The Last Dance of the Trees

They only give 

us a moment 

with our churches

and our wars

holding their 

arms wide 

catching 

the sun

in each branch

a map of time

just long 

enough 

to shower us

with color

before they 

slowly retreat 

into the darker

halls of paradise.

.

Red Music

The notes come tumbling out of
the battered accordion of fall.
A dark red music
with the bodies of leaves
littering the streets.

My hands shake
thinking of my mother
as I change 
the hurricane’s diaper.

A catalogue arrives
selling the dream
of a well-manicured life.
Organized
clean
with the patina 
of nature
displayed
in clever
and artful ways.
There are no humans 
in the photos.

Ants, bats, raccoons, spiders
cats, very bold squirrels
and fleas sneaking in
on the Trojan horse
of our geriatric poodle
have been guests in our home.

The sun continues
its pilgrimage
through the yard
only a darker yellow now
and even some orange.
I cannot remember a single day
when I have not stopped 
to read the book of time
on the light flying out
from its oceans of fire.

A barely perceived
inevitability creeps
into the news.
Didn’t I hear 
these stories 
several decades ago?

The hurricane arches
and kicks
and shits
and pounds
and eats
and eats
and eats
and screams
and giggles
and farts
and cries
and destroys 
and eats
everything in her path.
The nature 
of the universe

Love is such a sweet destruction.

She watches everything
with eyes as deep as the ocean.
She is voracious 
and tyrannical 
in her need to explore.
She is ten times smarter
than previous generations.

I assume it will be
ten times harder to live
but already
her heart 
is so full.

My father sends photos
from our early years.
He works each day
sorting through them.
They have a square
white border 
with tiny dates 
like 7- 65
and a fog
is slowly blooming
across their 
shiny surfaces.
There is always 
an underlying
narrative to the ones
that he sends.
A man of few words
his actions
are poems of love.

He laughs with joy
on the phone 
when I describe
the hurricane’s escapades.

The four small rooms
of our house are 
torn asunder
each day.
The scattered debris 
of exhaustion 
love and chaos.
The violent 
energy of our days 
as we fall 
through the light. 

Hang on friend
as we fall
ever deeper
through the beautiful 
destruction.

.

Black Thatch

There is a black thatch of clouds

across the dome of the world this morning

except along the eastern edge

where a red snake

stretches and burns.

Walking through the dark

giant winds from the north

run across the prairie

and push me in the back.

Everyone is racing

in their metal cars 

as if they were cars

on a long gone

roller coaster called

The Roller Coaster

which is leaning and rusting

in the theme park of time.

Crosses with dirty plastic flowers

and faded photos in warped frames

and stuffed animals with dirt-matted fur

and deflated foil balloons

are all sinking along the roadside

as a thousand engines

fly past with their

smoky violent music.

Nobody knows who died.

Time is ending

but it’s taking its time.

The music of failure

is in the air.

Those who have made

survival a god

are hopelessly lost.

Everyone 

is running late.

Now the whole

sky is on fire!

.

The Tall Grass Futures

I am driving across

the comb-over

of the prairie

up to the north

where the stars 

are less pretentious

though on a still night

a mirror universe

will sometimes

burn its way across

the black skin

of the lakes.

At the truck stop

all the strangers 

are familiar.

The rain

the children

the diner,

all familiar.

Our drop ceilinged

fluorescent lit

discount America.

Back on the road

in the belly of the storm

halfway between 

here and there

I scan the radio

for the farm report.

Nothing but the occasional

sound of lightening

and the wiper’s rhythm

in the curtains of static.

Or is something else there?

Finally, from some 

distant planet,

a young woman

with the voice 

of tall grass

reads the futures

of the wet earth.

I’m driving to see my father

in his apartment

above the interstate

with an almost view

of the stone brown river.

He is alone 

for the first time

in eighty-seven years.

Eating frozen dinners.

(All my mother’s spices

gone.)

Attending Mass

as often as he can.

As gentle as

a step-wide stream

surrounded by a thousand

miles of prairie grass.

His prayers 

are the falling leaves

in the north.

They’re the cars

with exhausted

people inside.

They’re the water

that moves underneath

the fields.

His prayers

are our bodies

and the years

and the stars

still here

but fading

as they move

into the distance.

.

Walnut

So the walnut dropped 
early to the earth
with a bruised green skin.
What a life this is.

The hard shell underneath
smells like the hull 
of a wooden ship
on the pitch dark sea.

My watch, ever faithful,
tells me it’s the end
of the sleepless night, 
but I know better.

The bulk of the world
are finishing their work
in the fading light 
of an endless day.

Lulu, our poodle,
who is 105 years old
stumbles coming down 
the creaky wooden steps.

She lies beside me 
waiting patiently.
The pack shouldn't be 
apart this late at night.

A nut,
a ship,
a watch,
a dog.

The fall is fast approaching.
Maybe it’s already here.
Even the farm kids 
are back in school

twisting in their desks
watching the sun run wild
through giant clouds
above the tiny schoolyard.

Here at the kitchen table
the night watches me do nothing
as if I’m a reality TV show -
Will a Poem Happen Tonight?!

The heater clicks on
in the subconscious of the house 
and warm streams of air 
rush up through the lath.

Back on the other side
they’re wrapping up for the day
having a bite to eat
and getting ready for bed.

Over here the east is beginning to tint
so I rise and wind the planet’s spring
with the small brass wheel
in the cabinet behind the fridge.

And so we’re good 
for a few more days
of slow tilt and spin
the final notes of summer.

Maybe now I can close my eyes
before leaving for work
and spend a few minutes 
back on the storied ship

where my family has been sailing 
wrapped in each other's arms
with a wind of soft breaths
all along the coast of night.

.

Lost

Here is the clothes line filled 

with the favorite sweaters

of the dead (that we love)

all waving to the window

as instructed by the the wind.

Thank goodness I was frozen 

there before the glass

lost in the tiny kitchen

with a spoon in my hand.

.