Crabapple Tree

Beyond the golden opportunity

tarnished by jadedness,

beyond the comforting squabble

that is the great chicken coop of this world…

you stand like a testament

to pure unadulterated existence,

not as simple as the stone at your feet

nor as complex as the crow

who topples reaching with her beak

for one of your tiny over-ripe apples.


I could cut you down, cut you up

into firewood; I could shape you

into an image I have in mind,

yet you expect nothing of me;

you take everything I do to you

with chainsaw and loppers,

and yet you do not move,

while I need endure nothing of you

except your incremental growth.


I make metaphors of your crusty bark;

I turn you into symbols, into syllables;

I go so far as to abandon myself spiritually

to your grace, yet there you stand,

rooted so profoundly I can’t imagine

such rootedness, my body is so insane

to move and only for a moment

can I follow your example—

and only superficially at that.


I might imagine—I might be so vain,

so egocentric, as to believe—you love me

in some inhuman way. But I already take so much

from your stillness and strength, from the slow

flow of your colors through the seasons,

that I do my best not to turn you into a man,

grateful that if you cannot love

then you cannot hate me.


Previously published by Spindrift Art and Literary Journal, Shoreline Community College


Four Ant Poems

Ant War, 1958

Two little generals
wage a little war:
the red ants against the black ants
in the black-ant ant farm.

With superior mandibles
the red ants sever the
black-ant heads
from the black-ant abdomens,

leaving the black-ant soldiers
lying in tangled mounds
on the black-ant ant farm

The red ants charge down
the black-ant tunnels
to feast on
the black-ant young.

The two little generals
are satisfied:
One army lost,
the other won.

Everything is
as everything should be,
just like in the movies
and on TV.

Ant’s Load

He who hasn’t seen an ant
hasn’t seen the world—the ant,
who hauls with superhuman strength
the precise timber for a gate
or drags behind him
some hulking, wriggling meal
across a wilderness a hundred ant-miles wide,
all the way up his city’s ramp,
a hero returning
with a boon for his tribe.

Pushes, pulls, then flings it about—
hour after hour till the long day’s work
is finally over. If necessary camps beside it
through the black wet night, surviving floods
and creatures of the dark, hunting bugs.

In the morning heaves its great weight
up over his head then flips it forward,
the way Hercules threw the lion,
battling failure to the death.

Applies leverage, utilizes fulcrums, steps back
to ponder the possibilities, renegotiates
the rugged terrain, backtracks
with a kind of certitude.

Hour after hour,
without food or water.

For the tribe,
for the future,
to fulfill his nature,
makes a tiny but no less significant
contribution to his culture.

Who who’s watched an ant
can argue?

Ant Pastoral

Ants swarm under the first sun
of a summer day, as on the first day
of spring, glistening red and black
in their shiny new armor.

The day’s long tasks begin,
of a day as of a season,
to build, then rebuild,
the hill that houses them,

to further hump over
with the detritus of the woods
their precious queen
and her countless unborn children.

In teams and solo, workers struggle forward
logs of twigs and straw
to the top of the mountain
to lay them in tight.

They chop with the axes and saws
of their mandibles the timber grass sprung up
through the hillsides of their home,
notching trunks to fall away from their dome.

Some make the long but routine haul
to and from the compost pile
to place in store abundances of food
for the night and winter both.

Others make the longer journey
to the fluttering meadows of new green leaves
high up in the windy trees
to milk the aphid herds.

Forest Mound Ants

In fall I study up close
the forest mound ants
dwelling behind my house.
Where they stream
they’ve worn a groove through grass
that disappears into the woods beyond
(and not into the compost box,
as once I’d thought).

With what tribe do they trade?
Do they plan to move their mound?
Who decides? What force of Nature
determines their fate?
Is there too much light here
since I cleared away the trees?
Do they seek a territory un-trod?
Is the great tsunami about to crash?
I take great care to step over
the telltale arm of their race.

In Spring I see them
back to wearing their path,
busily clearing the byways,
gathering twigs and needles
to build up their mound.
Only this time I follow them
to the woods and sure enough
they’re building a new hill
around a clump of sedge
beneath a myrtle branch.
How happy my wife will be
to know they’re moving on!
(We needn’t argue any more
about my burning them out
or drowning them, dead.)

Or maybe the tribe’s grown
too big and the queen’s little sister
is building her own domain,
and we’ll have two tall anthills
in the garden instead of one.

Copyright 2016 by Rick Clark

The Fine Print on the Tree of Knowledge

The Garden of Eden, by Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens

The Garden of Eden, by Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens

On one tiny twig of the Tree of Knowledge
is the knowledge about the Tree of Knowledge itself,
the small print that nobody reads,
which says that just because Eve
ate of an apple from the Tree of Knowledge
we don’t have to spin out uncontrollably
into the outer space of technology
without any moral or ethical restraints,
without considering not only the immediate
consequences of our actions
but also the far-reaching consequences as well—
the simplest, most obvious, most ironic
being inventing and setting in motion
the computerized apple-picking machine
putting people out of work.
It should be against the law
to put people out of work
just to make more money.
Since when is technology
or even making money
more important than people?
It’s ironic that Eve was judged as evil for eating
of the apple with which the serpent tempted her
and, with Adam, was banished from the Garden of Eden
while the vast race of creatures
who supposedly descended from her
eat of the Tree of Knowledge every day
and in every corner of the world
producing, consuming, and making
vast quantities of money off
the Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge,
and they are not banished from any garden
but are welcomed to the fruit with open arms.
And let’s face it, making money
is just another form of consumption,
and what are the producers paying us
so they can consume all that money?
They’re paying us the technology
that in many cases is making us sick,
making our planet sick,
causing us to go to war,
and putting us out of work.
It seems we’ve made the best
meaning of the story of Eve
a mockery and even the thumpers
of digital bibles don’t care.

Copyright 2015 by Rick Clark

Eagles and Angels (Americana poem)

The Eagles come goose-stepping
around the corner of Second and Main,
drilling the wet-eyed perspectives
of moms and dads with near military
machine work, hardly rippling a shirt
or smudging a collar as a band of Angels,
leaning in on tattooed shoulders,
rumble through in hairy procession
around the corner opposite, at First

and Main, their scars and eye patches
stating there’s nothing left to lose. The Eagles
come to a simultaneous heel-digging halt
in front of Marvin’s Drug and Fountain
as the Angels clutch and brake,
squeaking rubber and leather, to stop
face to face with the scouts and kill
their engines in leering disarray.

Grandmas and grandpas
hold their cherry soda breath.
The mouths of boys and girls
hang open. One last baby gurgles
before all fall hushed. Eagles
waver in their stations, the sky
weighs a ton on every shoulder.
A gas cap glints in the heat.

Legless veteran town drunk Jake
arm-hops through stock-still legs,
passing a dog with one eye raised,
stops before the cracked black jacket
and python beard of the hog boss, calls out,
“Are you the one they call The Snake?”
The hog boss chaws and spits,
fires a look down his dreadlocked beard.
“Mary over at Morgansville says Hi.”

Snake motions with his one good eye.
The Angels kick-start their Harleys,
drop them into gear, then roll
unwavering through the Eagle ranks,
never once brushing sleeve with handlebar
as the scouts resume their march down Main.
The thunder rises in pitch as the Angels
stretch their arms and hair out of town.

All heads turn in search of Jake
who’s returned to hold up the bar.

Copyright 2015 by Rick Clark

Meditation and the Arts

Writing poetry and playing violin teach concentration, mindfulness, and non-attachment.

The violinist experiences a kind of samadhi “in action” when she achieves the full expression of her playing. She must be wholly mindful to the act. She concentrates her whole life energy on moving the bow hairs across the strings to make her instrument sing. Put another way, she inflects the body so as to project, with full power and nuance, the melody or musical figuration. In so doing, she eliminates all bothersome distractions beyond her focus on making beautiful music and detaches herself from all thoughts outside of playing violin, including irksome self-recrimination and unnecessary self-criticism. She transcends being too concerned with audience response, especially the feeling that she’s failing them in some way or is inadequate to the task of entertaining and moving others.

Every fiber present in this playing....

Every fiber present in this playing….

Writing descriptive poetry involves a similar approach and makes for another good example of how yogic or meditative approaches can be applied to other activities. Sitting by the lake, I watch a female bluebill duck hesitate at water’s edge, then clamber up on to the bank beyond my legs. I see that her beak has a metallic blue tint with a few subtle orange spots and that her fine white and brown markings are quite symmetrical from side to side. I see that her feet are of an unlikely, almost “man-made” orange color. She jabs with her beak at a blue-and-black-striped dragonfly perched on a blade of grass. Misses. She waddles by, disappearing behind the bench where I sit.

Female mallard

Female mallard

As I watch, however, observing the duck in detail, feeling perhaps what it might be like to be a duck, to desire to eat a plump, “wingy” dragonfly, to rip up and choke back green grass with a toothless beak, I do not produce these words in my mind; I do not distract myself with language and “being” descriptive. I save all that for later, for that moment when I shift into “writing mode.” I simply watch, absorbed, even mesmerized, by the image, by the presence of “duck,” in me as much as outside of me. I’m taken by the “natural world” in action (the premise here being that all life, the whole world, is real and valuable and worth attending to). I abandon myself to the world; I do not resist. I do not keep myself separate, distinct, or even “detached.” Rather, the world absorbs, encompasses, and “possesses” me.

Taste the wings

Taste the wings

So to the world, as both “object” and “subject,” I give myself, wandering along the path of meditation on the journey toward “wholly being.” Such reversals of view are a way of practicing non-attachment to self and to other than here and now.

Finally, if I’ve been struck deeply by an image, if I want to explore the image further with words, I pick up my pen and write. This shift of focus to language and writing can be its own form of meditation. Some poems, in fact, like some musical pieces, are actually called “meditations.”

Hand, writing

Hand, writing

Thus all actions one undertakes in life in which quality is the concern— achieving some sort of ideal experience or expression, including doing everyday chores, running errands, carrying on personal interactions, and performing tasks at work—ideally involve the same approach of mindfulness, concentration, and non-attachment. Meditation is a state of mind that we can carry throughout our day.

Sweeping makes for great meditation.

Sweeping makes for great meditation.

the duck snaps at
the dragonfly—we get it
when she misses

Five Cat Poems (in memory of Little Bear)

Little Cat Man

Our cat sleeps like a little man,
his head on a pillow, his legs
stretched toward the end of the bed.
His feet twitch like my wife’s.

As if he only sleeps, and sleeps
on our bed only, and nowhere else.
But I know better; I’ve seen him,
his secret self, cruel, and a killer,

seen him nail a mouse by its tail
with a single claw then slowly
draw the quivering creature
into his deadly web of play,

toss it into the predawn sky,
leaping paws first to bat, to snag,
to pin again to the moonlit grass
that once unsuspecting mouse.

How insidious, how mesmerizing
this sport in its purest form. I could watch
for hours were I not caught up
in my own mean game.

He’s no slouch, our cat;
he’s the master of his art,
for which I admire him,
for which I stand in awe.

Here he lies fast asleep, but yesterday
he dined on breast, on heart, on all
but feather, beak, and bone
of an innocent bird.

Butterflies have fallen at his paws.
Even the yellowjacket has flown in terror.
The common household fly,
who climbs the walls to safety,

must forever beware, for with
one long leap from a dresser,
one long outstretched forearm—
in the cup of five sharp claws,

he’ll drag it down to the floor
into his circle of pain,
to join the others
in his playmate cemetery.

Sleep, little cat man.
Sleep off the play that’s work,
the work that’s play.
Twitch it out on our bed.

Your life is as busy and as full
as those who sleep beside you
and watch you twitch and dream,
grateful you’re no bigger than you are!

Little Bear, 1994-2012

Little Bear, 1994-2012

Our Cat Understands the Principle of a Door

Our cat understands
the principle of a door,
that it opens when I turn the knob,
that he’d better move his tail
if he doesn’t want it caught
as I push the door shut.

He understands that outside the door
lurk all his enemies
—the bright-eyed cat-blind car,
the great rumbling Sphinx of the bus,
the single-minded dog, the irascible raccoon—
that rare but ruthless cat-hater—
but mostly other cats.

He who inside the door
is safe and can sleep deeply
without disturbance,
without having to keep an eye
ajar. He commands me
in his wordless way
to open the door, he yells at me
to close it again
in the face of a storm,
he yells at me some more
for ever having allowed a storm
to howl outside his door
when all he wanted was a cozy sun.

And he knows the complaints
he expresses inside the door
are for my ears only,
his personal doorman
and cat-brained confidant.

Zen Cat

Zen Cat

Cat Tao

How does our cat know
where next to lick?
Why the nonexistent balls
just after the lifted thigh?

Why flop down
against the wall
and not on a pillow today?
Why not warm my lap?

A crow’s caw in the distance
turns his ear. His tongue
hesitates as he reads
the crow’s message,

then he goes on licking,
knowing the one true way.

Quite the character!

Quite the character!

Cat Love

Our cat can’t hide his love.
He plays hard to get, turns away.
Miffed, he stalks off peeved,
flicks his tail, biting fleas
he no longer has.

Our cat can’t hide his love.
In the end he pads up on my chest
where I lie on my back
dead with fatigue and half asleep,
and demands, with full abandonment
to looking the fool,
all the love in my sleepy state
I can muster up.

He drools on my neck,
looks me, finally, straight in the eye,
his whole shimmering feline face
beginning to smile.

Our cat can’t hide his love.
He purrs louder and louder,
the bed begins to tremble
and, beginning to grin,
I wonder what was ever
the matter with this world.

The Late-Night Cat Workout

Our fourteen-year-old cat
has no intention
of dying anytime soon.
When we go to bed,
once we’ve fallen asleep
(or I play dead, tired
of rubbing his tummy),
he romps alone
across the hardwood floors
of the great-room downstairs,
dashes from wall to wall,
slips and slides around imaginary corners
(chasing or being chased, who can tell?),
hits the throw rugs full speed,
leaving them in crumpled heaps,
beats up on his catnip mouse
(gets a snoot-full too)
bats his ball from paw to paw,
(not unlike a soccer star),
scratches his scratch post,
crunches kibble, laps up water,
then, exhausted, resigns himself
to his nest on the desk by our bed
where he snores like a spouse.

Cat Love

Cat Love

Cat Hat

dedicated to the SPCA

We played our cat
till we killed that cat,
so just for fun

we skinned that little tiger
(he was just so fat),
but what a hat we made of that cat!

We skinned him as we loved him….
Hell, anyone can wear a hat,
but only if you’re lucky

can you wear a cat hat.
We thought he’d make a lovely bowler,
be it small and comical,

or a hat like a dunce’s
which would make him conical.
Or like his distant cousin,

the ring-tailed raccoon….
Well, how about a cat-skin hat?
Or a Siamese top hat, a purring Stetson,

or worse, a yowling French beret?
We stretched him on the ironing board,
we said, We’ll miss you, Cat,

then we steamed him flat
and stitched him up
so he looked just like

a cat, our cat,
a cat hat to wear upon my head
even as I go to bed.

Copyright 2015 by Rick Clark

Old friend!

Old friend!

Three Frog Poems

Gnomic Frogs

for frogman Brent

Tree frogs are creaking
out in the dark cave of night,
in the hollow of the ocean’s roar
beyond my open window.

Where do they live during the day?
For hours I’ve studied the moss
growing on the forest’s trunks
and never spied a green tree frog.

Can I blame them for being
so completely themselves,
for embracing night so wholeheartedly
when it’s during the day we people clamor so loudly?

Were there only such a frog
as could sing a few appreciative lines
about the bubble of light in which I dwell
high up in my room above the woods!

How I exclaim myself with my pen,
how such human attentiveness
must be worthy of mention
in the annals of the frogs,

but who seem only to say,
“Prayers are best not
answered. Silence
is the soundest reply.”

Pacific Green Tree Frog, photographed by Brent Matsuda (bio below)

Pacific green tree frog (all photographs by Brent Matsuda—bio below)

Lucky Frog

Frog, I see you hop across the freeway
in a rain storm as I speed by.

Water blasting out of wheel ruts,
juggernauts of tires bearing down,
cars like hydroplanes, freighters
like mountains flying by.

Under a hundred wheels (and mine)
you hop and hop and do not stop,
you do not dodge or turn around or give a thought
to being crushed and turned to mush.

In my rear view mirror I see you make it
to the other side. You lucky, lucky frog,
the whole wide world
your slippery bog!

Note: “Lucky Frog” was previously published in Many Trails to the Summit: Poems by Forty-two Northwest Poets, edited by David D. Horowitz, 2010.

Columbia spotted frog

Columbia spotted frog


her stream dried up
the young frog sets out
down the human trail


sitting on the deck—
both my cat’s and my head turn
at spring’s first frog-croak


hey there’s a whole clan
of green tree frogs
creaking over there

Peruvian frog

Peruvian frog

The photographer: Brent Matsuda is a naturalist and wildlife biologist with a specialization in herpetology (the study of amphibians and reptiles), based in British Columbia. Although most of his professional work involves birds, his personal passion is frogs. Brent conducted his thesis work on the only frog in North America that uses internal fertilization and breeds in fast-flowing cold mountain streams: the coastal tailed frog. He is the lead author of the Amphibians and Reptiles of British Columbia field guide. In his spare time, Brent loves to photograph frogs wherever he travels in the world.

Sensitive species

Sensitive species