2 Poems


wednesday morning prayer group
- By t.k. splake

accidental tourists

"brautigan is the cruelest month"

dave engel



golden raised letters

"coupe de ville"

shiny enamel

wrap around chrome

affluent new gas box

on autumn color tour

beechnut county florida plates

surviving seniors accepting

freud's "ordinary unhappiness"

denying designated shallowness

lives merely passing through

lacking visceral risking

growth extending selves

like sunday artists

chatty "wannabes"

poets painters sculptors

talking works to death

failure to live intensely

facing muse each morning

not understanding

creative focus energies

an every day thing

sad prisoners captive

AMERICAN DREAM "nightmare"

content with fashionable

new condos beaches
old art deco bargains
"snow bird" others

gray aging expatriates

never experiencing elegance

paris
montparnasse
"cafe el select"

like hollow-eyed adolescents

nicotine hit calming

morning alky jitters

self absorbed smothering

conspicious consuming masses

drowning in mediocrity

world turned to shit

same old same tomorrows

unknowing something

better.



finnegan in the CLIFFS

pillasleep broken

thunner in the eire

mid winter clapplaud booms

larruping lightning sparks

gentle limnmaster

abandoning dreamwinging

rush roads north

past village metes

racing silver streaks

early first dawn

paddy patched parka

nicknelly gummy boots

a-hoofing hie sloggering

trail driftin mounds

riven white snae

passing sphagnum bogs

over trouty stream trickles

around snowy

poor rock tailings

fossil crowlech boulders

sipping shandy barkfarst

tiny sparrows a-flit flutter

merry mirth melody

"chivee chiveroo chivee"

whiskery gray bard

sherious druid versifer

sewing together dreams

brain skull hullooos

rising to summit

talkintrees sininstones

sacred holy heights

whisper quiet paternockster

couple lusty hellmurries

humming soft te deum

soulful teary ah dearoooooo

rodinoisy kissabelle

daughter mother wife

rat bastard time

coming into ice out

mournful spring tide wake

dirt dump fogernail

goodsforetombed

ereshiningem

mountain top twilette

early moon beam shadows

piney barrens

fireweed blossoms

softly northern poet

good soul in passing.

 wednesday morning prayer group





           chatty old ladies busily joining two restaurnat tables


      remaining gray senior surviving gent making READER'S DIGEST


      humor, shiny chrome and enamel gas boxes curbside, wearing


      heavy winter tweeds, expensive leathers, jeweled access-


      ories, coifs freshly done yesterday's salon visit, praying 


      for what,                               


             





            early january portfolio splits, surprise new year's


       dividends, cash windfall, express lane, special visa,


       guaranteed speedy entry to heaven, angel skycaps toting


       "you really CAN take it with you" possesssions, double-


       stamp thursdays twice-a-week, extra dessert coupons,


       nursing home cafeteria.











 











sunday existentials





              "richard brautigan is the cruelest month"





                                           dave engel








           black november morning chill, doing laundromat


      sudsings early, necessary task before later invasion


      of loser moms, hyperactive rug rats, old man next


      aisle pounding washer and dryer coin slots, hoping


      rogue quarter return prize, make my day graying "dirty


      harry" bravada,


           brain skull still fuzzy, noisy saturday night


      "last call" spilling curbside, suddenly awake in my


      art gallery loft, yelling, car engines revving, weary


      people taking their sadness home,


           i.d.'s, driver's license, papers drying on kitchen


      table, earlier dumping billfold in the toilet hitching


      up jeans, a charlie bukowski poem, maybe,


           last friday noon, back loft neighbor, painter ed


      heading out, pickup truck loaded motoring west for new,


      better artistic opportunities, poor time to go "on the


      road" with wintry season of "long white" almost,


           sunday cuppa-cuppa john's cafe, old man nervously


      describing his triple-by-pass heart surgery, edgy voice,


      sounding like poor dude afraid he might die any second,


           gray dancing bard adventurer later driving out to


      old central mine location, wrinkled topo maps in hand,


      another go at finding the mysterious smelter smokestack


      forest wilderness has reclaimed, keenly aware what others


      sadly deny, searching gives real meaning to life.

















                       no church key required











         my sacred sanctuary is always unlocked and available


for bardic woes and frustrations every day of the week.  climb-


ing to the CLIFFS summit my body moves freely and the mind


easily sorts and sifts the creative tensions of recent times.


the CLIFFS provide stark contrast to new church state of the


designer arts architecture, rigid pew seating regimentation,


and, prescribed sabbath hymns and orthodox rituals.





          the CLIFFS trekkings require no controlling congrega-


tion, a collective tyranny of dull minds saved by weekly cere-


monies.  sundays worshipping mary, little baby jesus, and cheer-


less white god providing renewal for another week of job hating


necessity. sunday sermons boosting morale for the monday through


friday 9 to 5 hours, paychecks, and weekend orgies of mall-mart


conspicious consuming.  the "word" reinforcing a credo justify-


ing racial hatreds, denying feminine equality, and the outlawing


of different gender preferences.


          


            hiking and climbing in the wilderness, i discover


a constantly changing tapestry of sights, sounds, and aromas in


the panorama of the seasons.





             i revel in the grand symphony of stormy winter 


winds, and soft gentle poetry in misty april rain.  a frequent


CLIFFS visitor i am treated to coyotes primal howlings, shriek-


ings of eagles signaling an approaching summer thunderstorm, 


and, splendid forest communion licking dewy beads off fresh


spring leaves.  the darkening colors of autumn foliage resemble


ancient stained glass artistry of european cathedrals.  wet


rotting leaves, sphagnum moss, and pungent brackish bog odors


are like a smokey byzantium chapel.





              each CLIFFS summit ascent i carry up writing 


worries and woes of the last little while.  after successfully


abandoning the unnecessary accumulated bardic chaos, i possess


a feeling of fresh nakedness.  with the brain-skull cavity


cleared for a short time, desire for more passionate experiences


return.





                often i pause on CLIFFS outings to slake my


thirst with an on the trail warm lager, chuckling again over


the pious certainty, "well, they call it the missionary posit-


ion for a good reason, eh?"





                 i always discover an interior peace with my


wilderness congregation.  there is a feeling of oneness with 


the red-breasted hawk dipping and rising on warm afternoon


thermals.  i enjoy the mystery musing over a lynx, feline pa


print, wondering if hot entrails wait, steaming in the tall


grasses farther up the path.  usually on my CLIFFS odysseys i


select a spring trillium, lady sliver, late autumn fireweed, or wild aster


for a woolen watch cap boutonniere.





                  very often my graybeard respites on the CLIFFS


mountain top inspire the creative "stuff" for new splake poems.


a recent winter hike yielded the imagery and feelings for two


new "haiku-styled" poems.

- t. k.splake 2001