We are Ken

We are family even if continents apart
whether we sit in the fourth row
to better see John's fountain
or the first row to race to the podium
to take the mike in hand and welcome
everyone through the door.
We voice our hymns in and out of sync
the message is always love.
Our goal is to share love without measure.

Yesterdays and Rain

I miss different people on different days;
I miss my friends in so many twinkly ways.
I miss my brothers tomorrow and yesterday.
I smile more than cry, because my brothers did.
I hang on every word I remember that they said.
I can almost talk to them live on days of rain.

Returning to the Mall

"Just so you know,
I am waiting over here
where we were."
"No, I am not over there
where we never were."
"What where?"
"Here, where we were;
I am still over here."
"Okay, see you over there . . . "
What do I know?

Spring in Lane County

Willamette valley begins our wonderful Springs
clumsily and slowly, pretending bluest of skies
while bitty spots of yellow and dripping grey skies
merely sport a flowery smile pretending Spring.

Friends of all Sorts

Sometimes I see best without a fat pen in hand.
Maybe a bike ride through wetlands never visited before
not knowing what I might see or who I could meet
sometimes collecting favorite rocks from other bikers
mostly folks sleeping along the railroad tracks
not asking, mostly wanting to share what they had
certain of gold in stone or magic in blessed rocks
and glad for a chance to teach and talk their saving lore.
I am blessed to have met and listened to such folks,
I am double blessed to see them again and wave hello.

Along the Willamette

our minds move so often in circles and sometimes bend in questionable directions . . . we give a flip; I can circle and watch you curve in delight as well . . . possibly, we can wonder where to go and wander in toward another setting sun, not enough for any worried soul . . . sometimes my mind works in overtime, not as well as yours, but I promise I am able to meet you halfway toward a drifting moon or almost rising sun and decipher your smile . . . we can stand and stare and we can hold hands and know that we recognize the sky and the dance of the river . . . we've managed that before and know most of the critical steps . . . I'm mostly slower than you but know to follow if you leap ahead . . .

An Aside of Sorts

When I was 12 or so living in Seth Ward, TX,
you know the place, a bit north of Plainview.
My barber was a sweet woman with a home shop
who needed only combs and scissors to do the cut
and saved her brush for a final flourish.

She was Mrs. Dean, a friend of my Grandmother.
She was just walking distance from where I lived,
near the gas station that paid .02 for rescued pop bottles.
It was an easy walk, the haircut cost 2 quarters and a dime.
(or something like that, I don't remember, but that sounds fair).

During school, I walked to see Mrs. Dean every other Saturday;
after school, I waited to walk until sometime in late August,
but always walking and looking for pop bottles in bar ditches.
I never met Mrs. Dean's famous son James, some movie guy
who later moved back to Plainview and started a sausage mill.

Nod to Mr. John Prine

We still expect love and happiness over sorrow;
most of us mature beyond ripe grapes toward wine.
Death does not overwhelm our goals for tomorrow;
we are pleased to have danced to the beat of Mr. Prine!

With my Brother in Vegas

I ain't behind nobody . . .
So there. I ain't behind you.

I know how to add 2+2 to 4
& sometimes I can triple it
and wait for the score.

It depends who sits the table.
My lead is certain; this ain't no banking game.

If you're looking for some way out,
don't look to me. I know my way.
Some teach, some learn; some march all day.

Inevitable Fall

I am a joe named bill . . .
I know when I am at top of a hill
because every which way looks down.

Some friends say, "look up, look up!"
but vertigo spins me into looking down
and I stumble like a twice-practiced clown.

Except, I have no practice at all
I am just a baby brother joe named bill
and I am starting to tumble and fall,
not quite deciphering up from down.

04/03/2021

Tap your steps and twirl on toes;
in our minds, the parts all move.
We can create a rhythm for our song.
This is our world. We all belong.
We have nothing more to prove;
only that we still step lively with love
and practice civil speech on our tongue.

belated . . .

Mike Weber (as he always did)

As January 2015 comes to an end,
something I never thought might happen,
and so many of my friends gone,
including our self-described "hardhead",
I pray (not with practice or patience)
that the justices of the universe
see fit to lend him assistance in what follows . . .
(or else, quite simply,
he'll need to make his own path, as he always did),

Woman in a Window April 2020

A woman stands at a window looking out.
The window rises from her middle thigh
to some six inches above her head.
The width of the frame narrows her silhouette:
a framed picture four times the width of her body.
She stares out, apparently seeing nothing.
I have never talked with her,
though we are members of the same tribe.
I stroll briskly, with purpose,
keeping distances between me and her.