Offering

At last, the long-awaited cleansing downpour, 

Tomorrow, a promise of more—even now 

As I write this, I can see the ancient silver- 

Green trees with their branches extended. 

Crow's Foot

edge 

         of the meadow, the small 

tracks 

                there, 

a stream 

                beginning 

to branch. 


(Opening poem from Sentences, 1976)

Finally, A Clear-cut Definition

Beauty?  

I ain’t stumped but

Don’t tell this old logger

It’s in the eyes

Of the beholder—

I can’t see

No forest or no trees.

Drunk Again

What can a poor lush do 

When pouring out his heart 

To the wine-dark sea 

But hold—steady as she goes— 

His foul breath in. 

Stroke of Genius

When the myopic philosophy prof asked her

What she thought she was doing 

Wasting her time 

Doodling during a pop quiz, I bet 

He never thought she’d shoot back 

With a bull’s eye can’t you see 

I’m thinking. 

Huuklyeand Cinquor on Biting the Bullet

Punk firebrand intellect with prophetic 

Corpus pregnant with bravado before firing 

Your virgin salvo into that illustrious 

But now defenseless body 

Of ancestors think twice 

And never after 

Drawing a blank. 

Moderator’s comments: Not having heard from Huuk for ages (so to speak), I thought he’d finally shot his wad. Just goes to show you shouldn’t count geezers out—not even after you think they’ve wheezed their pathetic last. 

Reflections, 1969/2011

When this photograph was taken 

Years ago, I did not know what 

The old woman was thinking— 

She was sitting before the low 

Wooden door of her house, 

Walking stick in hand, 

Eyes lowered, looking at the ground— 

I still don’t know what she was thinking.