Snippets of Conversations

Snippets of Conversations, Overheard
On Fast-Moving Trains

“… I said to him once I said
That he should have gone
He should’ve gone over that
Pass that pass
To that place where
The trees are all
Broken, bent. Still…”

“Jim said to me that it was the
Best he’d ever tasted. The best.”

“So we first went down the river and
Found snakes that hang down
From trees, like
Great ropes that
We could swing on. I…”

“… bought a coconut and threw it
Against a tree. Then…”

“How is it that I wake up and hear
Screams in the night? But
No one else
Seems to hear? Jim?”

“… Sadness and pain and raving
Mad at sounds that creep up
From my bed blanket. I cannot
Hear it at all…”

“… So we went, so we
Go and got lost like
Pebbles floated
Down murky streams…”

“The bird, I cannot hear
The bird.”

“… Jim? Is that
You? Jim?…”

“Sadness.”

Mountain Days

I went to a mountain once
When I thought the
Snow had subsided,
And the sun hadn’t quite hit
The pale stream that flows
Down from distant hills.

Is this the place I know?
Suddenly,
It doesn’t seem so clear.

Suddenly, as the sun
Falls on frozen paths as
Dogs climb up quiet hills…

I think of drives and time and
Wind that calls across cliffs. I
Think to follow but seem to slip
On ice and snow and songs
That I cannot hear but see as

Distant homes on hillsides as
Clouds that drift across
A mountain meadow.

Posted as part of Poets United Poetry Pantry

Ode to the Outlaw

“Where have you gone my…”

Blessed be the outlaw the
Lone man lost, but
Found on mountains too
Wild, too free
To be tamed. This outlaw

This wild man wild
Like winds that blow
Through trees that cannot
Be found… somewhere, lost,
On the sides of distant
Peaks. This

Wanderer, this cowboy
Of plains and places
That cannot be found on
Any maps. Where the
Hawk sits. Where the stream falls
Down from snows that tumble
Down from skies which were dark once,
So long ago. This wanderer, this

Outlaw of songs that whisper
Through pines and that knock
On doors in mountain towns but
Once answered… once answered the

Door opens to aspen songs and
Freedom and winds that crest the
Hills and fall back to words sung once
So long ago… so long
Ago that I think of a man

Straightening a picture once and
Gazing back, gazing back with
Wild eyes of plains and mountains and
Nights spent by open fires beneath open
Stars that smelled of…

Rain of,
Such sublime, sweet,
Freedom?

Posted as part of Poets United Sunday Pantry

Winter Shoes

“As she walks through the coffee shop…”

An old pair of shoes on
A cold, frost-bitten
Day. Lop-sided, broken…

The dry heel leans
To one side. As

The pale, pink toes
Seem to poke out and
Hint at, what I think,
Must be a strange world
Lurking, somewhere,
Below.

The dry heel
Leans to
One side. Hiding.

Hiding?