RODEO LOVE

About forty years ago, a friend commented that making love to his new girlfriend was like going to the rodeo.  I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant, but it stuck with me.  This may be a warning to always be careful around writers.  You don’t know what they’ll remember, or when they’ll use it.

RODEO LOVE

I’ve been to the movies

been to a few plays

I’ve been to the opera

and to the ballet

but lovin’ you, darlin’,

is like a rodeo

with a calf half roped

and a buckin’ bronco.

Now, I’ve been to Paris

and I’ve been to Rome

been a hundred places

I wouldn’t call home

I’d take an ocean liner

to the farthest foreign shore

to rope and ride you, darlin’,

behind a closed door.

You are the lightning in my heart

and the thunder in my dreams

you are the final move

in my wildest schemes

you feed me when I’m hungry

give me drink when I’m dry

make me feel just like myself

in the blue sky of your eyes.

I’ll always love you, darlin’

though I roam from place to place

I’ll love you here on earth

or floating out in space

doesn’t matter if you’re here

or if you have to go

I’ll be barrel racing all through life

in our romance rodeo.

RW

Seattle

10.25.2018

(Sometimes it’s just fun to start rhyming and see where it takes you.)

COFFEE WITH THE DEAD

I.

                                          

On this

New Mexico

monastery morning

it suits me

to stop and sit

on a stone retaining wall

to have coffee with the dead.

Twenty-six

rough wooden crosses

monks & benefactors

gone to dust

planted

in

rows

&

tiers

fenced

in a

high desert clearing

of

sage

and

chamisa

mowed

low.


II.

Sky

razored blue

clouds

sliding

on & off

the sun

hawks

ravens

&

magpies

catching

thermals

above
neon

cottonwoods

cold breezes.

III.

Twenty-six

crosses

knee-high

dark

&

hewn.

Twenty-three

carved

with

names

&

dates.

Two

left bare

waiting.

One cross apart

inscribed

“For all those

buried

in this canyon”

a

dedication

that spans time

to

reveal us

as souls

in eternity.

IV.

This

monastery

will

fade

&

fall

as will

these

crosses

as will

this

chronicle

as will

the

memory

of

“…all those buried

in this canyon”

as will

this

canyon

Requiescat in Pace, Amen.

RW

Santa Fe/Seattle

10.17 – 10.23.2018

SEEKING ASYLUM

is not a crime

Protect those

who come to us

for protection.

BIENVENU BUDDHA

He sits

hears a breeze

pleasing

sweet.

Cocks his head

feels the breeze

across his lip

cool.

Removes his hat

beads of sweat

catch the light

shine like jewels.

Sweat

breeze

light

jewels

gone

and still

he sits

he sits still.

RW

(photo:  Bienvenu Buddha, Santa Fe, 10/20/2018)

AMERICAN FANTASY IN THE PARENTHESES (…) OF A SONG

 It is strange birth, this writing of a poem.  Usually the first line appears, in this case "All the rapist's children," and the work proceeds from there.  Often there's a direct link to a situation, or a reading, but in this case there's not.   However, this has been a week of vetting a Supreme Court Justice nominee, rife with allegations of sexual abuse, the machinations of power politics, outrage amped up to epic proportion, and unceasing media coverage, so the poem is informed. More often, though, it's like sighting a quark - blip/gone.  I generally build a poem from the first line, and the work is to blend words emanating from depth/intuition/inspiration into a conscious construction.

This poem came, as said, from that first line, and then in images and chunks, with a song floating through, and then shifts and adjustments that may not make sense to anyone but me (and even then, less sense than sensibility.)  Finally, a title in which I try to remove the mystery from what follows.

And, I am totally fascinated that all proceeds from a, literally, dark place, located somewhere in a gelatinous three pounds of meat between my ears...

AMERICAN FANTASY IN THE PARENTHESES (…) OF A SONG

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child.

Sometimes I feel like a motherless child

A long way from home

All the rapist’s

children

stand around

his bed

There will be no

words of wisdom

No pathetic last requests

Not even death will forgive him

and so he’ll return

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

Sometimes I feel like there’s no one there

A long way from home

Conception is in the darkness of the body

Gestation is life at 5 a.m.

The doctor with too much to do

and something he’s trying to remember

drops his forceps

Let ‘em lay, he says

and kicks them

under the table

His nurse is calm

and holds out another set

Fuck it, he says

waving her hands away

He pulls his mask down

spins on his heels

and boom boom whack a doom

shuffles his booties and booty

out of the room

The nurse is calm

delivers the child

no forceps necessary

I’m going to run, I’m going to run

I’m going to run to the city of refuge

A long way from my home.

RW

Seattle

Columbia City PCC

10.4.2018