s-poem34

                                             
                                           
                                             
Scatterings                              
                                           
                                          
                                                  
 Untitled                            
                                                 
                                             
Meaning to make   more of it
than he ever could,                           
                                          
     three dogs                    
     drink                                   
     from the fountain                
                                   
he drove his way                           
through sleep and Nebraska                  
                                         
and rested          in Cheyenne               
                                          
          ---------               
                                  
Pronghorns running,                
rain on the mountains,                      
                                        
     the ocean                   
     folds,                     
     divides                    
                                 
he pushed his eyes               
past salt and sunset,                 
                                  
got three in a king             
at Elko                             
                                   
        ---------                     
                                    
Late the following afternoon,
deserts, peaks, and valleys behind,          
                                       
     sprinklers low             
                                       
he shifted his heart               
into Oakland and Hayward             
                                     
and studied it                  
on the map                              
                                       
        ---------                          
                                       
Sunday, after San Francisco          
and the cleansing of Highway One,              
                                       
     snails                    
                                    
he dribbled off                     
to fog and   Santa Barbara,              
                                    
he walked be/                     
side the sand                                 
                                          
                                         
                                         
                                          
                                         
-                            
[ The above--which I have revised a little--     
   was found in a notebook.  The incidents
   in it are true.  They occurred in 1970.   
   The "three" were: me, my wife, and the     
   eldest of her two younger sisters who
   was moving to California.  The reason
   our destination was Santa Barbara was
   because an aunt and uncle of theirs
   lived there. ]              
                                              
                                           
                                              
                                          
sm005                                         
                                              
post 1011                                           

s-poem33

                                       
                                          
Scatterings                             
                                                  
                                                  
                                              
 Name This River: Longhorn           
                                             
                                       
What godlings breathe on Texas,                 
spring tumbleweed through raspy dust;           
with flails of rain & ice & snow                 
norther county after county into submission;          
out of the Mexicos                            
comfort one day & the next one roast;           
birth from the Gulf of Mexico                     
snail fogs, urchin humidities, songs & laughter,
and roiling pirates intense of eye;
welcome with pines & oaks & mesquite,             
and oil wells & bank towers,                     
and famous steer & flashing fish,                 
with lonesome rolling mile on mile, & sufferings,    
and yet again with kudos & ramadas;           
book Charles Behlen into & for my spirit,
and likewise or elsewise you;                    
ponder  me in Austin,                            
a migrant from Wisconsin for some 45 days now         
as I (still uneasy in my settling in)         
course roughly  across 4 atlas pages--          
from its Dawson County beginning              
to its end in Matagorda Bay--the river           
that sections Austin, the river whose name           
my naming heart may ever want to change?          
                                              
                                               
                                              
 (from First Pick - selected poems by Alden St. Cloud, 1982)
                                                        
                                                   
                                                    
                                                
sm004                            
                            
post1010                           
                                             

s-poem32

                                                   
                                                
Scatterings                                 
                                                   
                                               
                                               
 The New Seasons                                
                                             
                                             
1.                                          
Swept to angels                       
the snow delights                       
and the yards they                              
suddenly touch                           
seem somehow blessed                       
as the children                 
skipping  tumbling          
lolleygag home                 
dropping their goods           
for wings  snowmen              
snowballs  forts              
oblivious                 
in their escapes                      
                                     
2.                            
Softly rocking                
creaking the breeze              
from the fragrant              
green  shining noon              
as it ruffles              
the daffodil           
curtain  the wife          
and husband smile             
at each other              
while they share close         
memories and           
pictures of their             
kids and grandkids                     
                                  
3.                       
Mowing the lawn             
by the garden               
where cutflowers             
rise and neatly             
slide into a          
braided basket          
unrhythmically           
swinging from his         
wife's left forearm       
the husband stops        
resting his paunch         
and shifts into          
a long idle                 
                                
4.                             
Quickened into                 
the riveredge          
woods  right off the        
high school parking    
lot  the three boys       
and the three girls         
yell and squeal as    
they duck under          
ochreous leaves          
pop over a           
knoll  shimmer through         
a dogqwood brake        
bob out of sight                        
                            
                                
                                             
 (from First Pick - selected poems by Alden St. Cloud, 1982)
                                                       
                                                           
                                                       
                                                   
sm003                                     
                                         
post 1009                                        
                                         

s-poem31

                 
                                             
Scatterings                            
                                                
                                                 
                                                   
 Wells Mfg. Corp. Plastics Department               
                                                       
                                              
Angels  demons  fireflies                              
beige 'n' grey-black dust of plastics                      
                                                     
thin air-hosed flash                                  
 a butterfly on a tank-top                      
 a medal on a breast                      
 a mole on a nose                                 
                                          
small oblong preforms                           
 stacked together                                  
 on their sides                                       
 a black aurora                              
                                              
rotor bodies                                 
distributor caps                          
tumbling jacks & switches                
coil heads                           
                                              
boxes  barrels  slip carts                       
gloves  armbands                                    
scoops  inserts  trays                                    
                                              
the heat of ovens &  grinding presses                     
August days over 90                              
sweat                                         
                                          
stock handler                          
or preform maker                         
or press operator                      
or set-up man                                
                                       
in the patterns of your work                 
you weave in pools                           
of something to eat  to drink                          
of bullshit  hassling  anger                  
of serious talk                        
of rest  of dreams                      
                                        
for yourself  for others                      
as you want  need to  can                  
you mold your  muscles and mind           
producing satisfaction                    
                                           
and someone listens to crickets                 
someone feels a cool breeze after dark               
someone jumps from ragweed entering a window     
someone balks at the taste of heat & dust           
someone  breathes love                        
                                               
the foreman                                
worries                                 
                    smiles                          
                                                    
                                         
                   Labor Day, 1973         
                                                 
                                                
                                              
 (from First Pick - selected poems by Alden St. Cloud, 1982)
                                                          
                                                 
                                                
sm002                                       
                              
post 1008