by Andrew Schelling

This unmortared rock wall seals
a Roman battalion off from the shaggy
tribal people north
a fur & feather–clad people
a leather and flint arrow people
listen to the rough throaty gibberish of their songs
their war–paint scares the boyish
conscripts
far from their homeland
far from Rome & the vineyards
from wine which gives you a moment of courage
the girls with mouthsize breasts
thighs smelling of almond oil
Today tiny poems get swapped
coins of friendship
at a place iron arrows bristled under the blue
fog, moon, & stench of fear

It seems impossible that a poem
can withstand lithium, cobalt
plutonium or facebook
new chemicals drip into the sea & soil
Is there a chance poems might slip a gap — ?
gap a fence or burrow under the rock
It is told in my country how
Coyote found out the secret of fences —
bob–wire let him through
a tuft of blue fur (you gotta look close) on the razor barb
he barked & it let him through
I like to believe Coyote
like these funny mangled poems of ours
outlasts petrochemicals & concrete
rises above the cold compounds of nature

that decay & disappear
but no way we live
standing on these old stone ramparts
no way we live long enough
to raise a friendly hand
to be sure.

by Andrew Schelling

Myself I’ll try — it —
go the way things go
mountains walk that way
rivers dash through — it —

there it was
the Red Pine Motel, South Broadway
torn mattresses & oily car parts in the yard.
a child waved
for no reason

Let’s take her pagan joy — maybe
goddess — creed — it won’t produce
bigotry, no fancy car, no fit of rage
at the traffic signal

Granite, basalt
the Platte River grinds through, drying out
It’s 100 degrees on the street
that child waved

for no reason
The Red Pine Motel has a banged up metal
pine tree —
neon sign that’s yellow

by Andrew Schelling

Can you name the flowers
& burgundy colored grasses of
autumn?

This is for those
who perform love as the poets sing it
one image
that wears through the page
is the world.

Remember
the stroke of midnight hair

heart against heart the draw
of pubic desire
darkening lavender in the
hollows of spirit

Why did the old–time poets
rage their grammatical

hearts out?

be kind to her, to all creatures
on the bare
shelf of life

Hurt comes, do not increase it.

Icy fog
coats every herb of the slope.

by normal

lazy ole winter dog
laying there counting his days
counting his hours
lymph node cancer working its way thru
in the house of sobs, the ole boy is snoring
master & mistress passing by, shielding their tears
ole dog is yawning, paws & eyes opening & closing
winter storm at the window
lazy ole winter dog is secretly smiling
times are good
he’s finally won the war for milk bones,
as many as he wants,
no questions asked

late november 2021