Jim Manning

Hiking in Oregon on the slope of North Sister,
I meet a backpacker, handle Mad Dog—rabid,
or gnashing his teeth—thoroughly pissed.
Also known as, well maybe, Jeremiah.
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Light refracts blue and green in
snow grottos;
limber pines kneel in moonlight
below Pacific peaks.
...

Longing for a return to a simpler condition,
I came to your path, where dogwood leaves
throb red under my touch—a constant heart.
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Foreboding

As suns go down, those impermeable
shadows move across mountain slopes.
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A prevalent aura of sadness—
“My God, why have you
abandoned me? ”
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Flying above a stream of emblazonry;
blue, pink and deep purple fused in sun,
a yellow-headed bumblebee wheeling
with vibration, is seized by intense aromas
...

I touch the loose, medicated flesh
of my young friend. He averts
his eyes. Is he embarrassed?
His pain is mine. The rule that
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A clarinet scaling steep slopes to
oscillate notes between the harvest
moon and ridge-top Bristlecones.
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A guitar
trebles
acoustic waves.
...

Growing up a depression child, I remember seeing men sit back on their haunches, using a stick to draw a California route in red dirt. I heard one grunt, “there’s work out there.” After they left, daddy picked up his guitar and sax and joined up with a country-western dance band passing through.

Daddy could play every instrument by ear, could write songs in his head all the time. Momma figured he’d thrive, that during times of numbing poverty, people would pay a dime to dance away despair.
He did, became a “fill-in” and sent money home from towns across
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Beneath clouds that swirl from orange to dull gray,
I watch sundown crows fly parallel flight plans
with the hawk. I inhale pungent odors from newly
open furrows: red worms working humid soil.
...

In the autumn of our lives, we came together slowly:
A chance meeting, our first walk in the forest,
beginning at dawn with Venus lighting our way.
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