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August 7, 1998


prbutbl1 old folks gone home prbutbl1 my hunting lesson prbutbl1 the Rain-Maker
prbutbl1 life reconciled prbutbl1 say someday prbutbl1to my son
prbutbl1ever again prbutbl1 as brothers prbutbl1 beach scenes
prbutbl1 my father's sleep prbutbl1 childern of the marble prbutbl1 little kitten, my way again

My 10 year old son has recently begun to experiment with poetry of his own.
Being the proud papa, I offer his works for your enjoyment...
and his encouragement.

prbutbl1E. B. White

prbutbl1 the clouds

   old folks gone home
sensing kisses 
    and simple hugs  
        had ceased to come  
           from those she loved 

so settled head 
     in final bow 
         to busy world

leaving behind 
     only time
and softened shell

my hunting lesson I was to see you once again all sprawled out amidst the maim of fallen Elders, bending reeds, and beercans. Reclining as some Lord in concession of surrounding flocks. Toying his favorite pipe. Till lambs in your meadow suddenly changed to fleets of wild bleating geese freer till your sight and steeply rise of oily pistol lewdly blew and shouted through the wince of winking wings and wonder, spilling devil's red desire as clotting flecks on vacant upturned pastel faces.

That deeper night I drew in bolder colors. Filling pages. Making light and dark of what you taught me. So as to remember you by and bye.

the rain-maker remember when
our heavy afternoon broke free and sketched the slanting thoughts of raindrop’s shiny style the world- under
drawing us children ever nearer essential memories unaccustomed yet to salty tendings of tomorrow’s tear- drops?
I will remember, always.
Till oneday ceasing I’ll emerge from ash
the Rain- maker. . . . seeding clouds changing child’s tired dust to clinging
mud and memories.

prbutba1 life reconciled unto your own from ancient inlaid chambers grown drift on unteathered now for every earthly turning boldly beacons life from heaven
senses drenched so swell the cells in forged profusion cherish now your human form
never unlearn tides that spilled yourself to yearning earth so trusted you in pristine nursery
where tucked inside assembled cells the remnants torn of all past life lie reconciled

daily dusting

Daily, we continue to endeavor the ruin of ourselves. Brought into this world an offering of renewal. Complexity of flexing skin and mineral bone.
When did my heart turn round and beat inwardly? Seeping reason in endless circles. Soaking limbs in fluid constrained of single tissue.
Times I suffered. Medicines conjured from depths of imminent minds would never recover the troubled heart. Only conceal, linger the skipping of beat, the continual quiver of undeveloping body.
Unannounced, one night narrowing vessels went immeasurable; sent the body bereft of sensation. Departed, partaken of the torch. Lost to dust were all connection and atonement.
Merely being was the more difficult. Consider, the rescinding of your touch was but the offering to Another.
And I’ve ceased to consider the other.
prbutba1 to my son Hold you ever near me through a passing night of time and ending scene of cradle pleasure lent between this romp of sky and dusty floor. Kneel, offer hands awash to mending all went wrong within our whitewash walls set of texture sunlight and the lime of dying planet. For you my artist posing head within His palm shaming light upon the seemingly eternal master only dazzling pastels for landscapes brushed of memories.

ever again im like that cat who finds ways home nine times before dyin
release my precious closed eye kitten
freer than humans would have you
nearer to fields purer than sleep
warmed of wisdom mastered in tails
can night pretend just once to love us ever again as felines?


as brothers If brothers were as kind in life, Michael, you know I would have found you halfway towards home, long before our mother would have kissed the creases of your forehead.

If forgiving was as natural, Michael, you know I would have held you halfway towards forever, long before any world would have summoned lovers from her waters.

If Angel was my essence, Michael, you know I would have met you halfway towards heaven, long before any star would have seized your sparkle as her own.

In these, the stillest hours, I will have felt you, brother, till my steadily fading heart empties of our blood.


beach scenes completely sun inspired summed our early lives
wee weekend bohemians skipped along safaris style and balanced baskets casual as acrobats
till shifty sands and sleepy tides deposited our pastel shells in parables of Santa Cruz
all lotion pearled we took to beaches natural as coconuts
and tumbled rascal oceans in adolescent moments till riptide left us jellyfish
as seasoft youth return to ancient shores from blanketed beginnings
will nightide hours carry us to bullion seas? the urchin freed of battered coasts
or left to chance this shoal of Earthly Trinity in Sun..... and Sand...... and Sea.....
prbutba1 say someday as your dry eyes prepare this child
imagine days of fruitless trees the bloom unburdened frames of fields surrendered stems of scarecrow’s holy maize
as after cloud the rainbow’s frown still troubles you
say someday you’ll pass this way again?
where now the toasting crowd still croon away the hours to the plumb and pulp of pressboard homes and a spaniel chasing tail
i’ve heard the wheel still turns in Heaven and a boy with a gait loves deeper
sunrise looms the ashtrays bloom our sermons find us fairest


my father's sleep From a distance he signals through steady overbreathing. My father’s Wordsworth, feels more closely the casual forty beats a minute somehow sustaining. I linger in the unfamiliar stillness of a Saturday afternoon.
Of my own dream i’d wake you and slowly you’d emerge the man we knew. Your gapped-tooth smile showing all the innocence you still possess. The crescents of the eyes, your talent for affection. Your hands, the attenders of sorrow.
But father, your sleep reduces me. Your essence escapes in every passing breath.
Feel me here. Ready to accept the years you never chose as yours. Slowly i’ll become the simpler Jesus, in boyclothes. The life you gave, lending you a savior.
But don’t wake, just yet.
Let me bless as only a son knows how. Without symbolic hand-waved cross. Without the lighting of a candle. Without a parody of prayer.

Let me simply be here when you wake, Father, and show you the stare of unconditional Love.

childern of the marble Visit to the Wall, Washington, D.C. Your days were many of the lovely thoughts of children grown around you suddenly here.
Mending in their touch your simmer of desire spent to drift a darkest marble
Tell me One last time, My only given brother, The reason why you could not stay And hid in what seemed paradise Reaping all your softest features
Withdrawing us the bone.
And where we once lay in our home I’ll rise a thousand times To hear the children of the marble Screaming to return
Where rather than a monument We’ll forge for them instead The promise of a lifetime
As well tended and preserved. prbutba1

little kitten, my way again Little kitten I hear you first thing, some thirty years the future of the person now slipping out of conscience. Why do you come my way again, unblemished, as the nighttime ride of a furious adolescent never met you headlong to allow your memory only. Whereas before, you slept so contently in the shelter, the euthanasia shadowing your every morning.
In a merciful mood, I played at savior. But I’m no good as god-like, giving you no living equivalent to a fallen star. Or even close to a patch of dirt you could flourish. And your delicate body, balanced between two worlds Of joy and joyous, spirit of a butterfly ,halo of a tail, Still frees my every emotion, then disappears. prbutba1 E.B. White once the dawn has shown the sun but the sun has gone as the days go past. Down to desk the pencil lay to E. B. White. His last day was a dark cold day. From this day on people remember him as a great poet. To me he was the person that I like to hear. He had a good voice. I like the pitch of his voice. From lowest to his highest of voice he sounded like a peaceful voice, soothing as he flows the words from his mouth, you could fall asleep reading his poetry or him reading it He had a soothing voice. the clouds As I ponder and look at the sky there is something missing I said to myself. I hated this day because it was cloudy. There was no sun at all you could not see it. I asked the clouds to move away but they didn't. I asked again. But he did not listen. I yelled at the sky. He woke with a moan and a groan. I asked him to move away. He mumbled to himself and then moved away. The sun shone over the valley and I was happy.

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