Sunday, November 25, 2012

The Bear By N. Scott Momaday

what ruse of vision,
escaping the wall of leaves,
rending incision
into countless surfaces.
Would cull and color
his somnolence, whose old age
has outworn valor
all but the fact of courage?
Seen, he doesn't come,
Move, but seems forever there,
dimensionless, dumb,
in the windless noon's hot glare.
More scarred than others,
These years since the trap mained him,
Pain slants his withers,
drawing up the crooked limb.
Then he is gone, whole,
without urgency, from sight,
as buzzards control,
imperceptibly, their flight.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

Before Nose (For My Hubby)

where he is.
I was
where he was.
What is now
when now becomes was?
I have an an
that is understood as one or wooden clan.
Nosy rose has thorns,
Rosy prose has dreams,
I follow his nose here or there,
Our scents are afloat everywhere.
He is now,
and we stand as a proud cow,
There is no sense
to decline our record in past tense.

Saturday, November 10, 2012


Swiftly, east wind
turns hot air west bound-
Dark and wet sky painting-as if
nothing were solid enough
to dwell on.
The grunion are growing
to build an air way.