Crash

Driving
Son
What are the
Chances
Your child’s
Eyes
Could see,
Could see what
My old man’s eyes
Cannot
A moon that races
Beside our speeding
Chariot
Never dropping
Back
Does it toy
With us?
“Bang,” you say
As the silver ball
Throws itself
Crashing
Into still dark trees
To once again,
To your delight,
Be reborn
And leap forth
From forest’s depths
Yes, I think,
The silver eye
Does toy
With us
Springing forth
Lively
To shock
From your lips
Joyous
Laughter
To see that
Your bright friend
Still watches
Over, and
Follows
You


Ken Goree


One of my most treasured memories of my beautiful, beautiful, boy.

Flawed

Without attempt
I’ve hidden
It seems
My flaws
My faults
My weaknesses
From
You
My
Sweet
You touch the
Grey of
My whiskers
And smile
You trace
The creases
At the
Corners of
My eyes
And yours
Shine
Clear
You caress
My flesh
And must
Feel the strength
Ebbing from
My shoulders
From
My arms
And healing
Warmth
Flows from
Your
Finger
Tips
My soul cries
To be
As unflawed
As you
See
Me
For
One moment
To be
The man that is
Reflected in
Your
Eyes


Ken Goree

Travelers

Dust
Ankle deep
Puffs up in
Clouds
As each
Plodding
Hoof
Pounds
Hot dry
Earth
Along the sun
Tortured
Trail

Brittle
Long strands
Of Horse’s
Tail
Snap and
Whip away
Mountain
Black flies
As they
Seek out
Salt and
Sweat

Whipping
Winds lift
Grey beaten
Dust into whirling
Ghostly columns
Swaying, twirling,
Dancing
Around the travelers
As they weave
Between
Summer brittled
Pines

Ken Goree


Years ago, when my son was a young boy, I went with him to a scout camp in Eastern Oregon.  Camp Baldwin was, and still is near the rolling foothills around the base of Mount Hood.  Besides all of the opportunities that one finds at any scout camp, Camp Baldwin specialized in horsemanship.  One of the highlights for me was a father/son overnight horse ride.  The daytime temperatures hovered around 100 degrees, and had for several weeks.  The landscape was dry and coated in a fine grey cloak of East Cascade dust. 

We headed out, bandanas wrapped to cover our faces out of necessity, not some adult male childish instinct to play out the fantasy of old west pioneers or bandits.  The flies dove at the eyes, mouths, and nostrils of both horses and riders in an attempt scavenge the moisture they needed to survive. 

The more aggressive horses bit at the haunches of the other horses and legs of riders in their frustration at being forced to carry their passengers, and the competitive desire to lead instead of being led. 

After hours of plodding along trails that serpentined up the side of a mountain, we reached our camp, the place where we would spend the night, wrapped in sleeping bags or bedrolls with only the stars and black night sky above us.  Each of withdrew from out saddled bags, odd packages that were dumped into a large cast iron pot, which was suspended from a teepee of branches over the cook fire.  After a dinner of surprisingly good stew and dry biscuits, we settled down for an evening of local history, story-telling and Old West cowboy poetry. 

As bed time approached our guides reminded us of the bear that had been roaming the area.  We knew the bear to be fact, as it trudged along the edges of our own campsite earlier that morning.  He was a medium-sized, cinnamon-colored and mangy looking black bear.  They then invited all fathers and sons to dispose of any hidden morsels that had been stashed away as midnight snacks.  Most of the group approached the fire and offered the snacks up the low flames and coals that remained within the campfire’s stony ring. 

An old friend and I stayed awake deep into the night talking, guarding over our treasured young sons

Unwanted Quiet Moment

In quiet moment
I find
An
Odd
Sensation
A building
Realization,
An
Expectation
As if my mind
Is searching for
An answer
One for which
I never asked

A numbness
Creeping in.
My thoughts
My feelings
My soul
Waiting for
The answer
A timeless
Stillness
Within
Each
Tick
Of the
Clock

Where is
My guide
To remind me,
To restate
The query
On which
My
Unconsciousness
Dwells
Pondering
I know not what
Too slowly
In muddled
Hell


Ken Goree


That was not quite my usual, was it?  It’s just that a powerfully numbing sensation came over me, a while ago.  It was partially like trying to recall a name, or fact of history that you wanted to share; though it was without the same sense of urgency.  It was quite odd, and sadly, I know I am not close to representing it accurately.  And I feel the need to point out, I have not done anything today that should bring about “muddled” thinking processes.  I let you all know, if I find the answer.

Fish?

Hmmm, needs a poem, a poem you say?
I may just write it; maybe today
It is pretty ugly. It is.  Don’t say, “No, way!”
It’d be much nicer, were it a fillet.


Ken


This is from a conversation over a photo that I posted on Facebook.  The ugly fish in question was actually a dragon fruit.  Janeen was not very complimentary over the poem.  I’m hoping that is just because she was comparing it to all of my wonderful, earlier poems she has read.