Still looking for an ending...

Nebraska
Part I

The Platte’s muddy
Ribbon, twists,
Braids, plaited
With trees that suck
The life, the water,
from the river.

The “divide” (a?)
Between Little Blue
And Republican Rivers:
Cather’s land.

II

Soybeans, squat, bushy.
Corn majestic tall.
Both in a blue bowl sky.
Pivots of water
Puddles and pools,
where cows come to stand.
Rolls. (Rolling?)
Into Kansas.
Prairie becoming a cultivated carpet.
A land I can shrug on,
Glove my feet,
Root them in blue stem
And buffalo grass.

Kansas III
If I “can’t go home again”—why
Do I feel so alive?
under endless sky?
Wind that whips
Yet caresses and wraps its arms around my body.
Rhizome, planted
To keep me still.
A voice wakes me.
Why do I undulate
my emotions like the limestone
struggling to break
through the surface
of the humps of hills.
(the ocean underneath the waves)
Once when I was a child
I held a seashell
found lying in a cow pasture.
White as the cumulous clouds
Stacked in the east.
I marveled at its placement
Without a present sea.


If all I am
Is formed by 15
Can the mountains
Ever take the place of sky?

Why do I fight?
To twist, twine myself
In the grassy earth?
Will my skin
flake off like chips
of limestone exposed
by the cut of the road?
Are the scars of my life
Imprinted like the fossil shells
on limestone fence posts?

IV

I can’t be the fence.
I can’t keep the barb sharp.
The electricity
cannot flow.
It will keep rolling,
heaving past
the telephone lines.
The prairie surges,
Swells fecund,
fructiferous,
and I can’t ask myself,
“Can the mountains ever take this place?”


V
I am hot-wired
To these forsaken farms.
Barns slivered gray, collapsing
inward, to let the sky fall over them.
The roads dwindle to grass,
velutinous over earth.

Dusty toes leave tracks
in the earth,
like dinosaurs left tracks in limestone rock.
The puddles from thunderstorms
the night before, vaguely brings to mind
some other timely tragic
upheaval.
Seas sucked to ground and sucked up to heaven.

Revision 2

A strand of agates,
Pearls in a pile of sand.
An island, desert,
in a sea of softening asphalt.
I run my fingers through
the beaded rock.
It feels like water rushing
through a hand pump.

It belies my preoccupation
Of rock, tree, grass.
A yawp of a crow,
Sooty black against denim blue,
(smokey at the horizon)
startles my pseudo reverie.
The heart dances
outside my chest
I push
it back to beating.

I don’t know this tree.
Its leaf is not familiar.
It bothers me,
I don’t know its name.

The serrated edge
of the leaf,
rough on my fingertips,
strokes my mind.
I deliberately rub
it against my skin,
wondering if the green
of late summer,
rich in vibrant life,
will tattoo my epidermis.
The chloroplasts,
plant blood,
oozes,
sticky in its morphology.

I need to:

Focus,
Grasp.
Hear,
inside your head.
Will the words band,
in a strand
and jewel the tongue?

A kiss of words
pass the lips,
mouth my desires.
Plant morphology:
the nodes of a relationship-
leaf, root, or branch?
The living organism.
I avert my eyes
so I can’t see the answer.

Perhaps this prairie plant,
native grass,
will roil its seeds
and quit the wind.
I crush it between my fingers.
Rubbing scents, releasing
emotions for the future.

A tease of a touch,
A start,
a brake,
a change of attire.
Under your voice hides the wind.
It startles me.
The leaf rips,
"x"ed to mark the spot.


I wished upon a star.
It streaked across your skin
on a Kansas night in summer.
It yielded nothing
but a mummy of a leaf.
Releasing the heart
from the chest,
the rock from the sand,
the seed from the grass.

The west wind drives
us onward,
We yield
to limestone fences,
sunken
and laid upon the beds of grass,
Matted in disuse.

A sculpture of a Zephyred wind,
dedicated to our youth.
In later years
consummated in dreams ,
caught up on our horizons.

Church

Church is the only place I can think clearly. I go not because I have to or because I think it saves me. I go because I need to be there to get my booster shot of the Word, confess and receive forgiveness for my sins, and take the the body and blood of Jesus. It strengthens me and gets me through the week and whatever torment I am putting myself through. I go because I can fellowship with other believers and receive comfort and friendship from them. I go because I can use my mind to think, ponder, and grow in my knowledge of God and His word. I go to sing because I love to sing. I go to chant, speak, and say the Liturgy.

Because I am defined as a person through my life in Christ.

Anticipation

A strand of agates,
An island, desert,
in a sea of softening asphalt.
I run my fingers through
the beaded rock
like water rushing
through a hand pump.

It belies my preoccupation
Of rock, tree, grass.
A yawp of a crow,
Sooty black against denim blue
(dusty at the horizon),
startles my pseudo reverie.
The heart dances
outside my chest
I push
it back to beating.

I don’t know this tree.
Its leaf is not familiar.
It bothers me,
I don’t know its name.

The serrated edges,
Rough on my fingertips,
Strokes my mind.
I casually rub it against my skin,
wondering if the green of late summer,
Rich in vibrant life,
Will tattoo my epidermis.
The chloroplasts, plant blood,
oozes,
sticky in its morphology.

I need to:

Focus,
Grasp.
Hear,
inside your head.
Will the words band,
in a strand
and jewel the tongue?

A kiss of words
pass the lips,
mouthing my desires,
in this plant morphology.
The nodes of a relationship:
Leaf, root, or branch?
The living organism,
averting my eyes
so I can’t see the answer.

Perhaps this prairie plant,
Native grass,
will roil its seeds
and quit the wind,
as I crush it between my fingers.
Rubbing scents, releasing
Emotions for the future.

A tease of a touch,
A start, a brake,
change of attire,
Under your voice hides the wind.
It startles me. The leaf rips off the branch.
An "x" to mark the spot.


I wished upon a star. It streaked across your skin
on a night in a Kansas summer.
It yielded nothing but a dried mummy of a leaf.
Releasing the heart from the chest,
The rock from the sand,
The seed from the grass.

The west wind drives us
onward,
a sculptured Zephyr,
dedicated to our youth,
consummated in our old age.

Ascension (1980)

The fog on the freeway:
... Ice...
...Chains required...
...5 miles beyond...
this point...
and I'm sure
I'll miss my exit.

This wall weaves,
coils around my car,
poised to strike.
The heater hisses,
as the Datsun wheezes up the hill.

I wonder,
Am I as ghostly
As the signs
appear and disappear?
"Ashland/Klamath Falls
Exit 1 mile

God, you set,
timed this run.
I didn't know
this ascension in elevation
would make living so difficult.

I look to the Hills
for my Strength.
I can't see them,
but I know
they are there.

Curriculum

Curriculum


“A path run in small steps.”
By definition
A curriculum:
What we teach,
The bling of our personal touch.

Incremental repetition.
Variations of steps.

Bantam chicken feet
In forest litter.
Guiding to a nest:
(Definition 3)
“to force a person, object, or animal
to move in a certain path.”

A community: where a child (free and reduced lunch)
Plays with unifix cubes of primary colors,
in patterns of AB, AB, AB.
Little hands hold trains of cubes
to measure a chair,
and draw frogs in a pencil lead pond,
when all they really want is a laser gun
to shoot the bad guys.
(See that’s the force!)

II.

I follow rules.
I believe in research.
I believe the educational science.
I strive to be current.
I swallow and do the exercise,
(no matter how painful to self.)
I admit my weaknesses.
I strengthen,
because it is what is best for the child.
(Hello, Margaret!)

Curriculim:
Foolishness on a path.
Risks on either side:
Science. Belief.
(Definition 2: systematic knowledge
of the physical or material world gained
through observation and experimentation.)
Often for years,
Controlled grouped.
I trust the rules.
I trust the research.
I trust my ability to learn.

Data does not come easy for me.
Just as Latin and French did not roll
off my lips and communicate meaning.
I trick the brain to understand.

By myself I don’t do what is right
For the child,
That chooses markers
(oily bright in all their messiness)
over crayons
(waxy crumbles that glide not on paper)
Vygotsky, Piaget, Maslow.

III.
Curriculum
Reading Street, Bridges,
Scott Forseman, Houghton Mifflin.
It is not what we map,
(map, a verb)
It’s not the Essential.
It’s not the CORE.
It’s not the Coop,
Or the nest box;
Just random eggs,
placed in a carton,
To sell to school districts.

IV.

I had a hen,
A Banty hen
Who scratched the forest floor,
Scratched at needles,
Tore at the detritus.
Spearing grubs, and gobbling grasshoppers.
Underneath the Manzanita
She laid a nest of earthy eggs.
I found the eggs,
Washed them in the sink.
Refrigerated.
And when I cracked one
The almost chick
Sputtered in the yellow butter.

That chick that I committed to hypothermia
In my refrigerator,
Did not perish from the lack
Of a mother’s love
Or even from nature’s predators,
But from my ignorance.
As I heaved into the trash can,
And swore off eggs forever,
I wondered what small steps went off the path?

What am I asking? A future with a husband...

I. Drop down menu:

Talk in hand leashes,

wrapped in knots-

tangled,

And I would trip!

Tugging dogs, eavesdrop, sniff for other life (e.g. dogs)

(and its your turn to wrap the poo in generic baggies.)

a small path framed in a hedge of mountains,

prairie fences, or ocean currents.

It’s not the where.

It’s the who.

II. What am I asking?

To not be alone in silence

Or in the company of friends.

To hold a hand, entwined over a Bible.

To sing the Alleluias in Divine service 1.

To commune with knees grazing,

Hands gripped in fellowship of blood and body.

To kneel in forgiveness,

And confirm absolution,

with Pastor’s hands raised in blessing.

To pray, to feel, to respect, and know your leadership in God.

To be cherished, gently guided, before God.

To know our sins are forgiven,

and our Savior

hides them in the mask in God’s eye.

I would be one with you in God

for our earthly lives.

Coram Deo.

Before God.

In His presence.

to know Life before God is beautiful.

A restoration of intended.

Marriage.

What am I asking ?

Drop down menu:

As one, grafted and spliced

Upon the tree

(oiled wood, branches bleached)

Skeletal in our forgiveness.

There’s no machine, deus, to hide behind.

Fleshed together, a union:

With you as my head

and I by your side.

Our body exchanged to each other.

Everything will be one when I am with you.

III. What am I asking ?

Empty bed,

Drop down sheets.

(cotton crisp, line dried in summer)

The Content is a Noun.

Skills are Verbs.

What am I asking?

Example gratia.

Stroke (e.g- touch)

skin surface.

Moist in contact.

Beaded up,

on lips,

a sheen that slides,

oils, penetrates.

Body wicks the sheets,

Flames out,

Gasps at lesser oxygen.

The face of your body,

Against mine,

crumples to the floor,

like sheets tumbled in a dryer.

and when your mouth

should cease its talk upon my skin,

I’d trace your gentle lines of fate in perspiration.

We’d speak with no voice,

Wondering if it would commit us:

Act of War.

Act of Love.

Act of Self.

A nation of WE.

What am I asking ?

Conversation, quiet in the lulls,

Laughter in the strum of our feet on black tar asphalt.

(Sinking, sticking in the summer heat.)

Camaraderie comforters in winter,

Wrapped in couches:

A show and tell of books, paper, and misc. bits of life.

A quilted pattern pieced together by mutual desires.

My future husband: lover of God, lover of me.

Personal Narrative Poem Map

Baby Steps (Code)

Pieces of You

So what do you do with the pieces of poems you don't use? The parts you've consolidated?
especially if you still like them? Make a new?

Here is part of IPHOTO I did not use or consolidated:



Not a rushing roar
but what starts as a gentle
kiss upon the sand
that goes on
on
on
then pulls seaward.
The action is all underneath the water,
rolling the bottom.

It wanes with the moon.
Years, across time,
Sometimes storming my dreams.
I am unaware.
Other times buried deep in sand,
uncovered in decades.
It only takes minutes.
It's buried treasure now
not the scraps of trash(debris?)
from youth I threw away.

August

In August

The heat slaps your face,

wraps you in a blanket of blue.

Dusty horizons mock the clouds:

wispy puffs drift miles apart.

In August

The cattle in Kansas

lie upon the pasture

like fleas on a dog.

Knee deep in muddy brown.

Chew, chew, chewing.

In August

techno windmills

crowd pieces of sky

piercing blue,

skewering white,

impaled upon the sleeping giant prairie.

In August

your dusty Ford,

a Falcon in disguise,

plies the streets of memories.

August is memories.

Summer climbing down.

“What was said.”

“What was left unsaid.”

In August, sentences start, stall,

In heat like tractors in a field.

You can’t bundle

When you’re spread so thin.

In August,

you did what was right.

Your hand, gentle upon my back,

guiding me tenderly,

safely, as a 25 mph school zone.

And you showed me a children’s library.

In August

The door closed.

Halted in a hug,

where I tried to say so much

in just a touch.

In August

it rained.

Windshield wipers smeared insect guts.

Eyes following the sideways,

drip at the corner of the eye.

August leads to September’s death,

Sinks to October,

Through November.

December

When snow lays heavy on my heart,

And ice crystals fuse my eyes shut.

January

fogs caught upon trees,

webbed,

waiting.

February has fantasies

of locked bedroom doors.

Conversations whispered against skin.

Short days blown

by lion's breath.

March and the Ides-

a little death.