Early Orchard Snow

The barn door yawns slowly,
the rusted hinge loosening a soft moan
at the touch of the breeze
meandering off the orchard slopes.
Beyond the frozen ruins of the garden,
deer for a moment cease their hopes
of winter wheat and cock eyes and ears
toward the snoring barn.
Firewood hides beneath the snow
and my back cocks once, quickly,
as I gaze upon the axe.
Blessings huddle beneath the wood shed,
one dry cord.
Standing still again, I close my eyes.
The creek gurgles its way across the farm.
The barn door shifts in dreams.
Latching the door, I turn to predawn hills.
Row after white blanketed row
the apple trees wait, freshly pruned.
Like Arlington they stretch beyond sight, wonder.
Like the little ones snuggled close inside,
they slumber.
I close my eyes again and see blooms
and fruit.
I fill my arms and turn from orchard to orchard.

~bsower~

Mailing Resumés in December

Leaves
released to the wind and the cooling earth
to be broken, decomposed, decayed
Forsaken arms stretched skyward
bearing no gifts, only baring what nakedness reveals
Gaunt, gray fingers content to wait and wave
possessing no heated desire or urgent need
Autumn leaves, her vibrant dress now brown,
scattered in countless swatches on the wind
to fertilize tomorrow's dream perhaps
but now
unemployed.

~bsower~

New Clay

The soft, cotton string
of a jet splits the autumn sky
as I sit on a hill above the river
wondering.
The labor of hands and feet
and a mind intent on moving
suffers frustration, a shiver,
a thundering.

A decision in weakness
in the garden of heaven
and now we strive and thrust,
desiring;
But better lives were ours
before the blood lines
passed as they must, before
the firing

Of the new clay we inhabit,
where we taste but a glimmer
of the freedom that was given
and spoken.
Finding the gift proves fruitless,
though, unless we destroy
ourselves, bringing us riven,
broken,

Like the raiment between
the world and the holiness
when the clean blood fell
like rain.
As the lines of cotton fade
above me ,and the sky is one,
I find understanding in the nail,
a gain

Of sorts, for how else can there be
such love as a death,
such gain in loss?
Tell me.
The river flows still,
and the tree of my life
is twisted to a cross.
Nail me

There and take this labor
and craft some greater love,
end this strife.
Grave me.
For no labor brings joy
like a love given freely
like the gift of the life
that saved me.

On this hill I imagine
another time
when the life of the world hung dead
until a blood stronger than the river
ran and a wind from heaven swirled
instead,

and I rise with new eyes
and I walk new paths
and I can sing
As one
with the angels and saints
and the Father of Lights
as They come and bring
the Son.

~bsower~

A Poetry Day

Morning Awakening

Never take lightly
Shades of a sunrise slaking
The dark thirst of waking
Hills dressed in early spring
Nightcaps garnered with foglace

Even though Momma’s probably up
By now and the house is one
Big coffeepot steaming done
So I smell coffee outside

I always am a child when I think
Of Poppa and of dreams
And of Momma’s old surprise
The magic coffee sunrise

Never take lightly
All those burnt summer evenings
Between the trees behind the house -
The two dogs chased squirrels
And I sat until the sweat dried

Mostly wondering if dogs cry
They look so like they know some things
I like to run with them at night
In visions tomorrow wide

I sometimes drift away when I spy
Chimney smoke flapping in the wind
And clouds floating vividly
Above a pastoral mountainside

Never take lightly
But the milking and feeding
And mowing need done by noon
Then the fence the far pasture’s needing
Must be up by new moon

Baby brother will soon be here
Pondering the sunrise, reckoning
Son, the tomorrows keep beckoning
Ages pass year by year

I laugh at becoming my parents
Still, their sun shines brightly
The mountains are quenched – time to rise
Long working day – don’t eat lightly

~bsower~

Making Sense

I sometimes do things that make no sense. I mean, they make no sense to me, so I am sure they make no sense to others. I always believe that everything happens for a reason. As the hours and minutes of these past few days are processed, categorized, divided and stored, I know, am certain that powers beyond the control of any mortal are working. Currently, I am hovering an inch above the ground, a mile below the sky... waiting. I have always been decisive. Now I wait. For just a little while, I will only breathe. Minimal movement, for the next move I make may change the world. First, I will sit, wait, and determine the square root of my destiny.

This Functional Life

Pictures from a recollection and wishes
of somewhere else in time and distance
where trees are grown for no reason and I can love

the moon

Several sawed-off shotguns
wasting in the woodshed and suits
with dusty shoulders from hanging too long
in the closets of rusty soldiers
Maybe in church on Sunday
where real seems sometimes surreal but yet so real
that thanks should be given for bloodshed
and all the spankings behind the woodshed
because more than our shoulders are dusty

Must he
hide behind the squint and swagger
when all that is needed is a smile to sweet the bitter
swallowed with a childhood chased with annual migrations
and carpetbaggers from God-knows-where
who appear in bedrooms and kitchens
calling themselves family

Choking
from the sweetness of her love until
tears fall because of daily realizations and recognition
of mortality, of loss
because nothing lasts forever outside this room

Sitting on a sunset
smiles become vivid recollections and even pictures
will not remain – memories can’t last forever
like stale toast
Stuck

popped up in Pompeii and frozen to yesterday

~bsower~

The Morning Train

I should not think of you again
unless I can dream
free and clear of heartache
and the next big earthquake

Seems there’s less to gain
unless tomorrow comes
without memory and desire
and yesterday’s fire

I could put you on the morning train
unless you’d stay
you could tell the birds
so there’d be no words
for me to hang on
no hopes but those
I live on

But I will sleep now
unless the phone rings
free and clear is the line
but the light doesn’t shine

and still I dream
and always will
unless I wake in Ireland
and hear the choir and
the birds
without words

I shouldn’t wake but I do
and I think of you
ever, still, and will
free and clear like the morning train
and I sure would love to see you again

~bsower~

Thaw Me

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my heart, and I cannot even feel

alone

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my body, and I cannot even walk

away

Sometimes I am abandoned

by my head, and I cannot even remember

apathy

Sometimes I am naked in the snow

and am willing to lay there

asleep

Bundled people passing by

forsaken in foreign ways but one

should have my promise to keep

Not willing to forsake

but to thaw me awake

♪

♪

♪

Stripping Still

This process is but a cog in a gear in the system that is me.

Water Dream

We melted into a pool
cotton, silk, cotton-poly blend, denim
falling all around
Like autumn leaves drifting to the watertop
barely rippling the surface.
Hesitate, hurry, heat, cool air, stop
don’t stop –
bronze the moment in memory
like baby’s shoes – reminder:
fruit of conception –
Like stones skipping, scouring smooth surface
with simple swells until the fall
down – can’t wait – drown –
drop fast
Stone to the bottom of the pool
And like a stone,
Can’t remember the details
once the ripples slowly move away,
fade into the rushes, blend
with man-made wake while
Waiting for winter to freeze me again.

~bsower~

Economy of Love

The swinging in the playground
twenty years ago
Stopped dead in the rust
of feeble, old dreams.
We grew upward from strollers to bikes,
leaving each to fall like leaves,
And time still hikes
its way through a mangled world.
We dined at the wedding feast
on gilded plates now broken
from the move you made
Away.
Love depreciates.

~bsower~

Hold the Morning Like It Was a Plow

Tomorrow and maybe ... same thing, just spelled differently. I was thinking of favorite lyrics or phrases today. "One day when the weather is warm, I'll wake up on a hill and hold the morning like it was a plow and cut myself a row...." is one of my all-time favorites. It is from Joe Henry's Kindness of the World. Of course, I could fill up a notebook with favorites from Dylan. Anna Nalick is good, too. "Driving away from the wreck of the day, and I'm thinking 'bout calling on Jesus - 'cause love doesn't hurt so I know I'm not falling in love, I'm just falling to pieces." Then there's Matthew Ryan: "Now it occurs to me like blinds undrawn or a bullet from a shotgun that she knew long ago what it meant to feel irrelevant." I am a sucker for good songwriting. I enjoy a good groove, too, but someone who can craft a great lyric and support it perfectly with musical atmosphere, delivery ... cool.

Artists. I have fancied myself such for much of my life. I sit here, though, and look around me. The question hits us all at some point or other: is this what it's about? I am way too analytical, way too much a thinker. I have been trying not to think. That's funny, really. Seriously, though, I long for that peaceful balance between thinking and just breathing. A place in this world, in this life, where I am not burning up with desires I cannot even define. Road-hogged by far too many ideas and phrases and dreams, I dart and sometimes crash and sometimes shuffle from project to project. Priorities shift, not with the wind, but close to as often. Focus. No more than two or three projects at a time. Finish one before adding another. Take a break and stop thinking - even if it's just for five minutes. My father is peaceful, now. He only keeps one or two things going at once. He seems bored though. All - the - time. I can't endure boredom. Contentment? Maybe.

Across the Alley

She says she loves the moments when she can forget
to be her and instead remember,
sometimes too much, sweet dreams and vistas
that other times appear
in a magazine or on television
or in someone else's eyes.
But those moments when she loses
track of time and self, they are more than all that
because they are real,
even through a window-view,
and leaning out the window is its own poison
just like suffocation.

And he says he loves the moments when he can share
his heart and soul
with another who returns them
better than they were,
with another who breathes more than air - she breathes
the soft flesh of dreams both to be and not
and is not afraid of suffocation -
and he is ready to give her his breath anyway.

They speak across the alley,
smiling across the way through opposing windows.
Their hearts seem pinned to clothespins
sliding on the line from one to the other, like notes
or clean clothes. They sometimes see the blur of traffic
passing by, or faceless people, the mailman, but mostly at these times
they see one another.
Still, sometimes they see the door,
beneath its awning always lit.

~bsower

Sugar Plum Visions

Many are expecting snow to start falling sometime late Christmas Eve, early Christmas morning. This area last saw a white Christmas in 1961. The meteorologist indicates that two very different models are being watched. One shows the storm system tracking more northward and inland, granting a snowball's chance in hell of even a light dusting. The other model is in that vision with sugar plums, and all the kids are dreaming. Again, this area last saw a white Christmas in 1961. The combination of "meteorologist" and dreams as strong as new love tends to box up history like a textbook. Certain history, that is. Other historical data stands steadfastly, and one can bet the farm with no risk that by mid-afternoon tomorrow, the supermarkets will be out of milk and bread. One more time: this area last saw a white Christmas in 1961.

Naturally, the model dumping snow in these parts is the model the majority is expecting to prove accurate. The conspiracy theorist may find collusion clearly exists between the supermarkets, milk farmers, bakeries, and the various meteorological societies and associations. The more productive member of society operates beyond this entire matter, understanding that the masses possess a mob mentality even more so these days and that the weather - well, weather will happen, just be reasonably prepared. The overly analytical one believes this little tale of forecasting a white Christmas is further evidence that the masses prefer dreams over reality. Put more clearly, the masses are perfectly willing to make decisions based upon and indeed live in a dream-altered reality. This phenomenon is reflected in the divorce rate, the debt ratios, the amount of time parents devote to self-entertainment compared to time spent with their children, the amount of money spent on sporting events versus the amount of money spent on educational pursuits, the amount of media coverage Lohan and such receive compared to the lady who beat all odds to put her three kids through college on a cashier's income... We live in a sugar plum society.

Lest this seems all bah humbug and spilled milk, understand that this time of year is perfect for sugar plums. Spreading joy, observing the magnificent amazement and wonder on children's faces, pausing the ever-spinning life merry-go-round and disembarking to see the sights, give a hug, dream a little, share the love - this is Christmas. With great hope and love, the world was changed. With great hope and love, the world can change again.

Positive change is sorely needed, but sugar plum visions impede progress. Fear of life impedes life itself. Consider that the masses willingness to dream awake signifies, to some degree, a fear of life - a resignation that real life is too much work or beyond repair or disgusting or pointless or just plain scary. These sentiments are understandable. Soldiers are dying. Jobs are fleeing. Gas prices are soaring. Crime is consistent, like death and taxes. Love is lost. Marriages end. Friends lie. Relationships have gone virtual. Human touch is rarely shared. The world is scary at times.

This Christmas season, two roads diverge in every wood. One cannot travel both. However, one can take the hand of one nearby and pledge to help on the journey, to go meet the teacher, deliver a meal, shovel a neighbor’s walk, stop and fix a flat, have a meaningful conversation with children, love selflessly, give without hope of receiving. Life requires work. Work requires alertness and willingness to focus on the task at hand. Dreams exist for good reason, but dreams should not be confused with goals. Identify your desired life destination for 2011 and beyond. Roll up your sleeves, take a hand of one close by, and choose the road that takes you there. Put forecasts in your pocket with a compass. Grant expectations the foundation of effort. Have fun in the snow, rejoice in the rain, bundle up in the cold, be thankful in all things, love truly and deeply and without fear. Who eats sugar plums, anyway?

Tunesday X

Not much to write that hasn't been said already....

This tune has been in heavy rotation here for a few years now.

Citizen Cope Son's Gonna Rise

Nature, Nurture, Neurosis

Someone out there will read this and then know far too much about me, perhaps more than I know myself. See, I have this strange habit. Hang-up. Hysteria. I know not how long I've suffered, or caused others to suffer because of, this affliction, but I believe it started during my early teen years. The condition typically presents itself like this: I fall asleep, someone speaks to me, and I deny sleeping. For instance, Disturber-of-my-peace:"Come on. Go to bed. You're obviously sleepy. I mean, you've been sleeping during the movie." Me: "I wasn't sleeping. I was resting my eyes. They're dry tonight for some reason." I must have lots of guilt pent up about sleeping.

Perhaps I once felt an overwhelming urge to "hang" with everyone, and as long as they kept going, I determined to go, too. Maybe I possess some odd, foolish, or simply neurotic characteristic that causes me to believe sleep is shameful. Then again, I suppose I could blame my parents. Genetics makes for a wonderful scapegoat. After all, my youngest girl is afflicted with this condition. Not long after she turned four, she was in the backseat, in her car seat. She had fallen asleep. When we reached our destination, the other children scrambled out of the car. I asked the oldest brother to wake her. I turned from the driver's seat and said, "Hey, babe, we're here. You've been sleeping." Dazed, foggy, she glanced around slowly and then said, matter-of-factly, as sober and sure as can be, "I wasn't sleeping. I was blinking."

How about you? Do you have some odd habit that serves no legitimate purpose? If you have children, have you noticed that you've passed it on?

Humidity

Crossing the threshold
I am pasted sticky, wet
Eight a.m. and eighty-eight degrees
The air is invisible still but steamy, molasses
Life in slow motion
I do not want to mow the lawn in slow motion
I am thirsty
I do not want to wear grass and dirt today
I am soaking wet already
I wish you were still here
You would be surprised
I have fixed the place up nicely
Barn door thermometer reads ninety
The mower starts easily
I am tired already
Maybe you will come back today
for once
I look forward to a cold shower

inspired by Lime

River Rats

The kids and I have spent quite a bit of time on the river lately. I am thrilled that they love the river and aren't too worried about leeches, snakes, trout, slippery rocks, and the other dangers that I try to insulate them from. We slid down the rocks, caught several trout (and released them), and walked up and down the river as far as we could, our challenge being to go as far as we could without exiting the river proper.

Next week, the boys and I will do it again. This time, we are going to where the river begins, they tell me. Sounds good to me.

Melange

• Once upon a time there was a non-conforming sparrow who decided not to fly south for the winter. However, soon the weather turned so cold that he reluctantly decided to fly south. In a short time ice began to form on his wings and he fell to Earth in a barnyard, nearly frozen solid. A cow passed by where he had fallen, and crapped on the little sparrow.The sparrow thought it was the end, but the manure warmed him and defrosted his wings!
  Warm and happy, able to breath, he started to sing.
  Just then a large cat came by, and hearing the chirping he investigated the sounds. The cat cleared away the manure, found the chirping bird, and promptly ate him.
  The Moral of the Story:
  Everyone who craps on you is not necessarily your enemy
  Everyone who gets you out of crap is not necessarily your friend.
  And if you're warm and happy in a pile of crap, you might just want to keep your mouth shut.
• For those of you who invite persons onto your property for the purposes of a yard/garage sale, note that many jurisdictions classify these invited guests as "invitees." This is different than social guests, who are classified as "licensees." The owner of land owes to a licensee the simple duty of making sure that the social guest is not harmed by the owner's activities. The owner owes no duty to investigate and identify concealed dangers. However, invitees (those yard sale folks) are owed a higher duty. The owner owes to them a duty to warn of known and unknown defects. Therefore, the owner also has a duty to discover potential risks. Failure to fulfill the duty owed may lead to a nice little civil suit if the guest is injured.
• A turkey was chatting with a bull. "I would love to be able to get to the top of that tree," sighed the turkey, "but I haven't got the energy." "Well, why don't you nibble on some of my droppings?" replied the bull. "They're packed with nutrients." The turkey pecked at a lump of dung and found it actually gave him enough strength to reach the lowest branch of the tree. The next day, after eating some more dung, he reached the second branch. Finally after a fourth night, he was proudly perched at the top of the tree. Soon he was promptly spotted by a farmer, who shot the turkey out of the tree. Management Lesson: Bull shit might get you to the top, but it won't keep you there.
• Math Teaching Over The Years

Teaching Math in 1950: A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price. What is his profit?

Teaching Math in 1960: A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is 4/5 of the price, or $80. What is his profit?

Teaching Math in 1970: A logger exchanges a set "L" of lumber for a set "M" of money. The cardinality of set "M" is 100. Each element is worth one dollar. Make 100 dots representing the elements of the set "M." The set "C", the cost of production, contains 20 fewer points than set "M." Represent the set "C" as a subset of set "M". Answer this question: What is the cardinality of the set "P" of profits?

Teaching Math in 1980: A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $80 and his profit is $20. Your assignment: Underline the number 20.

Teaching Math in 1990: By cutting down beautiful forest trees, the logger makes $20. What do you think of this way of making a living? Topic for class participation after answering the question: How did the forest birds and squirrels feel as the logger cut down the trees? There are no wrong answers.

Teaching Math in 2000: A logger sells a truckload of lumber for $100. His cost of production is $120. How does Arthur Andersen determine that his profit margin is $60?

Teaching Math in 2009: El hachero vende un camion carga por $100. La cuesta de produccion es ….

Diving

A smile like the sunrise
Peering over Calibogue sound
Rouses him from other dreams where,
In arms as free as his
Longing, he rests peacefully,
And she wonders what he will do
when it rains.
Thoughts of darkness toss him
like a hammock in a hurricane,
but he recalls the fire within.
He knows he finds inspiration in the rainfall,
and he knows how to swim.
Swallowed by her light, though
He takes a breath
As deep as canyons
Just in case.

~bsower~