Living the Dream

there is something to a man
who can pound posts
then write such poems

that even, Alice,

over her meatless meal
on Fridays, of fish

glasses askew
at picture of a poet and a deer
she, can make no sense of

I, though, imagine him walking
through heavy-hooded woods,
noticing that lacy branches,
dappling snowy forest floor,
speak of home and hearth
miles from any four-square
and from some slushy pavement
Alice has to tread
 to tell her half-forgotten tale

pulling her fine lace kerchief
further over her pale brow
shaded by kid gloves
never imagining,
she might be missing something
in grumbling over every step
she takes to talk to God

I can imagine
what spirits speak to him
in white light,
so that, when he returns
to rack his gun,

he is struggling
for room to breathe

(images,
needing a place to be,
leave little room
until they are released on paper)

Alice, really doesn’t have a clue
how to be inspired,

she is too busy with the Ladies
League of Blue Doo

with little to keep them busy
but collect funds
for keeping clean air
and water
in the Charitable Church
baptismal font

but, I do,
because he has walked me
through cathedrals of his Back Forty

by deft descriptions
of a winter’s night
after a hunt, that halted
at a downed bluebird,
hanging onto a blister of ice
on barbed wire fence

Alice can’t even comprehend
dearness of heart
that can carve meat for dinner
and create poems
that carry God’s voice

Tags: Poems, Rob's Writing //