Boneyard

                                                                                                                                                                 
   

                                                            

Captains long wrapped in canvas 
rot or the seas dilute their ash.

Ice and old automobiles melt

and rejoin the others to yet live again.

Squirrel and man, the deer and bird

will all crumble someday, dust returned to dust.

Even barns succumb to earths embrace

and fall slowly to their pyre.

But not so with old boats. Culled 
and unwanted  they lie wasted 
around the rocky shores, 
their eyes reddened by the waves.

Their derelict hulls slumber half raindrop 
full of skies in league with the sea.

The briny dead weep for them 
to slowly trickle home.

Only river rocks know such slow death.

A lapping mother's whetted tongue, ever licks
them thinner still. Their silvered ribs

rest upon her plate, draped in umbered 
rusting skin.

Loosen your bodice from all restraint

and free the tarnished brass.
Oh you rusting ladies of the sea, 

a table is set for you

Your maw now bids you home to sup
the ocean eats her own

There

Wanting to be there          
so much
that I am not really here                
all the way.

If I just knew where
there           is.

Maddy's Crow Songs

Night Crows:

Little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must sleep at night.

Is our home in this tree, is it over there?
I guess we'll have to look every where.

Last night we slept in a cedar, night before in a fir.
Tonight we'll sleep in the elm tree, way up high that's for sure.

'Cause little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows-
all must sleep -Good Night.

                                                                      

Morning Crows:

Little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must rise and shine.

We flap our wings and stretch our feet,
wipe our eyes and clean our beaks
It's almost breakfast time.

On with our slippers and down the stairs
we run to the table - we're in our chairs.
Oh Boy, it's time to eat!

'Cause little crows and middle crows
and long skinny old crows,
all must rise and shine

These two little songs I wrote for my daughter Madeleine in 2002.  She was just a baby. We would stand out on the deck and watch the crows fly each evening and morning. She would lay in my arms and watch them so intently until they were out of sight.  She seemed so mesmerized I had to capture the moment.

We started and ended many a day just that way.

4:36 AM

  morning birds song
knocks at my window-
  here comes the sun

12.20.2011

Monks Work

  humble prayerful  hands
unfolding the months anew
  -flower-budded  branch 

Alt


  humble prayers
budding the branches
  the months unfold again 

Maggies only trick

   what is on your mind
walking with your silver bowl 
 -it does not translate

The R

   sketching and stretching
he the free-heeling cragsman
 framing Bimidji Bill