Lost Child

Whose little babe is this
Who now slumbers on city sidewalk
Bundled in tattered sleeping bag
In back of brick and mortared building
Knocked crooked by time . . .

Whose little boy is this
Who now wakes in a garden of cigarette butts
And abandoned pages of old newspapers
On ragged cement
Where only the most desperate weeds
Dare to grow . . .

Whose mother’s son is this
Who now pulls himself up and out
Of the brief escape of sleep
And stands in icy morning air
Extending his thoughts only as far
As the ashen tip of the smoldering cigarette
He sips like a cool, sweet glass of juice . . .

All his generations reduced to this,
A life too young for such resignation,
Too old for much renewal,
Too far from home,
This lost child.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Truth Has Jagged Edges

The truth,
Oh yes, even the truth is mutable,
But tonight will be dark,
For the Earth does revolve around the sun
Despite centuries of disbelief.

Truth is hard.
Self-deception is easy,
Comfortable,
Convenient.

Self-deception is logical.

The truth has jagged edges.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Stone Age

How long has it been?
Not long since the days of the cave.
Seems like only yesterday
We were bringing down bison,
That old gang of mine.

All this was savanna,
And,
Over there,
Near that big boulder,
The barbecue pit.

Ah, the feasting,
The fermented berries,
The grunting.

I took a girl
And our bodies worked well together
Making many children.
We lived a while.

On my last day
My oldest son told me
He would bring me back,
And that I would bring him back,
In turn,
For we are all fathers and mothers,
Sisters and brothers,
Since the beginning of everything,
When every stone could sing.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Sweeper Man

When it rains,
At last the rain,
He goes to his secret place
Behind the dumpster
And gets his broom,
Old, worn and stiff
But still good for sweeping the water on its way.

He sweeps the gutters,
Sweeps trash and leaves into the river’s flow,
Sweeps the water,
Speeding the motion,
The sound.

He is a tool of nature,
Called by God
To do this work,
To help with the cleansing,
The cleansing of it all.

Standing near a busy intersection
He works
And the sound of his furious sweeping echoes.
He is not self-conscious,
He is proud of his job,
Called at last in this year of drought,
Called to do this work.

An underfed scarecrow of indeterminate age,
Eyes ablaze with obsession,
Leather face taught with purpose,
He wears a long, dark coat,
So wet and wetter,
A woolen cap with ear flaps,
And galoshes — galoshes!
Where on Earth did he get those yellow galoshes?

There is too little rain in this place
To wait for rain
And so he sweeps whenever he is called,
But it is futile, desperate work
When all is dust and dirt and dust.

Never-mind,
For the drought is over today,
At last,
And God has called him
To help with the cleansing,
The washing away,
All the jumbled years,
The wandering days,
The frightened nights
Trying to sleep,
To sleep and dream
His favorite dream
Of a world washed clean,
A world swept clean,
Everyone and everything
Starting over again.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Still Dreaming

Acquisitive by nature,
And nurture,
My inclination is to possess,
Especially in matters of love,
Especially romantic love,
Especially you,
But I am defeated by depth,
By the depth of my love for you,
Love beyond selfishness,
Love for who you are without me,
Who you must be without me,
Without me,
This relentless romantic,
Still dreaming of you
With (almost) no hope.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Letting Go

When my son was small
We were walking through a great crowd,
In my dream,
And I felt his little fingers slip
From my hand
And he was swallowed up by the world.

Sometimes, I still take his hand
To make that connection
Between boy and man,
To know he is still safe
In this dangerous place.

But he is so much older now
And feels awkward,
Embarrassed by the act,
And because I understand
The boy is not the man,
I let go.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Speed Of Regret

I can’t quite believe
All these lovely young women
Will grow old so soon
And lose what they labored
So long to possess,
What these ravenous young men
Long to devour.

In less time than they'd guess,
In less time than they’ll know,
With the speed of regret
All the young years go.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Speak To Me Now!

I will not pretend to admire
The esteemed poets of my day.
I do not understand
What they are trying not to say.

My life is too short for such pretense,
I’m growing older every day.
Poets speak to me now!
Or I will cast your words away.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Inside

Inside,
This is where heaven and hell reside,
Where propriety has scant power
To temper the onslaught of extremes,
Where rationality is fleeting,
And the soul, with its accumulations,
Is all.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Spared

A plane crashed in the Ukraine
And here in California the film is on television,
The smoldering wreckage displayed
While the announcer says,
No survivors.

It is a big world
And thousands upon thousands are dying,
Disease, famine and war.

A plane crashed in the Ukraine
And I can no longer separate
One tragedy from another,
The television so full of tragedy
All day long.

I turn it off and breathe deeply,
Trying to clear my thoughts,
Trying to remind myself
This world is also full of joy,
Thousands upon thousands,
Spared.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Somewhere There Is A Boy

Somewhere there is a boy
Dreaming of a horse,
A horse of his own,
A chestnut stallion,
A part of his soul,
A horse he would ride
Through fields and meadows,
Through shadowed woods,
A horse he would greet each morning,
Spend all day with,
Kiss goodnight.

Somewhere there is a boy
Dreaming of horse,
A horse like the one I see here,
Standing in a muddy pen,
Looking wistfully out at me
As I walk by,
This horse,
Alone all day long,
Dreaming of a boy.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Just Wonderin'

I was sittin’ up late last night
Wonderin’ if I was Jesus
When a black cat walked slowly through the door.

I looked at him and asked,
"Am I?"

"If you was," he replied,
"You ain’t no more."


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Sometimes When I Sleep

Sometimes when I sleep
I go so far away,
When I wake up
I have to remind myself
I cannot fly
And 11 is a number.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

The Angels Wept

I was thirsty
And my cup was filled.
I was hungry
And food was served upon my plate.
I ate and drank freely
Until my cup was empty,
Until my plate was clean.

I was cold
And I was sheltered.
I was sick
And I was healed.

But the angels wept,
For despite all my blessings,
I’d forgotten to say:
Thank you.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Sometimes I See You

Sometimes I see you
Walking down the sidewalk,
Keeping your little children near and safe,
Or in the supermarket,
Selecting your purchases carefully
For a demanding family,
Or driving by fast,
In a hurry to complete your daily errands.

Sometimes I see you.
Sometimes you see me.
Sometimes we look at each other and recognize,
Something,
Something never meant to be.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Evolution

Feeling the hot breath of the baboon
On the back of the neck,
We overindulged in the refuge of civilization,
Denied being animal at all,
As if inseminated, incubated and initiated
In a place somehow apart from this Earth.

Now we live in a disillusioned age,
Tired of manners, morals and inhibitions,
Tired of orderly existence
In ghettos of steel, cement, glass and plastic.

The restless stirrings of things within us
That have no mind
Scare us no longer.
They lead us,
And our children hunger for raw meat,
Animal again.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Sometimes

Sometimes,
I am a moth flying aimlessly through the dark,
Lost,
Searching for light.

Sometimes,
I am a humming bird flying from flower to flower,
Drinking sweet nectar,
Bathed in sunshine.

Most of the time
I am something else.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Something To Do

Memory,
Memory,
Memory.

Reshuffled yet oh so persistent memory,
Steeped in recrimination,
Sanitized with nostalgia,
Somehow suggesting the past is not finished
But full of things left to be done,
If only in that place where memory resides,
As if I cannot ascend to the now of this moment
Until I have fit all the pieces of the past together,
As if this life were a puzzle,
Jigsawed by God,
Just to give us something to do.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Light

I have grown tired of profound revelations,
Startling insights,
Content now with my first cup of coffee
As this planet tips daintily toward the sun,
Filling the room with light.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Something Young

Something young in the old,
Something angry about the cloak of age,
Something that knows it was just a moment ago
When the body was young
And without concern,
And even now,
The same person inside,
Still dreaming,
Still expecting to fly.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Penance

During the last days of the shadowed world
Serpents were driven out
From their shelter in the brush
By frantic, cloud-darkening swarms
Of tiny, ruby-throated birds,
Made insane by famine and drought.
Screeching and swooping,
These minions descended on the serpents,
Devouring them on the vast, darkling plains.

During the last days of the shadowed world
Leaves of all colors and kinds
Shriveled on the branches of ageless trees
But would not fall
And so were ripped from their stems
By merciless, incessant waves of wind,
Their ashes spread upon the waters.

During the last days of the shadowed world,
When the air was finally still and silent,
We walked cautiously out into the beckoning light.
We did not return to the dark places,
And meaning gushed from what had been
A million meaningless things.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Something

Weary singer of unsung songs
Moving in deep, undulating waves
Of subconscious longing for flight,
I plunge upwards into soar and glide,
Infused with the grace of birds,
Like the happy release of death
When very old.

So worn
And wishing for the play of wind
On flight feathers,
I let go and fall
Into something
Beyond these words.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Home Sings

Home sings
In the rattle, clang and clamor
Of kitchen song,
In the cat claw scratching
On the back porch door,
In the vacuum drone humming,
In the going,
In the coming,
In the laughter, shout and hurry,
In the fuss,
In the fury of everyday life,
Home sings
With irregular rhythms of slamming doors,
The sizzle of water in sudden streams
From faucets, showers and various machines,
Home sings
With assorted shoes on linoleum floors
Tapping out a dance of a thousand chores,
A pan in the oven bangs with the heat,
Home sings,
Phones ring,
Doors knock,
A key in the lock,
You give me a hug
And the music begins:
The refrigerator is whirring,
The cats are all purring,
Our children are playing
And my heart is saying
Listen closely
To the song life brings,
We are safe,
We are happy,
Home sings.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

What Are People For?

He was born full of wonder,
Full of beginnings,
A believer in eternity,
Infinity,
A fearless explorer of existence,
Sure that every discovery would bring joy,
The joy of knowing life’s secrets.

Then one day he learned our sun would die,
One of so many billions of suns
Whose passing would be barely noticed by the universe,
A universe destined to be pulled apart
Into some kind of cosmic stew.

He wondered what will become of us,
Of all we’ve learned,
Of who we’ve become,
And for the first time he questioned:
Just what are people for?


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Some Small Measure

Even though I knew
This small, furry thing called kitty
Could not live forever,
I find it hard to understand
That this still, lifeless body,
So suspended in time,
Will not awaken,
Shake off death like a bad dream
And find voice
To once again ask for food
And some small measure of companionship.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

Some Raindrops

Some raindrops,
The size of a flea.

Others,
The head of a pin.

And so on.

So many gradations.

And they collide,
Join,
Sometimes separate again.

I’m sure you could find a reason why,
Sitting in your laboratory,
Warm and dry.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

So Much Denial

So much denial,
The requirements of everyday life
Being what they are,
Even the requirements of pleasure,
So hastily arranged,
Full of denial,
Of longing
For something essential,
Something.

A small whispering voice,
Reminding,
Asking,
When?

Soon,
You say.
After all the little things are done.
Soon.

And years go by like minutes,
And your life is full of reasons why,
And why not,
Full of explanations,
The occasional stab of memory,
Something faintly remembered,
Something.

Then,
Just a dull ache.
Then,
Nothing.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

So Many Lives

So many lives
Populating this planet,
Falling in love,
Making families,
Building cities,
Fighting wars.

There they are,
In old photograph albums,
Believing they would live forever,
On Earth,
In heaven.

All fall away.

We have seen them pass
Yet here we are,
Striving still,
As if there is anything in this world,
Permanent.


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved

So Busy

My love is talking on the phone,
So busy,
Too busy to hear love’s examination of the heart,
So much to do.

Of course you love me,
Quote unquote,
Make love,
Quote unquote.

So much to do,
So busy,
Who am I?
Who are you?


~ Russ Allison Loar
© All Rights Reserved