The Danger of Her Allure

as she sleeps, i peek under her skirt



she begins to wake, shake her hair



her eye opens-and spies me



she puts on her make up
i get hard



come baby, come in.
don't mind the sentry



i lose my breath
her breasts grace the sky



she slips her stockings on



come on baby, come closer
you know you want to
want me to love you
and
i long to kiss her sweet thighs



the sky becomes her elogance
i am hypnotized
by her beauty



but i begin to feel small
insignificant
it grows dark
between her legs
but still, she beckons
blinding my fear



her legs close
her smell engulfs me
i lose my way
still
she says, come
come closer
inside me



darkness has come
i am inside of her
eaten
having eaten
and there is no
escape
her beauty
only the allusion
that broke my heart



Walking on a Cold Winter's Night

on the northern prairie
the sun settles in sublimity
a gentle mother's hush
into the blanket of winter snow

it paints the december ditch bank
where the shouldered pines gather
while careful does slide beneath
the skirts on their way to pond

over by the farm, the rooster goes still
as the last gasp of light
dims through the break in boards
while the outside wind echoes the sun's demise

over where the bare trees
mark the fence line, there is one
small and final explosion of blaze
before the stalks and branches turn shadow

on this cold winter's night
old men will peek curtains
to redless thermometers
while the chimney above billows gray

the lake will crack sharply at midnight
and the freezing maple will reply
the owls will sleep, waiting it out
while the moon grows a holy shroud

it is here, in this harshest of times
when life is at its fullest
it is here i am most alive
walking in the silent explosion
in the warmth, of a cold winter's night

The Maverick

while the apple pie bakes,
all straw hat and suspenders
the amish come together as
an army of ants, raising the barn

at tuesday night little league
i see the proud parents
all bleachered together
shoulders up and pointing

there goes the rv of relatives
headin down to the state fair
passing that bus full of seniors
off to break the casino

would you like me to say i envy
their happy smiles?
is the lie to be advocated?

truth is, i ain't much for people
and their happy birthday sing alongs
or their vociferous chants of
all for one and one for all

i'm just not cut that way

oh, i like most people just fine
one at a time and mostly over there
but handshakes and huggin
is the horse that drives me to tall timber

see, i was born out of time
this i know, and it's my sack to tote

had i been here when i should've
i'd be there! in them clouds, on that clipper,
high and alone in the crows nest
eyein for, yet daring, the stormy weather

I'd be David Thompson in the rockies
swattin bears and skeeters alone
not Jim Bridger, tellin tales to fools

I'd be the one out there, on the
edge of the herd searchin
for the stragglers
and at night, when the others slept
i'd ride into town alone
after the piano player had been shot
when the saloon turns somber

i'll share ya my beans and share ya my poke
but rarely my fire or trail
-just say howdy, and keep ridin on

i'm the ghost, waitin for a train
but only to watch it pass
and this only to remember
i was born before the railroad
and i'll never raise a barn

Another Auld Lang Syne

ran into an old friend today,
unexpected,
to be sure.

you see,
I was sure
he was long gone,
even hoped so, i guess

a dreamer,
this one,
that won’t ever
amount to nothing
cept whittlin clouds
into snowflakes.

I was out
in an old familiar
place, hummin an old
familiar tune, from
an old familiar time.


the wind was right
the season sure
the clouds asleep,
just right for dream carving.

dropped by, he did
as I was cutting wood
under these here clouds and
he winked in whisper
pockets packed
and I wiped my brow
to his knowing.

we agreed, a beer to share
on a stump carved
for ass cheeks
when January whistles boredom

God, it was good to see him,
though he’s such a fuck!
blows smoke out his ass
and calls it maple syrup!
a real piece of work,
this one.

we studied the clouds
and weighed em out
like butcher’s beef
along the ridge line
while our fingers numbed
cold to remembrance
and bitter barley brew.

we wondered
just how long those trees
have swayed
and if Yankee soldiers
ever silhouetted
the sky line
in no reason why.

I showed him the chicken coop
of simple family dreams
that were cashed in
for ten cents on the dollar

the murdered cedars
stripped bare and marched
down the hillside to a grape arbor
that never happened

and that garden
that April applauded
July killed
and August mocked

a killin field, all
in a country slum
only shangri la for
lazy coons and lost ambitions

he never asked
about the family,
mostly out of kindness
and detoured regret

instead,
we mostly reminisced.
of winters past,
summers that promised
but never were,
and autumns yet to come

and we never back slap
or laugh out loud,
but rather sideways glance
in a giving comfort.

he didn’t ask how I was
because
he knows what I am
and didn’t ask
what’s new, or hers past
knowing I never could
draw a winning hand
cept in solitaire
-and then only if I cheat.

but we did drink a beer,
pretending it was cold
and not the wind,
nor the season final
and that was enough.

we of tripped up dreams
and tangled ledger
resting upon trees in Mexico
like infertile butterflies
too vandal to fly a straight line

but a shrug, a beer
a broken ridge line
and an old friend
who couldn't spawn a maggot
on a pile of shit
cures today, hides tomorrows
and ignores a past
where I’ll pretend
not to look.

a toast then
to another year
another ten penny nail
in thread bare tires
on a beater
comin back from Cleveland

so too, then, a toast to him
and to clouds,
and to you,
and what might've been

Happy New Year

~rick

Mountains

I love the mountains
but it is the land of hills, and
crookedy ridges, that i now dwell in
all chop! Chop! Chop!

mountains are the gateway
to the stars becoming attainable,
a proper sledding hill
for the midnight moon
to play upon

you can ponder big in the mountains
becoming small while your vision expands.
it is here, the elk, majestic and lean
snort the frozen air, giving it new life

in the hills called mountains
a bear will steal your lunch
but in the grandfather mountains
the bear will make you its supper

men here will die, must and have died
will die-good men full of jerky
blood and muscle

in the eastern hills
men full of Brussels sprouts
and bottled water
will get ticks and catch cold

i speak not against these eastern hills
but i mock their claim to be mountains
Superior can never be an ocean
and makes no such boast
it is enough to be the grandest lake

if the Rockies could grow legs
they'd put on their scuffed
torn, unlaced work boots,
step over the Mississippi
and kick the appalachians ass
just to teach them
what a true mountain really is

(i make no apologies for this post)
rick

KADANCE

her boots flowed down her legs
like fresh paint on stainless steel while
her heels nailed the floor to the earth

from my knees, my hands flowed up them
crying, Moses! Moses! Moses!

this isn't a fat cigar chomping banker
grinding the poor under foot,
this is Holy power,
silent and steady
and the rich nature flowing from her fountain
floods my being and melts my core

her fingers, like soft ivory
drive her panther claws deep into my flesh
branding my fettered stillness
with the insignia of her life

with need overcoming fear, i look up
into the radiance of one never vanquished
and her eyes of black flame weigh the cost

mountains are never given,
and conquered only in humility after trekking
the gentler slopes, and this i do
with peasant kisses as i rise like a dolphin
through her emerald depths, pausing
to press to her heat rising up
through shadowed crease

as i draw nearer to the furnace
i find liquor to be a weak intoxicant
and laws, to be laughed upon

this is the only law that matters;
SHE is the power that frees
and no price nor stripe beyond reason

tonight i might drink of the victory fools scorn
and know her breath as my own.
perhaps feel her raven hair upon my face, and
know her breasts as gifts to my tongue
while her pure honey seals purchase agreement
upon my manhood

the grant of knighthood may come by her lips of sultry polish
but only after acknowledging her proper place as Queen.
victory through submission

along the highway

I remember your eyes
in the fields I pass breezing
the same wave in golden luster

The farms of years lean
sway the barns
bending the horizon
into unkempt shadows, that
tell me of your crooked smile

the cities harmonize
your laughter in their
crowded stretch
and life knowing windows

The windmills,
giant and playful
in broken rhythm
are the time we somersaulted
a soft cool hillside

rivers tell me our dreams, and
still know hope in quiet solitude
beneath the bridge
where the ghost of an ancient
still floats his line

and there, stretching
and shimmering
in dawns first light
are the tracks that carry
the ghost of our spirit
on an otherwise empty train
to Taiwan

Ponds are small wishes
held tightly in our hands
once again young

the day plays its melody
to the things neatly harboured
in our sad remembrance
and once vibrant vision

and I smile
with only a hint of sadness
far shy of regret
while my window down
gulps remorse
and casts it into the ditch
where crows may feast