The poems in Stealing Foundation Stones share the journey of a blue collar, small town, hot-rod loving kid who grew up to go to Vietnam, returned home to the radical turmoil of the 70s, became a psychology professor and an award-winning community college educator, then, after a major loss, rebuilt his life, remarrying and morphing (yet again) into a ukulele-playing grandpa and woodworker and writer. It is a trip you don’t want to miss.
Cursing saw torn flesh
dripping red blood mars heartwood
my grandfather’s laugh
In these poems, cars rev their engines and bears growl. Blackbirds hoard trinkets the way the poet hoards memories while he lets go of detritus, including old books that (like the bears) growl back: “Their cat haired, dust bunnied pages / fall open as they gasp out their reason to be saved. // I’m a first edition. / I’m an autographed copy.” (“Don’t Leave It for the Children”)
Post Card Poem to a Friend
Coho and Chinook woke me from a sound sleep last night.
They are returning to the inland sea of our home.
As ever, they sing their spirit songs in time with muscular
undulations in the deep currents of Admiralty Inlet.
Listen. Can you hear them?
Their low murmuring call
imbedded in these post card fibers.