ROBERT'S POETRY

The poetry you view here are works in progress. The poems will go through several revisions which may take months or even years.

OUZEL

The constant squatting,
a dance to the gurgle
of miniature waterfalls;
the Dipper disappears
by diving, then bounces
up out of the water
dry as charcoal.
He hops from rock to rock,
and checks moist mats of moss
for meals of midges,
stoneflies, caddis, and mayfly nymphs.
The Ouzel, like an aquatic insect,
emerges from the water,
sprouts wings, and flies away.


CREEKSIDE

The flowing water calls out
from rocks of color,
where trout hide,
and sun flies back to heaven;
where the constant ring
of ripples, runs, and cascades
roll through time and space
and never stops.
From a hundred miles away,
it still sings.


EARLY STORM

This morning, sunlit salmon clouds
migrated across sky seas,

weaving through dark, cold rapids
trying to get back to their place of origin.

When they hit the rapids,
rumblings shook moisture to the ground,

and bright glare glanced off their skin
connecting earth and heaven.


THE LIBRARY PARKING LOT IN FALL

In the summer it's just black,
and most often hot and dry.
White paint provides places of order,
a border, and stay within the lines, please.

In autumn, the artist always works.
Branching palettes of crimson, yellow, and orange,
await the crosshatching strokes of gentle breezes.
Paint is tossed in the air.

The wind lays layers of lacquered leaves,
sealed by rain upon an asphalt canvas,
blending color upon the plainness,
and providing art for a season.


A DAY IN THE BASIN

All is quiet, except for the sound
of warm air heated by solar light
rising up past my ears.
Then, the crunch of boots pressing down
on dry grass, the snap of aspen branches,
and the startled flashes of red wings clacking against
a backdrop of green and gold.
These are not the sounds I seek,
or the vision of color for my eyes.

Moving forward, I hear my way over beaver-hewn logs,
stopping in small clearings, tasks to perform.
Connected ferrules of graphite become an extension of my arm:
Can I touch the sky and stir the clouds?

A spool of amber locked into place
while loose coils fall to the ground,
chaos before control.
Monofilament is threaded through snake guides,
the quick click, click, click of metallic drag
is a locust whisper waiting for reply.

Through an opening in peach-leaf willows the world changes.
The sky is yellow and the landscape blue.
Rich pine is oxygen.
There is a connection between arching rod,
tight line, and wild crimson slashes.
Life and death in my hands.
Some have predicted I will die in a place like this,
swift and sweet.
Right now, I come here to live.

NOTICING

I'm the  kind of person who jumps from one interest to the other. The only thing that has held my interest in a constant manner is fly fishing and fly tying. Some how, these two things got in my blood at an early age and have stayed with me. Other interests tend to come and go, then gain my interest again after months or years.

I've had an interest in poetry for a long time, but never seriously studied it. A few months ago I decided to do some poetry study and reading. I have been checking out arm loads of poetry books from the county library. Some of the poets I struggle reading. I have read poems by poets that seem to be nothing more than drunks throwing words on a page. The words and sentences make me squint like I'm looking into the sun; I want to turn my head and look away. If these poet's purpose is to confuse, then they have succeeded with me. I often find myself shaking my head and asking what and why?

I have found some poets and poems that I do enjoy. I enjoy many of those who have written poems about nature. I love the imagery that these poets use. I like the poems that help me see, hear, smell, and taste the things they write about. I like the poems that make sense. I'm not opposed to trying to figure something out, but too much poetry that is more like some type of riddle can make me think too much when I'm not in the mood to think. Sometimes I want to read poetry to feel the words, to hear them roll around in my brain, to see in my imagination what I see when I read the words. I have the same problem when it comes to card and board games. If it is a game where I have to think too much, then it's not as fun and relaxing to me. I want to play the games of chance; roll the dice and take the results. Then there is no ego involved and the smartest and fastest don't always win. I don't mind reading poetry that makes me think and feel, but the simple stuff that is easy to understand is what I like right now.

Along with the reading and studying of poetry comes the desire to write it. I have written a few poems (or what I thought were poems) over the years. I have this desire to write more now. I have been looking for ideas and with my love of the natural world, that is where I look for and often find inspiration or ideas for what I want to write. I find myself looking and trying to see things in more detail. I think I am beginning to notice things that I have taken for granted in the past.

The last few days as I have driven to work, I have noticed an amazing thing. As I drive east towards the mountains at 7:45 AM, the sun at this time of year is still behind the mountain range. The light from the sun provides a glowing backdrop. This glowing, as I call it, changes color, depending on atmospheric conditions. If there are high clouds, the glowing can be a warm color, somewhere in the spectrum of yellow, orange or red. If the atmosphere is bright, clean, and clear, the glowing is more to the blue spectrum. If cumulus clouds are hanging around the mountains the bottoms are usually a pale mauve or deeper purple color. If stratus or cirrus clouds are present, they can take on several colors. I've seen them look the color of pink salmon meat or purple cotton candy.

Lately, what has stood out is the way the sunlight at that time (7:45 AM), taps the tops of each high peak along the mountain range. I can't see the sun because it is still below the mountains. The mountains stand as giant shadows of darkness with just enough dawn light to make out the faintest of details. The light from the sun, however, shoots through some of the back canyons and illuminates the very tips of the peaks all along the front range. My eyes follow the highlights along the tops of the ridges jumping from one peak to the next until I am slapped awake with the light that grasps the majority of one of the prominent peaks and rock faces on the north end of the mountain range. This peak and its rocks are covered with snow. The sun's focused light makes it stand out in clean brilliance. I can't stop my eyes from following the sun's rays skipping along the ridges and  teasing me to follow until my eyes and the sun's light slam into the rock face of this majestic mountain. I have lived here my whole life, but my search for ideas and inspiration for a poem have opened my eyes in a "new" way. I like it.

I have a plain paper journal that I will be using to write down the things that I see, hear, smell, taste, and feel as I wander around, or just drive to work. When I get brave, I will share some of these things on this blog. Maybe the musings will turn into poetry.