Thanksgiving in Rogue River

Although a sleep deprived over caffeinated aching head needs a bit ore sleep than allowed
by the slobbering clicky-toed
furry electrons

the continuity of its healthy preciousness
seems impossible on a day like
this

Where I am joyous in the comforting
familiarity of a pot and steamer in the sink
crossword puzzles on the table
and a handwritten note

by the cofee pot

The Myth: Raison d'Etre

by Pattiann Rogers

Some say there are wild white ponies

Being washed clean in a clear pool

Beneath a narrow falls in the middle

Of the deciduous forest existing

At the center of the sun

Some say the thrashing of those ponies

Straining against their bridles, the water flying

From their stamping hooves in fiery pieces

And streaks rising higher than the sandbar willows

Along the bank, drops whirling like sparks

From the manes of their shaking heads,

And the shouting and splashing of the boys

Yanked off their feet by the ponies

As they attempt to wash the great shoulders

And rumps of those rearing beasts, as they lather

Their necks and breasts, stoking them,

Soothing them-all this is the source

Of the fierce binding and releasing energy

Existing at the core of the sun.

The purple jays, mad with the chaos,

Shrieking in the tips of the planetrees,

The rough-winged swallows swerving back

And forth in distress, the struggle of the boys

To soap the inner haunch, to reach

Beneath the belly, to dodge the sharp

Pawing hooves, the wide-eyed screaming

Of the slipping ponies being maneuvered

For the final rinse under the splattering falls-

All the fury of this frightening drama,

Some believe, is contained and borne steadily

Across the blue sky strictly by the startling

Light and combustion of its own commotion.

But when those ponies stand, finally quiet,

Their pure white manes and tails braided

With lilac and rock rose, the boys asleep

On their backs, when they stand,

Fragrant and shimmering, their forelocks

Damp with sweet oil, serene and silent

In the motionless dark of the deep

Riverside forest, then everyone can

Easily see and understand the magnificent

Silhouette, the restrained power, the adorned,

Unblemished and abiding beauty

That is the night.

Ode to the Nutria

Oh unwanted creature
with a flaky pelt
an invasive species from the South
a disruption of ecosystems
like a missed stitch in a scarf
a random wordy superfluous line in a poem
plaid and stripes worn together on a business day
or the perfect white fish meal under candlelight
and music and laughter
and an ignorant guest brings a cheap
box of wine

Ode to the Nutria
whose innocence
can't be denied a
captive of movement
a motive of human greed
Simply trying to make a life for itself
amongst the responses of the Pacific Northwest
without harmful enemies
except for Frat boys with baseball bats

Ode to Crappy Internet Connections

Like an insult
invading a meaningful conversation
or the inconvenience
of a ill-mannered dark spot of coffee
when you are wearing light clothing
right in the embarrassment
atop the cloth
above your left
breast

Ode to Insecurity

Corroding walls holding in a flood
you fain your image to be strong
The cams of an anchor which walk
the branch that cracks when under the weight of a kitten
picked locks and cut bicycle chains
a shared hidden feeling of vulnerability
looking for authentic confidence or a connection
to share its wallows

Ode to Incompetence

A collection of tireless failures redundant and outspoken
stuffed inside something rotten
and simmering in their own sweat
Nights of sticky tears and mucous
Hidden for the fear of protecting one's future
Blurry lines that reap with relativity
and yet...
at the same time
constantly compare themselves
to the parallels and perpendiculars
drawn with utter accuracy.

Battery Life

Sometimes morning walks through the fog are simply the close collections of
billions and billions of pixels
waiting to be taken captive

An odd display of footwear strangled on telephone wire
Punitive pumpkins methodically placed on the steps
Photogenic fungi dressed in the rouge of fall
An invasive squirrel jealously eying the fancy house cat
enjoying a queen's breakfast.

These moments of breathtaking brilliance!
And then...

Like the malfunctioning of a diver's oxygen tank

The flashing warning signs
The curse of technology
The catalyst of "I should have" thoughts
The realization that luck is simply preparation meets opportunity
and your artistic soul's dependence on electrons
and positive and negative energy
in its most literal sense