Ruins

Here the king’s men came

and killed the pope’s men

and sacked the church

whose creed required good works

in addition to the merciful grace of God.

Aloof, the ruins stand witness,

crumbling more gracefully than dogma.

This is who we are, this is what we do,

a justifying joy on either hand.

Ad majoram Dei gloriam.

Prairie

Sunset, a vein of cold blood, empties into prairie grass,

reddens dun, dry stems rasping in wind.

Night, brighter than day, gibbous moon in ice-clear sky,

black trees suppliant, grass shining silver and still

Stiff-legged, a coyote lopes across the meadow,

shoulders hunched, head down, listening.

Moles infiltrate through a hole too small to find;

in petty terror we snap their necks with traps. 

But in the vision there is a bearskin on your shoulders,

you walk out, stone club in hand, steaming in the cold.

The cottonwood has entangled the moon.

                                                            Jim Boring

We came back along the railroad tracks
from the little tobacco shop where I read
comic books while he bought Camels
and talked to the men there.

He held my hand as we walked
until the place where the segmented grasses grew
then I ran ahead to gather stems that we pulled apart
exclaiming at the popping sound they made.

We saw a star fall that night.
It seemed to land in the railroad yard.
I wanted to go and get it but he said no
it was nothing but a cinder now.

Now his light is gone, a cinder,
but I have that dark night so long ago
when I walked with my giant and plucked magic grass
and had answers for the frailties of the universe

Horace Silver at the Piano

Down the lonely afternoon,

the dark and sunny day,

alone in smoky silence,

Horace bends low over his hands.

Whisky circles widen, merge,

glisten wet on the upright lid.

A long ash shudders in anticipation.

Close on the yellow keys,

head cocked, listening,

he is not playing,

he is conjuring,  

note by solitary note,

into trembling air.

This is how it is done,

alone in an empty bar,

in dusty light,

in a quiet place.

Beginning

You are throwing a baseball

back and forth with your father.

He throws fly balls high up into the sun.

You position yourself and catch them

with a satisfying ‘thuck’

in the web of your mitt.

The mosquitoes aren’t too bad,

the temperature not too hot.

Your glove is linseed-oiled

and broken in, the baseball

scuffed with grass. A summer

stillness has settled right here.

You know there are butterflies,

birds and snakes and clouds.

You know the girl next door

is watching from her window

Your father leans back,

throws one as high as he can.

You and your armada move

gracefully under the ball.

‘Thuck.’

He throws a grounder bouncing

erratically on the uneven grass.

You bend your knees,

anticipate correctly. 

‘Thuck.’

The hunched crows

in the trees caw approval.

Now the hard ones come,

straight at you –

fast, right down the pipe,

time to move the mitt

but not to think

and the stinging dignity of pain

in the glove hand.

There is the girl in the window,

there is your father grunting

when he throws the ball. 

His arm grows weary

he looks at you and nods.

“Good,” he says.

         Buck