Poet Commentaries

The Seven Sees

I am adding daily to this till I am done or bored, which is the same thing…boredom is like a dropped petal when the bloom is done…it is finished.  Of course the neat thing is that a petal as it falls to the ground sees something else that catches its eye but that is a different story.

Day 1

The only mast in town

I climb atop the silo,
one rusty rung,
after another,
each a past tense
of rang
a cling clung echo
all the way up

from there
my first see
of wheat and corn,
seven diminishing barns
and the eighth….
whose roof only
had not fallen in.

Day 2

The forecast for the trip
never holds,
the sees change
once you hit the road.

Little knolls rise up.
One is kept busy
in cutbacks and tack,
fiddling with gears
to make the rise up.

Islands of picnic areas
and cemeteries appear,
dogs run you down,
all shoals and oasis
that are a part
of the sees mystery

Day 3

I am unimportant
at that barn.
No calls for help,
no requests for directions
or sage advice

The barn is dilapidated
but has not fallen off
the end of the earth.
Its weather vane
rusted at prevailing,
nails chipped and cracked.

It is an awkward climb
to the next see,
the people here ogle me
as I scale clapboard,
dance on a hot tin roof
and slip a little
on the four twelve slope.

From up here
I choose my next rode
and start my ride
riddled with tense

Day 4

The surface gravel chirps,
tiny unpacked bits
scored by the grader;
let loose for summer
just like me.

The soft sound of stones
as they land aside the rush
or the bump stock ricochet
of scurrying scree;
unhomed aggregates
flailed and flung.

That one lone stone,
a perfect three quarter clear.
I stop and tamp it down
to try to hide it
from the launch pad,
safe in the nestled bed.

There in a perfect crown
a ripple in the road….

..sorta like climbing a barn,
or being a bit too longish
of white teeth and story…

Day 5

Perhaps I will succeed
and bring back the old maps;
back before grooves in vinyl
and ruts in horse tracks;
to haunched and hunched
finger to the wind
and nose to ground.

To have sails filled
with a fresh hearty breeze
of unknotted time…

..but I am satisfied to hum along,
my cadence set to 45,
or to whistle
as I redline at 78 down a hill…

..a redline visible on your GPS

Day 6

The tall grey building
squat beside that tree,
just a little set apart
from city and forest
a little back from steeple;
just beyond a rise.

From the barn this see saw.

I have backpedaled to barn,
cycling over timelines,
patting my pouch of momentos
full of mirrored sunglasses,
earbuds and stories…

To get to that grey building
I must excavate tales,
digging deep to eye contact
drawing out just a seconds,
to minutes and ours,
to drink drawn water
from a stranger’s well;
to haunch and hunch
without GPS.


to be continued I hope

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