Other poetry by Wayne Leman






Curtain Fall

Flaming orange, yellow, red
leaves of forest arms outspread
applaud the music of fall,
the year's final curtain call:
Summer's act is done,
Winter's almost come.








Winter's Silence

A clear, crisp quiet rules the air
as sapless sentinels and I stand
listening, frozen in our tracks.
Movement seems irreverent. But
somewhere, a chilled branch, bare,
shivers, and its icy coat cracks;
the sudden snap echoes here and there,
then winter falls silent once again.






Fly, Fly, Birdies

We settled down in our family nest
to say our evening prayers,
and one by one we spoke to heaven
our thanks and heartfelt cares.

When my turn came I asked that we
would have some special days
for family time in the weeks ahead--
I dreaded our next growth phase

so much I couldn't pray the rest
and instead began to cry
the pain of a father about to watch
two fledglings fly good-bye.

The songbirds in our nest joined in
a chorus of bittersweet tears,
with parents and offspring sharing alike
the grief when parting nears.

I finally choked out the names of those
we'd trained to leave the nest,
then spread my wings around them both
and told them they'd be missed.

"So, fly, my dear, dear daughters,
fly away, soar, and roam
far beyond the hills and our valley
and then, when you can, fly home."

(The preceeding poem was written just before our oldest daughters left for college.)



Twins

Some people saw our little twins
and told us, "Double trouble!"
But, "No," we said, "it's double joy."
(I hate to pop their bubble;
they just don't understand.)
Having twins is so much fun,
always there's a playmate,
and parents can each hold one.



My Name
(three cinquains)

Gazing
up above me,
at stars in puddled milk,
I stared at length, but never saw
my name.

Waiting
at the altar
for her to walk the aisle,
I saw her glowing, and she smiled
my name.





Adrift
at sea and lost
in fog I heard no sounds
until the harbormaster called
my name.






Falling

Slipping down the bluff wall,
I flail about for handholds
on shale and coal seams,
then drop off the lip
and f
      a
       l
       l

I never hit bottom
in my dreams.



Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves without remorse,
her soul's begun to chill.
She blushes, not from shame,
but from a vanity
that wishes she could still
the wind of time that blows
her toward anility,
and farther from the warmth
of innocence she knew
before her fall from grace.
That fall has left the ground
beneath her feet covered
with the relics of her sin.
In time regret will rise
within her veins and she
will plead for mercy in
the thaw of her soul's spring.
Repentance brings, at last,
redemption to her face.


False Promises

Storm clouds gather again tonight
as they have each night for a week.
The bleak wheat ripples along
as the edge of the front tousles its heads
and approaches the west side of town.
Our trees awaken from their sullen nap
and wave to welcome the breeze
and another chance for a cool nightcap.
But again, it's only a tease--
A few drops fall, leaving dark tears
in the chalky earth, not nearly enough
to deter the dust devils from dancing
across the fallow field to leer at us,
and taunt, "We fooled you again!"
Those dervishes swirl away to the east,
leading the way for the dark clouds
which also soon are out of sight.
We watch with resignation from the porch,
cooler than inside, until the night
falls, all color in the sky bled
from the sunset, a thick dusty red.
Tomorrow will be hot and dry again.



Memories

Freshly fallen time has blanketed
the landscape of the new year,
covering the stubble of the past.
I walk across the field every day,
leaving behind me tracks which last
a memory. Then flurries come,
erasing moments I have trekked.
But melting every Spring reveals
a trace where every footprint lay.
Memories fade but never disappear.



Montana Nothing

Big Sky emptiness:
some crowded souls in peopled places
think there's nothing here.


Our nothing:
        prairie wheat
        sugar beet
        Blackfeet
        cottonwood coulees
        Ponderosa pines
        columbines



        Flathead Lake
        Yellowtail Dam
        Going-to-the-Sun Mountain


        Crow Fair
        Padlock Ranch
        sandrocks
        chokecherries






        Bitterroots
        rooted people,
          caretakers of our beautiful
          nothing.



What Is the Color of Peace?

Painting the scene at the White House yesterday
the artist asked, "What is the color of peace?"
Attempting to record that color on canvas
as Yasir and Yitzhak stood, men of war,
Watching their surrogates sign papers of peace,
tired of blood and tears,
Risking a handshake heard around the world,
a color of peace.

14 Sept 1993


            Jim Town

They built their sheds on the open range
just off the dry reservation.
There were no other buildings anywhere near,
only those sheds of Jim Town.

Dry Tsitsistas can quench their thirst for
ve'ho'e-mahpe, whiteman-water.
Just drive north, it's easy to get to
the prairie sheds of Jim Town.

The mountain of empties behind the sheds
can be sold to preserve the earth,
but there's no preserving those who down
their last earthly drink at Jim Town.

Just drink your check at those prairie sheds
and then return to Lame Deer.   And if
you don't make it around Dead Man's Curve, 
a call can be made from Jim Town:

     There's another ritual sacrifice,
     bits of Tsitsistas flesh hang on the barbed
     wire fence and dance for the sun
     or moon at the curve by Jim Town.

And Fred can come from his funeral home
to pick up all the pieces, so friends
and family can cry for you and say
the curve should be straightened near Jim Town.

w.l.  3/23/94


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