Hi! I Remember You Quite Well

(for my friend Eberle Knight)

We're gonna dance into heaven 3 steps at a time
taking turns leading in all directions
we'll form a swan and turn on every third dime

or maybe I'll dance something beyond our sync
but near the end, you will rhumba past the brink
and some of us will be nearer to heaven

we will touch most of the time with affection
but watch my feet they stomp the floor like buffalo
and turn lovers toes into noisy piccolos

Spinning Today

If ya wanna win
pour a tonic & gin
and ask for '50's blues
& as our world loses its glues
we are open for an old time spin . . .

A Friday Night in Eugene

Surely a moment of change is some focus of energy;
perhaps a simple glance toward a movement of parts.
Differences may be subtle or sudden without cause;
chains of differences dance beyond our dancing reach.

Our world contains a multitude of starts and pauses.
I suspect we can disregard single, simple focuses of energy.
Chains of differences are troves or more often trials.
Even drunks who fall down a lot love a special someone.

The world in whole is somewhat different from the dance floor.
we dance and expect to finish with some flourish of a prance
and go home for a hug and a brandy, a nap before seeking more
and maybe savor with friends our favorite sticky toffee pudding.

I barely know the courtesies beyond the dance floor;
I do not cotton toward the whelm of endless universes.
But, I have possibilities: I may stroll the streets of Eugene,
staring starward into the skies, always wearing at least a mask.

The Simplicity of Poetry

You can write your poem;
I will scribble out mine.

You can chew at your pencil;
I'll lean back with a glass of wine!

Long-ago Yesterday

I remember my grandmother's fresh-starched bonnet
and how she weeded her flowers to allow then more light.
I remember her bulbs, stark, tall, bright and hand-blessed.

I also remember she took out her big book to read us a sonnet
by the old poets, with pauses, winks, smiles; always honest,
her words dancing from the page into the twindling twilight.

Pandemic Days

It's tough times.
We ain't stepping down.
Not sure where to step?
just avoid the shit if you can,
but keep your head up and smile on
and treat people like people.

When you can, offer a helping hand,
and know times have been tougher . . .
times have been way fuckin' tougher
and people did not always step up
but just waded through shit like it was normal.
Wading through shit is not normal.

Avoid the shit by stepping to the front
say hello offer your hand or shoulder to lean on.
Don't tread through shit if you can avoid it.
Help friends who feel threatened or pushed.
There's no rush, just do it now.
Reach out. There is our total world around us.

Strains of Life

Proprietors of "the"
have little truck with me;
hawkers of "a" and "an"
furnish better measuring sand.
An Eagle naps on an old limb.

A bird sang in a tree,
far off. My name repeated
on a tongue of the wind.
I dosed in a drowsing wood;
who invented should?

A strain of needy seeds
swaying beneath me;
who knows such need
better than you, me
and our flowering weeds.

Building Brick from Straw

What the old ones were saying
is much, I think, to what we are
saying today. The difficulties
are often obvious simplicities;
as a running stream will break
and reshape the image of our moon
all night long: the way our children
build brick from the straw of childhood
and watch for signals from the sky to break
into radiant glows of tomorrow's dreams
or nuances of yesterday's coulds and shoulds.

Splashes of Water

Some of my favorite poems are slaps of cold,
splashes of water from some mountain stream.

Walking Down a Street

I am mostly unaware:
stumbling, tripping, getting up to walk some more.

You are mostly badge:
chasing, hitting, laughing with a band of uniformed friends.

We went to school together:
hanging out, banging about, eating lunch from home.

We may end on the same hearse:
stretched out, no heartbeats, unaware of who's walking where.