end of summer haiku.

farmers combine corn.

the fields are empty, leaves fall.

Goodbye summer birds.

poem for a porch.

Her plastic body, filled with dirt
just birthed a baby flower.

The summer sun she bathes upon
gets brighter every hour.

A brittle vessel, filled with seeds
that never feel cool air.

This lucky one, born of a thumb
will wait for solar flares.

The robins came back,



calves are dropping in the fields.



Iowa, it's spring!

I spied your shapes high in this tree
where black crows cease to sit,

The leaves are dead,
the branches break,
and bark falls off this tree

in flakes.

Inhospitable home on a dusty dirt road
how did these piggies get high?

A warning sign?
A lullaby?
A big fuck you to this passersby?

Oh, big ol' pink hides,
Oh, big ol' pink heads!

If I were that tree I'd be thrice over dead.

As dead as those piggies hung high on dead lumber,

a long lullaby for an unending slumber.

I am gigantic.

A dinosaur skeleton

buried in soft soil.

a quickie.

quick bird poem.


When I was a younger kid
The age of twenty three,
I’d throw some seeds on piles of snow
And birds would sing to me.

Their colors popped on white, white ground
and Cardinals looked blood red.
I watched some blue jays fight for food
To get their bellies fed.

poem.

a pinkish hue
is floating down
a rocky, craggy creek.

devoid of fur
and lacking breath.

a floating mass of little death.

i'm a doodlin' fool. (revisited 7-19)

I want my buddy Rachel to write a poem to go with my silly lil' doodle. When she writes the poem I'll post the poem. And she better write it or I'm gonna come to Oregon and let the air out of her tires so as to inconvenience her...slightly. That is a threat, Rachel. And this better not be like your Fish City cross stitching pattern that you have yet to finish.

The Albino: (7-18)

smile dear,
you've got so much to be glad for
listen dear,
you've got a lot of friends
to save
there was the last one
(was his tail whiter than
the first?)
we heard him tick-
tick-
ticking
til the sonic waves
rained down
now
we flutter round the wreckage
we are looking for survivors
surrounded by the ghosts of our
deerly
departed

-Rachel Eidson.

it was hot.

It’s all sorts of hot, here.
The insides of my spectacles are fogging up and
I wanna write curse words on the glass.

But…

My fingers won’t fit behind the frames.
I would have wrote F U in one lens
And C then K in the other one.

clever stuff.

The sun is making my sweat sticky.
Not in a good sticky way.
In the “this dust is gonna cling to you all day”

sticky kind of way.

And I sorta see some black smudges at the edge of the field.

I'll bet they're buzzards.

Those things would eat me if it got the chance.
Well, they’d eat me if I was lying there dead.
Or dying and feeble.

Gross.

It’s too humid to be lying dead in a cornfield
Getting all eaten by vultures.
Too humid for me anyways,

The deer they’re eating doesn’t seem to mind.

I think it’s too dead to worry about the situation.
And I’m too sweaty to worry about the situation.
Fuck.

It’s Hot.

Nice Times

nice times


Hey, I saw some big ol' carp
traversing up the river.
They bit and ate wet blades of grass.
Then made the water quiver.

Yesterday, a swimming snake
cut S shapes in a pond.
His periscope head spied land for a bed
and then the snake was gone.

Slowly we will gravitate
to a stream a pond or lake
We'll walk around to pick up shells
We'll find some flint to flake.

spring cleaning.

Spring trades eagles for buzzards
As the chosen mode
For cleaning out it's cupboards
On the side of the road.

Blackened Opportunists
Float circles in the sky,


Making hungry faces

At something

That has died.

a fever poem (it was 100)

Let's let
Spring and Fall
Become bouncing verbs
reserved for pogostick stomachs
on asphalt driveway.


Because that pretty robin
you watched fall from the sky,
well, I'm pretty sure
He was ready to die.


So don't sweat it.
Verbs happen.


And now all those
banjo croaking frogs
alive in the pond
can become our new
onomatopoeia


For a season that drops
fawns into the woods
of our backyard
and drops robins onto
a springtime altar


Made of mud and corn.

bald eagle. Dead Dog. a poem.

I never knew nothing bout' neither of you
one trotting
and sniffing
just looking for food.


Then headlights and screeching.
A loud Ka-Pow.
Then you, old black dog,
you became the dog chow.


I don't know too much bout' our proud nation's symbol
that flies through the skies and rests by the river.
I imagined them diving and catching their prey
then flapping
and flapping
before flying away.


I drove many miles before I seen what is real
Nature is cruel and a dog is a meal.


A sharp yellow beak on a big ol' white head
He stood on top of that dog, with his feathers gone red.
Just chomping
and munching
and picking away
I learned something new about eagles that day.


But I haven't gone soft, eagles still have appeal.
Roadkill for some, for others a meal.

Ode to a Dead Bumble Bee

While i ran across the lawn
You bumbled in the clovers
Carelessly,
You played matchmaker
Among the pretty flowers.

For such a tiny, buzzing thing,
Hardly even there.
Into my arch, i felt a sting
Into my skin so bare.

And with that sting that felt like fire
Burning up my shin
I cussed and screamed and cursed that bee
My foot became its pyre.

Carelessly,

I stumbled forth
And landed on the stairs.
I clutched my foot
To look at it
And half the bee was there.

A tiny pulsing abdomen
pumped venom in my skin.
And i knew that bee would never buzz
or ever fly again.

Now I walk on aching arch
With steroids as my pills.
To dull the pain,
Unflame inflamed

From a bee whose guts were spilled.