39 Feet of Connecting Trout Stream

Thirty-nine feet of connecting trout stream


There is rubble on the shore rocks
when the stream is low and it's hard
to find a pool that's cold enough
to sustain fish even when a hatch
scatters midges where there is no cloud
nor flash flood so shallows might once
again fill full of water and fish
with expectant rise eat nymphs back
here where they belong since today
where the dog digs gravel reflecting
auburn in still stream like autumn
below a large shore and overhangs
of roots drying in this heat
digging for the wet deep down and under
this whole tangle of bleached-out river
rocks and tumbles forever in spring
without questioning a shape or weight
trying not to get caught up in a place
where things remain the same until a year
when the ground saturates and spring brings
a run-off that locals remember for years
as much as the fish remember this drought
and trout climb up to the cool mountain streams
because pools are now rare down here
quite narrow when water whips still
around bigger stones that gather mosses
in velvet time when bears look
for mates in the roar of spring before
a trickle spills around dried out deer bones
and bones turn to stone then lose their places
in miles of blurred surfaces
from another rain visiting long after the glacier
marked its place long after heavy rains
and dry spells are caught between the planting
and corn silk turning amber in water
and the shore gets smaller and dank
when the leaves begin their journey
downstream when the fish return.

Linda Hogan

Lupines

Lupines

Some of the fence has rotted
but still holds small creatures, mice
and wrens, though not my boy's weight, nor
his father's. Winter weighed
snow on our old rails again
and again until they split.
Before long the posts must come
down. The goat herd is moving
to where the tender shoots grow.
One ram follows my hemline
as it breezes through the breaking
gate, in, out; watches, then returns
to graze in festive pasture.

At dark we cannot see
the herd, only hear their bells
as clang breaks through the chilled air.
We sit in the simmer
over supper figuring
the way to make the repair.
The kitchen light hums across
our silver and he tells me
these meals make him strong. He feeds
the dogs table scraps. They lie
away from the issue. Bells
fill the silence between lines.

Below the barn the dirt road
has been graded. The noon sun
wakes the warm winds, raises dust
toward the house. He is walking
the overgrown logging road
up to the pine stand beyond
the field and singing the pitch
of the chain saw ragging wild.
Belief becomes the pasture
sprawling down to the graded
highway. I am cutting
lupines for the table.

Linda Hogan

Ravelings

Painting by Susan Logan

Ravelings

I still hear sounds
in quiet thoughts

like treadles clacking
at the base of mother's loom,

just as when I sat still
and though small

watched the whoosh
from shuttle sliding

across the warp; color
bumping up against color

and changing with each clack,
changing summer into fall.

In October the abundant
field comes undone;

no longer wild yellow from butter
cups or golden rod. There are only gray

and rust threads not quite holding
together in wind. Very fine snow

will gather heaviness and crack
the straw eventually. Thaw water

moves down with its bits
of passing years. Blue Jays snap

at the feeder and I remember
the way the warp was fed through

the loom's harness where the lengths
of fiber hung waiting for a unity

her hair woven with my blonde, her
patterns, our rhythms. I still tap my foot.


Linda Hogan

Wood Sculpture

Wood Sculpture

WHAT FELLED YOU is important
in some way. Not the thud
of the fall that broke up
your tender limbs. But the sound
of your longing for me
to find fissures and gouge
around in search of stronger
places in sturdy parts.
Something could be made out
of all this bulk. Prune off
fragile boughs, remove the bark,
soften the smooth of such pale
sub-skin that has hidden through
a thousand gales, and upright
until this last one. It is
not the last. But lie still
while I rub on tung oil, still
and I'll tatoo mine next
to old initials in deep
grain and story rings, rings
layer by layer smoothed
and oiled, now freshly marked
in bold, blonde letters surrounded
by a simple jackknifed heart.

Linda Hogan

Soltice

Painting by Howard Terpning

Solstice:
by Kaw-ii-su--Skygate


Solstice
the thunder remains in my belly

even when no one is watching

At first light of day
I have seen the sky-gate

drumming
I have sent a song through it

and feet which will stomp the earth
I have gathered myself and named myself

salt, corn
I have counted myself

tobacco
drum

sweetgrass a morning feast
feet

passed through invisible hands
fingers

sky-gate opens
I will press my belly to the earth

just a few feet away
and sing from there

two-lane highway

air-conditioned indifference
Tobacco Indian

magnificent oblivion
Natural Man Runs Down-wind

Poems

Painting by Howard Terpning

Poems

Our home is this country
Across the windswept hills
With snow on fields.
The cold air.

I like to think of our native life,
Curious, free;
And look at the stars
Sending icy messages.
My eyes see the cold face of the moon
Cast his net over the bay.

It seems
We are like the moon --
Born,
Grow slowly,
Then fade away, to reappear again
In a never-ending cycle.

Our lives go on
Until we are old and wise.
Then end.
We are no more,
Except we leave
A heritage that never dies.

Rita Joe

The Streets Are Green

The Streets Are Green


The streets are lines with
leaves,
some, are like pages of events
once read and then discarded.
Streets that show the clipping
of our full and empty lives,
like blades of grass that once grew tall,
but at one time had to be cut down.

Green streets,
like envy, green with envy?
The streets invest like stockbrokers
the assets of our everyday lives
as we walk them.
These streets
grow green in many hues.

Diane Burns