Is This a True Spring?

A little drizzle, some sun;
a little rain, a rainbow, some thunder;
the fertile aroma of green.
Here, where plains meet the Front Range,
is this a true spring that comes to replace
our annual war between winter and summer?
Should I refuse to enjoy the gift?
It may be Global Warming trying to buy my vote.
Or, perhaps I should not look to find conspiracy.
Indeed, this may be but a random gift of nature
given here only once or twice in a lifetime.
As I take another deep breath,
I live to believe the latter.

Is This a True Spring?

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2020 :: Is This a True Spring? :: 2004

11:59

Know that fourteen lines from a forgotten little day early in Covid's Time wish to grow (with regret and gratitude) toward a thousand days and hundreds of lines among which you still find a line and more about you.

11:59PM, April twenty-fifth, 2020 

From playing bridge with you on the web, 
to reading the Life of Mahatma Gandhi with you 
     and watching a fun movie,
to our conversation over sprouting clover, 
to our socially distanced beverage-and-snack around the patio, 
to my shouts and your responses across the street, 

to our digital exchanges, 

to our greetings and smiles as you passed by, 
I had a great day today.
Please

(if you can identify)
hug yourself 
and accept this humble "thank you." 

11:59

Bob Komives

::  Fort Collins © 2020  ::  11:59  ::  2003  ::

Ode to Bollard

Oh, Bollards; Oh, Bollards.
Pillars of my community.
Through old-town alley and downtown street,
past art and fun,
in winter cold and summer heat,
you guide me,
protect me.
For my comings out and my goings in
you keep me out of harms way.
Ode to Bollard
Bob Komives 
Yet,
do I notice?
do I say?
“Thank you, Bollard,”
or even:
“Bollard, good day!”
No, Bollard; No, Bollards.
At least,
not until this morning
when you helped me walk 
to museum (that has genius on display),
to old town's square, 
then
by that place of playful children.
You kept me from 
traffic's hazards,
ugly's dumpsters,
then guided me on 
to hardware store for errand of the day.

Oh, Bollards; Oh Bollards.
Where buildings loom tall and cubical,
(where straight streets abound)
you too stand straight, 
but
short,
humble,
round.

Oh, Bollard; Oh, Bollards.
While you are too noticed and familiar 
to
Canis 
lupus 
familiaris,
you are visibly invisible,
unfamiliar,
ignored,
alien
to
Homo
sapiens 
sapiens.

Oh, Bollards; My Bollards.
Pillars of my protection.
Please take notice of my notice;
please accept my affection.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2015 :: Ode To Bollard  :: 1504

Damp, Morning Walk

On this damp morning's walk,

as storefronts open beside me,

sudden sunbeams confront me
to illuminate a path before me,
and my day approaches nine o'clock.

Upward
from rain-drenched, puddled pavement,
glimmer and sparkle welcome me
while at play with new-made shadow.

Damp, Morning Walk

Bob Komives

To my deaf ears
dumb sidewalk whispers loudly
in colorful language
of tiny, wondrous rainbows
broadcast by spreading ripples
in concert 
with the drum-hiss-drum
(moistened step)

of morning walk.

Drum-hiss-drum.
Drum-hiss-drum.

Storefronts open beside me.

Warming sun is upon me.
A path reflects before me.

My day passes nine o'clock.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2016 :: Damp, Morning Walk :: 1611                               

Damp, Night Walk

Damp, night walk
   down to downtown
ten o'clock.
Puddled lights
   send my shadows
through the night.
One attacks
   as my life will
—from my back.
Two soon pass
   as my youth will
—all too fast.

Damp, Night Walk

Bob Komives

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1998 :: Damp, Night Walk :: ,9809

I Make No Note Of Faces

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

Out the door into the sun,
I give my plants their inspection,
pull a weed,
admire a bloom,
ponder our next collaboration,
walk west
    (a few beer glasses on the lawn next door)
past the young spruce
    (thirty feet high)
that challenges my right to the sidewalk,
past two spindly green ash.
    (replacements for lost elms)

I Make No Note of Faces

Bob Komives

At the corner,
I do not meet the neighbor who yesterday said,
“Open that umbrella; it's not a walking stick!”
I did as I was told.
    (I was off on a long walk through the rain.)
I smile at this reflection and cross the street
enjoying the aromatic, chromatic benefits
of yesterday's twenty-hour soak.
I pass by the day-care center where kids play
and by the fraternity where they still play.
    (Though sand-filled volleyball court stands empty.)
Another street to cross,
I appreciate the new stripes and dashes
    (white and yellow)
that now give the street more authority over me
and over the cars and bikes that cross my path.
As I leave the curb
a white car accelerates.
    (from the traffic light one block to the north)
I jog a couple of steps,
then slow to a walk,
then stare that nuisance into deceleration.
On the far side,
I enjoy again one of the nicest houses in town,
valiantly and proudly holding its beauty
    (and its look of home)
in a block that has searched for identity
the twenty years that I have known it.
Along the wrought-iron fence
    (too low to keep in the great dane)
I wonder why the dogs stay inside.
Past another blue spruce and across an alley
I approach the avenue.
At the corner on my right
is a once-gas-station adult bookstore.
    (well-kept)
To my left,
is a once-mom-and-pop once-pizza now-pawn shop.
    (well-kept, but kept ugly)
Now I confront the barrier that divides east from west.
Beyond lies a square mile of university.
It is nine-thirty.
With no pause
    (by me nor by the traffic)
I cross four lanes and set my own path
across the broad, damp lawn on the other side.
No students toss frisbees this morning.
Few cars sit in the parking lot
that sits in my way
and sits where Old Main once stood.
    (where rumors linger as to how it burned)
Up and over
    (a not so “crooked stile”)
I cross the Burlington Northern track.
    (no train in sight)
Into the old heart of campus
I skirt one quadrant
of the grass-filled, tree-lined oval
past several pieces in a set of buildings
that await recognition, preservation and maintenance.
    (an historic district)
The buildings sit on land
that one hundred and fifty years ago
had not sprouted its first crop of wheat.
Here,
my walk joins the walks of others.
They do not quite hurry to where they choose to go.
Perhaps they too feel
    (after four weeks of rain)
that it is more important to notice than to hurry.
    (Noticing does slow us down.)
We hurried out this morning.
    (into the sun)
We'll be damned if we'll now hurry in.
I note this rhythm.
    (strange, but)
I make no note of faces.
This is a day for smells and for colors.
    (And this is a day for spaces.)

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1998 :: I Make NO Note Of Faces ::  ,9512

Looks Forward and Backward

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

He walked,
            crossed a bridge (rebuilt since falling to the flood)
            turned down-creek
                 to that house of that friend who left today,
            carried loaded boxes from basement to truck,
            and worked till all were gone.
Again, he walked,
            crossed a bridge (replaced since floating away)
            and turned down-creek
                 to this house of this friend who will stay.
Now, he talks,
            sips bowl of soup and cup of coffee,
            looks forward to his way back,
            looks backward to his way here,
            speaks of each way as a good way,
            and calls this day, a good day.

Looks Forward and Backward

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 ::  ,9901

I Live Where Strangers Smile.

featured in the book Good Day with the art of Gale Whitman

I live where strangers smile--
where we acquire kinship-by-encounter
on common paths with crossing points--
where the names we seem to have forgotten
are those we have yet to learn.
Rather than meet
up-and-down
ear-by-ear
by elevator,
we meet
face-to-face
on ramp and stair.
Our doorholding
gets traded among old and young--
so we need not know which we are.
Our "thank you"
(if warranted)
gets given.
Our information
(if needed)
gets exchanged.
Our frivolous word or friendly observation
(if it might fit)
might get fitted.
I live in a place with public smiles

     for private eyes
on common paths with crossing points.
If you know such place,
perhaps you too know me.

I Live Where Strangers Smile

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1998 :: I Live Where Strangers Smile  :: ,9819

Once Mining Town

We visited a friend
who owns the once depot
up Left Hand Canyon
in the once mining town
below Pawnee Peak
further from Quaint
closer to Ghost Town
where dreams that have surfaced
again and again
were once realized for some
in gold and silver
lead and commerce
and now for some
realized in a history
reborn in the sixties
with the flower children
who came to mine the dreams
which may be more lasting
and may be more elusive
than have been the minerals
upon which they once looked
to a certain idyllic future
and now to the maybe idyllic past
of those who are still proud
to have the best water
and the fewest flush toilets
most abandoned vehicles
fewest paved streets
most divisive arguments
most cooperative fire department
and coziest self-serve library
now superficially judged
by two tourists on bicycles
visiting a friend
who owns the once depot
up Left Hand Canyon
in the once mining town
below Pawnee Peak
further from Quaint
closer to Ghost Town
where dreams have surfaced 
again and again.

Once Mining Town

 Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2004 ::  ,9421

Pub

Yes, tonight too, he will walk a mile to downtown—
round a table with the others about nine.
“ 'must be Tuesday, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    It seems that their habit
    has gone somewhat noticed within the pub.
An important unimportant special topic
gets a chewing midst the drinking of the ale.
An agreement is as likely as the obverse—
    only seldom guilty
    of being too certain in what they know.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Pub

Bob Komives

Yes, tonight too, he has walked a mile to downtown—
one or two rounds, two or three friends make a night.
“ 'see you next week, right on schedule! ”, says the waitress.
    He accepts a drop off
    either in the Packard or in the Dodge.
On important unimportant special topics,
one last chewing in the dim light of the street.
Final insight: (since the ale was somnifacient)
    If they are to finish,
    they will have to gather again next week.
If this leaves you confused you belong there.
You'll find mustard to sharpen the sage.
Hurry and go this very weeknight.
Pick up your fellows as you pass middle age.

Fort Collins © 1994 :: Pub  :: 9402

Spring Break, Procrastination, and Japanese Civilization

written in spring,
posted in summer
lived today and long ago

.

I

.

Downtown,
dead last night.
I walked through and back for exercise-
to get out after day inside,
with no desire to drop in
to usual spots
but did look in
to see them empty,
did listen around
to hear no music
along silent streets
shared with the few
who looked to want to be revelers-
ducking in
slipping out
of near-empty spaces,
as if chance might find them
in one spot
at same time
to bring spot and them alive.
Not I.
Not this evening that felt like Sunday morning
at the city's resting core,
resting from nights and months of vibrancy.
This is the week we call Spring Break.
Students go away.
Old ones go together.
Young ones tow parents
or parents tow them
to ski slope or canyon across the mountains
or to a beach in Mexico or Hawaii.
We do not partake.
We seldom partook.
Each year I looked up
to notice my children at home,
my friends on the road.     

Spring Break, Procrastination

and Japanese Civilization

Bob Komives

 .
I I

.

Perhaps good things do come to him who waits
as it came to me in my Japanese Civilization class,
one class I will always remember from college.
I arrived to class as the only student
who did not know it was exam day.
Too embarrassed to speak out,
I spoke to myself:
I must tell the professor
I am not prepared.
Tell him before the exam.
Then, after the exam.
Well, next class.
Upon entering (but he is too busy).
Upon leaving (but he is occupied).
Next time.
For sure.
I will find the nerve.

But now it would be too embarrassing
I have waited too long to tell him.
There were questions from a chapter I did not read.
I should not have taken the test.
I want to apologize
(in advance)
for my grade.
I must tell him.
To hell with embarrassment!
I will tell him,
--next class.

Cowardice deserves its own punishment.
Ah, but what reward cowardice.
The test came back, marked "A"
My second "A" in 4 years.
Perhaps preparation is over sold.

.

I I I

.

I used to fear I was a bad father,
lousy husband,
for not thinking ahead
to whisk my family off someplace.
Until
I noticed I loved it.
By luck and lack of preparation
I had done the right thing
to stay home
to give and take attention
with family and neighborhood.
We ventured out onto nearby paths
over neighborhood walks
under gorgeous spring sun-
sometimes over beautiful spring snow.
Spring after spring
oddly,
pleasantly
surprised.
Destination by procrastination
--via Japanese Civilization--
indeed, I love Spring Break.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2003:: Spring Break, Procrastination, and Japanese Civilization :: 0308

Midnight Hailstorm

.  .
I write


.  .
unnerved


.  .  .  .  .  .  .
under ping-ponging skylight



.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
bicycle helmet out of reach

Midnight Hailstorm
June 8-9, 2011

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 2003 :: Midnight Hailstorm :: 1103

I Used To Say Of Spring

I used to say of spring
it happens twenty times
along this footplain of mountain.

 

I Used To Say Of Spring

Bob Komives

Now I say it happens not at all.
Winter goes away so often
we never know how far.
Summer pays so many visits
we are slow to notice it spread out to stay.
Our eager flowers give back blooms to winter.
Our wardrobe changes
week to week,
hour by hour,
never to certainty
in warmth nor snow
nor cold nor shower.

Spring is to us a foreign word
best translated as Winter-Summer Dance Duet.
Elsewhere,
they know and love their spring,
Here,
we never know
but (almost always) we love our dance.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2002 :: I Used To Say Of Spring :: 0216

November Trilogy

November Four: Steamed-over Window

November Four.
At random point
among countless droplets
a large drop has formed.
Trailing clarity above,
consuming droplets below,
it grows,
accelerates,
descends.

November Trilogy

Bob Komives

I saw it as a dark stripe,
one among a few
in bright translucence
on steamed-over window.

Now,
I notice it to be a slit,
a narrow window,
inviting attention
into a slice of the world outside.

Looking elsewhere along the glass,
I see nothing,
a diffusion of light,
a confusion of focus,
encouragement to give attention inside.

Now, distraction,
peripheral movement
beyond a transparent stripe.
I look through to a place
that is nowhere else a place.
Something sits there,
something stands there,
something happens,
somebody passes,
something inspires a thought.

With the thought
attention turns to reflection,
back through translucence
to a place
and a moment
alone
in me.

Until,
beside me,
I notice again the glass.
My stripe has faded,
gone from transparent to translucent.
A few over-sized droplets
hint at where my view had been.

Now,
nearby,
unpredicted,
another drop,
another slice of clarity,
new place outside,
new thought inside.
Translucence becomes transparent.
Thought becomes reflective.

In these countless droplets
I find rare reflection of everyday mind.

.

.

November Five: Below The Ankles

November Five.
Alive in a long, warm autumn.
A walk across the college campus.
Feelings of being over-dressed and over-aged.
A day to look around.

Who wears his cap bill-back?
Of which tribe are he and she and they?
Who wears her cap bill-front?
Of which tribe are she and they and he?
Can I trust conclusions from years of observation?
The Bill-fronts have come back
(from near extinction)
to dominate.
Have they prospered by conversion?
in-migration?
propagation?
war?
No matter the explanation,
a more obvious observation:
    the hat on my head is popular
    only among dermatologists.
Conveniently too warm,
I stow hat into pocket
and join the inconspicuous tribe
(yet populous tribe)
of No-bills.
This humble act pulls my eyes down
to where I happen to notice feet,
two, three pairs of feet,
walking and standing
(to my surprise)
on the thonged sandals I know as flip-flops.
Surpised,
pleased,
these artifacts too avoid extinction-
after tenuous years of survival
inside a few shower rooms,
outside on lonely July beaches,
and, of course,
here on a warm November day
on my two feet.
They survived verbal abuse
from cross-foot-sandal tribes,
from friend and family.
During its ascendance
the cross-foot became more rugged,
more varied,
expensive-
kicking humble flip-flops from the landscape.
But today I see three,
four, five young women of fashion
wearing sturdy, expensive flip-flops.
They signal a re-born trend,
and acknowledge me as leader.

I walk off campus,
more alive,
newly aligned,
and rejuvenated below the ankles.

.

.

November Six: Indian Summer

November Six.
Closed up,
gaps filled,
steel in our resolve,
food in our tins,
ready for months of eating from pantry,
we are seduced
to go back out
open up
to the heat outside.
Overdressed again for morning.
Underdressed again by evening.

Warmth and sun after an autumn-dark frost,
we call it Indian Summer,
not knowing why,
but surely a tribute:
     we give worthy names to glorious times.
Indian Summer lingers this year,
three weeks at least.
Each day is too short to be borrowed of summer.
We steal it from winter.
And, oh, what reward for thievery!
The more we steal
the briefer our penalty.
Except,
until,
we begin to admit our winter worry.
Having postponed complaints of snow and cold
we worry about the inevitable onslaught
that must build in anger and severity
each pleasant day it is kept away.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to fear of snowless winter
confused trees,
expectant garden,
open land,
too exposed,
too dry.

And if that fear should prove groundless,
we admit to wanting a spring
that we know must follow winter.
Oh, Indian Summer:
      we love you.
      You are warm and illicit.
      We always welcome you.
      We thank you for this beautiful afternoon
      and for this perfect evening
      when you may sneak away
      and stay
      until you hear us petition
      for our seduction
      next year.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 2011 :: November Trilogy :: 0206t

The Buzz

I stepped out this morning

into my garden,
its morning-fresh beauty,
crisp air and stillness,
expectation of stillness,
until I heard the buzz,
incessant buzz
from halves of miles away,
all around,
round tires on ground pavement,
nervous movement I had heard in the city,
heard with more scorn than pity,
for it was there,
not here in my town garden,
now a green piece of roundabout
with my stillness put out
by tired arterial groan,
exhausted highway gasp,
and,
from the dreaming homesteader who was,
the worn out homesteader buzz. 

The Buzz

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 :: The Buzz :: ,9910

When He Leaves by the Door He Entered

Because he never drives his car to the coffee house
he often goes in the back door and out the front.
Everyone will notice this sure sign:

he is pedestrian.

When He Leaves

by the Door He Entered

Bob Komives

He never drives his car to the coffee house

--except today,

first stop on his way to somewhere distant.
Quite justifiable,
not a second thought

--until now.

Having parked behind the coffee house
he opens his car door
and gets hit by an odd wind
that chills him with shiver of fear.
He looks to the coffee-house door.
It too opens
and is likely to produce someone he knows;
someone who thinks him pedestrian;
someone who will express surprise,
vindication,
disappointment.
Too late to hide,
he stands up to the morning sun,
prepares for the worst.
Someone emerges from the farther door's shadow.
Could he be so lucky?
He thinks she is a stranger.
She gives no sign of recognition
as she walks to her car with portable coffee.
She gives only generic smile
and nod of good morning.
After dramatic moment of fortunate anonymity
danger has past;
shiver is gone.
He enters,
safely separated
from the vehicle that would betray him.
He smiles at a thought:

perhaps the stranger too craved anonymity.

As his eyes adjust to interior space
he is ready for faces he wants to see
and for smiles of recognition.
It is time to relax and sip coffee.
With good fortune on his side today
most customers will leave before him,
and, if he is careful,
those who outlast him will fail to notice
when he leaves by the door he entered.  

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1999 :: When He Leaves by the Door He Entered :: ,9908

A Morning of Meetings and Lendings

He struggled

dragging two suitcases along my 
        morning path.

One was too bulky;

both were too heavy,

with wheels too small to ease his burden

        over uneven sidewalk,

        summer construction,

        and morning-damp grass.

“I go Intensive English,” he answered,

which, as I had guessed, lay on my route.

Though I am much the bigger

and likely much the stronger,

I am also much the older,

so I chose not to embarrass him
        with excess favor.

I offered to take a bag

and took the smaller into tow,

giving him little chance 
        to protest or accept—

which both he did quite graciously.

Across one hundred meters

we shared words enough to know 
        that we had met.

I stood his bag by familiar door.

Then, as we shared a handshake

and stood face-to-face for the first time,

I saw that we had met before—

that we had met and met again

in my struggle across strange terrain

where I had lent and lent again

the “thank you”
        that now came back to me.

This morning,

as I met a new friend whom I may 
        never see again,
I met an old friend from when.

A Morning of Meetings and Lendings

Bob Komives

Fort Collins © 1999 :: A Morning of Meetings and Lendings :: ,9904

I Stole The Chair

I stole the chair
that was their way to the stage.
Their stair.
My chair.

I Stole The Chair

Bob Komives

......early day
......late hour
......one west
......one east
......one to light
......one to shadow
......one, two
......together fused
......common spine
......common origin
......different past
......fore is aft
......left is right
......right might wrong
......early rise
......late carouse
......morning cult
......evening worship
......one, two
......too confused
......by the love and war of midday


How many different people must we be
before we let us all be different?


I stole the chair
that took them to the stage.
My chair?
Or their stair?
No-one cares
now that we have music.

Bob Komives :: Fort Collins © 1997 :: I Stole The Chair :: ,9717