This, My Columbia

This, My Columbia
... The Columbia River

" Cosmos Cascading " (10x23)

" Cosmos Cascading " (10x23)
August, 2011 id3300

" Blacking Streaking Black Red " ( Right Corner View )

" Blacking Streaking Black Red " ( Right Corner View )
August, 2011 id3286

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Trains Of Echoes



Trains of echoes
Haunt the dark
Hunt the light
Run the tunnels
Of the night ...

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Iron Sculptures Americana















Prologue ...


Trains of echoes

Haunt the dark

Hunt the light

Run the tunnels

Of the night ...


~ Iron Sculptures Americana ~

The night wheels
Of the midland train
Are heavy in the night,
Drumbling down
Drumbling the ground

Hammering down
Hammering the sound
Slammin’ the track
Slammin’ the ground
Heavy into the night

Chasing the light and
Turning the whistled echoes,
Slip skimming the slumbered ground
From afar
Echoing upon echo,

Through prairie towns,
Rumble the ground
Trumble the cars
Midwestern beneath the stars,

The Jangle jingled Jangled,
Black iron panther,
Pulling the night freight,
Coursing America’s lifelines.

Black blue smoke
Streaming and screaming,
Rooster-tails chasing the thunder,
Under the dark purple
Night sky of America

To heart lines that weave
The wheat fields and ambered,
Big-backed heartlands of America,
The night wheels
Power and hammer-down,

The iron, then the steel
Slappin’ the track
Slappin’ the ground

Slap the track
Slap the sound
Slice and suck the air,
Swoosh and thunder
The currents aground,

a-hammerin’ down
The slappin' sound
Of rhythmic circled notes,
That sling-cling
Above old-hooved scars
In the Buffalo lands of Americana

And the midnight music
Of all through the night to Chicago,
A-hammerin’ down,
The night-lighted train
Mourns its horn
Through another town,

Iron and steel
The workin’ brawn of America
Night running to Chicago
From afar,

 As Iron pig cars
Trail with hooked tails
And steel tongues,
Drawn, driven and toggled,
Stretched and pulled
By their black steel engined night panther,

Sweating sleek,
Muscle sculpted forearms,
Churning the furnaced front wheels
And her back thighs,
Twin demons
Screaming grooved wheels
In a chorused cacophony
Of track and wooden ties,
Moaning under the sweat-sweet madness
Of power and sparks jumping crazily,

The dark-framed fireworks,
Brimstoned and catapulted
Into the empty night and
Endless prairie lands
Of a sod busting hungry America,

While her long, black haunches
Uncoil a rhythmic cadence
Of bold runs and looping sprints
To the wheel houses
And switching yards,
And the zoo sheds of panthers,
Steam streamers and six legged coal eaters,

Iron resting, steel twitching,
Down cooling down
Sitting heavy on silenced,
Massive circles of steel,

A waiting to hammer down
To clamber clap and
Slap the track away
From the roundhouses of Chicago,

Back to the night runs
Through prairie hamlets
And the sacred lands
Of ancient peoples,
And the Great Plains of America,

The night sound streamer
Hammers down
Clamber clapping
Wheels a-slapping
Meandering track and trestle,

Hell-bent, straight-line and bulleted,
The hinterland rail-bound vessel
Round-hammers the night-silk cover
And the nocturnal orchestra
Of a freight train
A-hammerin’ down,

The dark-orbed wheels
Of the panther, slappin’ the sound
Into nights of myth and magic,
Where iron horses, black panthers,
Night trains and the track runners
Of America’s lifelines,

Circle one another
In Train Dance choreography,
As the steel phantoms,
Amid moon shimmer
And cloud-star dapple,
Rendezvous a great and timeless switching yard,

Drawn to this evening’s oasis
And the prairie's midnight gathering
Of the locomotives of a thousand horses,

And the Great Plains
Black steel rail runners
And the mighty, silver-laced
Iron-red bulls from the East,
Weavers and climbers of mountains,

And the raw-dark, steel sheened
High-ridge runners and down-racers
From the valleys of the South,

To then, the night horned echo, echo
From across the Western flatlands,
The desert sprinter
Powers her path,

Slicing the heat unto waves
And the whip-pool wakes
Of furnace-thundered currents,
Amid the shimmered radiance
Of sounding, rounding feet,
Savaging hotter than the desert heat

And pulls cool
Into the longward lands
Of last grand call
While the lung lust of bagpipers
Beacons the midnight sight

And the night-run quest
To the Mecca
Of the legends of the past
And the legions of the night,

She melds majestic
In hosanna homage
And with steel
And iron sculptures Americana,

Sings out in tribute
To the clarioned music
Of night wheels and the sonata
Of whistles upon the wind...

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Early Rose Forever Rose


An early rose
Dances the garden
On ballerina toes

And comes as quickly
As thou hath come to be
In meadows of memory
Under showers of melody

A symphony of swirl and swash
Of petals and notes afloat
The breezes of time
Riding the echoes
Of a nursery rhyme

For when we were
A wee bit girl and boy,
Amid the twirl of blossoms furl,

I sought back then
To be thy beau
For which reason
I did not know
Until my season
As a young man came,
Flush and warm across my brow,

Searching crowds for you,
And yet not knowing how
To navigate upon the seas of chance

And while standing firm
Within the bow,
We passed as ships, star-crossed
Upon the waters of the night,

And yet, now every year,
As the red of rosebuds’
Brilliant bright against the snow
Winter’s dance with Spring
Shall set thy heart’s bud
Burst in glimmer glow

For always my hope will be
Thou come to know
I cared for thee
As April's rain
Will come to show
How wet and sweet
The roses grow.

Friday, November 16, 2007

Where is Emily Where is Jack?


The childless die hard
They kick against demons
They push against the end
and die crawling into the past,
Never quite believing
It could end this way.

No send off
No goodbye
Only cold faces
From another neighborhood:

"Just go and be done with it!"
You see in their eyes.

"We have work to do,
because of you."
They seem to say.

But they don't know
For when i was young, so beautiful,
There was always time
To borrow against tomorrow,

To dance far into the evening
Of my Daughter's wedding,
Toasting a glass at my Son's

Henceforth passing easy
With sweet remembrance
Of their nursery rhyme.
Passing easy into time...




Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Black Bumble, Tumble Bee



... on the front porch
When first i noticed him,
On his side, curled up
And moist from dew
And dressed in black
With startlingly yellow,
A patch across his upper back.

Dead,
I thought.


But, oh how intricate
And beautiful his design,
And as i pushed him
Onto a scrap of paper,
He appeared to move a bit
And alas, continued on
His crawling into the cold,
Out from the cold
And into the forever.

Inside, i placed him on the desk,
And he pulled himself along,
And contrasting against the white blotter,
He reached the edge
An hour's journey later,
And rested in eternity,

As thousands of flowers and vines
That he had pollinated
In his Summer weavings,
Now waved goodbye and rippled
In November's breeze, awaiting their turn
To slip into early Fall's seductress
Of gentle frost and freeze.

What a sensitive man, you say?
Nay! Bullpuck! Bullpuck!
Let me slap shot this across your bow:
We were both warriors of the Summer
In a manner you'll never know how!

So brace yourself, my lad
And never smirk
The least bit spot of life,

And as the world and time
Both churn you along,
Tip your hat to the universe
And choose a god or not,

But never flout creation's rhyme
Nor the rhythm of the seasons
Lest you find
They've passed you bye,
Turned and left you out.