By Jeffrey Kee
They came from the city wad in hand,
Wanting a horse and a little piece of land.
The realtor painted a rosy picture,
One acre, two horses o’ sure.
In June, green grass tall and dry,
Come December the water got high.
Horses to their knees in mud,
Good ranch management hit with a thud.
Out for a visit here came District staff,
Winter in the field, where is our raft?
Keep those winter hooves out of your field,
Avoid wet pasture you’ll have better yield.
Catch that rain water before it hits the ground,
Easier water can not be found.
Buffer with grass those wetlands and seeps
Protecting clean water will help you sleep.
Plant a hedgerow to catch those weed seeds,
Use wild rose and robins you will feed.
Slip a new cedar next to your stream
Good fish habitat starts with a dream.
Protecting clean water will help you sleep.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
In my Mouth
By Jeffrey Kee
Sea birds everywhere.
Gulls bobbed, dropped and pelicans cut the water.
Cape Disappointment glowed to the North.
And from the 10 buoy East, man had come.
Some to guide, some to fish, some to see the mouth,
Enticing fish to come aboard.
Fog whitecaps, and barges test courses,
Many have braved into the waves.
In pursuit of a legend, a story, a myth.
The big Salmon river of the Pacific Northwest.
A spirit of man sliding seaward,
Seeping into his Columbia.
Sea birds everywhere.
Gulls bobbed, dropped and pelicans cut the water.
Cape Disappointment glowed to the North.
And from the 10 buoy East, man had come.
Some to guide, some to fish, some to see the mouth,
Enticing fish to come aboard.
Fog whitecaps, and barges test courses,
Many have braved into the waves.
In pursuit of a legend, a story, a myth.
The big Salmon river of the Pacific Northwest.
A spirit of man sliding seaward,
Seeping into his Columbia.
The Dance of the Columbia
By Jeffrey A. Kee
The estuary surged and pulsed with life, a natural rave.
Like an enlarged muted Phalarope it spun circles dredging life to the surface.
The gulls and pelicans and murres flew and bobbed around the choppy watery stage,
Picking up the little silver slivers of baitfish lightly streaking the surface.
Mammals drawn to the feast slid over and under.
Man and animal searching for salmon sustenance and spirit
A thousand boats rocked, enticing with flashers and fish,
As the sea lion ripped the belly of a lone Chinook.
Coho, cutthroat and King danced amid the forces,
Pushing, pulling, slipping and sliding.
Pushed by the river pulled by the tide,
The fish changed partners called out by the moon.
The hum of the motors and bang of the hull couldn’t interrupt the partners.
The gala of the year for many ending in August.
Baitfish flashed like a mirrored ball around the dancers.
The pulse of the players less synchronized at ebb and slack.
Forces of the natural swinging for survival,
Same players, same partners, same ancient steps.
The estuary surged and pulsed with life, a natural rave.
Like an enlarged muted Phalarope it spun circles dredging life to the surface.
The gulls and pelicans and murres flew and bobbed around the choppy watery stage,
Picking up the little silver slivers of baitfish lightly streaking the surface.
Mammals drawn to the feast slid over and under.
Man and animal searching for salmon sustenance and spirit
A thousand boats rocked, enticing with flashers and fish,
As the sea lion ripped the belly of a lone Chinook.
Coho, cutthroat and King danced amid the forces,
Pushing, pulling, slipping and sliding.
Pushed by the river pulled by the tide,
The fish changed partners called out by the moon.
The hum of the motors and bang of the hull couldn’t interrupt the partners.
The gala of the year for many ending in August.
Baitfish flashed like a mirrored ball around the dancers.
The pulse of the players less synchronized at ebb and slack.
Forces of the natural swinging for survival,
Same players, same partners, same ancient steps.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Summer Sounds in Maine
For a while,
in the early morning
I hear only
the silence,
occasionally breeched
by a ducks' solitary calling
to a mate.
For a while,
in the early morning
I hear only
the whisper
of the water
as it meets
the first breeze.
Just, for a while
in the early morning
I hear only
God's music.
-Kurt Kristensen
in the early morning
I hear only
the silence,
occasionally breeched
by a ducks' solitary calling
to a mate.
For a while,
in the early morning
I hear only
the whisper
of the water
as it meets
the first breeze.
Just, for a while
in the early morning
I hear only
God's music.
-Kurt Kristensen
Friday, July 28, 2006
Invitation to submit poetry.
We'd like to invite anyone reading here to submit poems for posting. You may send your poems to Frank Vehafric at fvehafric@comcast.net.
If you submit a poem or two and are interested in having direct posting privileges as a blog team member, simply ask, and it shall be done.
If you submit a poem or two and are interested in having direct posting privileges as a blog team member, simply ask, and it shall be done.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Fishing The Lower Deschutes
Fishing the lower Deschutes
The canyon green with sage
And mock orange
The river, glassy and dark
At the fly shop in Maupin
They don’t like the color
Of the water this week, and it’s true
We don’t catch fish
I try three or four flies
Stoneflies, and a few Dave tells me to use
But I can’t name
I’m learning how to cast
Happy to get the fly on the water
Instead of in the trees
Once, just shaking out my line
The fly dropped near the bank
And I got my only good strike of the day
But I was so unprepared
He was off the hook before I caught my breath
We missed the salmonfly hatch by about a week
And the May flies were just coming on
I should have been nymphing
But dry flies float and I watch them on the current
And the fish strike where you can see them
The river is glassy and dark
Like I said
Who knows what goes on down there?
When we’re done for the day
We fix steak and baked beans
After dinner, Dave has a rye on ice
I can smell the whiskey across the fire
Amber, in the glass
Dark, like the river
by Frank Vehafric
The canyon green with sage
And mock orange
The river, glassy and dark
At the fly shop in Maupin
They don’t like the color
Of the water this week, and it’s true
We don’t catch fish
I try three or four flies
Stoneflies, and a few Dave tells me to use
But I can’t name
I’m learning how to cast
Happy to get the fly on the water
Instead of in the trees
Once, just shaking out my line
The fly dropped near the bank
And I got my only good strike of the day
But I was so unprepared
He was off the hook before I caught my breath
We missed the salmonfly hatch by about a week
And the May flies were just coming on
I should have been nymphing
But dry flies float and I watch them on the current
And the fish strike where you can see them
The river is glassy and dark
Like I said
Who knows what goes on down there?
When we’re done for the day
We fix steak and baked beans
After dinner, Dave has a rye on ice
I can smell the whiskey across the fire
Amber, in the glass
Dark, like the river
by Frank Vehafric
Monday, July 03, 2006
Kenai River in July
Side by side we stand, my brother and I,
waist-deep in our Gore-Tex chest waders;
Rushing waters stacked fin-to-fin with hordes of teeming salmon,
shoreline stacked elbow-to-elbow with well-equipped, excited fishermen,
Casting brightly-colored fly upon fly upon fly
to the slow-moving mass of flesh making its way upriver.
Homeward they migrate, unwavering in their determination,
past the open mouths of bears, the sharp talons of swooping eagles,
and the millions of hopeful hooks,
Oblivious to our presence and to the egg-eating rainbow trout
that follow patiently behind them on their pre-programmed pilgrimage.
A sudden flash of silver and my rod doubles;
“Fish on!” I shout, and the sea of fishermen parts to give way to the battle.
Beneath the surface, if fish could talk,
mine would be yelling “Human on!”
as his finned friends gathered ‘round to watch.
Humored by my efforts yet worried nonetheless,
he makes a valiant run, ripping the backing off my reel;
first a bee-line to deeper waters, then a powerful thrust
followed by aerial acrobatics and violent shaking.
Still unable to dislodge the fly from his mouth,
he realizes that this is no game, that his adversary is serious;
launched by a powerful tail,
he rockets skyward once again,
glaring defiantly as if to say “bring it on.”
Engaged in a battle of wits and brute strength,
this handsome sockeye and I fight it out.
No wonder they call it “combat fishing,” I think to myself,
perverting the meaning of the phrase.
“Amateur!” is all the fish can think to say,
with mocking distain for my lack of prowess at this new game,
As if my knuckles, bleeding from the fast-spinning reel handle
and my excited cries of “Holy %&@$#, get the net!” didn’t give me away.
But the experienced fly-fishermen who surround me are gracious,
and perhaps even a bit jealous -
as I finally land the shimmering, silvery eleven-pound sockeye.
If not for brother, older-wiser,
master of the art of fly-fishing and expert timer of the salmon runs,
we would not be here -
snow-capped mountains
reflecting on the waters of the vast Kenai,
Catching one magnificent, muscular salmon
and hard-fighting pink luminescent rainbow after another,
and already planning our next Alaska adventure.
-Paul Heldenbrand
waist-deep in our Gore-Tex chest waders;
Rushing waters stacked fin-to-fin with hordes of teeming salmon,
shoreline stacked elbow-to-elbow with well-equipped, excited fishermen,
Casting brightly-colored fly upon fly upon fly
to the slow-moving mass of flesh making its way upriver.
Homeward they migrate, unwavering in their determination,
past the open mouths of bears, the sharp talons of swooping eagles,
and the millions of hopeful hooks,
Oblivious to our presence and to the egg-eating rainbow trout
that follow patiently behind them on their pre-programmed pilgrimage.
A sudden flash of silver and my rod doubles;
“Fish on!” I shout, and the sea of fishermen parts to give way to the battle.
Beneath the surface, if fish could talk,
mine would be yelling “Human on!”
as his finned friends gathered ‘round to watch.
Humored by my efforts yet worried nonetheless,
he makes a valiant run, ripping the backing off my reel;
first a bee-line to deeper waters, then a powerful thrust
followed by aerial acrobatics and violent shaking.
Still unable to dislodge the fly from his mouth,
he realizes that this is no game, that his adversary is serious;
launched by a powerful tail,
he rockets skyward once again,
glaring defiantly as if to say “bring it on.”
Engaged in a battle of wits and brute strength,
this handsome sockeye and I fight it out.
No wonder they call it “combat fishing,” I think to myself,
perverting the meaning of the phrase.
“Amateur!” is all the fish can think to say,
with mocking distain for my lack of prowess at this new game,
As if my knuckles, bleeding from the fast-spinning reel handle
and my excited cries of “Holy %&@$#, get the net!” didn’t give me away.
But the experienced fly-fishermen who surround me are gracious,
and perhaps even a bit jealous -
as I finally land the shimmering, silvery eleven-pound sockeye.
If not for brother, older-wiser,
master of the art of fly-fishing and expert timer of the salmon runs,
we would not be here -
snow-capped mountains
reflecting on the waters of the vast Kenai,
Catching one magnificent, muscular salmon
and hard-fighting pink luminescent rainbow after another,
and already planning our next Alaska adventure.
-Paul Heldenbrand
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
What pleased me today?
What pleased me today?
The first small handful
Of raspberries from the garden
My morning coffee sipped in the car
A silky smooth rush of acceleration
On route 26 driving west
A tuna sandwich
Leaving work an hour early
Mexican food with my wife
Greetings from the dogs
Short nap spooned with Emily
A report from Corvallis
On successful organic chemistry final exam
A small wedge of aged cheddar
On ritz cracker
Robins in nest on back porch
Lapsang Souchong tea
The evening air when I let the cat in
The wood grain of the library table
Where I sit at laptop to write
The touch of keyboard
This
Doing this
by Frank Vehafric
The first small handful
Of raspberries from the garden
My morning coffee sipped in the car
A silky smooth rush of acceleration
On route 26 driving west
A tuna sandwich
Leaving work an hour early
Mexican food with my wife
Greetings from the dogs
Short nap spooned with Emily
A report from Corvallis
On successful organic chemistry final exam
A small wedge of aged cheddar
On ritz cracker
Robins in nest on back porch
Lapsang Souchong tea
The evening air when I let the cat in
The wood grain of the library table
Where I sit at laptop to write
The touch of keyboard
This
Doing this
by Frank Vehafric
Late Evening
The moon hangs low in the sky.
A gleaming golden scimitar
suspended just below a shining Venus,
it lingers close to the horizon
as though wanting to touch
with crescent arms
the belly of the earth.
The realms are close tonight,
evoking desert sands
and ancient gods.
From planet and moon
an inverted question mark
forms against a deepening
purple sky.
But here, at ten o’clock
on a western summer evening
is a moment not to question
but only to absorb,
to really see,
to form lips
in a blessing and a prayer,
to breathe in
the essence of a scimitar sky
and inhale the purple
of being alive.
-Suzanne Graham
A gleaming golden scimitar
suspended just below a shining Venus,
it lingers close to the horizon
as though wanting to touch
with crescent arms
the belly of the earth.
The realms are close tonight,
evoking desert sands
and ancient gods.
From planet and moon
an inverted question mark
forms against a deepening
purple sky.
But here, at ten o’clock
on a western summer evening
is a moment not to question
but only to absorb,
to really see,
to form lips
in a blessing and a prayer,
to breathe in
the essence of a scimitar sky
and inhale the purple
of being alive.
-Suzanne Graham
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
After Work
After work
And a day of driving
With stiff groaning turns of wheel
Lift rusty hood of old pickup
Hinged with springs that squeal when raised
Add power steering fluid to low reservoir
Truck built 1968
The same year I graduated high school
Even though older, I have fewer leaks
But more miles
by Frank Vehafric
And a day of driving
With stiff groaning turns of wheel
Lift rusty hood of old pickup
Hinged with springs that squeal when raised
Add power steering fluid to low reservoir
Truck built 1968
The same year I graduated high school
Even though older, I have fewer leaks
But more miles
by Frank Vehafric
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Energy Footprints
You can see footprints in the sand
Some are small, some are grand
There are other footprints you can’t see
They are just as important to you and me
They measure the energy you and I use
And convert it to the land you and I abuse
If everyone had large energy footprints like the USA
You would need more than one earth to contain them today
A small energy footprint is good you see
To make the earth fit you and me
-Barry Kennedy
Some are small, some are grand
There are other footprints you can’t see
They are just as important to you and me
They measure the energy you and I use
And convert it to the land you and I abuse
If everyone had large energy footprints like the USA
You would need more than one earth to contain them today
A small energy footprint is good you see
To make the earth fit you and me
-Barry Kennedy
Monday, June 19, 2006
Meadowlarks
Yesterday I read
that meadowlarks
are an endangered species
I hadn't known - - -
Though they do not
populate Portland
where I now live
they inhabit my heart
three notes ascending
a trill descending
morning songs from my
childhood in the high desert
that made my waking up a happy time
How I wish for them
to awaken
my grandchildren
and my great grandchildren
and all our relations
-Margaret Kirschner
that meadowlarks
are an endangered species
I hadn't known - - -
Though they do not
populate Portland
where I now live
they inhabit my heart
three notes ascending
a trill descending
morning songs from my
childhood in the high desert
that made my waking up a happy time
How I wish for them
to awaken
my grandchildren
and my great grandchildren
and all our relations
-Margaret Kirschner
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Soup
You know this slow place
It's where you go when making soup.
Soup is a slow place.
Soup has a slow pace.
Soup all mixed up
And colorfully blending,
Seasonally intending,
Sluggishly rendering; soup.
You know in your heart
What you're head cannot divine
The moment you place the ladle
Deep into that pot of summer
Vegetables and swirl
That last twist of pepper down
Down into the brew.
There in the lazy spinning
You see Thyme
Leaving the patterns of your life.
Your nose knows.
Your eyes close to savor
The images of later
When you'll bowl this bouquet
Break and dip the rosemary bread of peasantry
Until the rich color of tomato
Soaks in paced by deep inhalation,
To honor and control your salivary response,
Raise your favorite spoonful
To advancing lips and begging tongue.
Swallow slowly
Savoring the wallowed confounded
Vegetable mead
You have concocted from memory
Over the years of dreaming
The life of soup.
-Ron Crete
It's where you go when making soup.
Soup is a slow place.
Soup has a slow pace.
Soup all mixed up
And colorfully blending,
Seasonally intending,
Sluggishly rendering; soup.
You know in your heart
What you're head cannot divine
The moment you place the ladle
Deep into that pot of summer
Vegetables and swirl
That last twist of pepper down
Down into the brew.
There in the lazy spinning
You see Thyme
Leaving the patterns of your life.
Your nose knows.
Your eyes close to savor
The images of later
When you'll bowl this bouquet
Break and dip the rosemary bread of peasantry
Until the rich color of tomato
Soaks in paced by deep inhalation,
To honor and control your salivary response,
Raise your favorite spoonful
To advancing lips and begging tongue.
Swallow slowly
Savoring the wallowed confounded
Vegetable mead
You have concocted from memory
Over the years of dreaming
The life of soup.
-Ron Crete
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Grief
Ancient legend states
“When a just person dies
God cries two tears
And they reverberate
throughout the
universe.”
If this is so--
do you comprehend
why the oceans
are encroaching . . .
After Auschwitz
Buchenwald
Dachau
And now Darfur?
-Marcia Myers
“When a just person dies
God cries two tears
And they reverberate
throughout the
universe.”
If this is so--
do you comprehend
why the oceans
are encroaching . . .
After Auschwitz
Buchenwald
Dachau
And now Darfur?
-Marcia Myers
Scraping Our Bowels
I heard the hum of the big diesel engines first.
The sun made the gravel barge glow.
Ancient rock scraped from the bowels of the mighty Columbia.
Scraped and dug from pits that never heal.
Like a picked scab on a schizophrenics arm,
Chewed from our banks, our protective brush discarded.
Open sores on our landscapes,
Bandaged with the fluff of hollow words, and empty promises.
Open sores on our land.
Open sores on our hands.
-Jeffrey Kee
The sun made the gravel barge glow.
Ancient rock scraped from the bowels of the mighty Columbia.
Scraped and dug from pits that never heal.
Like a picked scab on a schizophrenics arm,
Chewed from our banks, our protective brush discarded.
Open sores on our landscapes,
Bandaged with the fluff of hollow words, and empty promises.
Open sores on our land.
Open sores on our hands.
-Jeffrey Kee
Monday, June 12, 2006
Oregon Glaze
The snow made things brighter.
Nine inches in the Tualatin Mountains.
Add an inch of ice, make it 10.
Everything had a glaze on it.
Like the sugar water we froze on a salmon before shipping.
The wind moved and the trees crackled like the electricity in Young Frankenstein.
I fell a couple of times, checking it out when I should have been inside.
The ice crust would hold my 200 plus lbs in some spots.
Other places I broke partially through, pushing my balance back and forth.
I chipped the ice off the door of the car.
Started it up and melted things out.
When I got back to the house, I watched a robin fly across the yard.
It lit on the car, joining three others.
Drinking the water drops. Off the hood and windshield.
Some stood underneath snagging water drops as they dripped off the stabilizer bar.
I hoped I didn’t have a leak in my radiator.
I took down a bowl of water and set it on the car.
The structure must have been wrong because they preferred the single drops on the hood.
A little water must lube a robin’s colon, much sign was left.
Its raining now at 4:30, but it sounds like another day at home tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll write a poem.
The 8th. Things look a bit more icey out there today. A thicker glaze.
I looked up our road and noticed the leaning hawthorne was now touching the ground.
I heard some crackling up in the woods, but by the time I looked out everything was still again.
A long crack again as the neighbors non-native dropped about a 10 inch limb that bounced on the power lines and then blocked Riverview Drive.
If I went down to move it, I may not make it back in the house today. If we tried sledding on the cardboard today, we might end up in the Channel.
A robin sized bird flew across the shiny whiteness and into a tree below us. Crack and there went another 3 foot section of limb.
Kays got a number she called, apparently building trucks is very important to the Germans. Nothing planned again, I have to choose what to do.
Get up, build a fire, check the water, make some coffee, take some pictures, contemplate life, ah to be 40 again.
There’s a Towee freaking out cause he’s got a little piece of ice froze to his tailfeathers, hanging about an inch from his pooper. If he doesn’t stop twitchin this could be the end of him.
The Flicker made his first appearance, slipped into my view when I was checking out the Towee. I really should knock the ice off the feeder perches. Don’t know if I could make it back.
The young thrush doesn’t seem to be moving in and out of the feeding and watering area like the other birds. He needs a big thaw.
We all need a thaw.
-Jeffrey Kee
Nine inches in the Tualatin Mountains.
Add an inch of ice, make it 10.
Everything had a glaze on it.
Like the sugar water we froze on a salmon before shipping.
The wind moved and the trees crackled like the electricity in Young Frankenstein.
I fell a couple of times, checking it out when I should have been inside.
The ice crust would hold my 200 plus lbs in some spots.
Other places I broke partially through, pushing my balance back and forth.
I chipped the ice off the door of the car.
Started it up and melted things out.
When I got back to the house, I watched a robin fly across the yard.
It lit on the car, joining three others.
Drinking the water drops. Off the hood and windshield.
Some stood underneath snagging water drops as they dripped off the stabilizer bar.
I hoped I didn’t have a leak in my radiator.
I took down a bowl of water and set it on the car.
The structure must have been wrong because they preferred the single drops on the hood.
A little water must lube a robin’s colon, much sign was left.
Its raining now at 4:30, but it sounds like another day at home tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll write a poem.
The 8th. Things look a bit more icey out there today. A thicker glaze.
I looked up our road and noticed the leaning hawthorne was now touching the ground.
I heard some crackling up in the woods, but by the time I looked out everything was still again.
A long crack again as the neighbors non-native dropped about a 10 inch limb that bounced on the power lines and then blocked Riverview Drive.
If I went down to move it, I may not make it back in the house today. If we tried sledding on the cardboard today, we might end up in the Channel.
A robin sized bird flew across the shiny whiteness and into a tree below us. Crack and there went another 3 foot section of limb.
Kays got a number she called, apparently building trucks is very important to the Germans. Nothing planned again, I have to choose what to do.
Get up, build a fire, check the water, make some coffee, take some pictures, contemplate life, ah to be 40 again.
There’s a Towee freaking out cause he’s got a little piece of ice froze to his tailfeathers, hanging about an inch from his pooper. If he doesn’t stop twitchin this could be the end of him.
The Flicker made his first appearance, slipped into my view when I was checking out the Towee. I really should knock the ice off the feeder perches. Don’t know if I could make it back.
The young thrush doesn’t seem to be moving in and out of the feeding and watering area like the other birds. He needs a big thaw.
We all need a thaw.
-Jeffrey Kee
On The Job
On the job
We walk through
New buildings, punch lists still
Taped to elevator doors
And old cluttered corridors
Basements crowded with detritus
From loading docks, laboratories
Filled with graduate students
Wielding pipettes
Cork bulletin boards in hallways
Newspaper clippings
So old, yellow and cracked
Advertising seminars so long ago
The speakers may be dead by now
Every once in a while
An unused room
A freezer rattling in the hall
At the top of a long flight of stairs
A door open to the roof
Step out, just from curiosity
See the view from the top
Bridges over the Willamette
From Ross Island to Fremont
Mts Hood and St Helens
Almost cloud height here
The mist wraps around us
We stand
Torn away
From the day’s work
by Frank Vehafric
We walk through
New buildings, punch lists still
Taped to elevator doors
And old cluttered corridors
Basements crowded with detritus
From loading docks, laboratories
Filled with graduate students
Wielding pipettes
Cork bulletin boards in hallways
Newspaper clippings
So old, yellow and cracked
Advertising seminars so long ago
The speakers may be dead by now
Every once in a while
An unused room
A freezer rattling in the hall
At the top of a long flight of stairs
A door open to the roof
Step out, just from curiosity
See the view from the top
Bridges over the Willamette
From Ross Island to Fremont
Mts Hood and St Helens
Almost cloud height here
The mist wraps around us
We stand
Torn away
From the day’s work
by Frank Vehafric
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Tadpole Nursery
Wow!
Must be hundreds of them.
Fat little bodies wriggling
Their itty, bitty tails
To dig into their mud home.
It’ll be awhile
Before they’re full fledged frogs.
They have some incubating to do yet.
Imagine the sound of joy
When their bullfrog voices
Reach maturity.
I’ll have to come back here
For that symphonic croaking.
-Evy Kristensen
Must be hundreds of them.
Fat little bodies wriggling
Their itty, bitty tails
To dig into their mud home.
It’ll be awhile
Before they’re full fledged frogs.
They have some incubating to do yet.
Imagine the sound of joy
When their bullfrog voices
Reach maturity.
I’ll have to come back here
For that symphonic croaking.
-Evy Kristensen
Camelia Rain
Even though the sky is clear
it has been raining from the camellia bush
as a brilliant Stellar jay knocks drops
out of the pink blossoms.
The bright drops fall
from the petals and the jay
thinking nothing of it
tips more blossoms.
The jay flies away
thinking nothing of it –
the wind comes to chill
the bright blossoms.
-Dennis Bleything
it has been raining from the camellia bush
as a brilliant Stellar jay knocks drops
out of the pink blossoms.
The bright drops fall
from the petals and the jay
thinking nothing of it
tips more blossoms.
The jay flies away
thinking nothing of it –
the wind comes to chill
the bright blossoms.
-Dennis Bleything
Saturday, June 10, 2006
The Long Canoe Quest
The first day of summer
we hit the water
with dog, canoe, shorts,
good books,
one and a half paddle,
a small electric motor,
a battery that worked
and one that might.
It was a glorious time!
We saw silent owls,
big, swift unimaginably elegant herons,
duck pairs so faithfulto oneanother
their dance mesmerized us!
We saw beavers cutting across the stream,
occasionally smacking a tail
so loud in the quiet green
it sounded like the universe cracked!
It was a Quest
beyond words.
-Kurt Kristensen
we hit the water
with dog, canoe, shorts,
good books,
one and a half paddle,
a small electric motor,
a battery that worked
and one that might.
It was a glorious time!
We saw silent owls,
big, swift unimaginably elegant herons,
duck pairs so faithfulto oneanother
their dance mesmerized us!
We saw beavers cutting across the stream,
occasionally smacking a tail
so loud in the quiet green
it sounded like the universe cracked!
It was a Quest
beyond words.
-Kurt Kristensen
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)