All day it has felt like a Sunday, although
It’s a Friday in late October, 1893, and
The rain is softly falling from the uniform gray sky —
Smothering the blue above, and blotting the sun —
In this old gold mountain mining town in Oregon.
I drink from a beloved handmade ceramic…

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If memories make for a good life
Then forgetfulness takes life away
In tiny fragments that tumble down
The embankment of our disappearing self —
To the river, then to the sea.
Each day I lose so many treasures —
Of friendly faces,
Of familiar places,
Of Hemingway’s Robert Jordan,
Of the horrors I am capable of…

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Awaking from his sleep he arose in the night, and
Stepped outside onto the porch to cool himself, and
From this vantage saw a warrior Indian
Standing near to the yellowing Tamarack tree in the yard.
The warrior was silent like the sound of the sun, yet was
Swinging a hatchet that dripped with blood…

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Somewhere in the weaving labyrinth of dreams,
Outside, near the long forgotten turquoise truck-bed
Bathed in early rain and low angled silver light,
I saw you, standing alone,
Wearing the brown dress that was your favorite, and
Speaking with a person for whom I could not see.
You were radiant, vibrant, and
Very real to me in…

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An Idaho summer dust storm enveloped them, again,
Agitating their eyes and lungs, obscuring their vision,
Turning the blue sky sandy-brown, and
Producing only a few raindrops
Which did little to nourish the crops or their souls.
It was a difficult time —
Covid killed and terrorized,
People suffered from inflating fiat currencies,
Money buying less and…

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From where I stand
Beneath the sky’s southeastern sun and water-tower,
Inline with a few riddles of time
Before travel was banned, and
Outlaws roaming dirty-wild in masks and spurs
With gallant horses fierce in battle
Protecting monolithic foundations at the Temple of Jupiter
To praise Athena and the much older sun deity Shamash,
Lived a tribe…

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There will be a tomorrow
Until our consciousness
Melts into flowers, and mud
Cascading down a river with
Red-brown canyon walls and birds circling to land
Before night scares them from the sky.
Did he want a watery grave
When twisting currents took his final breath, or
Was it his reward for so many efforts,
Valiant and otherwise?
Tonight we…

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