MEN HAVING GREAT THOUGHTS WHEN NOT THINKING SO MUCH by Charles P. Ries

Fools, friends, and family migrate North to
celebrate the spring lunar equinox the Indians
call, Big Fish Humping Moon.

Just a bunch of yellow belly bottom dwellers who,
in the midst of spawning season, ignominiously
gather for an annual rite of  red wine, red meat,
low thought, no rent.

Sap rises, screws loosen, and winter shadows
shorten as we liberate ourselves from our women,
snowmobile suits, and serious conversation.

The designated High Priest serves a communion of
cocktails. Preaching a liberation theology that promises
salvation if we surrender to our inner-fucking-idiot-natures.

Without judgment, or the time honored measuring of dicks,
we enjoy a moment where nothing much happens, hours
pass, rain falls, and the wheel goes round.

Charles Plymell: A Video Introduction

Two Poems by Charles P. Ries

BLESS ME FATHER FOR I HAVE SINNED

I was restless with the weight of
ideas that flooded me and awaited
their release in the red rain of my
journal.

I stacked five stones on a farmer’s
fence post to create a monument to
my existence that only cows and
plow jockeys would see.

I flung myself off a quarry ledge
high above a deep blue pool and
imagined it was a concrete street,
wishing for the end.

I drove my Ford pick up over a gila
monster that peeled its pancaked
corpse off Texas asphalt and chased
after me spitting curses in Spanish.

I dropped acid and thought a thin
curtain separated me from a world
that glittered with diamonds, and
angels, and joy, and that my manual
Smith Corona type writer was an
oracle who revealed ancient truths
with the touches of my finger tips.

For all this Father, I ask you forgive me.

__________________________________
ODD

They can’t hear it.
They don’t listen to leaves
in the moon light. The mystical
whisper of branches rubbing.

Funny what happens to a life
when trees start talking to you.
When you hear the voices of your
garden.

Two Poems by Charles Ries

A VERY SILENT MAN…by Charles P. Ries

How silent he was, my father.
I never remember him talking,
other than when he gave me instructions,
or reprimands about work.

How silent he was in prayer.
Every morning at first mass.
Every night before bed,
on his knees talking silently to his God.

How silent he was at work,
tending to his herd of mink,
like a sheep dog would tend his flock.

How silent he was at supper.
Eight voices clamoring, reaching, asking.
My mother filling plates like a short order cook,
begging him to “say something!”

How silent he was after lunch,
as he took his 30 minute nap
before returning to his mink,
his chores and his silence.

How silent he was with his rosary
woven between his fingers,
wearing his blue suit as we stood
wordless around his coffin.

A VERY SILENT MAN…by Charles P. Ries

How silent he was, my father.
I never remember him talking,
other than when he gave me instructions,
or reprimands about work.

How silent he was in prayer.
Every morning at first mass.
Every night before bed,
on his knees talking silently to his God.

How silent he was at work,
tending to his herd of mink,
like a sheep dog would tend his flock.

How silent he was at supper.
Eight voices clamoring, reaching, asking.
My mother filling plates like a short order cook,
begging him to “say something!”

How silent he was after lunch,
as he took his 30 minute nap
before returning to his mink,
his chores and his silence.

How silent he was with his rosary
woven between his fingers,
wearing his blue suit as we stood
wordless around his coffin.