August 6, 2020

Fishing Hut

gray smoke thick and hanging mack truck heavy
in the breathless windless air
old fishing hut dilapidated abandoned
caught fire now smoking orange embers gray lifeless ashes
rods reels tackle boxes most likely
lightning- spontaneous combustion
the wrath of god- fish terrorists
years of shelter for fishermen coming in from the rain
warming up after a session of ice fishing 
beers shots camaradic laughter
but they grew old, infirmed or died
the young didn’t walk in their shoes or waders 
so the hut was like many old people—abandoned
spring showers—summer storms—inches of winter snow
sleeping quietly white blankets on the little roof
until spring when it dripped off in drips and drops
mothers milk to the newborn grass that the temperate march had fathered
now alas just a pile of burned wood
to be wheelbarrowed away or most likely thoroughly burned
in a june or july evening campfire complete with 
hot dogs, marshmallows, jelly pies
sing-a-longs, ghost stories, gazes at the moon
slightly drunk uncles who dress funny and laugh too loud
at their own jokes and stories
teenagers who in their angst would rather be somewhere else
smoking or drinking
one day though they too shall grow old 
longing for younger innocent nights around a fire

instead of being burdened with real life

August 4, 2020

Mountain and Evergreen

in the land of the mountain and evergreen
sky blue waters
the sky today though not blue
slate gray clouds congregate like hungry vultures 
waiting for the moment to pounce on the unsuspecting 
flurries fly by with no filed flight path 
no direction known
my standard kit consisting of 
blue flannel shirt and black knit hat
got my discount store blue jeans on
that like me have seen better days
coming apart brown hiking boots 
forest green backpack now more of a forest brown
forest gray, forest black from campfire ashes
paintings done by mother earth 
formerly partially filled with candy bars
that have devolved into empty wrappers
a bottle of water; half-full or half-empty
depending on your psychological make-up
a well-worn map, an untrusty compass
an overwhelming desire to stay in the wild
not go back to the wild west of society
every stone, twig, branch, tree, leaf— a friend of mine
sounds of birds, sounds of unknown animals
mournful wind singing acapella 
throwing shivers of cold
taking it all in sitting on a rock
stage whisper stream splashing
in all its innocence 

August 2, 2020

Evil Woman

you got your I Ching and your yin yang 
I got some rocks in my pocket
you believe you have a guardian angel
I stick my fingers in an electrical socket
you read you ouija board by moonlight
you say you can tell me my fate
sit down and place my hands on your planchette
but babe I ain’t got time to wait
it all seems so supernatural
like something from dr. frankenstein
it’s alive it’s alive is all she said
she was coming for my mind
I had to get out of her parlor
I had to break the superstition
she didn’t have to say another word
I was filled with intuition
the curtains flew with a full moon breeze
a wolf howled out on the lonesome prairie
the fog rolled in as I rolled out
had to admit it was pretty scary
still not sure what is was
some kind of psychic precognition
got out to my mystery van
and jammed the keys into the ignition