The Solemn Oaths and Fair Assurances of Coopey FallsSay what you will about the passage of time, But with it I’ve learned that when a force Of nature, instructed (I know not how) in Dancing a two-faced gavotte, begins to think About God, it begins to think. At Angel’s Rest, I asked, “What kind of empathy is this,” While looking down on the Columbia River Gorge’s empire. I’m sure the angels meant No disrespect by not responding. Cognition Grew less modest. The view molested air Infused with cognac’s repetition, a sort of Power plant for prayers. We can’t discount The possibility that every higher call to good Available to hear up there – as numerous as The laws that fill the corruption of a nation’s Soul – will go unheeded, when the hikers Overrate their ears, and underrate both love And soap. The sky was ambitious of fame; The Faraday constant was constantly crossing Itself. Pretty Boy Floyd would blow some Cash to see the riverbank from there at sunset. To understand irrational behavior or an odd Belief, just look into that person’s altar; any Idols there, it doesn’t matter which, provide Your answer. I worship now at heaven’s coat Check. Coopey Creek was strange, but can’t- Miss stuff was stranger; I must’ve seemed Like a lion tamer biting his nails to the eagles Overhead. (“Be patient, little one; that’s by Design,” is what they’d say, if they could Hear my stony mind and touch my sandy Mood today.) Propaganda, with oars and Sails, departed for the moon. Envy, without Spears or bows, did something only freak- Azoids would do to feel superior; I’ll not Pervert the trail’s intent by going into detail. Everyone edits everything, every chance They get, but this memory’s in the big Leagues now; a cedar cathedral. I sold my Hatred of higher standards, as if I was An arms dealer, to the clouds. Nights Without a strong foundation are exhausting. The grass was very dry up there; winter, Leading up to that day, had been a real barn Burner. Fish anointed that day with honey. A Day in the Life of Klootchy Creek“…For every man alone thinks he hath got To be a phoenix, and that then can be None of that kind, of which he is, but he.” - John Donne, The Anniversaries I’m reading a beautiful description of dawn In the desert by H. Rider Haggard, as White-throated swifts, from an autumn most Dead the slow, yellow blade of Wednesday Withdraw. I’m searching my memory from Cellar to attic, finding no Sauls hid among The baggage while I finger and eyeball salal Berries. These flowing waters, always they’re Learning to be a fool. Impossibly smart, Impossibly caring, things which go bump in The night are not afraid to set boundaries Under this Sitka spruce. It’s riveting, to hear The ribbit ribbitting, and not to vainly A negative make appear; from it, additions To the list of things which don’t exist don’t Come. What’s the cure for this intellectually And morally superior feeling? My doctor Thinks it’s poetry. But nature’s beauty civilizes. The sky’s a hypnopompic blue in reverential Eyes, and tastes of pralines as pride evaporates. Even Claudius said “yew-juice is sovereign Against snake-bite,” which was wrong, but it Adhered to this undoubtedly true principle. We shouldn’t forget the horsemen, always And everywhere mounting a spirited defense Of nothing…A creek’s more fair with kids And cabins near. Case after case could be Cited did one wish it. There was a rainbow, Strange to tell, that arched above derogatory Deaths today. The trees wear my ideas Like a war; they never wear each other out! Morning bows with bows it borrowed From spring; a wonder to behold, like My great aunt, when she went from postcard To postcard, waving at her friends. “A monopoly On goodness isn’t possible, yet I seem to see It in your eyes,” she told me when she thought I was my dead brother. It brings a brunchy mood To bite this marionberry olee by the jagged Answers on these banks. But something takes My bronchi like they’re a breakfast of Beefsteak. Maybe a pomarine jaeger’s Born in too aggressive sorrow. Iconoclastic Men are still men, and men need icons. Experience threw my icon in the air and caught It with a bayonet in front of its parents. (The sun will write in its diary, “The going Was difficult.”) A northern alligator lizard Walks by on extempore steps. It looks at Me, and thinks, “Living with the savages Is not without advantages.” Organs set To fail are flying overhead. A deadly Orgasm occurs in the chasm between A couple Western Hemlocks. I recognize My enemies were right and my leaders Lied, as I look on the reflection of A L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poet and Righteous tortfeasor trying to make sense Of it all on her own, and from scratch! The most fictional fiction celebrates Riparian gnats. As a teacher, it’s only Second best to pain. Now I understand why Mammals never dress tomorrow in rags. Elegy for Goldfish I: A Failed AcrosticMachiavels grew beards with wings Under disillusioned spring’s Spell, then you cured winter’s fever. Tillage took you for a fool; All have pedestals to fill: Rain’s whatnot owes you a favor. Day’s intelligence forsook Stalemate, castled in your rook. Hallelujah’s real high-fiver, Energy’s your Ishmael. Faster than the US Mail, Flames tie knots; you’re Fauve forever. Jake Sheff is a pediatrician and veteran of the US Air Force. He's married with a daughter and several pets. Poems and short stories of Jake’s have been published widely. Some have even been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize. His chapbook is “Looting Versailles” (Alabaster Leaves Publishing). A full-length collection of formal poetry, “A Kiss to Betray the Universe,” is available from White Violet Press.
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