portion of the artwork for Sean Farragher's poem

Mountains of Montana #27
Sean Farragher
(posted on Sean’s blog July 8, 2008)

The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it.
—Plutarch (46‒120 A.D.)

A single day is enough to make us a little larger.
—Paul Klee (1879‒1940)

The life of the rock
begins before steps up
mountains of praise
or after decline of
reputation as hard
news becomes finer
sand without bond.

Today’s anniversary
began with jewel’s wife
before he was born again
as million year rocks and
tired suns glide up in space
to time an infinitesimal

July 3, 1977
Marriage began in the southern
summer of Greenwood where South
Carolina days led us away to small
homes and temporary mail box rusted
frozen as music stalled on phonograph.
We would not live there too long.
Marriage is that horn that blows
without screams or with dissonance,
terror and anxiety dragged
out of the human so
help me I failed too easy I say.

May 12, 1978
Ian born today in Anderson
where the low rise of dead
willow a stump on the lawn
to make the lawn mower hop
and skip but I never grew
more beautiful flowers that
summer. Greens married reds
married soil married moving
on again with anxiety asleep.
I never taught better in schools
the poem revived as breath
grew in thunder storms that
keep beauty as marks of change
on the daily horizon bled new
by the leap to Beaufort
and the marshland flowers
of half tropical paradise.

October 20, 1981
Kathleen born. Her art
words will settle with
new children in Lake
Missoula prehistoric
River drawn with Lewis
and Clark myths and
steps of explorers
staggering up the cliff
easily as light reflected
off the silver moon and
black blue Nighttime
Mountain of my names.
My first daughter Daria
born in 1975 climbed in
my arms while mother
retrieved diaper bag and
and I held step daughter
before mother and we
spent ten years beside
the other lines of words
we drew with detailed
life marked down as pain
and pleasure ridden
in marriage’s rooms.

With horizon painted
in eyes, Daria as she
knows color and
will grow seeds in 2008
to mix new fertile flower beds
with gray and blue trim
besides marigolds and
saw dust zinnia dreams
so rich every flower and

Three children in 1988
climb the old Greek garden
house on Myrtle and 3rd
just before the nasty
school no one liked.

July 3, 1988
Marriage over.
No, not divorce, but final
words and love spent
children keep garden
house and I run down
the street become Ad
man for chemical fairs.
Every poet lives every
day as one image breaks
to another when waves
short or tall crumble
and as slumber takes
over all the lost nights
and unexplained days.
My children are the
great gift and I buy
them with time and
listening to my heart
I now resume words
and stand by dreams
that have intricate gold
braids drawn to choke
the present from past
as life recovers its every
day celebration of schemes
painted and baked with
kiln until stone and stone
are luster against heaven
broken in place of time
when all becomes zero
again and no one counts
life or how we are born.

July 3, 2008
The mountain is calm
and light brown rusted
near green flowers cut
into bare rocks while
the California smoke
from forest fires burns
anniversary to make
what is not pure at least
clean to soften throats
and feed minds natural foods.

Grandson Delaware 
born last month cries
and nurses, sleeps and
raised alert with strong hands
while mother types application
for school aid and read email
that is an echo of our altered
state of mind since 1958.

Fifty years from today
it they year 2058, Delaware
who will call me pappy
created outside of river
driven to sediment
scattered gravity on Pacific
beach where it starts
roller coasters again
riding down the gorge
chasing the stage coast
with guns shouting as
wheels spin away from
death just fast enough
to escape abstract flares
that I can predict now
from reading the palms
of suns in prism of stars.
It is actual and not virtual
that I can predict nothing
now. Who can show life
where only minerals leached
subside in the bubbling springs.

I predict nothing now.
I will be wrong. We all
have our patch of time
and every anniversary
blends from the mountain
mud mixed with serious
blood and the jewels we cut
and sparkle from opaque stones.

Table of Contents

FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 40 | Spring 2013