grid

I was trying to find an Out To Lunch sign, but I guess I haven't taken that photo yet. This one is from a road trip earlier this summer. And so, when I say Carhop Crossing, I mean to say I'll be back after a bit.



meadowlarks and opera

Where there are trees, at one time there were settlers. Meadowlarks sing the same songs today they sang seventy years ago. This is what my parents remember and so I believe it to be true. But what about the meadowlark song  from a time before planks were planed and carted off to build a homestead, before Montana was a state?

Our songs remain the same. This might not be true, even still I like the idea of walking out into these fields that once felt my great-grandmother's footsteps, whistling the meadowlark song she might have once whistled as well.

 On the other side of Birdtail Butte are the remains of an orphanage from the late 1800's and early 1900's. This is where she grew up. Notice the Opera House. Montana is the land of nowhere, and yet -- here in the middle of nowhere, an Opera House was built for the orphans.

Great-Grandmother Nellie never knew me and it's doubtful she knew my father or  his brothers. But still, we come back and whistle.

stepping out for lunch

I overheared two elderly men at the counter talk about remembering what the yellow light means. Moments like that make me want to stop and step backwards -- listen for a little more.

They must be joking, I thought. Who among us doesn't know what the yellow light means. It fits between stop and go.

I kept on walking, wondering as I exited the building if either men had driven here. Hopefully by the time they had to drive home, they would both remember yellow.

I don't want to forget what yellow means.

I took my Irish-worries and my mother's-doubts and sat down by the river. When is it that we get old? I asked the only bird floating in the drift.

When I went back to work, the men were gone. One had driven the other home, the people at the counter informed me.

Why was that, I asked.

The man in the red shirt owns the Buick parked outside- its check engine light was on.

the river, the column, the shawl and the sheep

(This post was first posted in April, but after reading this tremendous interview of Laura Bell here, I knew I needed to share the interview and this post. Laura Bell is someone you'll want to know.)

For the past few years, when I have given a book as a gift, this has been the book. Spragg's feet touch the ground and yet the way he embraces life with his observations and wisdom, you'd think he was soaring, all the while in pain and conflict, in joy and angst.  

 "I knew the horses as I knew my family. . . When I was separated from them I felt wrong in the world. When I was separated from them I took no comfort in the sound of the creek. I felt chilled without the heat of them. In the short lulls between rides I leaned against the corrals, watching them roil like some captured pod of smallish whales, multi-colored, snorting at their handicapped buoyancy. When I stepped in among them, they would turn to me, roll their eyes until the whites showed, flick their ears. They were used to the sight and sound of me. I was the boy who straddled their hearts."

Not too long ago (shhhh) I snuck out of my day job to hear Spragg talk about his latest book. I fired off an email to my assistant (my sister) who also works for the same company, albeit in a different part of town. I had an 11:30 appointment, I wrote. Be back as soon as possible.

The library here is in an old warehouse. The reading was on the third floor~one empty cavernous room with columns scattered about, supporting the ceiling. I settled in, against the column closest to where Spragg would be speaking. A small woman with such spirit appeared and sat two seats away from me. I watched her straighten her clothes and gather herself. She reminded me of a poem I had written eighteen months ago:

A woman standing by the stone wall

traces her finger along the grout, thinking
she could change her name
to something like Yori Shinobu. Maybe then
she’d find ancient grace, seventh century
trust, the blessing in every fifth wind

to write poetry about one time
when, yes, he admitted to wandering.
But no, he never strayed. The Season
of Tall Grass would speak of sheep
in high plain meadows, three octaves

of bells with their bonging comfort
soothing her, telling her in which fields
they foraged, at which stream they
balked. Her heart would beat

in cadence, thunderclouds from the sea
would wait, crossing divides and skimming
ridges to find her near the unlatched gate,
before clapping out a rain burst. In this way

she might become wise and giving. Maybe
loosen her shawl and turn
back to her hearth.

(Previously published by Soundzine)

While writing the poem, I workshopped it with other poets. At the time, the woman in the poem determined to turn back to her hearth after tightening her shawl. Afterall, that is so pioneerish, right?  Buck up. Square your shoulders, pull your boots back on. Head down, long strides, bear up. Be strong.

But in workshopping the poem, two poets challenged me. What would life be like were one to loosen the shawl? What would happen if we chose to bear up by opening and embracing life, rather than tightening one's shawl so as to keep everything out?

The reason I remember this poem was written eighteen months ago is that my own shawl was loosened as a result of this workshop experience. From that point on, I've been moving through my own life, boots pulled on, yes. But shawl pulled tight? No. Shawl opened. It's a rather vulnerable position.

And now, here was a woman sitting near me, shawl wide open.

Turned out, she was Laura Bell, the author of Claiming Ground and would be reading with Spragg. Here's a touch of her words:

The sheepwagon door stands open to the early dawn. There are times when sleeping inside feels little different than sleeping out like the dogs curled in their scratched beds or the sheep planted against one another across the rise. There’s a blanket, a curve of metal roof, a shelf of books above the bed. From up in the McCullough Peaks a lone coyote yips, sharp and high. There comes an answer, closer, the voices halting at first, then unraveling slowly into a mad chorus of wavering howls. Through the doorway, I see the dogs appear and settle their haunches into the dirt. They watch out over the land, their ears shifting to the cries like antennae. When silence returns, they lower themselves to the ground, still listening.




Under the covers, my hands are still against my bones, the edge of longing too great to name or call up. I wish for a fire to be lit in the iron stove by the door. I wish for the smell of coffee, a cup warm in my hands, a voice to say my name.



A dawn wind rustles loose tin and whispers through stiff sprigs of sage, their seedheads quivering against the wind for as far as I can see into the murky light and beyond, into the empty miles. East, across the Big Horn Basin, the horizon of mountains bears up the salmon wash of morning.




I was captivated by both Bell and Spragg. I lingered afterwards to speak to both of them and to buy their books. Such spirit and presence! I asked Bell to sign the book for my sister, explaining that between my sister and I, when we really want something for ourselves because it touches us so deeply, we give it to our sister instead. As much as I wanted Bell's book to call my own, I wanted my sister to have it more.


I was not getting back to work "as soon as possible". Yikes! It was hard to leave, but in the end I ran down the three flights of stairs, whistled for my trusty steed to meet me at the side door. Ha! Derby is my one-of-a-kind vehicle. Only been in one accident and sports a punched left forehead. So to speak. He didn't come when I called, and so I weaved my way through the parking lot, alarmed that there was a note on my windshield. Parking ticket?


No. A note from my sister.  She, too, had snuck away for an appointment. Hadn't seen me at the reading, but when she came out, she noticed Derby in the parking lot and knew where I was and why. She bought Bell's book for her mother-in-law (a sheepherder for 80plus years), wanting the book for herself, but knew the best gifts happen when you give them away.

circa 1956

This is the O'Keeffe homestead in County Waterford, Ireland. My father just shared it on Facebook for all his nieces and nephews, being as he is one of two left in his generation. He's kept the family tree, kept the family stories, held us all together. If we knew anything while growing up, it was our O'Keefe heritage, our Montana roots, and the ability to listen to stories. I used to write in my bio that I had been raised in a family of story-tellers. What I should have written was that I am the least of those tellers.

Driving Home from My Father’s House by Way of County Waterford

Mom was sure we’d get through the storm if we ate
a hot breakfast first. Eight inches of snow was blowing
into twelve. Outside my pickup was warming up

for the 220 miles of hazardous Montana spring weather.
We filled our plates, drank fresh juice, and answered our cell phones.
Friends from Billings were warning us the sooner you leave

the better. Which way should I go, I asked Dad, Judith Gap
or Roundup? I rehearsed for certain trouble: tire chains, 4 wheel low,
melting snow for water; but the worst that’s ever happened to me

are things that never did. There’s truth in that saying and I give
my ancestors the credit. Dad peppered his eggs and blew on his coffee,
then measured us with that look. He jabbed thick Irish fingers towards

his two grandkids. Listen, I’ve got sometime to tell you. In the midst
of road reports and measured drifts, he told them where their names
were born: where the nose of County Waterford meets the County of Cork

are sixty nine acres of ancient O’Keeffe homestead. He swirled a potato
in his egg and repeated the words I was raised with: You’ll get to where
you want to go by remembering where you’re from.

whale sound and leveler

In the world of poetry,  Whale Sound and Leveler are offering us something more.

Nic Sebastian's new website, Whale Sound, shares her recordings of poetry that affect her in some way or another. If you've not listened to her recordings before, you are missing out on a stirring experience. I signed up to receive an email every time she posts a new recording. If you are like me and need to read the text in addition to hearing the poem read, Nic provides a link to the text as well. Looking for an easy way to start out? Nic read my poem, "At Ruby's Diner" last week. You can find her reading of it here. I feel honored to be part of this new project of hers.

Ever read a poem and wonder why it was published or what all one might consider in the poem? Leveler has four editors who offer one poem each week with their own editorial response to the poem. Fifty-two poems in a year, fifty-two responses for us to consider. I first became interested in the journal when I read Kathleen Kirk's poem, "A Moving Vehicle" and Sarah Sloat's "Can't we put them all there" poem in Leveler. Both poems are powerful, and so are the editorial responses (click on the levelheaded tag on each poem's page). This is a journal I've bookmarked to follow each week. I'm really pleased to see a new poem of mine, Mike , featured there  this week. Reading the editor's response to my poem, I've learned something about the poem and a little bit more about myself that I've been afraid to consider.

homemade ravioli soup

He uses my Lefty wooden spoon and my stock pot, but the rest of the meal is all him. I've not been teaching my son how to cook . . . he's been teaching me.

On most Sundays he cooks for five of us. We sit around the stove-bar and help him stir. We are his tasting crew.

Because he does the cooking and the grocery shopping (fresh parsley, new garlic cloves) we do the dishes. And when I say we, I don't mean me. I mean the other three.

He watches with a satisfied stance. We both like this photo.

promise

* a flat of peaches ripening on the pantry counter

                       

* football cleats on pavement 

* Scholastics book orders for K-6 books

                          

* trombones and bass drums marching in a practice field three miles away

* the lazy drowse of a yellowjacket in my kitchen sink

* remembering the stick of spider webs from climbing apple trees

on finding the post and ivy

She forgot she was made

of supple vines and new moss, crumpled

leaves in aprons, a chunky heart

forged from granite water.

This is the way earth lingers.

Yet it is easy

to be lost and not

notice. Patience is given

to daughter spirits- they must sit and sit,

sometimes they twine, never sighing

waiting for lacework and a black crow’s caw

to repair the sun's memory.

regarding penny

I've not wanted to write these past days. Someone I never met, but someone who touched me with her words passed away while I was busy with my life. For those of you who followed Penny's posts, likely you also know her car hit a tree while attempting to get out of the way of a speeding car driving in the wrong lane.

Some years ago, in a sappy movie I watched with a once-upon dear friend, a distraught wife spoke about everyone needing a witness to their own life. The rest of the movie escapes me (did Richard Gere get what he wanted in the end or not?), but the notion of witnesses to our own lives has stayed with me.

In this photo, we are standing at a viewing point set aside by the State of Wyoming. You can see the storm approaching -- one of the few times I've seen the Sunlight Basin unlit during the day. I stood here a few years ago, listening to a once-upon dear friend reveal himself to me. What he said and why he shared a certain sorrow with me is an aside to how I still feel to this day about being a witness to his life.

With Penny's passing, I've been thinking about revisiting the Sunlight Basin. I'd like to stand at that viewing point again, think about what I've witnessed thusfar in my life (am I listening as closely as I can?), and think more about those who have been my witness. The day this notion came to me, I received a bottle cap message  in the mail from a friend who knows me before I sometimes know myself.

"The bad news is that there is no key to the universe.  The good news is that there is no lock."