Things Mended, Once

Newness and time and
Days spent wandering wild by
Things not said and cannot be
Said… by trails taken and paths gone
Down just once. I

Have been gone and silent. Quiet
Thinking on ridges and long walks up
Boulder-studded hills that take us to
Songs in the wind or

A sun-bright cold day in Rockies and
Beer bought on holiday days near
Hotels lost to time
And space. How do

We begin again? Is it just picking up
Broken things and mending them
As best we can? Or something

Deeper, more profound, more
Struggles to find old things in closets we
Cleaned out long ago. A shoe with

Holes in soles that was thrown down stairs
I cannot find.

Visions of Soundless Nights

Deep down and distant
Days of thunder-struck
Senses and sounds of sweet
Rain coming from clouds that

Part from towns we hear as
Motion from meadows and
Birds that call to calm and
Curious shapes that fall

Like sound in scented barrels
Of time.

Thoughts on Lost Lines

I could not find the
Best lines to write to
The lone man high
Up on trails I
Cannot find…

Giving them to the wind
Or the mailboxes with
A flag always up but
Never put down. I owe
It to a quiet stream or a

Night-time terror that half
Wakes you up and in dream
States I reach out and think of
Songs of hills and lines I threw
To the wind and now…

Cannot find.

A Poem Found in a Cave

Editor’s Note: Discovered
Behind a stone in deep,
Barren dirt.

Off on ancient ridges by
Falls that tumble down to
A hand that waves at
Me in the dark I

Seem to see walls in mist and
Gray men in suits tapping
Down alleys that I knew I could
Find once but lost
To a song sung on cold

Nights by fires that burn in
Deep canyon caves that we
Can only find by the bright
Lights of hands traced on

Ancient ridge walls. I…

Think so much of days in
Forests and feelings of running
Like a child lost…

In the dark.

Black Birds and Mountains

January, 2017

The black birds come
Down and by large, white
Windows with views out

To mountains that back to
Mountains that stretch to
Lakes up tall pine roads.

These black
Birds. They do not
Stay but squawk and perch
With such menacing eyes. While

Out beyond are hills and
Streams and paths that line
Up to mountains that stretch
To mountains I just
Cannot see.

A Mountaineer’s Lament

Found on a ridge on
A lonely trail.

You cannot find it if
You looked even so
Hard. Down deep tunnels in
Quiet mountains. In
Trees and lakes in
Towns that died long
Ago. You cannot
Find it.

More so think to see
It in sunshine mist on half-
Cold winter days. The form
Far off on hills that almost seem
To wave,
To us…

A lone bird that sits
Pensive in the cool
Morning air. You

Cannot find
It even if you looked even
So hard,
So still.

3 Stanzas for Winter Days

Suddenly it all comes down and
A patient, pensive stillness
Settles out across the views

That stretch to cold-topped and
White-dusted hills with foot-
Prints you can trace as

You stand and watch and
Breathe in deep chills that still
Are coming quietly from
Somewhere else…

A Poem Found On the Side of a Road

A Poem Found
On the Side of a Road

Badly damaged and hard to
Read in places…

Somewhere out West where
We know of canyons and
A pale, translucent moon I

See hillsides by hills and
Far off a lone figure up
Far off passes we squint

At in the sun. It
Just like this place. This
Feeling by fires and smells

Of streams by woods near
Trees we can only see
Waving at us from roads

We just can’t reach…

The rest cannot be read.

A Poem Found Beneath a Tree

I like to think of it as
A king in a bed who
Never wakes up. A kiss
Good-night and then that is
All… slipping away in

The dead of night. A
King, once. Or

The lone splash of lines falling
Into cold mountain water that
Came from a frozen pond by
A mill that ground stone from

An old mine with loose, lean
Floor boards. So much

Time and memories of trains
On tracks that creep across
Mountain-sides that we cannot
Take anymore. Just the sound

Of birds in bushes and the
Soft rustling off of little pale
Forms that whisper of

Time in bottles that we float
Silently downstream.

Broken

Sudden out on quiet times right
Before the sun sets and the
Yellow trees are calm and
Just blow in the bright
Breeze. I

Think I see you in trees as
A passing shadow or just the sound
Of crunching leaves and the
Break off somewhere of old and barren

Branches I cannot see. This must

Be it. The time when the road winds
Off to a canyon and there is a path I
Found once on halting autumn days and
Took, took to small towns with coffee
Shops in corners and tables cast always in

The mid-day sun. There, there again I
Caught a glimpse of you in a mirror going
Up the winding stairs. The breeze. The view
Off to mountains with the lone speck of

A form on a hillside climbing up and
Up…