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Ode to My Branch Loppers   They come ready to my hand, Like a ball bat or tennis racket, Useful, overlooked, underrated tool- Branch loppers. Coupled with a bow saw, or chain saw, They enable many things. Downed wood, limbs and branches Ignored by others as too troublesome, To me become fuel for woodstove. Branch loppers in one hand, Bow saw in the other, Back along the Russian River, Mid-November, my old beat invaluable Green and white side-step, slide-door 1969 VW van nearby, I more than happily take over Someone else's abandoned brush pile- Oak wood, pine, madrone, cedar and alder. No discriminator, my branch loppers accept it all, Lop, lop, lop it clean For bow saw to turn into transportable lengths. I breathe deep. A hawk is flying. The river flows-so far below flood stage now It's hard to believe what it can sometimes do.   The next day I go Up a nearby hillside after manzanita. Manzanita tends to die out for some reason. I don't know why. A botanist or forester could explain it perhaps. Or a Google search. All I know is some stay alive and healthy While others die, become brittle, break off, uproot. My bow saw and branch loppers Work on the gnarly dead manzanita. I love the texture and color of it- Smooth maroon turning to rough black. Over the hillside the sawed branches go, As close to the van as I can toss them. I do more lopping and sawing on the flat, And carry a good load back.   That very night, By the airtight woodstove, Watching through the glass, Warmed by wine, woodfire, friendship, I give thanks, propose a toast. Here's to you, branch loppers, Purchased at Ace Hardware For less than thirty bucks- Sharp, well-made, useful. Long may you lop!

 
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Ode to My Bow Saw   Soft shape sharp teeth half moon queen of my tool shed bow saw I love you I admit it wasn't love at first sight in my younger days using too small bow saws reward never equaled effort but then I discovered the perfect size 30-inch blade crafted to my capabilities designed for my desires and ever since I have been in bow saw heaven Our dog Scout sees me pick up the bow saw she's as happy as I am we're heading for the woods a cool October day after wayward branches of oak ones that hang too low ones that have died out ours for the taking bow saw goes to work time ceases to exist we see what we can saw we saw what we see sawable yes we're having fun useful practical fun which contributes to the health and economy of the household Bow saw! I thank you for all that you enable ambidextrous tool there's no reason not to use and keep on using you And I don't want to forget to mention how wonderfully quiet you are unlike those admittedly useful but obnoxiously loud chainsaws you do your work quietly efficiently accurately in a graceful unassuming timely manner always without complaint Please let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you

 
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Fishing, Fathers Day   beer cigar drowning a worm watching my bobber ripples on the pond blues greens browns yellows greys oranges reflected in a bowl below the world's cares renoir monet seurat came close but never quite captured this this is what my brother- my brother brian who died in a car crash when he was twelve- this is what he loved more than anything it was never really about catching fish it was the teeming life of the pond that continually fascinated him the myriad minnows in the shallows multicolored multishaped wonders orange dragonflies black-and-white-winged dragonflies small blue dragonflies mating in flight yellow mustard blooming magnificently purple sage purple whatever that fragrant flower is fronds of pondside algae glint of sunlight on ripples the wind in the reeds the wind in the willows the wind in the sedge at the edge of the pond the ephemeral nature of all phenomena whoah! now an osprey splashes down ascends empty-taloned hovers flies on alertly watching blackbirds flit and dip not redwinged blackbirds just- black a killdeer kee-kee-ka-kees a belted kingfisher starts to alight nearby thinks better of it cries as he flies away three ducks glide in and land at the other end of the pond joining the four ducks already swimming there i cast again find a shady spot watch my bobber smoke my backwoods smoke drink my redhook ale if i happen to catch any fish it will be a tremendous bonus

 
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The Old Horseplayer for Paul Wight   "All of life is six-to-five against."                    --Damon Runyon   He doesn't go to the track much anymore. He's 87 years old for Christ's sake. Yeah, they've got elevators now, and those little golf carts that'll pick you up at your car. But that means extra tips, and then there's the drive, the cost of gas. With off track betting and cable tv, there's really no need to go to the track. And anyway, as he likes to say, "They wouldn't have those places if people won." Still he buys his Racing Form every day- his son drives him to the corner store- and he places a few bets. What the hell? They're still running. There are some good young jockeys at Churchill Downs. He still knows a few trainers. Why not risk a few dollars? The old horseplayer spends a lot of time with his son. His son is 55 now. He drives the old man around. He and his sisters took away the old man's car keys a few years ago. He called a locksmith and had a new set made. They took those away too. So now he's resigned himself and his son drives him. They drive out River Road. "That's where the Pine Room used to be," he tells his son. "I remember the night it burned down." They drive out U. S. 42, past some of the horse farms. There's still something about a yearling that makes his heart leap up. Back home he calls OTB and bets $10 on a horse he likes in the 3rd at Saratoga. "Never bet on anything that can talk," he tells his son. "Okay Dad, I won't." "If it rains, go to the movies." "Thanks for the advice." Yeah, the old horseplayer has seen a lot. His wife died a year ago. He's been lonely since then, but he's hanging in there. He's got his kids and grandkids, and church, and the horses. He's making a novena at St. Leonard's, praying he'll live to 105. Why not? The odds are long, but the horses are still running. Why not stick around, see what happens next? Maybe there will be another great horse, like Sir Barton, or Man O' War, or Secretariat. Maybe there will finally be another Triple Crown winner. He walks to the kitchen, pours an iced-tea. His son comes in the back door. "Drive me to the corner, will ya? I need to buy the Racing Form."

 
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Philosophers Club   The welcoming party of wild grains, The wild rice gang, Encounter their adversaries, Take them out to lunch, Argue fine points of theology and philosophy. How many angels on the head of a pin? Sound of one hand clapping? Which came first, egg or chicken? What's the difference between a duck? Lunch gives way to serious sake drinking. Reasoned argument turns to name calling. You intentionally obfuscating, self-deluded          Hegelian son of a bitch. Yeah, your argument's so circular it's makin' me dizzy. Your mama is so Kierkegaardian that only a self that          relates itself to itself and is therefore grounded          in a power higher than itself would want to fuck her. Don't you be talkin' 'bout my mama! After that, order is never restored. Fisticuffs mix with fragments of invective: Zen fascist bastard! Baudrillardian neo-Nazi! Your German accent sucks! The party of wild grains boards a houseboat for home. Their guests curse them roundly and depart by train. Plans for next year's meeting will be arranged by mail.

 
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New Orleans 2010   1. Flying In that magical musical muddy misty old Mississippi moseying, meandering on down to New Orleans wonderful warm brown water widening as it wanders down to the Gulf lush green vegetation caressed within the serpentine coils of the river ripples on the surface barges in tow all along the levee roads and people go pine trees rising out of swamps and greens like you've never seen you can hear the gumbo sound there's music all around   2. Olde Town Inn    i can see the umbrellas      hear the rain    clock on the wall        old round thermometer on the wall      plates and trivets      candelabra      framed prints old-fashioned wire cooking accoutrements      on the wall above        the coffee pots   people talking jazz music on the radio bees n' beads beads n' bees beads and bees in the trees pretty red-haired girl      in long peasant skirt and black t-shirt    carrying two        cups o' coffee    back to the room      in the morning   3. On the Street      it keeps on happening    like this up in the morning      among friends     cup o' coffee      conversation    books, reading       out for a walk all through the vieux carre      walking, walking the rhythm of the street        the people all shapes and colors white, black, brown, tan        olive-skinned     girls in t-shirts        long dark hair      or short kinky         breasts bounce     nice ass in blue jeans      on the sidewalk outside the Maple Leaf Rebirth Brass Band        you bet     all the people clasping hands, embracing      shoulder bump    "How you been?"    "Well look who it is!"    "Old Benjamin himself!" "Oh, I forgot about that."      among the friendly   sidewalk people    in old rawngy nawngry      New Orleans   4. By the River well the music       the days, the nights       the neighborhoods Faubourg Marigny Faubourg Tremé       got to get me a Faubourg Marigny       hat today    or tomorrow after po' boy or muffaletta walking on the levee above the Mississippi       rolling down       flowing down foaming rippling down      past Nawlins   curving snaking   raunching taking       swamping cutting    all along all down       to the gulf             to the Gulf                  o' Mexico --db April 2010

 
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