tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91589471880360817872024-03-13T02:32:37.639-07:00TANGLED UP IN BLUERickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comBlogger4125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158947188036081787.post-53570687887755752622010-12-16T23:18:00.000-08:002010-12-16T23:18:52.408-08:00as if she were<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h-f1Ldbv0pXX_6b6ACvIJ6Hgt8EQy7y3p5Giw0V6j58drmqsFASh3eiJDRLmQ-07OjAjlhztk3HlIoGfulNCobqC9qOIEXwfBVJvk2T5ZtfvKEQfrp3zy00VQdDjukNpgSGaDsr4tcU/s1600/3JS95PCAKFDKPPCAEHNGUXCA8EE1WNCAEHUGNYCA6H76PNCAAZC4FQCACAAMBPCAANIM48CATKTESDCA7238G6CAP8DN6DCA66DMJDCA0CY8SZCAKPP21XCAE0QA5MCAKJZUO5CAOCUHV2CAHS917SCA27DNYO.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7h-f1Ldbv0pXX_6b6ACvIJ6Hgt8EQy7y3p5Giw0V6j58drmqsFASh3eiJDRLmQ-07OjAjlhztk3HlIoGfulNCobqC9qOIEXwfBVJvk2T5ZtfvKEQfrp3zy00VQdDjukNpgSGaDsr4tcU/s1600/3JS95PCAKFDKPPCAEHNGUXCA8EE1WNCAEHUGNYCA6H76PNCAAZC4FQCACAAMBPCAANIM48CATKTESDCA7238G6CAP8DN6DCA66DMJDCA0CY8SZCAKPP21XCAE0QA5MCAKJZUO5CAOCUHV2CAHS917SCA27DNYO.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
it should be enough<br />
I suppose<br />
to just see her there just<br />
resting upon the tracks<br />
<br />
to wonder <br />
where she's been<br />
and the snows<br />
she's woken into shattered clouds<br />
<br />
looking to the shattered window<br />
and why is it always so?<br />
i see men<br />
who played her throttle<br />
and more feared the brake<br />
<br />
i see smoke through her hills<br />
and wheels trailing grease<br />
while bums raced and<br />
reached for her doors<br />
<br />
it's as if she were<br />
yet alive<br />
if only my eyes<br />
could breathe<br />
<br />
and if she were parked<br />
at Miller's crossing<br />
where never I care to go<br />
or hidden at the bottom<br />
of Whiskey River<br />
where catfish would spawn<br />
in her iron<br />
<br />
would even i notice<br />
the barren tracks<br />
on which she played<br />
<br />
it should be enough<br />
i suppose<br />
to see her there<br />
and know she ran<br />
the fields of my seasons<br />
and carried my dreams<br />
of departure<br />
<br />
but seeing isn't enough<br />
so I cross the fence<br />
bramble my pants<br />
and scramble the rock<br />
just to feel her heat<br />
once more<br />
<br />
my hands caress<br />
her weather-battered wood,<br />
my eyes breathe again<br />
the screech of her iron<br />
and for a moment beyond time<br />
it's as if<br />
she were again<br />
a cloud of wish<br />
in the hillside of hope<br />
carrying<br />
my dreams of departureRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158947188036081787.post-78007813817207860242010-12-10T21:38:00.000-08:002010-12-10T21:38:53.610-08:00Whiskey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6Tw-QIOPYeMjNpS3QI25MroNWda0pVe3FWd2uBVmIWQ13BlolAblTZ92FuRjS-Xyn6JpoI0szU0AZaYoZU_wO2keBC03yu7WpiVOOisa9bTAFJ44FOiuMS0NwTqSaHGO7308OP8v6Yo/s1600/DSCN4360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW6Tw-QIOPYeMjNpS3QI25MroNWda0pVe3FWd2uBVmIWQ13BlolAblTZ92FuRjS-Xyn6JpoI0szU0AZaYoZU_wO2keBC03yu7WpiVOOisa9bTAFJ44FOiuMS0NwTqSaHGO7308OP8v6Yo/s320/DSCN4360.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
"whiskey"<br />
<br />
The word didn't fall away<br />
And float like an april breeze<br />
But spewed and hissed<br />
Like a trailer park gas leak<br />
Whis- the hammer<br />
Key- the nail<br />
<em>BAM!</em><br />
Driven home<br />
Deep and true<br />
<br />
The bartender didn't ask for particulars<br />
knowing it didn't matter<br />
And his face poured shame<br />
To the jigger's dance<br />
<br />
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br />
<br />
The room hung heavy above the street<br />
Like a burp from hell<br />
While inside<br />
The red and green neon<br />
Fiddled across the barren walls<br />
<br />
He lay on his back<br />
His arm crooked beneath his head<br />
While her head rested<br />
Upon his shoulder<br />
<br />
They both stared up at the nothing<br />
The other kept secret<br />
<br />
The tornado had passed<br />
The barn was gone<br />
And the stained sheet<br />
Proved shelter enough<br />
<br />
Her tangled hair tickled his nose<br />
While his batter baked<br />
Between her sleeping thighs<br />
<br />
The still after the storm always<br />
Casts an eerie pall<br />
that words cannot abate<br />
<br />
He picked up a board<br />
And turned it<br />
Studied it<br />
tossed it, and<br />
Looked to where the barn had been<br />
<br />
She looked to where the barn<br />
Had never been<br />
<br />
"i love you"<br />
<br />
but the words didn't fall<br />
And float<br />
Like an April breeze<br />
but rather, spewed<br />
Like a trailer park gas leak<br />
<br />
Love-the broken hammer<br />
You-the bent nail<br />
Salvaged from the twister<br />
bred in the heat<br />
<br />
She said<br />
Nothing,<br />
Much to his liking<br />
<br />
~rickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158947188036081787.post-36421915440315184312010-11-30T20:43:00.000-08:002010-11-30T20:43:05.664-08:00Broken Wing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu91aMK3GKzSPYkS9HdVOmrz-qr-VEWmRP9E1xJDb_Yf6LRJm_VFZF8V_hrGYeb0ITFbLPnYHqFXc_CSEVcCjQmnr1Ev2sfzQoN8HcF88PjOks8Fo-z34NY_SiXHMOlrNtjeC6iy1NGWw/s1600/Broken+Wings_thumb%255B43%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="241" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu91aMK3GKzSPYkS9HdVOmrz-qr-VEWmRP9E1xJDb_Yf6LRJm_VFZF8V_hrGYeb0ITFbLPnYHqFXc_CSEVcCjQmnr1Ev2sfzQoN8HcF88PjOks8Fo-z34NY_SiXHMOlrNtjeC6iy1NGWw/s320/Broken+Wings_thumb%255B43%255D.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
I could do it<br />
Ya know,<br />
Really,<br />
Soar the pass<br />
peruse the rapids<br />
Hunt the bitterroots, and<br />
Nest on lookout pass<br />
<br />
Would be nothing<br />
Really<br />
<br />
I could<br />
I mean <em><strong>really could</strong></em><br />
Breeze the surf<br />
As the moon<br />
Painted me<br />
Upon the washed sands<br />
Of broken tides<br />
<br />
And then grab a thermo<br />
Flip a whim<br />
And search<br />
For that island,<br />
That shangri la<br />
She spoke of<br />
In my dreams<br />
<br />
And i could<br />
Really could<br />
Break the tethers<br />
Of earthen pull<br />
Find love among the clouds<br />
Two as one<br />
Falling<br />
In twisted spiral<br />
From the heaven we garnished<br />
Only to separate<br />
And rise<br />
To regain our momentum<br />
<br />
Could ya know<br />
<br />
Been watching the geese<br />
Peppered against<br />
The boundless blue<br />
The hawks<br />
With their chests puffed<br />
To bully the wind<br />
And the jets<br />
Carving etch-a-sketch<br />
Graffiti<br />
<br />
I remember<br />
A hummingbird<br />
That lay flightless on the ground<br />
I held him<br />
Hoped him healed<br />
Built him a home<br />
Among the flowers<br />
And kept a vigil<br />
She abandoned<br />
For one of greater ability<br />
<br />
He watched her<br />
And her hims<br />
As they blended themselves<br />
In summer gluttony<br />
And he tried<br />
He really did<br />
This careless warrior<br />
But it was always the same<br />
Three drunken circles<br />
And a crash upside down<br />
<br />
Til one morning<br />
He just lay still<br />
<br />
I could, you know<br />
Really could<br />
Map the Bitterroots<br />
Paint the sand<br />
Find shangri la<br />
<br />
-Love you<br />
<br />
But fragile wings break<br />
And vigils are<br />
Rarely kept<br />
So i wait<br />
Only <br />
To become still<br />
<br />
~rickRickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9158947188036081787.post-11801540097385187442010-09-14T01:05:00.000-07:002010-09-14T01:05:00.209-07:00The Maple leaf<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMDPu8d-4q68C31M6GmgS1hpEUdY9maxehu73MOHXi58j4Hqt6y9quRyntQtfD1yL07PHU1NJlRghqJIOqKvbWcaxCZniyrcdPPT08mgu7PDMjFB0-MhZXgkkqBf3C9lkglx4bKcn2S8/s1600/KK64TCCAQTWBZBCAIQJLJ7CAGD68EACAF26QN3CAA4HQWXCAH79308CASJSK9YCAOD0Y0SCAFVIFOFCA9DE6RACAIR0IK9CAVC5S84CABYV0CSCAMA0LY3CAACVNS2CAAZI7YZCANXY8SUCAFCDE9ICA04NWVG.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 215px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 235px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516221719007071026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOMDPu8d-4q68C31M6GmgS1hpEUdY9maxehu73MOHXi58j4Hqt6y9quRyntQtfD1yL07PHU1NJlRghqJIOqKvbWcaxCZniyrcdPPT08mgu7PDMjFB0-MhZXgkkqBf3C9lkglx4bKcn2S8/s400/KK64TCCAQTWBZBCAIQJLJ7CAGD68EACAF26QN3CAA4HQWXCAH79308CASJSK9YCAOD0Y0SCAFVIFOFCA9DE6RACAIR0IK9CAVC5S84CABYV0CSCAMA0LY3CAACVNS2CAAZI7YZCANXY8SUCAFCDE9ICA04NWVG.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I know a maple</div><div>now beyond its prime</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>it sits on the edge of a river</div><div>with too much root showing.</div><div>and just off the bank is a deep pool</div><div>where fish gather to rest</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I lean to this tree</div><div>while my pole lies lazy</div><div>and careless</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>usually, I watch the current</div><div>or the train rattling </div><div>the trestle, while my line drifts and</div><div>bounces the bottom harmlessly</div><br /><div>but one day,</div><div>I fell back in the grass</div><div>and looked to the sky</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>and there,</div><div>so near the top</div><div>of this once mighty tree,</div><div>was a small leaf, alone</div><div>on a branch whose time</div><div>had come and gone</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>this red and green leaf</div><div>waved and danced</div><div>to a warm summer breeze</div><div>and I knew,</div><div>it would be the last</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I haven't been there </div><div>in a while now, and</div><div>I wonder of it</div><br /><div></div><div>someone left an old</div><div>wooden box, Coke</div><div>I think,</div><div>just below the tree</div><br /><div></div><div>and silly as it sounds,</div><div>as I drive I worry</div><div>when finally it breaks free</div><div>of a branch that will never</div><div>hold another,</div><div>will it float free and drift</div><div>on the swirling current</div><div>where yet it might dance?</div><div>or will it fall in the box,</div><div>where dancing is just a memory?</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>~rick</div><br /><div></div>Rickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12466743523566419268noreply@blogger.com