
From fir cones that autumn grew this crowd
Standing shoulder to shoulder.
Fighting for more seasons, more years.
Fated, rooted here.
Sibling rivalries with no mercy.
Each day the world shrinks
and there are too many.







SECOND GROWTH
You and I are second growth.
No longer old trees and new horizons.
Those were taken from these people
by our predecessors.

Hidden under their defeat,
their ideas turned to reality,
we have sprouted,
fruits of first harvest,
second growth.

Raised under the tall canopy,
released without warning,
balloons without strings,
opened up our chances and
grew unrestrained.

Old ideas were like water on a duck's back.
We know not those chains,
our heads are soft to the truth.
We were put here where this river
runs between the hills.

The chiefs were cut down.
Without leaders we are mixed together
into this second growth of opportunity.
Released by the rotting spoils of
first Harvest.

Plow broken sod is split by
asphalt roads that carry the last of
the Old Ones by us.
We sit in the diesel smoke and
must laugh at them and search what horizon?

Second growth.
Released by those before us in their
uncaring way.
Without hope
for many tomorrows.

We can laugh in our tomorrows.
We will laugh to each tomorrow's newness,
we will laugh and forgive those who
carry away the chiefs and Old Ones.
They are only children who have taken no heed.





SECOND GROWTH
This second growth all connected,
nowhere free.
Attached underneath,
now open above.
Halfway there, we start in the middle.
The past our mirror,
the future reverse images,
unclear, our foggy breath too close.

We have leaned away from the dominance of the old ones
and now with their death,
no meaning in this leaning.
Confused in the sunlight,
We start again.







CLEARCUT
We have devastated ourselves,
torn up love by the roots,
burned our bridges
in a hope for something new.

Lost now in the hot sun,
all is lost, is lost.
The shade of our past,
old hopes and dreams shipped out.

Wandering in the open,
Haphazardly planting new seeds
that we will never see fulfilled.
Aimless in a new sun.

Standing in the middle,
between the old and the new,
our hearts are broken for our loss,
new dreams pretended and weak.

Was hope the reason for this clearcut?
Failure and loss of love,
that seemed so empty then, now gone,
we miss that which took so long to build.







Why does the rose
run this thorny path again?
It is not it's purpose,
this bright pink flower,
to unfold in the late spring sunshine?





INCOMPLETE
On this desolate edge of greed,
I am nothing without you.
Empty pages are turning empty days.
I wait here alone.
What use is it to till the earth?
Seed to sow with you,
the only field of my dreams.
The empty sky awaits this second growth.
Without you, what use to grow?
The wind flips the pages of these days.
Weeds fill the waiting fields.
There is nothing but myself and this wind,
in these empty days.
Alone with my fate,
I am waiting with these weed-filled fields
for bounties of nature or diligence.
An empty page beneath waiting skies,
waiting to be filled.
Waiting for you to start to grow again.
Waiting for the right rain,
the right day,
the right sun.
Waiting for you to start to grow again,
toward this empty sky.





GARDEN
Unsatisfied with nature,
I grow here what i want.
Unsatisfied with myself,
I look to you for meaning.
Unsatisfied with this all,
I search for something to do.
Unsatisfied with this day,
I prune these plants,
sow these seeds.
I grow this garden to make some meaning for tomorrow.
Narcissus growing their own reflection.
Catching time,
Making it last another hour,
Sleeping another moon,
Growing what I want.
Erasing the slate with the plow,
Chalking these narcissus here.
Growing this garden by myself,
wanting to share it with you.





NARCISSUS
Self-absorbed, mirror leaning,
above the still water searching for the beauty of the self.
Echoing own words, seeing own handiwork,
loving the world through own hands,
own eyes, own meaning.
Lost, in myriads of others,
each seeking their own meaning.
Self-leaning, lost in our own meaning.





WINTER BIRDS
Winter birds,
pushing and shoving for the bounty.
First come, first serve,
then fight to hold your place.
A flock of grosbeaks gain control.
Hamilton's plans, a plateful for us, scraps to the rest.
Fluttering for position in this pecking order,
some grab scraps on the ground,
among the cats.
Franklin and Jefferson promising more as
the bounty and chances dwindle.
What is the nature of this bird on the pile?
This Hamilton of birdseed?





HERBS
Hiding in the spring grasses
we take our chance, bloom now.
So many of us.
Before the brush leafs out.
Settled in our ways here,
Security of those trees overhead
gave us this time
to burst forth our many small beauties
into the wet spring sun.

Under this open sky together,
entwined,
we begin to grow.
Separate from birth,
our sexuality brings us together
to create this new dream.
Life's self-absorption renewed,
again seeking the sun.
Beauty unfurling this flower,
careless,
needful of forgetfulness,
brilliant under the open sky,
we sing life's song,
dance this dance.





SHOOTS
In this emotional second growth
budding shoots of feelings
arising from the callus of hard years.

In this emotional second growth
a small outlet for us,
watered by a brimming sea of tears.

In this emotional second growth
a new green leaf sprouting
from the ignored love of all those years.







SPIRIT VOICES
No longer freedom's mighty roar,
human hands cover the voice of the Columbia River.
A lap, lap, lake on an unsettled shore.
Other voices are heard along the quiet reservoir.
Electric roar, channeled, snapping, overhead in magnetic pipes.
Auto tires hissing interstate.
A cacophony of beliefs,
strange to this land, not heard before,
override the silence of the Columbia,
lap, lap, on the shore.





THE MOUNTAINTOP
This panoramic spread before my eyes,
the view both ways... before.., behind.
This must be some sort of mountaintop,
perched above youth's tumultuous gorge,
where death departs with the setting sun,
beyond the horizon, and
the weeping doesn't last until dawn.

This must be some sort of mountaintop
where all our life before our eyes
from this one point before us lies.
An individual, one peak.
A mountaintop where echoes speak
the past and future down the hill.

The view! The cliffs and talus,
bare rock in crumbling hunks.
Timeworn, sliding with gravity's fateful pull
down into a depth of soil
shattered from this upthrust peak,
shreds of dreams come true and dreams failed.

The bare rock washed smooth by tearful, misty clouds.
A rivulet beneath these cliffs collects.
Where water overflows the ground
blooms sweet, sweet, scent, youth's flower.
Blooms fresh where water flows over musty ground,
deep soils of broken dreams.

Fresh water, collected from this peak
running down among towering trees,
the adult smells, liquor, smoke, bad habits.
Faint sweet, faint sweet, fading below this mountaintop,
youth's flower among the adults.

Run down, tears, run down this face
that has seen so many winters.
Run down, spring, run down, creek,
run down this mountain.
Run from solitude, run together,
to where youth's flower makes all the air sweet.
Where all youth seeks each other.





THE MOUNTAINTOP
This must be some sort of mountaintop,
the past and future all below.
Another view, another side, the only out, this downward slide.
The setting sun below us now, calling us,
pulling us down this other side.
An avalanche, sliding down, unstoppable, everdown.
Shattered bones and aching, limping feet.
Pains and aches that spell defeat.
No youth below, all shattered rock.
Life begun that has to stop.
Careful steps descend this slope into the shadowy ravines.
The easy climb that brought us up,
now a hesitant relinquishing of heights.
Alone, now down, alone this twilight side.
Scattered old survivors, twisted and buffeted by many storms,
hanging on to these days, watching old companions fall.
This must be some sort of mountaintop,
this view all ways, before, behind.
the memories of this climb we carry down
toward this setting sun,
beyond the horizon and the weeping will not last until dawn.





SECOND GROWTH
This opportunity to grow,
now that the previous overshadowing generations are dying,
cannot be passed up.
The courage and virtue of our new vision
will reach for these emptying skies.

The blood and rotted mistakes of our ancestors
will feed our roots, so twisted, our generation,
released, free to grow.
The tattered remnants of the previous generations
still shade us, hinder us, twist us.
Decadent remnants, full of pride, awesome,
still hinder us.

We, have grown in these shadows,
buying TVs, living on credit.
Spectators to the continuing theft
of the wealth of America, now the world.
In mid-life this second growth of opportunity.
We stand, our time, under this tattered sky.
Beneath us small seedlings now sprout,
We, the generation above, shade their way to this
credit-shattered rainforest sky.

This wealth, they accepted.
A gift, they thought came from their father's endeavor.
They grew without virtue,
without reverence.
As they fall, this tattered sky
opens a shy cornucopia.
Let us not lose this chance!
This second growth of opportunity.
A new wealth in virtue.
We shake our twisted branches straight to the sun.

Take courage, now as the wind that blew high above the old ones
now blasts our once-sheltered branches.
Take courage as we compete with ourselves now,
to dominate, or die.
Let the visions of virtue rise now above
weakness of purpose and greed,
closing the canopy, touching each other in the unity
of a new forest.

Hold these ideas.
The strength of virtue, sweet discipline of the soul.
Hold strong among the scorn of old ones,
aged and weak, without virtue,
heartrot sinks their souls,
and they cannot delay us if we hold a virtuous way.
One day soon at sunrise, their shadow will be gone.







DAYDREAMERS TOGETHER
Daydreamers together,
Filling the lighted hollows of today with memories and
imaginary things.
Satisfying ourselves with these figments,
Cementing today's reality with daydreams.
Now and then, a sob for reality.
The leaves flicker in the sunlight.

Daydreamers together, conversing with imaginary people,
our versions of each other keeping us company.
Once we were together to shut off these fantasies,
the sun shone hard all day.
We laughed, careless, and embraced.

Daydreamers together,
I wander among these dreams
along reality's sun-hot pavement,
chirping birds and gusty winds
accent imaginary conversations with you,
Imaginary love.

Imaginary love, remembered love,
I wish to do without you.
Wanting you accentuates your unreality,
isolating me among old memories
As on dim basement shelves,
and you, remembered love,
are somewhere else, someone else.





BOX ELDER- IMPORTED SPECIES
Far from home,
There is noone here I know.
Deperation,
Seeks something of my own.
Unfulfilled wishes of my soul
Send messages, plooen drifting
Unanswered into loneliness.





Crone mother with that vicious scowl,
love means nothing to you.
Nature's cruel fates engrave the snarl on your face.
Survival means all.
What I bring with my love means only more heartbreak.
Queen mother, black widow,
I accept your sting, your bite, for love.
Survival means all, the pain will come and go.
All those tears, those tears.
Through all this pain our love reborn.
Each link of love that holds us to this world
enchains us in these cycles.
Heavy chains of love renew your despair,
binding you to accept my love again.





ELDERBERRY
Your strength so frail,
Your beauty too large is shattered by the storm.
Broken branches, blossoms and leaves scattered.
Caught by the sudden wind, unprepared,
your broken bulk is left to recover,
too late in the year to start over,
you have gathered your flowering remnants,
building beauty with slow purpose,
and now, no traces of the damage can be seen.





WEEPING WILLOW
Under this sun,
Growing along this creek,
I stand a definition of self with relations to others.
I weep for misunderstandings.
My definitions of self in relationships with others,
and others definitions of myself.
I weep for misunderstandings.
My interpretations of others definitions of myself,
and reactions of myself that define myself.
I weep for misunderstandings.
Locked in this wall of interpretations that is myself,
I hunch over my own shadow,
growing there what I want,
weeping for what cannot be grown there.
Reacting to this wind, along this creek,
and, too, this wind of my soul, my impressions.
My responses to my interpretations of you,
and the reality of your interpretations of me,
create our responses, this dance of today.
I grow roots here in the dark,
shoots and leaves to this sun,
I weep for irrevocable decisions.
These roles we play for each other,
new interpretations growing toward today's sun,
gravity holding me here under my share of the sky,
weeping in these limits.





Each day, these differences between us,
what I want for myself, and what you want.
I weep for this difference,
this uncrossable space between us,
alone, together along this creek.
Weeping, here above this creek
the tears are released, and flow,
through reality, away from these false impressions,
obsessions of self and others
that color these leaves yellow-green.
And alone again this year, this bulk of other days,
ready to interpret a new day,
to weep more tears,
feeling this wind,
standing alone.





The first clouds of winter roll over the hills.
The trees shed their leaves at the end of a weary year.
The sun, when it shines, still warm.
One lonely cricket extends it's song.
I once more hurry to prepare for winter,
looking forward to warm nights in your arms.
Yet, sitting in the warm autumn sun,
what is this sadness welling up behind my eyes?
Locked into the world of men, too small.
Locked out of the world of Nature, too busy.
Repeating, repeating, these futile years.
My yard is covered with this year's fallen leaves.
The hope of spring run it's course,
now shriveled as these leaves.
Small concerns still shatter the glass of my vision,
reflecting my own eyes,
adding pieces to my heart.





Standing in shallow water,
this gurgling takes time with it.
Away!
I lean on the alder
above the brook
listening to today passing by.
Last winter's snow,
melting away
to be somewhere else tomorrow,
a strange mix of time.
Away!
These memories running to tomorrow.





Today's fresh spring wind
rushes through morning's green, sunlit, rainsoaked trees,
cleansing the edifices of men for a moment,
but cannot move them.
Dusty chains, mudsoaked, clutch each person to their past,
what they have done, become.
The new day, the new season,
blows in, through classic ruins, and new freeways, skyscrapers,
credit bought trucks and cars,
this new wind cannot blow them away.
Hidden somewhere in the long morning shadows,
hard to find, something new has begun.
At the corner of this crumbling edifice,
a oneness of life, death, rebirth,
in this slanting, wet sunshine,
something new, not tired, blooms,
ignoring old shadows, these ongoing endeavors,
happening today, this chord strikes the circle here,
and new in this wet, sunny spot
begins with no past.





Fitting in this world of men.
Being someone for someone, and someone else, too.
Loving this world, hanging on to it.
So singular, lonely in it,
being someone for myself.
Wanting to cling to life.
This love of ours, worth all the pain,
this worry, being someone for you,
blind to some of you,
ignorant of what causes the delight of being with you.
Except for curing this loneliness,
fulfillment in our funny wholeness,
Oh, love, we are happiness,
the sadness is this separation,
more than these mountains and long highways,
a ways through the world of men.
My failure is not being with you.





COYOTE
I chased coyote up the hill.
He would stop and watch me to see if I was serious.
I kept going to show I was.
He stopped to watch again.
Speel-ya !
We no longer know you.
Our intrusion is inverted.
You sneak in at night, or sing on the hill.
We no longer understand.
Go coyote!
Your joke is lost on my neighbor.
With his gun and his fear
he will shoot you,
not knowing that the joke is on him.
His territory invaded by a small dog,
his weakness exposed,
you, coyote, will die,
and we are lost in misunderstanding.





UNRELENTING
Here again, beneath these gray Seattle skies
the gulls cry and the cars spew exhaust.
The days are close and heavy.
Dreams, hidden in cacophony,
left behind in endless pace
as this place rushes to tomorrow.
The blossoms reluctantly push out,
stuck here on last year's branches.
You are gone again toward tomorrow.
The old memories, polished bones,
roll with the pebbles in the waves
along the Sound,
and the gray skies lie heavy, waiting.





DEVELOPMENT
These grey chains on my heart, of love,
of need, tie me in the grey mist,
splattered by tires, hanging along the freeway.
Unable to break these chains to drift up,
Free, above this man-made din.
The quiet forest floor deep-rutted and churned
by skidder tracks, opening the door for this
second growth of weeds.
This chain now broken loose on one end,
the other bound to us.
Bound together with man-made chains,
we search the path through the slash.
Self-absorbed, into each other's eyes we look,
while under our feet the weeds germinate to the future.
Down the concrete freeway we speed,
throwing up grey mist from the tires.





Freewill and Destiny
Serious subject,
yet simple combinations of each
get us through these days.
Within freedom's limits,
we go as far as we can,
until we have to do what we don't want to do.
Time, the present, always offers opportunities
one accepted, the rest strangled between the past and future.
Destiny accepts our decisions and rolls to the past.
The present, sparkling, asks us again,
Cause and effect.
Freedom and destiny.
Hard questions and tough decisions made this destiny
where we stand to make today's decisions.





Spring fades, the birds meet the day with their chatter.
Yesterday's serenity is somehow lost again in a nervous dawn.
The wholeness shattered into fragments to put back together.
Yet behind this nervous activity, timeless serenity waits.
Beyond the Loneliness that created all this diversity.