It’s quieter here
In this simple place
Where we stare at the sky
And count the rabbits
Fluffing their tails.
The grass grows greener
When it’s neighed at,
Not honked.
The rhythms of scratches
Of dead leaves dancing
Across the lonely road
Stretching between
Gilman and Medford
Must give hints to the wind
Of deafening snow.
We’ll settle here in silence,
By and by.
You sit in the heart of Arcadia
With tongue not native to this land.
In Tortas y Tacos New Sunrise
Saying words most don’t understand.
But the owners, they speak your language
Here on the Oeste side of the state
Where the Tamarack grows
And the river is young
In its march toward its fate
To the gulf of your home far from here
This Norte portion of River.
Even in this place where any hope
Seems little more than a glimmer,
It may not look it—but trust me—we like
Your unexpected face
To more than me,
You seem to be
So foreign to this place.
Legs pumping. Breaths come quick.
Sweaty, blurry eyes.
Nearly sick.
The bluffs are built with pines and oaks
That are passed by with every stroke
Of swiping hand up this land
That curves toward the sky.
At the peak
Passing bikes
Litter the trails
Designated for quick appreciation
Of the mountainous bluffs.
The cycling tires
Swipe berries from their branches
Sending them to the forest floor
Waiting to be found and swallowed whole.
Outside the canopy
The river winks in the distance
Enticing hikers
Down.
Increasing speed
Toward the bowl
Is soon deemed
Out of control.
Runs turn into falls
And falls turn into rolls.
Rolls turn into bleeding
From legs, back, and elbows.
But the running, rolling, bleeding
Comes to a stop down below
The peak of the bluff.
Swallowed by the bowl.
Intoxicating fumes
From the 87-octane
Spilling from my Ski-Doo
Only heighten my senses
That had already peaked
Around that last corner
That throws me into
The final,
Deafening
Stretch that is checkered in black and white.
Before I even tear the tape
I lift my hand in victory
Ignoring the dusted snow
Blinding me
To the competition
That I didn’t even know was there.
As we step our first steps
Onto the first brick of Main Street,
I stop to reflect
On the times laid behind me:
The wooden panels glistened
On the Lake Geneva seas
That held me and my skis
Aloft with blinding speed.
The laughter and lounging
Out on that lake
Was only temporarily ruined
By one glaring mistake:
The loss of my sunnies
That now lay at rest on the sand,
Forever enjoying the warming waves
Rippling overhead.
Now the light red darkens deeper
From drips of Geneva flowing down leg,
Like a fleshy waterfall,
Onto the brick now dark red.
The times lying before me
Are sprinkled with ice cream and fudge,
Or singing and dancing
(Hopefully all the above).
But who knows?
The plans could change wildly!
A pretty girl, for example,
Just winked at me mildly.
It doesn’t matter,
‘Cause if you can, then you will
On the land in Lake Geneva,
Time lays down still.
Among these maples and oaks,
Owls creep
And ravens think,
Beetles shuffle up and down
And scitterish squirrels quietly shrink,
Caterpillars make their homes
Between the branches of the birches,
At daybreak the hawks awaken
And predatory birds begin their searches
Through the thicket of the foliage
For the field mice and the shrews
Scurrying along the forest floor
Finding grubs nibbling on the roots
Shared amongst these maples and oaks.
Stuck in traffic,
But I’m okay.
Got cut off,
But I’m okay.
My radio’s broken,
But I’m okay.
It starts to rain,
But I’m okay.
Because even in this car
I’m close to the trail
That leads me to Out Of The City:
The Ice age Trail
That takes me back in time
To a world long lost
To the footsteps of concrete,
Noise, and Smog.
The trail’s guidance winds
In escape from the encroachment
That I myself need to break.
My foot touches down on the softened dirt,
And now I’m okay.
Four boys
(No good, no doubt)
Sat in the garage,
Figuring out,
Just what to do
With their Saturday night.
“Let’s egg some place!”
Brad said with some might.
They carefully planned it:
The egging of 412 Silver.
Todd would go to the Kroger
And soon would deliver
Four dozen eggs
(Free range, of course).
They were led by Art
(Who they called the worst).
Then the four of them
(Derek in back)
Crept up to 412 Silver
And quickly attacked.
Whistling missiles
Of unfertilized chickens
Littered the siding and windows.
And so it was written:
The floodlights exposed them,
And they ran for the house.
Galloping gayly
Laughter shot out their mouths.
Back at the garage
They gathered their breaths.
Three—no, not four—
Were all that was left.
Todd was here,
Art and Brad made it three.
Derek was missing!
(He’d gone back for his keys.)
The three boys all went home then
Not sharing a thought
About what had just happened
And prayed to their God.
The next day at school,
To their surprise,
Todd, Brad, and Art
Found Derek alive!
Beaten and bruised,
He recounted his night:
Going back for his keys
The homeowners caught him in flight.
They bound him and beat him,
Tied him with rope to a chair,
Poked him with needles,
And yanked at his hair.
After hours of this
Improv interrogation
The captors called the police
And proudly launched their confession.
It didn’t take long
For the cops to arrive
To find a teenager smiling
Because he’d known he survived.
Moreover, he smiled because
He knew (and believe me, he flaunted)
That he could sue this couple
For that new bike he had wanted.
Right there in school
The four all agreed:
No more egging houses
(Unless bikes were guaranteed).
Lakes chained together make for fun trips and sunny skies!
The first toe of the day gets dipped around 8
Into the pale water fitted with a white sand bottom.
The minnows scatter at the breaking of reflections
With boats and tubes
And all sorts of inflatable toys.
Speeding Sea-Doos skip across the surface—
That once was soft and now is concrete—
Towing tubes of fun and games.
A child dunks his head to spy for fish,
But the real fun’s up top.
The Sun bakes these memories into hardened treasures.
For when the snow commandeers this place
They will only be totems of laughs long past
And hopes for a summer to come.
I’m frantically searching
…but what am I searching for?…
That hidden gem,
That last piece of untouched land
That defines this place.
The last frontier – barely explored.
The last dirt road – often ignored.
The last virgin land – pure to the touch.
The last piece of home. There’s no thing as such
A hidden gem:
One I’d love to find,
But I’ve been swimming in it
All this time.
This Is Just to Say 