Monday, January 15, 2007

Catching up - Oregon, Indiana and Nebraska

So W has a plan - a bad plan, but a plan - one that is no better than LBJ's in 65 or Nixon's but a plan - one that accomplishes nothing but more dead US soldiers but a plan.

How soon before the next president takes over?


The January and final FireWeed is ready to read at I have to give up the zines for health reasons, but others are considering how to keep them going.

Thanks to all our readers, contributors and editors. I hope we fired up your mind a time or two.


I know how I skipped Indiana and Nebraska, but Oregon last August...a mystery of sorts...but there are here now. The States index is in the post for January 5, 2007.

Until next week.



Poetic States XII – Oregon

How Green Was My Valley

The Great White Worm burrowed
beneath Willamette grasslands
where turf, wineries, hazelnut
and ranch houses are now harvested.
No one noticed or cared the white
became extinct while Rachel Carson
saved brown pelicans for tourists
in Southern California coastal towns.
There is not a lot of cute in worms,
white or any other color, even mauve.

When Ben and I saunter through
hay fields near his Jefferson home,
I imagine the earth trembles
as if the giant still lives below.
Perhaps it is just a earthquake tremor,
but I would not be surprised it survived.
The center of universe is near the source
of the Santiam’s northern branch,
and turf and grass seed farms
are similar to the its ancient habitat.

Patios and driveways though…


Poetic States XXVII – Nebraska

Heard on a Prairie Wind

Her voice out sings the morning meadowlark,
goldenrod curls glisten with afternoon sparks.
She strides grasslands sure as a bull bison.
A smile, I grin at my good fortune.

The daughter of immigrants, Viking stock,
she holds family together, a rock.
Beneath cottonwood by the Platte’s banks,
she loves me even when I’m sour, a crank.

Our idyllic dreams are not meant to last –
tornados rage, hail and dust’s fury blasts.
Children die, stillborn, the older sicken.
Our sod-built home is dreary, a sad den.

A sweet prairie life hard, she wastes away;
I carry her to where gulls sing, palms sway.


Poetic States XXVIII – Indiana

A Gary by Any Other Name
for Patricia

When I hear Opie sing “Gary, Indiana”
in his high-pitched childish voice,
my step becomes lighter
and smile wider –
even the harmonic tones
of the Jackson family do not
make me feel as carefree.
When I hear the roar of the Indy 500
rumble across the brickyard,
I reach for 4 on the floor,
push down on a reluctant gas pedal
and remember when 500 miles
seemed as far away as Mars moons.

When I read your poetry,
I am as enchanted as if you rose
from the Wabash and clasped me
to your bosom while we cannonballed
downstream to party at Mardi Gras.

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