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)

I'm
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

Grunion

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.