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.