In Which is Had a Late Night Fright, but By Whom?

Unable once again to sleep, I sought
Relief in waters hot, of sulfur'rous smell.
Outside my door was waiting what, I thought,
Some kind of prank contraption. "What the hell?"
A radio antenna? Sculpture fail?
In silence, into darkness I stepped t'ward
The mystery. And then it moved! My flail
Of startlement near hit it. Almost gored
Upon a mighty antler, I withdrew,
Then, panting, frightened by a five-point buck
(That's on each antler; it's the West here). "Shoo!"
I said to him. I don't know why. As luck
Would have it, deer spaghetti was my lunch.
Was this revenge? I'd entertain that hunch.

Kirsten, Kirsten, Rest in Crazy Ass Enthusiasm

A crazy-ass Zen saint, I watched in awe
As we grew up together. Nothing stopped
Her having fun. I never, ever saw
A person so alive. Oft my jaw dropped
To witness such enthusiasm. There
Has never been her like. My fortune's great
To have had her example and to share
Times good and less so with her. And now fate
Has, cruel, decreed that we have had enough?
"Screw that," Kirsten would say, and I agree.
In memory of her, I'll make neat stuff
And do amusing things, will try to be
A bit more like her. And sit in my dress
As she did, now and then. It was the best!

A Rainy Night at the Hobo Pool

Steam rises, bubbles too, as soil and sky
Decide to bathe together in the rain
As darkness falls. I soak, relax and sigh
And let the heat and water take my pain.
It all dissolves away. And now the light
Which dances, stately, each eve on the pool
Performs a frantic foxtrot in the night,
Bestirred by slashing raindrops. I, a fool,
Who, dazzled by the fireworks that burst
As ev'ry drop disturbs the liquid sheen,
Thinks, of all who have seen this, I'm the first
To notice this. I weep to leave this scene.
Already, though, my ripples have died out,
Lost to the frenzied water's silent shout.

Lines Written On Receiving An Unexpected Gift

My roots are deep and strong, and now they're knit
Into a shawl, with prayers that I'll be well.
The purple yarn, with silver, is a fit
For all that regal heritage I tell
Those disbelieving others, who still say
A small town offers little. We who've known
The life, know better, know the finest way
Through sorrow and through pain is to have grown
Together in community with such
As those who made this gift for me. My tears,
I do assure you, are not sad. Too much
Emotion just leaks from my eyes, all fears
And hopes and love and gratitude combine
Whenever I wrap in this shawl of mine.

The Hobo Pool, Oh, The Hobo Pool

Of all of nature's gifts to man, the best
Must be the hot springs. Sulfurous of reek
But wonderful to soak in and just rest
A tired body, and to gaily speak
With friends both old and new; truly this place,
The Hobo Pool in Saratoga holds
A source for peace, extraordinary grace --
And yes, great clumps of algae, floating molds
And possibly unknown extremophiles.
Jump in and nearly boil, then go across
To where the river burbles past, all smiles
And chilly ripples: dip in, rinse the moss
From off yourself, then back into the pot
Of min'ral water, gloriously hot.

In Which I Have Another Bad Car Trip

Westbound and down, the wrong time of the day,
And I was driving straight into the sun.
My windshield's imperfections made a spray
Of glare that 'twas opaque. I slowed our run
To just a crawl. 'Tis what I dread the most:
To have to drive at highway speeds when I
Can't see a thing; delinator posts
And faded striping slowly crawling by
As though it were a blizzard late at night.
The world shrank down to squeeze in on my car,
And ev'ry forward mile a sep'rate fight
Until I knew no longer just how far
Or near the next town was. Lost, there, in space
I struggled not to curse that lonely place.

In Which Tired Kate Is Tired

Good friends are those with whom one stays up late
And then one rises early to rejoin
(No wait, tis those one classifies as great,
As they repay one's love with their best coin:
More of the same!), but it do take a toll,
This sleeplessness in service of good talk
And food and good cigars. That's how we roll,
Though, when we're all together, when we walk

All over Saratoga, when we've got
A guest as well! We shake out and let spread
Our thickest, finest carpet, pour a lot
Of wine that's equally as deep a red...

And now my friend is back out on his way.

I can but yawn. "Good night" is all I'll say.

In Which I Gloat Over The Riches That Are Mine

Sunset, but which direction is true west?
It must be Saratoga, where you've stopped.
The sky aflame in all directions, best
Observed when slightly sloshed (or if you've dropped
Some ice cream down your cleavage and a lab
Awaits to lick it off -- or both; best not
To be too choosy). Even when it's drab
With just a dozen shades of fire, you've got
To let the awe take over. Such has passed
This day in my hometown, spent with a friend
From far away, who's seeing it new, a cast
Of good old pals alongside. Now I'll spend
A quiet ev'ning by the river. How
I wish you all could be with us right now.

In Which I Do Not Enjoy My Day's Drive One Bit

"May 25th, so put your parka on,"
My buddy said as I pulled out of town.
You'd think this was sarcasm; you'd be wrong.
A sheaf of thundersnow was coming down
So thick and bad I could but barely see.
The windshield wipers weren't up to the job
For one, and for another, there must be
A better word for what that sky did. Sob!
The world grows tiny on such trips, down to
The pavement and the mucky, murky air:
No sight of all of country driven through,
Each quarter-mile its own tough challenge. There
Is nothing like Wyoming in the spring.
No really: there is not any such thing.

In Which An Old Pal Turns 30: Waka Waka Waka

Can it be thirty years since we first learned
A hungry man can live on yellow dots?
How many million quarters have been burned
To hear the waka waka? Must be lots!
I ever was a duffer at this game;
One only was there in my little town
And that where I dared not go, to my shame --
The high school kids were scary, hangin' down
At the convenience store, when it was new.
Now where the arcade games were, you will find
A low-rent humidor of cigarettes.
I wasn't totally deprived, though, mind:
I too wasted much time with no regrets.
I had to go to Rawlins, that was all
And play at Roller City. 'Twas a ball.

In Which Another Good'Un Leaves Us

My parents' home bears witness to his skill

In carpentry; my freezer, too, has held

Much bounty from those fishing trips. Dear Bill,

Called Famous in my old blog, I'm compelled

To thank you for so much, and I'm so glad

I had the chance before we lost you. Oh,

I smile right through my tears; the fun we've had

As families can n'er be stolen, though

Your presence 'mongst us has been, far too soon.

Alternative bird festivals, for one,

And endless chats at coffee, through 'til noon...

I missed the house boat on Lake Powell but, son,

That one was for you grown ups anyhow.

I'll miss you so! Wish you were here right now.

R.I.P. Peter Storer

It's been a while since I quaffed down a beer
With you my friend, and now I guess I won't,
Not evermore, but I resist the tear
I want to shed. Your daughter's right; you don't
Want us to cry. We had a lot of fun
In building our community. You were
A hell of a fun guy to know. I'm one
Of many who will miss you. There's a blur
Now in my eyes, but still to this I cling:
I've memories galore to make me smile,
As do we all. But may I say one thing?
While you had quite a run I still revile
That fate just took you from us. Friend, farewell.
I know that where you are you're raising hell.

In Which I Take My Last Road Trip Over The Range

The road will likely close soon for the year,

Wyoming 130 across the Range

Called Snowy, and it will do so, I fear

Before I may return to it. So strange

Today to see the aspens' hues in gold

And snow accumulated on the ground.

This last trip's memories will have to hold

Me till next spring. I rolled my windows down

Despite the cold, to let in those last smells

For my and Molly's pleasure, let my eyes

Go all unshaded, killed the radio. Spells

Of purest bliss would take me. Such good-byes

Are for all of the senses. But hellos

Await me, too, ahead, in winter's snows.

BONUS SONNET: On Surprises, Pleasant And Strange

Sometimes, leaving the house, I wind up late,
For at that final moment, it turns out
My keys are in my pocket because Fate,
That fickle-fingered bitch goddess -- don't shout
Such things, Kate -- has decreed that I forget
Just where I laid them down, or that I've got
Them in my hand already. Stranger yet:
It's so with people, too, it seems. I'd not
Believe there's anyone around who'd share
My joy in some outlandish thing, my rapt
Attention on a small surprise. Then there
Upon one of my shoulders comes a tap,
And lo, right next to me, a beaming smile
Lets me know I've had comp'ny all the while.

All In A Saratoga Morning

I've had sufficient coffee not to sleep
Until around this week next time, I think.
I'm glad I've still the skills that let me leap
From coffee klatsch to coffee klatsch and drink
Such copious quantities with ne'er a stop.
First my old man and his old friends with whom
I dip back into politics, then drop
On by another bar, there to consume
With my small hot chick posse a bit more.
Then coffee with my lunch, then the salon:
A cut and color genius has in store
A bold new plan for my look. Foiled and on
The fumes of haute hair product, I admire
The stylist's hunting pictures. They inspire!

In Which I Squee Over... A Gemstone?

I must admit, I long have had a crush
Or two on men whom history has named
As Great, including Alexander. Mush
Replaces brains at any time this famed
Megalomaniac is brought up. I
Have won bar bets on what he called his horse
(Bucephalus) (my hometown's strange) - no lie!
So when I saw this gemstone that, of course,
Was just unearthed in Israel I was
Quite captivated. This carnelian stone
Depicts him young and hubba-worthy. Does
This make me sound a madwoman? I own
Such as an epithet for me. Hooray!
The news of this has simply made my day!

BONUS SONNET: In Which I Celebrate Decades Under The Sun

When I, for one, think of the 70s

It smells of printer's ink. And what I hear?

A newsroom all abuzz with cursing bees,

The clinks and clunks of linotype. I fear

That I am marked for life by all those days

Spent after school on Main Street at the Sun.

How else explain my decades-later craze

To come back home and join the staff? What fun

To have a byline where my Mom's had been

Chuck's, Candy's, Starley's, Cheryl's, Lori's too!

To take the Wallace Biggs again and win

Like they did. Would that I were there with you!

I'm proud to be a Togie writer, glad

That Dick Perue was there, an extra dad.

On Coming Home After A Minibreak Vacation

'Twas just two days and change and yet it seems
As though I have been gone for weeks instead.
The grass unmowed out front now also screams
For watering, as do the hedge and bed
Of irises and lilies. Welcome back,
Says my front yard as I arrive, so tired
From driving in the blazing sun in black
(Car and attire). See all that has transpired?
There's dust to dust and vacuuming to do.
Out back there's weeds to pull and trim as well.
And by the way when all of that is through
A podcast still needs edited. Oh, hell:
You're worthless as you slump into that chair.
Fine, take a nap, but then to work, I swear!

In Which I Say Good-Bye To A Tall Old Friend

Taking Down Grandfather Cottonwood, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

This afternoon, a tree is coming down
Beneath whose boughs my childhood swiftly passed.
I'm sure it's quite as old as my hometown,
This cottonwood. On av'rage these trees last
A hundred years, then die within their hearts
And slowly rot from inside out, then fall.
The neighbor's house would take the hit. So starts
An afternoon's work: best to cut and haul
The tree, in parts, away. Thus, soon, the sky
Above my parents' yard will miss a piece
Of long-accustomed scenery. Good-bye
Grandfather Cottonwood, good neighbor. Cease
This mourning now, though, Kate: there still is shade
Beneath the clones and saplings that he made

In Which The Catholics Would Appear To Be Short On Communion Wine

At St. Ann's Parish Hall, up goes my sleeve.
Persuaded once again to trade my blood
For something else, though I do not believe
That mine will save, except one life. A flood
Of fear doth overtake me ere the poke,
Though I donate my blood so often that
A spigot in my arm would be no joke.
My favorite phlebotomist at bat,
I finish up in record time, and make
Direct pressure sieg-heil before quite ten
Swift minutes pass. That's how we work to slake
The thirst for blood. And then, as it's July,
I find I've traded mine for homemade pie.