Poetry

David Solheim is a Professor of English in the Department of Language and

Literature at Dickinson State University. His poems have appeared in numerous

publications and chapbooks.

 
 
PEGASUS
 
This frosty morning,
Snow dusts the horses
Left to fend for themselves
In the winter pasture.
 
The snowfall rides
Like starlight on their backs;
Their steamy breaths rise up
Through mysterious design.
 
 
 
THE OLD MAN
 
Benjamin Sung Ho and Julia Joo Hyun
My Seoul-born children, tell me
In Korea a rabbit is in the moon.
 
Tonight I watch the full face rising
And notice how his eyes droop
Into the angles of elongated ears.
 
Now I see everything twice.
Once with blue eyes,
Once with brown.

© 1989, 1992 David Solheim

Kris Andreson is a longtime resident of the North Dakota badlands, where he has

ranched "in excess of 54 years, not counting childhood years." Kris attended

Harvard for three years but did not complete a degree, because he couldn't decide

what difference it was going to make out in the badlands. "Cows aren't impressed

by such things," he says. His interest in crows has been lifelong; he first learned

about the haiku during his Harvard years. "I wrote these crow haikus before I knew

you had to have a degree to write," he says.

 
 
Crow Haikus
 
 
Outside, the fat crow,
Carrion dry on his feet,
Sits silently now.
 
 
 
Two tattered crows caw
From a winter perch darkly:
Birds and shadows one.
 
 
 
The crow's purple foot
Darkly grasps her night's limb
In sinister dreams.
 
 
 
The crow's beaked grin
Melts snow beneath his dark roost:
A cold moon slides by. 
 
 
Crows wild in flight--
Winding dark spirals above,
Black on blue canvass.
 

© 1997 Kris Andreson

Margaret Barnhart is an Adjunct Instructor of Freshman Composition, and interim EES

English/Writing Specialist, an actress, and a writer of essays poems, short stories, and

Feature articles. Her publications include regional small presses in North Dakota,

Wyoming, and California. She has also be included in one national anthology.

Cliche

Sometimes
I'd rather walk among chickens,
Rob their nests for my breakfast,
Gaze through dust-grimed window panes
At dry, sun-swept prairie,
Not the least concerned
That one basket holds all the eggs.
 
Sometimes
I'd rather ruminate with cows,
Daydream to the sibilance of insects
Chew on today's reality
That yesterday I had no stomach for:
Often the grass is greener
On this side of the fence.
 
Sometimes
I'd rather bake the bread than eat it,
Write the book than read it,
Fish for wisdom
From my own little pond
And simplify . . .
 Simplify.
 

© 2000 Margaret Barnhardt

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Last Updated October 21, 2005 by the Writing North staff.