bison stop

alaska highway
snakes
northwest
--------------a gray ribbon through majestic mountains
and we drive mile after mile
--------------- gazing the un prairie power

stop for a herd of bison

crossing                the             pavement

massive brown bodies on

thin nimble legs
horns curving
crowning neckless heads
dwarfed by huge shoulders

tan tawny young ones

trailing mothers
on uncertain hoofs

and we watch and take pictures

                     like the one on my lap now
until we can drive on

a brief buffalo pause

in the mountain journey
of life

I Spy

sunflecked maple leaf green

wavering in wind

of suncloudy day

mown grass green of lawn in light

and shadow

weeds pale in compare 

dark green of spruce bough

touching ground with weight

of needles

green pointed aloe shoots

in all directions

pregnant with healing 

bluegreen carpet adorns/adores

hardwood

design different shades and shapes 

but eyes lift once again to spy

the windy leaves of great green

summer

life: a definition

smiling 10 month old
striped shirt crawling in greening
grass in early March

reaching

I like how old cathedral spires
reach up to the sky
on blue sunny days

built centuries ago
they awe our modern minds
as we crane to their pointing tips
magneting our eyes to the
invisible mystery of the creator

I take pictures with camera
pixilated prayers
digitized praise

and stretch my thoughts as high as possible
into the loving blue brightness

march thoughts

falling snow piles up in my mind
on synaptic branches and twigs
on the driveways of thought
on roofs of imagination
and the windshields of clear vision

and life comes to a frosty standstill
disastrous dreams taking over

until the time comes for spring sun
to melt away the accumulated layers
and let life
and warmth
and purpose
and new thought
be

Anton Bruckner

he shows up early
snow white short cropped hair
matching the new snow on your driveway

black bowtie completes his formal look
and you feel underdressed as you invite him in

for an older man he seems restless
always shifting position
never truly comfortable
until he sees the postcard from BC on your piano

he gets up to examine it
snow tipped mountains and lush green valleys
he is mesmerized and says nothing for a while

then he tells you about the changes in life
mountains and valleys
and how he always looked for the harmonic
interconnectedness of everything
invisible strands weaving and tying through all experience

and you look at his bowtie and smile

1916

we are always brought back there
in books-------movies-------- plays
to the middle of a bloody senseless war
soldiers drowning in the muddy trenches of France

it’s been almost 100 years since then
but wars rage on senselessly
cold wars
civil strife
endless argument with no listening

stuck in that one year
and we can’t escape

the world in a prison camp of un-peace
with no way out
razor wire and power hungry guards
keeping everyone in
locked in time and place

is there any hope to get us to the end of 1918?