ANIMAL POEMS

A Black Bull

A black bull had a noble brow.

It would stop a bullet.

He was all god.

His tongue went boa-like in his nose.

He pissed on the ground a yellow downpour.

He ate a lot.

He made round flat bullshit platters.

His tail was a cable of swift authority.

Even the flies had respect for him.

Out in the sun he was hot as an anvil.

All the cows said, moo, me next.

When he lost his temper Spain knew.

At night he dreamed of nothing at all.

His perfect ears heard pure blackness.

He slept like sculpture standing.

Crickets

It was almost

morning but still dark,

the crickets almost

all sung out.

The song that had been

a rhythmic, surging,

striding cheer

to the very moon

Was stopping to start

half-heartedly here,

half-heartedly there,

until after a while

All there was

to hear and feel,

and know, almost,

was Goodnight.

Goodnight Crickets,

Goodnight.

I Lay About Like A Leopard

I lay about all day like a leopard,

one leg on desk, keyboard in lap:

tap, tap, till along it comes.

If I were a leopard out on the veldt,

where there were only several trees,

I’d be draped on a sturdy branch,

asleep with lunch in a nearby crotch,

a nice little antelope bit on the neck,

and dreams of dining soon.

Then I  would not be pretending to work,

but truly and deeply, freely lounging,

having already waited long enough

for something to come by and spring on.

I take my time and write the poem,

put it up to mature.

Around The Bird Feeder

The yellow globe of a grosbeak's belly

on the bough of a fir tree laced in snow,

in dozens, creates an image of Christmas, 

you almost expect, at dusk, to glow.

The chickadees and juncos contribute

an atmosphere more competitive, stark,

and the whistling, chirping skirl of voices

confirm their tension towards dark.

This scramble of species, harmlessly hungry

to consume the world and promote genes,

is joined by a kestrel that dives and scatters

pool balls on the forest green,

Leaving me alone by the feeder,

the Christmas tree stripped of its ornaments,

the evening advanced into deep winter,

life drawn as extended predicament.

A Black Boar

He came up to watch on the fifth hole,

trundling easily out of the jungle,

tusks uplifting his lips in smile, 

a big pig, the mature boar,

Blackly bristled, solid as teak,

heavier than I on any scale,

ambling across the green to show off,

relishing how it made him stand out,

Black on green, a wonder of beasts,

His Highness, The Pig, on short-cut grass.

He waited until we finished putting

and led the way to the next hole,

Grunting, accepting us into his world,

walking ahead, not a foot from the cart.

So vulnerable did he seem, and fine,

so satisfied with his chance at life!

We were all going to the same picnic,

a feast of microbes some time hence,

but far enough in the distant future

that life was perfect, and he, good luck.

Geckos

There go geckos on the wall,

seeking moths in electric light,

green and hanging on like truth, 

fragile but surviving.

Moths, of course, are not lies, 

but uncertain sources of holes in cloth, 

cloth that feeds geckos indirectly, 

sheep without doubt, on far fields

of grass, or cotton spun into nightshirts, 

too real to invent, as these days in Hawaii,

benign as soft, little, frisky lizards,

scurrying over stucco.

Bee Sleep

A bee had fallen asleep in a flower,

monk’s hood, purple, enveloping petals,

entered with effort, really a struggle,

this blossom open only an hour.

The temperature fell, the dew, light rain,

the light. The bee was a little honey.

His legs were tireder than his wings— funny,

that’s how it is on some routes. Pain,

The fatigue of a drummed out drummer,

washed over wing and leg alike,

as damp, cool darkness began to strike.

And yet, in the morning, more summer!

Crow Gratitude

The crows were expressing gratitude

this morning in snow on the feeder.

One coal fellow, big as a chicken,

bent over facing me, looked up sideways,

hunkered there with his wings part-folded,

jutted his head in and out and said…

He said, Caw caw, of course, but more,

he seemed to say, and I’m paraphrasing,

interpreting somewhat, as well, I admit,

he said: Goddamn it! Thank you, man!

Those stale corn chips were better than freezing,

and without them we might have croaked.

Red Squirrel On Bird Feeder

His back and the top of his tail are worn

from coming together against the cold— 

a fur on a stick.

I watch as he cracks a sunflower future.

Within reach, except for the glass

which he's already tested on the cat,

he stares at me as I eat an apple.

Collaborators in half-salvation,

trading food for world feeling,

we don't know what to make of this,

being allies without affinity,

but willingly gobble, gaze, reflect—

perhaps it was in the seed.

The Idea Of A Camel

This is the whole idea of a camel:

the camel floats, in depth, on land,

in slow motion, on dry land, with just the breath

God gave him to sail, and exactly the wit to blink

And walk, and switch his tail, his cud he doesn't think

about any more than his weight, he is very heavy,

a mountain of water, he floats on sand, drinking

only a long time ago, reflecting on what is stashed inside,

Cool as a cigarette commercial, with a liquid beauty deeper than pride,

he grins but doesn't part his lips, would wink a tear if it weren't precious,

cares nothing for lively intelligence, knowing that this cannot divine

water in the ground he walks— think what you will, you are finally sere—

But not the camel, for he's had his drink, and it's still clear

in his mind, he floats, not walking on water, he is walking water,

whenever he wants to go he summons a drop to his dry old cork of a brain,

shoves off high on his long brown legs, and floats.

Duncan

I had a cock with a green black tail

that feathered an arch above his back,

jet, with a collar of white on the neck,

his comb and waddles, a vicious red,

his eyes, two fierce little hazel suns,

his feet, four hooks in the ground twice.

Snatched from his greens and gabbling hens,

his summer of ecstasy in the garden,

he flapped and bit to stay upright,

screamed and hated and feared his death,

looked, when he finally chose to relax,

surprised that I was his murderer and, 

weighed, in my hands, the whole beauty of life.

On the block his head made a regal image,

a figure the size of my palm and thumb,

the vulnerability of beauty to reason,

the lightness of being, even a king's,

the gravity of the upheld axe,

the notion of Duncan, myself, Macbeth.

The Eagle’s Nest At Heart’s Cove

The way to see the eagle’s nest

they said had chicks was over bog,

and so we went, on juniper bushes,

mats of needles, boggy springing,

and stopping, saw the twinflower too,

two pink, little scented dangling corollas

at the top of a long skinny toothpick stem,

small and delightful; we sniffed and then

scattered and spread, six wide and ranging,

faster and slower, wandering apart,

and I, the slowest, could see the others,

isolated and looking down, separate,

but it wasn’t tragic, just the way things were,

each alone, and then we arrived,

approaching the cliff and looking down

to the craggy cove, where to go was the end,

and there, on an outcrop beyond our reach,

was a single chick on a platter of sticks,

sprawled on his side, apparently resting,

and there were his parents, one on a butte,

the other shrieking and circling above,

to tell us we had come far enough.

Great Horned Owl In Arizona

We followed a great horned owl 

at dusk, as she winged along a riparian draw

lined with cottonwood. The day was all

It could be then, dying: a grey-green veil

around us— shoulder-high, dryed-out grasses 

and brush on either side of the trail.

Half-hidden we walked, Indian file, 

and watched the great bird float in silence,

to stop, perhaps every tenth of a mile,

And wait until we caught up and could see

her face and eyes as she looked back,

before lifting off for another tree,

Where again she would fix us, quite unfazed,

as we approached from far beneath—

death and indifference in her gaze.

Yet if there was death, there was also existence, 

beauty, fleeting nature and thought,

the symbol and what was real, a reverence

for the world and our combined lot.

Scorpio In The Greenhouse

The greenhouse was lousy with white flies, moisture 

increasing with waning days— all in danger of loss.

We cleaned it out and raked the beds, tossed out stalks and stakes

and leaves, swept things up and washed the tomatoes, came in 

with tired backs and the goods.

I went back after several days to find the place sunny, earth-smelling

and warm, the atmosphere healthy, spacious, dry, nothing to water 

but herbs and flowers, most in hanging pots.

And there was a spider in his own time, 

Scorpio, centered in his crazy clock,

that would catch nothing now but sun and ideas, 

and want nothing either, but a long pause,

to feel the Earth sigh and exist, sated—

Autumn in a soundless, light-filled room.

Herring Gulls In A Storm

Something in a seagull's mind,

perhaps the feathers,

knows the flow of wind so well

that, even as the wind screams,

the seagulls stream, straight back into it,

knifing trembling the rushing cold, 

tacking, advancing, never flapping,

although on the ground I am flapping, leaning, 

eyeing the gulls overhead in the storm,

making progress toward the ocean,

until they appear to change their minds,

take off, one by one, like kites,

to join the gale and go sidelong, inland, 

shooting over me at wind-speed, 

accepting the blow to claim it theirs 

in a spirit of fun— their gift, the wind.

After Killing A Red Squirrel

Buckets of sunflower seeds by the window

taught him to come inside.

He circled around and found his way in 

through the greenhouse.

I scolded and chased him daily.

He thought I was another squirrel.

I hit him a rap on the back with a stick,

another as he convulsed on the floor.

He sputtered his blood and lay dead.

I tossed the body in tall weeds.

Later that day I pissed on myself;

also cut myself shaving.

Humping Hippopotamuses

We watched the hippopotami mate

at the Calgary zoo— like finding gold.

The mother was submerged in bliss

a smile on her face, occasional bubbles.

What a long time she could hold her breath!

Daddy was laying it to her, largo,

everything being in slow motion,

under water, in fact,

though he was largely exposed, puffing, 

wetly groping for traction, oh! 

to see those horses’ happiness

was to be in love with creation!

The little crowd, including children,

chuckled and lingered, hung on the rail,

stuck around till they’d had enough,

and left, most before climax.

Surprise

Just when it seemed the world was stale

and uninspired, summer dying,

on a soaking morning there was a hale

new family of robins, trying flying.

Long White Swans

In Bordeaux there are long white swans

cruising on quiet, canopied water,

green from the light that penetrates it

at sunset when it's horizontal.

People in the park are talking,

strolling or seated on iron chairs;

Bordeaux, the city, hums in the background,

benign as the sound of remote insects.

Such is the gentle flood of sensation,

following upon days of travel,

such is the numbing and knowing at once,

I can tell how things were called into being.

Zebras at Closing Time

I hear they are hard to herd, I hollered,

of zebras at the zoo man.

He was waving his arms and trying to steer

them out of the open, into a pen.

I was leaning on a rail and liking,

really loving, the late afternoon.

He didn’t reply. The zebras whinnied,

ran in circles and kicked their heels,

Romped until it was their idea

to retire from the field at five.

The Dragon Fly

He touches up against my house and stops,

his body shimmering, all craft; 

his spirit, a sequin raft,

with just his appetites to dwell in.

He flies across my garden and eats in even air,

straight and level; has no need

of evening news, for the past works

and eons lie within his frame.

He finds his mate and they soar 

in rattling sex, a coupling of colored light,

metallic, iridescent—wings a-clatter

with the laughter of their success.

At last they fly the boundaries of my thrill

his image lingering, a quill

writing in my brain.

Flat On The Flag

A dragonfly was quite still 

on a piece of trim on the greenhouse floor.

He looked dead: exquisite quiet.

(They come in and beat themselves to death.)

I picked him up by two same-side wings

and set him outside on the patio.

It was raining. He flopped flat on the flagstone,

then gained his feet and washed his eyes

repeatedly, using his forelegs.

He did this again and again for water,

lolling his hemispheric head,

like half a dehydrated pea on a stick.

A gust of wind flipped him on his back.

He curled his blue, green and brown abdomen,

fluttered a little and righted himself—

back on his own six legs, wet.

I came back later and he hadn't left.

I had hoped to say he flew off, glad;

however, instead he was dead. 

At least he had had a drink. 

A Dragon Fly Crashed

A dragon fly had crashed his machine

and sat on the edge of a half-made road.

The craft was upright, the pilot dying

as dust settled from dynamite.

The ground around was scarified,

boulders raised out in the sun, white,

the world was mute, nor could he see.

The dragon fly tried to start his engine.

Nothing worked.  He sat still,

something become inanimate.

Grey Cat

A grey cat with a striped tail

of black and grey, in a slight curl,

thinking herself invisible, walked,

without seeing me, over big boulders,

over logs and the dead brown mat

of last year’s grass, up an embankment,

with the lightest strides, interspersed with leaps

and perfect landings, I have ever seen—

As if to move were pure volition, 

grace, the inevitable result.

The new cat, with new muscle, 

new-strung joints, everything elastic,

is a wonder to match any other.

Pretty Moth At Indian Wells

A pretty moth lit on my sleeve and so

I stopped watching tennis and looked at him:

A rusty, powdery, cinnamon brown,

with black markings and black eye patches,

And feathered antennae, one all aquiver,

he roughed with his foot as he stared at me.

God! What a beautiful brute he was!

with as much right to be there as anyone:

All us thousands in artificial light, 

watching tennis, and here was this moth,

Enjoying the night, enjoying my clothes,

enjoying my seat with no ticket.

The Toad, The Quiet

I found a toad and he wasn’t afraid

(he was at first, but he calmed down),

for he could see we were like minds

and I wouldn’t kill him, though I nearly had,

the weed whip zipping above his head:

I shut it off and picked him up.

He struggled at first, then relaxed,

So that when we arrived at the flowerbed

and I opened my hand to let him down,

he sat there on the leather glove, 

contented, looking back at me,

and life was a dream we dreamt together,

the world gone quiet— no gas engine—

only bird song in some high tree,

our eyes upon each other and Nature,

in sudden peace, together.

A Mocking Bird Muttered

A Mocking Bird muttered away all night.

What it was was, he talked in his sleep.

I suppose it was not his fault, I don’t know,

a fowl might lose his reason too,

as much as he had, and start dithering.

It was Spring and he may have been suffering

from what we may call, sexual tension;

in any event, he talked in his sleep,

(or at least the dark).

He muttered and twittered and pippered and twerpt,

he yammered and gibbered and nuanced and rattled,

he said every phrase fully three to six times,

until I got up and shut the window.

A New Bull Moose

We had a new bull moose go by

with two six-inch pegs on his head.

It was six o’clock. I was up early.

He chomped the tops of my raspberry cane.

Twigs and all they went down, grateful.

I was proud to have set them.

What an exquisite, lumbering gait!

Smooth and slow, potentially fast,

his great rear end pushing things along,

as his father’s had, and his father’s fathers’—

all the sweet world that went before him,

and now under, and also through,

all of a piece it was for this animal.

God bless the moose! 

May he be here eons!

May he find so splendid a cow!

The Moose And The Balsam Fir

The wind is whipping a cold rain

against the house. Outside is cruel.

I went out to pee and came back shivering.

And yet Mr. Moose has no house nor candle,

only his hide and the heat of his food—

a fire of balsam fir on his gut.

It’s hard to see how that works at all:

it is so bloody cold, and wet and dark,

you could die of depression if not exposure.

Tonight we had pot-roasted moose for dinner,

red wine, a fire and strong spirits after. Oh!

Long live the moose and balsam fir!

Emergence

At first I hear the deer as leaves,

underfoot on the ground she treads;

then, as the leaves on bushes move,

the shape of a deer emerges—

a young doe, slowly in green,

as if she were the leaves, themselves;

and is, in many senses.

On the hillside above her another

emerges, the same size, perhaps a sister,

standing, walking, standing, looking

back, wondering, as is the first,

(if I could read their thoughts) 

whether another man might emerge.

A Horse Drinking When You Were A Child

The soft muzzle on cold water

in a halved water heater, made of steel,

the great force of sucking

lowering the level,

water rising into the horse—

yourself only a few feet away.

The horse shivers

a fly off his shoulder,

rolls his eyes 

at you as he drinks.

The world, you see,

he sees you see,

is one.

Working For Worms

Today I worked for worms and was

as lucky as a shithouse rat,

uncertain how Anon came up with that,

so tellingly apt for how lucky I was.

The jobs included: excavating compost,

applying that treasure to flowering bushes,

fixing cracks that had shown in the throne,

adding grass clippings and peat to the base

with fresh potting soil and, of course, the worms,

kings and queens at once of the outhouse.

I had bought these beauties to put in my works,

paying top dollar for the large, deluxe package,

little red wrigglers, lively, the composting champions

of vermiculture, one underpinning of horticulture.

Some were sunk in the greenhouse too.

All in all, it was a big day,

working until I was wet with sweat:

mowing, carrying, seeding, repairing,

watering it down for the sake of my worms,

getting straightened around on a bright summer day,

an idea almost too easy for Poetry:

Today, I worked for worms.

Bad Hunter

A hare came up to my heels and stopped,

not two feet away, and sat there.

I told him he better watch out, so he left,

in no particular hurry.

I am fond of rabbits and fond of rabbit,

but not of killing, cleaning, disposing,

I am also aware of local laws

prohibiting blasting away by the house,

Not that I have any firearms—

a squirrel has been in to determine that,

gone through the place from top to bottom,

and back out to tell every thing in the woods.

Bumble Or Honey

Are these bees bumble or honey?

I wondered. I wondered and wondered,

looking up close at the pink Rhododendron

with yellow splashes inside the corollas,

gorgeous as anything could be in flower.

I wondered at Beauty,

diffuse and compact,

at Life, both still and busy,

and God! They were both!

along with wasps

of several kinds,

and little flies,

a blue damsel,

and more!

A Duck In Flight

A duck in flight

is Humanity.

Humanity is like

a duck flying.

You wouldn’t say soaring,

(nobody would) but flapping,

battling, eggbeatering,

airborne somehow,

racing ahead,

hoping no collision,

no disaster,

improbably able,

yet perfectly able

to stay in the air and fly,

a miracle.

Oh!

Stay up!

Fly!

Unexpected Kindness

Walking through cages of monkeys held

for experiments, where every cell

was a four-foot cube 

three feet above concrete,

packed in a line on either side

of a walkway hosed of excrement,

I felt 

the howling and scrambling throughout.

A monkey reached out and took my hand,

and held it, a female, and then let go—

an act of kindness, I presume.

Noseeums

I felt some several noseeums bit me—

else why was I itching and scratching my gams?

It happened as I was reading Shakespeare,

outside, half-naked on the balcony.

I wasn’t playing Juliet and Romeo,

nor feeling like either neither,

But rather, reading Henry The Forth,

laughing at Fat Guts, hill of flesh.

It was hot. I suppose I deserved to suffer,

and so some several noseeums bit me.

The Loon

Riding my bike around Windsor Lake

I remembered the loon I had seen last week,

and thought I saw something black.

It was a brilliant morning, starting September:

east was the water, and east the sun. I was

looking onto it, into it, glad.

Everything was glorious, glittering and dazzling,

pointed and golden, diamond in the breeze.

The virgin forest on the far side,

of stunted and leaning fir and spruce,

was as healthy as The North can be,

thriving in Fall weather.

I pulled off the road and planted one foot

on the guardrail to watch as far as the trees,

and, for a moment, nothing.

Then, of a sudden, there he was,

His Nibs, alone on the choppy water,

coming up rich from a routine dive

to sit for a minute, swallowing, I suppose.

Then he dove again, and I went on my way.