My Father

Sometimes I see
my father's face in mine,
though he never wore a beard,
or let anyone see his dick.
We are two very
different people.
After sixty years
in California,
he still had
a Midwestern mind.
When I think of his father,
Grandpa,
I realize
that my mind
is a farmer's mind,
and I'm a little
Midwestern, too.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.

Workstation

From here I survey the world,
and communicate with it.
My desk lamp is a UFO,
its light a tractor beam,
pulling me to new dimensions.
Or else it is a diving bell,
carrying me deep
to otherwhere.
I struggle to bring
the loveliness outside
inside.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.

Thunder Outside / ᎠᏴᏓᏆᎶᏍᎬ ᏙᏰᎯ

Thunder outside,
dogs at feet,
all is well.

ᎠᏴᏓᏆᎶᏍᎬ ᏙᏰᎯ,
ᎩᎵᏗ ᎤᎳᏏᏕᎾᏗ ᎾᎿᎢ,
ᏂᎦᏛ ᎣᏍᏛ.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler ꮨᏺꭽꮅ

Human and Machine / ᏴᏫ ᎠᎴ ᎪᏢᏅᏙᏗ

Human and machine
are now a single unit,
and they cannot be separated.
What will happen next?

ᏴᏫ ᎠᎴ ᎪᏢᏅᏙᏗ
ᎨᏒᎠᏎ ᏃᏊ ᏌᏊ ᏌᏊᎭ,
ᎠᎴ ᎾᏍᎩᏛ Ꮭ ᏰᎵᏆᏎ ᎨᏒᎢ ᏧᏓᎴᏂᎩᏔ.
ᎦᏙᎤᏍᏗ ᏄᎵᏍᏔᏃᏎ ᏐᎢ?

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler ꮨᏺꭽꮅ.

Our Speech Is still Sprinkled with Spanish

Our speech is still sprinkled with Spanish,
I still drink ma-te every day,
but we are here,
and this is home.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.

A Gentle Rain Is Falling / ᎤᏓᏅᏘ ᎠᎦᏍᎬ ᎤᎶᏒᎦᏎ

A gentle rain is falling,
birds hop in tree branches,
expecting worms.

ᎤᏓᏅᏘ ᎠᎦᏍᎬ ᎤᎶᏒᎦᏎ,
ᏥᏍᏆᏗ ᎠᏓᎾᏫᏗᏍᎦᏎ ᎤᏍᏗ-ᎤᏩᏂᎦᎸᏗ ᎾᎿ,
ᎤᏚᎩ-ᎬᏓᏁᏖ ᏥᏍᎪᏯᏗᏁ.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler ꮨᏺꭽꮅ.

Bride Cart

I'll push no more the militant bride-cart,
because I simply don't think it right
to seek my name with high abandon
in stony paths that know no peace.

Text and image © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.