some mornings at work

the sky always seems bluer
the morning after working all night
and i wonder
is it just blue, or all colors
that find themselves more alive
when daylight peeks through the trees-
or am i still dreaming

happy dances

On days that may have started yesterday,
reasons to celebrate rarely show until tomorrow,
and no one feels like waiting.
We want to eat, to shower, to sleep,
not caring what order,
and we don't often get all three,
before the alarms bring our morning.
But before we can return,
we have one more run to complete,
and already prepared to leave,
we stand in a group
with nothing to keep us from falling asleep
but each other's company.
And when the last shots fire,
we can finally see the day's end,
and cannot help but feel relieved
for a few blissful moments.
And before that feeling passes,
we celebrate in shared delirium
with our happy dances.

in a cartoon world

Through closed eyes
I see a cartoon world
Where the bluebird’s song dances
On long, whispy strands of wind
In tailed notes chased by a treble clef
And I submit to these comic sensations
Never wondering the origins of perception
Opening myself to the wondrous sights
Hidden from uncomprimising eyes

in memoriam, distracted opossum

Country roads at night
Without the glow of street lamps
Consume my headlights
Offering only last second reflections
Of white and yellow stripes
Curving sharply, inconsistently
Right and left
And signs stating empty laws and warnings
And, on occasion, two shinning orbs
Hung in the air
As if frozen in parallel motion
But as I drive nearer
They instantly thaw and disappear
Only a furry side showing
But sometimes I’m driving too fast
Or they are slow to react
And the brief moment they are entranced
Is all they would need
To scurry to safety
And when they hesitate
Long enough for me to see clearly
The face behind the eyes
(Though they still have hopes of escape)
I know that chance is lost
And fate runs its course

the rain washed my rainbow away

there was a rainbow
of trucks and iron,
hardhats and shirts,
some bright and shiny,
if not a little greasy,
some dull and flat
but freshly painted so,
each representing another job,
another service, another man.
then the rains came
and resurrected the mud--
nothing escapes the mud--
now all the colors of the rainbow
are spotted, sprayed, lined,
blotched, streaked or covered,
in all or part, by mud.
and the clouds covered the sun.
and the rainbow is gone.

muddy stuff

the first in an ongoing series of poems written under some or all of the conditions of the previous post, labeled 'oilfield delirium' for the sake of some continuity...

muddy boots-
lots of them-
and muddy jeans,
or pants at least,
but only half muddy,
boots and jeans;
the other half hidden
behind the other half
of the other muddy stuff.