troysherdahl

does the chimp try to be anything but a chimp?

can the tree be something other than a tree?

are they extraordinary within their species?

and what about me?

I can catch a chimp

I can cut a tree

or, I can leave them alone

and appreciate their beauty

the chimp climbs the tree

the tree doesn’t mind

because it can’t

then there’s me

I am Troy, a human male

I have sometimes tried to be

something I’m not— and failed

I have free will and choice

and to be human may be too ordinary

but because I have a voice

I am Troy, a human male

does my life matter?

yes, all life matters

get me my words worth, Wordsworth—

as I amble along from Ambleside, in this early fall

the letters floating and emoting, in a gurgling stream they call

with “o’er’s” and “thee’s” dropped from sycamore trees

their words, the chants on a Cumbrian breeze

and whispers from his Lady of the Lake

tell me now that it’s my chance to take

to the new word trick

it seems that long ago the poet’s test

was romantic love and nature’s best

so I catch one here, I snatch one there

at Grasmere, words are everywhere

they aren’t just dusty bugs in my ears

but modern drugs from bygone years

and I scoff at the new-age critic

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

could your Lakes inspire me, please?

Coleridge calls me cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

I need some lines to write

I want to tell the story

and with imagery, delight

this fell is ripe with smells so green

for lover types that love this scene

your black waters hide the history

reflecting lines of mystery

such that I breathe deep to my bones

ascending these steep paths of stones

into the new mist slick

old rock walls hold back ancient sheep

ladders climb them with legs that leap

into wet X’s at the top and I stop

to gaze at the District’s color shop

now shades of orange, some flower red

his blades of brown where lambs once fed

is the new growth thick

in a daze, I come upon a seagull white

in this pike’s gray and misty light

I throw a rock and almost hit it

but feel relief that I had missed

and squawking, the gull flies off

I’m glad, for it could have been my albatross

and the new words wouldn’t be picked

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

could your Lakes inspire me, please?

Coleridge calls me cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

I want to get my words worth, Wordsworth

I see your sacred wild

I absorb it in my make up

when I taste it for awhile

and Coleridge calls cum laudanum

infusing spirit and opium dreams

so I end up with some words worth, Wordsworth

with old words new, it seems

at a station

or an airport

the abandoned suitcase

does not appear lost

misplaced or lonely

any longer

but is noticed immediately

for its solitary menace

in potential terror

destruction and death

in a ditch

or under a tree

the abandoned suitcase

does appear lost

misplaced and lonely

still

and is usually noticed

for the solitary promise

in potential reward

drug money or free clothes

in either case, travelers

beware of

the abandoned suitcase

bumper to bumper

on Highway 2

drafting in

the long weekend

slipstream shuffle

I got the wheel

gas, brake too

and those pedals

are beginning to wear out

she’s in the

passenger seat

on cruise control

her eyes roaming

the prairie skyway

“look at that cloud!”

she says

“yeah, it’s huge

it must be ten miles high”

“that’s an anvil cloud

and it looks nasty”

“yep,” I say

as I pass a semi

in the fast lane

doing ninety—

stabbing that stacked

cumulonimbus massed

ominous wall of gray

god particles rammed

hammer up a slammed

super summer storm cell

from the big angry anvil—

thunder claps spawn

lightning bolt wands

and the rain raps

our wiper slaps—

so we have to pull over

the shoulder stress

is comment-less

as we take in

the anvil power

its heavy shower

soon stops, then

just plops and

tiny drops—

’til it’s time to carry on

back in the shuffle

jockeying for

wet positions

“look at that rainbow!”

she says

“yeah, it’s huge

it must be ten miles high”

“I’d like to find the end

and stay there for awhile”

you know how there are

people that chase

tornadoes?

she wants to chase

rainbows—

and I’d go

with her

to the

end

damages paid?

who paid?

them?

they never will

settle that bill

black and blue

turns to yellow

eventually disappears

bruises to the mind however

are scars for years and years

do your own work

put soul at ease

forgiveness is

your inner peace

the screams are muffled

the fear is stifled

then you move away

but you bring it all there with you

until you break— away

do your own work

put soul at ease

forgiveness is

your inner peace

they sleep at night

you don’t

might be time to

cut that rope

and— free yourself

damages paid

in full

by you

she left

Spot died

the bank called

I cried

whiskey shots

mind’s fried

then, I said

“fuck it”

I’m gonna

pick up my best

friends

and walk it off

red tabs, chucks and

a tight white tee

are the flavor

of favor for

the blues in me

red tabs, chucks and

a tight white tee

selvedge, rubber

with canvas upper

is simply blue simplicity

and the tight Hanes mate

is a clean white slate

my favorite gear

is Dr. Feelgood

denim, sneakers

and t-shirts

make the misery

stop for awhile

and I smile

’cause that

country song had

done me wrong

but you can’t

just lay around

in your underwear

red tabs, chucks and

a tight white tee

get me thinkin’

it’s not just me

there are other women

plenty of strays

the money’s gone

but there’ll be

better days

’cause I got my

red tabs, chucks and

a tight white tee

brown eyes in the rear view

wet streams down her cheek

shaking hand shifts into gear

and she starts to pull away

more brown eyes in the rear view

wet streams down her cheek

then I can’t see them anymore—

only her Monterey tail lights

Monterey tail lights

blinking out goodbye

Monterey tail lights

red like my blue eyes

Monterey tail lights

signal and turn

her Monterey tail lights

are gone

bullets in the bedroom

now her chest had a dark hole

which oozed the tragic magic

—of a song about deceit

that sweet, sad twang

of haunting abandon

it ached and it sang

a breaking heart, the only one

exhales spiraled a bigger

curtain over glossy eyes

the mellow guitar trigger

rifled her wailing, bluesy cries

tight strings over a dark hole

a breathy pause for grave effect

strumming shivers to the soul

her low register was a wreck

the audience, deathly quiet

cool fret squeaks were heard

the chords now on their diet

from the finger picking bird

that sweet, sad twang

the words, a bad pun

it still ached and sure rang

though the story was long done

bullets in the bedroom

and her chest had that dark hole

which oozed the tragic magic

—of a song about deceit