I have always been a closet poet starting in the fifth grade at age ten. My writings from that time were destroyed in the early 1950’s when the family home burned to the ground. They were in a trunk that Mother used to store all of her mementos.
UNCLE FRED 1959
I remember your hands, large and worn
Folded over the crook of your cane
I remember your grave green X-ray eyes
Your rumbling voice, as gruff as Dylan’s
Carrying you back to your youth in England
Touching on politics, “state’s rights must be upheld”
Moving me through my ironing chores
My small daughter at your knee, entranced
Playing with your watch chain
Hypnotized by the even tones of your voice
Tales of the time your brothers
Rolled you to the window, stood on your back
To watch the Queen pass by in her royal carriage
To this day you still walk with a limp
You spoke of your days as a proud boss in the local sawmill
So proud of your independence
Of your years as central committeeman
Your position on the Lyman town council
Aging’s sluggish pace and illness defied dignity
Trampled you those long white months
You, who refused always to be catered to,
Turned your white face to the ashen wall
Wishing to be left alone to die in your own bed
They kept on needling you, held you on Death’s point
Until you heaved your last sigh
Reservoirs drained, empty.
Free at last
--<>--
Dahlias By Moonlight 1969
Echoes of moonlit movement on Iron mountain
Telegraph a coon hunt’s end
Baffled baying hounds. Yeahed in by their masters
Sound their chagrin
The lunar orb ascends over the mountains
An ancient cherry tree’s life bled limbs
Fingering air, earth stretched
Time’s moss veiling their promises of fruition
Gossamer ground mists drift, rise and float
Silently, obscuring half grown capering calves
They reappear as staid statues as mists rise
A bat flits by, a dark thought in the night
Above moon-glowed dahlias
The reds, yellows of flowerness await
Frigid freckling frost
A chill pierces marrow, I turn
Seek the lighted window
--<>--
The following poem was written around 1975 after the sudden death of my beloved yearling Appaloosa who died with intestinal problems after eating frosty grass and could not be saved by the vet. I was with him at the time of his birth and named him Wallowa, the Nez Perce Indian name for the wind.
Wallowa
I see you there, hear you there, feel you there
In the tossing, trembling treetops
Your spirit thundering along the driveway
Skidding to a lightening stop
Stretching across the split rail fence
Licking my reaching hand
Nibbling at my hair
You ARE the wind!
Capering, prancing, pounding the parameters of your space
Now hiding behind that old dead cherry tree
Your place to pause, to rest, to pout
I grieve through thousands of images
Always remembering the soft nudge on my forehead
The hoof at my heel
The tossed head at every whistle
--<>--
SCENT OF SUMMER
Lightening chased by thunder
Torrents of raindrops
Tumble down the windshield
Bounce off the pavement
As exuberant as children
On a trampoline
Turning up Icicle Canyon
The raindrops slow
Blue sky fades in and out
Speeding dark shadows
Trail thunderous echoes
I reach my destination
Rising scents of settled dust,
And summer rain
Pulls me into my running shoes
Floats me along the ancient river trail
Through brushing wet foliage of
Mock orange and oceanspray bushes
Rushing babbling water, birdsong
Create musical accompaniment
Scented showers slapping my shoulders
Soft greens hanging, clinging to my racing feet
Through wildflowers
Hoof print map and faint musk scent of deer
Eyes watching as I passed by, so beautiful.
Reaching the end of the trail, I turned
Mind drifting through the dusk
To cabin, warm shower,
Deep scented sleep
---<>---
GARDEN THERAPY
Rich, dark garden loam
Draws my hands, my energy, my soul
There, on knees, weeding, planting
Dreaming miles of swirling thoughts,
Traversing time, Reliving loves,
Solving enigmas.
Daydreams go on hold
Overhead an eagle soars
Circles, perches atop an
Ancient tall Spruce tree
Along the driveway
His shrill chatter impels
Clouds of sparrows and finches
To take cover
Foolish stellar jays summersault
An attack, screaming obscenities
Proud eagle ignores, stares
Straight ahead, above such foolishness
If only we humans could
Live so simply, react so appropriately
--<>--
REPRIEVE
A stolen day off stage
Filled by a lazy lag of time
Melts minutes into hours
Forgotten are schedules, decorum
Found, a stretched hand
To touch
Life runs new in nerve and vein
Music long unheard
Sweeps through, echoes
In the chambers of the heart
Recalls, Hopkins passage penned
“Man, how fast his fire dent,
His mark on mind, is gone.”
--<>--
WARRIOR
Sitting near your hospital bed
Watching your sparse even breaths
Via the ventilator
Your gray pallor, your mostly unclad gray skin
In silent repose, you seem warrior-like
Your gray hair splayed on the pillow
The sweet nurse massaging your toeless foot
With soothing vasaline to ease the loss
The toes victims of silent attacks
By your famalia
heritage, diabetes.
--<>--
FUTURE SHOCK
Through fields of
grain aglow
Shadows Race
Eyes aware, stare
Mesmerized by
changing landscapes
Changing populace
A world hypnotized
By twin chameleons
Progress
Money
Expanding ebony
shadows
Cross the valley
Fertility ravaged,
sacrificed
Obliterated
Future Shock in
action
--<>--
Anti War and Racial Discrimination
Poetic thoughts about American politics
Protest Writing in the late 1960’s
The following text was written by me in 1968 as a college
class assignment my senior year at Western Washington College. The class was titled “Introduction to Poetry Appreciation.” I was
asked to write a poem in the style of e. e. Cummings.
I chose the e. e. cummings poem Buffalo Bill’s to model his
style:
Buffalo Bill’s
Defunct
who
used to
ride a watermelon-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
My poem written in his style:
Uncle Tom’s By Lavone Newell
Uncle Tom’s
extinct
who used
to
bow and
scrape to a silky- white
aristocrat
and work
onetwothreefourfivesixseven daysaweekforwhat
Christ
he was a patient man
and
what I want to know is
how do you like your black-skinned friend now
Mister Democracy
--<>--
THE OLD MEN 1968
I live among old men
Listen to their bells of doom
“Anarchy and violence”
“Law and order”
“Anarchy and Violence”
“Law and Order”
Their echo muffles the lure
Of a frog’s chirrup and
Desire to lie on velvet grass
Where wind whispered melodies
Make the spirit dance,
Did the old men’s dance die too young,
Leaving them dull and empty
Able only to mouth dire predictions?
“Anarchy and violence”
“Law and order”.
--<>--
