Callin the cavalry

riding a dead horse
to your pale face
big littlehorn
clearly apache
arrowheads deep wounds
GUNSLINGERS
ride into the sunset
muchacho
dust clouds obscure
arrows in a bear
holy land
sacred red cabin
let the loon cry
for it is a lonely
song.

For days. Four days.

Mixing up medicine
gutter water and spit
bothering with
nothing but the worst
the last
now first
sunglassy eyed
drip drop dried drool
dreams done gone past
this cowboys first rodeo
left scars.

Zen and the 83rd year.

His face is wrinkled
his eyes worn.
hearing is a lackluster attempt
at understanding the known
all to well.
Kind and gentle
a mountain now a hill
a voice that carried dreams
raised a family
and is fading slowly.
If you wake to early
there is dew on the grass
and you cant mow the lawn.


Happy 83rd birthday to my grandfather. I love him. Robert James Helgeson

rebel rebel

This jet
over head
led to over heard
dragged this there
for you to hear
But you cant listen
sitting still
and are right here
lost on open water
in ways
in calm seas.
On a path
we share
as strangers
in an even stranger
smaller, flatter world.

april showers

Tonight I beat the rain
as the rain beat glass pains
above me.
The air moist with scent of storm
the rebirth of the frozen as a metaphor.
Standing sodden
glass glowing
the drips hit wet fabric
concussed sound as if to mimic a heart beat
we are not dead
yet.