Poem: Grandpa's Grave

Grandpa’s Grave

Softly in the breaking dawn I rest here

Drowsy still from the early rising in

Morning so early as to be confused 

With night except for the dawning eastern

Light of northern summer. Here I sit on 

Your lichen covered stone seeming as old

As if it were one from centuries past

Save for its lack of wordy epitaph,

Yet only yesterday it seems I was

That boy upon your knee smelling the soft

Scent of pipe smoke and Old Spice aftershave.

You left me with stories of landscapes here,

Camas blooming, fiddle music at night

And the ever ticking sounds of your watch.

If I’d known it was prelude to ancient 

Stones in early morning graveyards I would 

Have avoided your ancient words and songs

But here I am, happy with your great gifts.

June 2025

About This Poem

I wrote this shortly after Memorial Day last year, but I'm including it here because we're approaching All Saints Day, Halloween, Dio de Los Muertos, and all that. So, it seems appropriate here to remember my dead. While I titled the poem Grandpa's Grave, the description is of my great grandfather who died when I was 13 or 14. Who thinks of inheritance at that age? I don't suppose I inherited a lot of financial wealth from him, but my great-grandfather left me with a great heritage and knowledge of my home in north-central Idaho and that's what I wrote about. The photo is the one thing I did inherit from him: his pocket watch.

 

Poem: Iris

 Iris

Iris decorates the grave of one I 

Have loved deep in the canyon where rivers

Of grief have roughly flowed and memories

Of sorrow all these years still flow

Into the distant briny sea that waits

For us all. But now the cloying scent of

Iris comes to me in sickening waves

Reminiscent not of spring but winter

When so many celebrated and you,

My dear friend, determined to shoot yourself

Leaving us desolate in drifts of snow

Bereft of friendship and Iris’s deep scent

That came only in the canyon’s spring time

Rush of renewed agony in mem’ry

Of your last breath sprayed across the wall

Like a spray of flowers faded away

All too quickly into the river’s deep

Flood of sorrow that still flows these fifty

Years later as I lay Iris on you.

May 2025

About This Poem

I wrote this poem a couple of years ago after having visited the grave of a cousin who committed suicide when we were teens. It's not a pleasant memory and it still haunts me as does any suicide, including those of former students. I have no doubt that anyone of us has considered something to do with suicide, but if it's a problem for you or anyone you know, get help. The suicide hotline is 988. Call it. Those people who love you will be glad you did even if they never know (and you don't need to tell them). I think Iris symbolize suicide in many ways because Vincent Van Gogh, the famous Dutch artist, painted them all the time and he ended his life by suicide. I photograph them all the time, but my plans involve living a full life, even if it makes those around me miserable. ;)

Poem: Beware Swamp Monsters

Beware Swamp Monsters

If you go down to the river tonight

You best be prepared for a terrible fright

As swamp monsters there you will have to fight.

Beware swamp monsters that swim in the night,

They holler and swaller all in sight:

Stay away from the river in the night.

They come to the surface of the old pool

Where in summer all the boys come to fool

And there they will wind you in their big spool.

Beware swamp monsters that swim in the night,

They holler and swaller all in sight:

Stay away from the river in the night.

These fishermen’s lines were for fish to catch,

Though those fishermen now are in a batch

Of swamp monsters bountiful human catch.

Beware swamp monsters that swim in the night,

They holler and swaller all in sight:

Stay away from the river in the night.

It won’t be worth putting up a big fight

For the slimy green monsters rule the night

Of fishermen’s dreams and their wives own fright.

Beware swamp monsters that swim in the night,

They holler and swaller all in sight:

Stay away from the river in the night.

The boys in summer all come for their fun

In the bright days, their bodies they will sun

But if in the night they don’t make a run…

Beware swamp monsters that swim in the night,

They holler and swaller all in sight:

Stay away from the river in the night.

October 2023

About This Poem

This poem is a song, as you can tell by the refrain. It was something fun to write in the Halloween season a couple of years ago. And then we took a trip to Louisiana where I took the picture of a cemetery on a swamp tour we took. It seems appropriate for the song. Truth be told, you don't find many swamps in Idaho (though there are some like Cataldo Slough). New Orleans and south Louisiana seem like perfect Halloween country, right up there with Salem, Massachusetts. Louisiana is all voodoo and witchcraft, swamps and old gothic mansions and cemeteries that use crypts instead of ground burials. You can let your imagination run wild there.

Poem: Screaming

 

Screaming

Everyone spoke of

the accident but

I only half heard

because a baby

was screaming when you 

handed me that es-

Say, and the next day

they passed a drop slip

at school when you got 

married and your scream

echoed through the can-

yon.  Then they cut you

out of the car and

flew you to Pocatell-

O, and I reread 

that essay because

I could hear screaming

again like a baby, but

I never knew what 

it was.  Until now

that both of you are

dead.

About This Poem

This poem is based upon a real story from my teaching career years ago in southern Idaho. I first published it in the now defunct Inland Magazine and then more recently in Tuesday Night Movie Night (TMNM), a weekly movie recommendation newsletter and website (that you should follow). It's now about to be anthologized in a book called In The Deep that should be coming out this week. It has a lot of cool poems in it and it's worth looking into. Some phenomenal people published in it. The photo I put here is the school where I taught in the Devon, England.

Photo Essay

 I travel quite a bit and when I'm not in motion I like to people watch. These are a few of my observations.

People waiting for the shuttle at SeaTac airport.

People waiting for the Grand Ole Opry show, Nashville.

My friend on a hike near Princeton, Idaho.

Marimba concert at a birthday party in Moscow, Idaho.

Man in a crowd at the end of a Rochester Red Wings game, New York.

Poem: Autumn Commotion

Autumn Commotion

From sunshine we are bereft of the warmth

As through the eaves you hear the commotion

Endlessly moaning, the sounds of the wind

Pushing through trees coloring them with cold

They begin dropping, falling, yet swirling.

I light the fire and watch flames swirling

As we all gather round to feel its warmth

Sheltering us all from the autumn cold

And we hear the wood’s popping commotion

As the smoke goes whorling into the wind.

We anticipate some snow on the wind

Replacing the motion of leaves swirling

To white out blizzards making commotion

So, we add another log for more warmth

Though, as yet, we only imagine cold

Knowing full well the freeze of real cold

Blown onto the hills by the raging winds

So strong you have to chop more wood for warmth

And moving like leaves or snowflakes swirling

Because warmth also comes from commotion.

November 2022

About This Poem

The abrupt weather change this year from summer to fall (much needed for the fires) made me think of this poem. While it was written in November, it seems appropriate for this year here in Idaho. It's the season of running (XC), cutting wood, and moving around outdoors enjoying everything autumn while also getting cozy inside and that's what this poem is about. The picture is one of a hiker in September in Kaslo, British Columbia. I thought it represented the idea of Autumn Commotion.

 

Poem: The Lonely Runner

The Lonely Runner

The whole street’s abuzz

With bees in the maple trees

As I walk along singing the song

Of the lonely runner.

Spring is sublime in time

When winter’s grapple must topple

And I regain the refrain

Of the lonely runner.

The ground now abounds

In the brown drain of rain

Drying now ‘neath the feet

Of the lonely runner.

Gaining speed through greed

As the bees in the trees 

Buzz at the sounds

Of the lonely runner.

April 2025

About This Poem

I wrote this poem following the patterns of my own running by the seasons, hence the four stanzas. It, like running, is somewhat rhythmical and I chose to rhyme internally rather than end rhyme so that it can sound sing songy without looking that way. I wanted to play with poetic sound effects, just like I like to play around while I'm running. Right now, I have a knee injury and can't run so when I ran across this poem it rang true. I was really hoping to do a fall half marathon, but alas... The picture is self-explanatory. St. George was the marathon I ran that qualified me for Boston which I did run the next year in 1988. I found it hard to find a picture of a "lonely" runner since I don't typically take pictures of people running alone.