Riffs
Poems, Parables, and Pot Pourri
On Climbing Mount Rainier
1980
It is midnight on the mountain.
At eleven thousand feet,
Nylon pops in the lashing wind
That threatens to snatch our
Tiny cocoon from its precarious
Perch on a glacier and send us
Sailing off into the starry night.
Climbing boots, crampons, and
A single rope lie in a heap upon
The floor by the zippered tent door.
Teeth chatter in a steady tattoo
As the temperature plummets
Ten degrees every thirty minutes.
The crack of a rifle shot announces
Another serac breaking off high
Above our camp and we listen
For the heaviness of its landing
Wondering if this will be the one
To come crashing through our tent
Or start an avalanche thundering
Across the glacier and erase
All evidence of our intent. It is
Long past time for absolutions.
Soon it will be time to put on
Our miners’ headlamps and trudge
In single file, armed with ice axes
And roped together in threes
As we struggle to climb
The final few thousand feet in
Air too thin and wind that blasts
Us with tiny ice crystals as we
Cross a fragile ice bridge to
Stare into the gaping mouth
Of a cold, dark crevasse waiting
Patiently below to swallow
Our patent audacity in wishing
To stand for a few brief minutes
On top of the world.
Christmas, Connecticut
1993
Neat white ships, these
Houses ride a frost-bound
Sea of lawns, portals
Dressed in evergreen wreaths
And bows of red velvet. See
How electric candles glow
In windows twelve over twelve.
Snow bundles by the curb, like
Spent spume upon the seashore.
Silent night, holy night,
The wind whistles among
Trees stripped of their sails.
Luminaries flicker along streets
And driveways where now vacant
Cars doze. The few remaining
Leaves whirl madly about,
Chattering and chasing each
Other like anxious children.
At St. Christopher’s, the thunk
Of dribbling and squeak of
Rubber-soled shoes as the boys
And girls go five on five
Until midnight mass. Skaters
Flash across a mill pond whiter
Than the Dog Star gliding huge
And silent beneath a crescent moon.
A fragile wedge of black swims
Against the midnight blue of heaven;
A hundred or more Canadian Geese,
Voices calling, O come all ye faithful.
Love Poem
1978
A big truck rushing
Through the wild night,
Hoarse engine roaring away,
Drowning out all reason
Or consideration, blowing
Hot wind like to set the grass
Ablaze and leave them road
Signs strewn like matchsticks.
Slick wheels turning
On the wet pavement
And cheating on the corners
Like to send chills
Down a man’s back.
Dumb truck done forgot
Where it going or
What it carrying.
Dumb truck going to crash
And dumber still
A fool like me
Let himself fall in love
And get run down
By a truck like you.
Like An Arrow
1998
Like an arrow
Twisting in air
Heavy with exhaust fumes,
Dodging slow-moving herds
Of careless cars and trucks,
The motorcycle snarls,
The heat of it grilling my legs.
It is a savage creature
Beautiful in its ferocity,
Yet vulnerable, too,
Each moment a half-second
From bone-popping catastrophe.
Why do you ride?
Saner people ask.
I ride because for this moment
This is all there is. No music
Or voices. No past or future.
Only the wind tearing at
My clothing and buffeting my
Body, singing in my helmet,
Because every second demands
Complete and utter concentration
Like a beam of sunlight focused
Through a magnifying glass.
I ride because the 13-year-old
Classmate of my daughter called
This morning, grieving.
Cancer stole her mother a few
Days ago, stealing shared meaning
From birthdays, prom nights,
Graduation, marriage, children.
All different now.
I ride because life is tender
And sweet and merciless
As a concrete curb. Because
Love is more fearful than a deadly
Collision on the freeway and
Because I am growing older
Each day, flying home
Like an arrow.
Full Moon Rising
1998
One night in August,
As the season was winding down,
We gathered around a blazing fire
Toasting marshmallows at the beach.
We drank wine as waves rolled
Up the sand and watched as pelicans
Plummeted into the sea like
Kamakazi pilots.
Suddenly, the blood-red moon
Rose in the east while yet the sun
Remained in the west. I stood
In the middle, dazed and
Enthralled as if torn
Between two lovers.
A Wedding Poem
For Barbara and Brian Barrett, 1994
When seas hiss
And the wind moans low,
Compass me my darling,
Though fear may beat
On the cormorant’s
Black wings, then
Shall our love
Stay the course,
Gathering speed always
Toward the same distant
Point of light.
Jesse
1999
“Fine,” she answers
Whenever I call to ask how she is.
Just fourteen but already pushing fifty.
I did this to her when I moved out,
Leaving her to fend for herself,
To grow up without a full-time dad,
To start each morning without
The greeting smell of coffee
And each day without
A prickly goodnight kiss;
To fill all the vacant spaces
That once held books,
Clothing, razor, and toothbrush.
Where once the truck and
Motorcycle were parked,
Now there are only oil stains.
The guitars are AWOL.
The dog searches empty rooms
And signals his displeasure
By peeing on the floor.
No evening news glares from the television.
The Sunday Book Section goes unread.
I still call and we still see each other,
But the music that once filled her life
Has fled.
Heart Sounds
1998
When bruised, stepped on,
Or laughed at, it makes
No special sound, no cry
Of pain, the heart just
Goes on beating, expanding
Until it fills the chest, pushing
Against the ribs and lungs until
You suffocate and die
Except you never do. You
Just go on, your heart beating
As before, surrounded now by
Scar tissue and a little less
Room for love.
Christmas Eve
Wenatchee, Washington, 1992
The wine was spent,
The fire had dwindled to tired
Embers and the presents there
Beneath the tree were wrapped and waiting
When I decided to take some air.
While others slept,
I walked along the narrow road,
Footstep crunching in the snow,
Climbed over the split rail fence
As I kept to the river,
Dark and silent as a winter’s dream.
Drunk on northern lights and
The scent of pine, I heard
The rumble of an approaching train,
Saw a cloud of fine powdered snow
Rising from the churning steel wheels.
A great cyclopean beam
Shot through the hoary night, its
Light exposing a tattered scarecrow,
Who jitterbugged in the train’s tow.
The rumble subsided deep into
My soul. Now the wind
Made the trees bow, clouds
Fled like deer before the
Moon’s hibernal glow, and
I had turned toward home when a
Fox did suddenly appear bearing
A gnome, wearing a bright red
Toque and tiny, black boots.
For an instant, our eyes met;
My rusty heart boomed too fast,
When to my regret, the moment
Passed and they were gone, like
The fleeting warmth of a lover’s yawn.
From the distance came the mournful hoot
Of the train. I looked back at the scarecrow
And almost think I saw
The wizened face, drawn on a
Faded pillowcase, wink.
Saturday Mornings
Why is it when
I think of you, I think
Of Saturday mornings, bed
And breakfast inns, or riding
On a train through Canada
In winter, watching silver
Moonlight reflected on new
Fallen snow, the sound
Of the wheels like that
Of the earth turning on
Its axis, or the singing
Of angels.
Christmas
Colma, California
1996
I saw an angel the other day
Though God Knows I didn’t
Recognize her at the time
Standing patiently in front
Of the world’s largest Target
Store as she had all day,
Neatly dressed in her uniform,
Black hair coiled above her head,
Cheeks and nose reddened
By the fog-shrouded night air,
Buffeted by the breeze and
Throngs of eager holiday shoppers
Yet patiently holding out her red kettle
To accept their precious change.
I was tired of travel,
Of mediocre food, and the wind
That sneaked in where I sat
Hoping to sell a few books.
Later, too preoccupied by a
Thousand obligations, deadlines,
And other frustrations, I
Brushed by her on my way
To the parking lot without
Leaving so much as a dollar bill,
A smile or even a word.
It was days later and several
Hundred miles away before
I remembered her dark,
Celestial face.
Some seek Christmas under
A lighted tree, some in a family
Gathering, or the singing of
Carols. I was blessed to
Find it this year in a look
Of forgiveness from a
Half-frozen Salvation
Army volunteer.
Tiny Tragedy
2026
I heard his furious thrumming as I was taking out the trash.
I searched for him among the blooming roses, tecomas,
And hydrangeas. Was he hiding in the ivy?
The next morning, there he was – a tiny iridescent red
And green-feathered hummingbird lying on the cold
Concrete floor of the garage. While I had searched
The garden in futility, he had vented his desperation
At being trapped inside.
What fatal curiosity had led him to explore my garage?
The irony was that the bottle of nectar was stored
There on the shelf with the coffee and canned soda.
So near, yet so sadly unavailable.
His mate watched silently with accusing eyes as
I laid his gorgeous lifeless body tenderly to rest
In the garden where he once reveled
So brilliantly in the light.
Brenda’s Café
1998
Early morning mist rises from the bay
Where a solitary pelican rides the swells.
Seagulls wheel and squawk hungrily overhead
While sleek black cormorants line the pier.
The odors of coffee, bacon and hash brown
Potatoes mingle in the fresh salt air.
Before dawn, they begin arriving,
Writers, artists, fishermen;
Grizzled men and red-cheeked women
Who know a thing or two about ebb tides
And how to tie a bowline.
Above the clatter of spoons against mugs,
There is talk about where the coho are running
And where the Orcas were last sighted.
Later, it will be time to bait leaders,
To fill pages with words and splash
Canvasses with color. But for now,
There is this time shared together.
They come for the food and fellowship,
But most of all, they come because of
Brenda whose laughter is a warm fire
Even on a cold and blustery day
When whitecaps circle the sheltered bay
And rain drums hollowly on the roof.
In the winter of our lives, she
Is a bird of paradise.
Princess Cruise, Alaska
2024
This is what cruising is all about:
The vast expanse of the sea and
The swash of the hull as it slices
Through the water, now and then the sight
Of a ship or fishing boat, rarer still
The sight of a dolphin or whale.
The remote sounds and voices of
Other voyagers, the rasp of the page of
A book turning and the scrape of a deck chair.
So many have dreamed here, toasted a
Birthday or anniversary, shared a story
Over a drink and recalled a lost memory,
Ate or drank too much and made love
To the rolling of the ship. So many dead
Buried beneath the waves. At peace now.
The best part is the removed existence, far
From the chores of dishwashing, or taking
The garbage out, the worries of when and
Where to fix the car, or schedule a doctor’s visit.
All left behind at the harbor.
I see your beauty in the expanse; I hear your voice
In the waves. Thank you, Lord, for this day.
This moment. This gift. This soul washing.
Amen
Sinatra
2023
I heard Sinatra singing on the radio
The other day and I remembered
Why I fell in love with you and why
I don’t listen to Sinatra anymore.
The Invisible Cat
In memory of Max, 1993
I don’t remember the date when he was born. I was younger then and such events didn’t seem so remarkable. Maximilian was the smallest of CK’s kittens. I kept him because whenever someone visited the tiny house in Seattle to choose one of his brothers and sisters, he would crawl up into the springy insides of the couch and hide until everyone had gone. When I moved to California, Max came with me.
I should have named him Obstinate because he always had to have his way. Every morning and every evening, before anyone else ate, Max was waiting at his food dish, demanding his breakfast or dinner. He could stand on hind legs and scratch at the window until you wanted to strangle him. His pathetic-sounding cries were murderously monotonous. His head butts against the hollow-core backdoor sounded like a battering ram and seemed to shake the entire house.
He wasn’t an easy cat to befriend. He hid out most of the time, lying low in the ivy or underneath the house. Visitors rarely even knew he existed. For those few of us lucky to know him, he never learned how not to use his claws. When he wanted to be held or petted, he raked you, sinking his claws into your arm or leg, the skin snapping like rubber bands. Yet, he was so happy when you picked him up and held him in your lap, he would soak you with his drooling.
This morning, when he had finished eating, I saw him stumble, his body topple and heard him groan. As I held him, his heart stopped beating, he coughed once and I watched him leave us. “Max,” I pleaded, “you come back here.” But he was hiding again, this time for good. His passing was so quick, so unheralded by advancing age or ailments, we needed the vet to confirm that it was so. It seemed impossible that we would no long see his supple, grey body slinking around the backyard, or standing at the back window to beg.
Too few hours ago, on a humid, overcast day given to the distant rumor of thunder, I laid your small silkiness in a grave beside the garage. If there are cats in heaven (and who would want to go there if there aren’t), I’ll be looking for you one day, Max, seeking out your secret hiding place again.
Lessons in Sailboat Racing
2026
Through the open doors, I heard a countdown: “10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1” followed by a whistle. I looked out in time to see a flotillas of remote-controlled sailboats gliding swiftly and serenely around a course laid out in the marina across from my home.
A tranquil scene so very different from the sailboat race of the coast of Ventura that I took part in two weeks before as a novice crew member on a 31-foot sloop. The 21-know winds and 10-foot waves so thrashed my body that my head was still spinning three days later.
By the time we reached the first race marker buoy, it was apparent my jacket was too light to prevent hypothermia. By the second race marker buoy, I was praying not to be sick in front of the rest of the crew. By the third, I vowed never to take part in a race again if I made it back to shore alive.
Since then, my appreciation for the lovely wind-driven model RC sailboats has grown significantly. Best of all, no invitations have been extended to repeat my crew racing folly. Thank you, Jesus.
BOOKS FROM COLIN KERSEY
Soul Catcher
Colin Kersey’s debut novel — a supernatural thriller set in contemporary Seattle, drawing on Pacific Northwest legend to unleash a vengeance-seeking spirit wind on an unsuspecting city.
Swimming with the Angels
