Appalachian

Done rumbling,

  soon asleep,

  cold creatures

  breathe mumbling.

Wrinkled deep

  crag preachers

  hulk humbling.

Ancient steep

  stone features

  slow tumbling,

  downward creep.

My teachers

  are crumbling.

Resolve, A Backpacker's Refrain

Though my soles are sore

I’ll not think it a chore

Though my heels feel hewn

I’ll hoof it to a tune

Though my shins seem shattered

I’ll not say it mattered

Though my knees still kneel

I will not appeal

Though my thighs are threshed

I will wake refreshed

Though my back is bent

I will not relent

Though my shoulders sure smolder

I’ll trek till they’re colder

Though my pulse may pound

I will savor the sound

Though my meals are meager

I will not beleaguer

Though my friends may falter

I’ll not be a defaulter

Though my strides shuffle stone

I will stroll on alone

Unrequited

I love her without reserve, committed.

I’ve gladly bowed to her will, submitted.

Yet she would see me drowned despite,

or left lying lame in a shivering night.

She lends no hand when I am crawling,

she stares stonily at my ugly bawling.

My tears pool at her feet unheeded,

she is unmoved, though I have pleaded.

Without forgiveness for my blundering,

exquisite Nature has left me wondering

How to reconcile respect with disdain,

and where to turn when love means pain?

Conifers

It should be noted that,

Above a certain altitude,

Conifers rule Appalachia.

They possess the grace

To concede rigidity

In their positions.

Hardwoods haven’t hope

To stand along the ridges.

They do not negotiate with

Ice. Nor lean for wind.

They have not learned

To shrug and be absolved.

Conifers, though, wisely

Adapt and compromise.

It allows them elevation.

I remark on this,

And fearfully reflect

On things we are doing.

Cubicle Life

I could not

live a cubicle life,

even knowing it

damned me to strife.

Live a cubicle life,

like the others.

Damned me to strife,

me and my brothers.          

Unlike the others

slaving to their debt,

me and my brothers

would sooner sweat.

Slaving to their debt

still loving their toys.

Would sooner sweat

creating credit ploys.

Still loving their toys,

believing greed contrives,

creating credit ploys

destroyed their lives.

Believing greed contrives,

even knowing it,

destroyed their lives.

I could never.

Catamite Catamounts

I fear one creature in this land,

A fear that’s real and makes hairs stand.

I’d not soon hassle brushback hogs,

Been spooked before by feral dogs,

I have distaste of serpents too,

And thank that black bear often shoo.

I’m not ashamed at all to say

I fear the cougar night and day.

Supposedly they are not here,

But talk to woodsmen and you’ll hear

Of signs aplenty to be sure,

For they are near just as before.

A cat they say you will not see,

I’d rather not, it seems to me.

I fear I’d go without a fight,

Stricken to awe by the sheer might

Of a master schooled in silence,

From a kitten versed in violence.

And though they haunt deep in shadow,

I once saw tracks set straight in snow.

I’d trekked alone that winter day,

Up Grandpap toward crag McCrae.

But when I saw fresh feline prints

I thought of nothing save defense.

Quite seldom have I been so bared.

A naked child, yet I was spared.

I felt both fear and great respect

My blood still chills to recollect.

Walters Dam

By God it’s finally happened

This old dam is done

Two hurricanes is one too many

And now the lake will run

Masonry from 1929

Finally giving way

Been leaking for years now

We’ve been waiting for the day

Slowly a seam widened

Then a gaping whole

Out came the life-blood

Water black as coal

They tried to open all the gates

But Walters wasn’t built for this

A hundred thousand CFS

Is coming and won’t miss

So pack it up in Hartford

I hear the sirens howl

Scramble up the hollers

Only eight minutes now

Ninety feet of boiling torrent

Hauling down the gorge

Rolling boulders like marbles

So much for rafting tours

The Pigeon now a raptor

Consuming all downstream

Meanest rapids on earth

A nightmare, not a dream.

Only man could have so erred

Failure was always this fate

We sought to stop the floods

But they will always inundate.

Land of the Free

Land of the free:
Global incarceration king.
In cell blocks sea to C,
You can hear it ring.

Building prisons furiously,
While their choirs sing
Of forgiveness, so spuriously;
Contradiction is their thing.

Maximum sentence screamers,
Oh, look how they're scared:
Their opulence in streamers,
Their lies and cheats be bared.

Surely they are dreamers,
The wealthy who are spared.
Always their false demeanors
Betray they've never cared.

Fear Not

“This land is protected,” 

So we are told.                       

 But I have inspected,   

             

And found it infected                

Where I often strolled. 

“This land is protected.”   

        

That notion is rejected. 

Laws have controlled,              

But I have inspected.               

Waste is often directed            

By those who patrolled

This land. “It’s protected.”       

It leaves me dejected,              

Noting were dozers rolled.       

But I have inspected 

               

Sanctuaries disrespected;         

Priceless places sold.               

“This land isn’t protected,        

            For I have inspected.”






           

Magic Numbers

Ten thousand hours,

four hundred and sixteen days,

give or take a few moments.

Simply trudge it out,

just invest the time

to attain Mastery, They say.

They suppose to simply struggle

is to traject along a charted line.

They reduce expressions to increments,

wielding numb equations.

They are the death of art.

They would cast molten intellect

gladly into a stamping mold.

Genius won’t be bottled,

packaged, and distributed.

It is too volatile.

Like gamma rays,

intangible.

If I doodled in distraction

for thirty-six million seconds

would I displace DaVinci?

They are academics.

They are scientific.

They are not Masters.

Rafters Ought Remember

This river has no rage,

Nor any mercy, in flood.

This river has no thirst,   

Nor appetite, in dead drought.

This river has no voice,

Song or roar, only a sound.

 

This river has no teeth

To mangle, but many stones.

This river has no sight,

Nor vanity, though it awes.

This river has no pride,

Nor dignity, but vast means.

This river has no guile,

Nor treason, but may deceive.

This river has no will,

Yet arrives, seldom delayed.

This river does not sculpt.

It shapes, devoid of design.

This river does not preach:

Hubris soon, humbly repents.

This river does not teach,

But tries us, ever testing.

This river does not think.

Rejoice! It would not be kind.

This river does not feel

Our paddles, pathetic strokes.

This river does not hear

Our profane, panted refrains.

This river is the rain.

Returning, falling again.

Uncia Uncia, In Captivity

I live in dreams

Patrolling Pamir

Karakorum crags

Himalayan moraines

Ancestral haunts

Icy vaulted chisels

Sculptors of our race

Masterful yet fleeting

Whispers in wailing

Whiteout wind

Scenting sheep

Beguiling goats

A Brief History of a River

It began with a drop,

Likely from an icicle

It soon became a trickle

                       

Joined like-minded rivulets

Began to whisper epithets

Seemed to speak of revolution

All while becoming institution

Wrinkled and wore the crust

Drew out detritus and dust

Furrowed fields of mountains

Found fury in rapid fountains

Soothed the jagged young rocks

Smoothed the thirst of our flocks

Bore wary travelers on its back

A friend to those with the knack

Met the foolish with abhorrence

Lent them wisdom by its torrents

Below rolling hills it slowed

Its frightful fervor mellowed

Wound idly through the plains

Brought news of upstream rains

Released the soil bound and sworn

Engendered a harvest to be born

Flooded full, swollen brown

Rolling still trough to crown

It carried on; on and down.

Summit Rush

It never fails.

Around five thousand feet

Blissful apoxia sets in,

And I know I’ve come home.

The grinning begins.

Either soaked in golden sun,

Or buffeted by icy blasts,

My growing addiction to

Adrenaline and endorphins

Is betrayed by the grin.

And I know I’ve come home,

On attaining the peak,

I collect my reward when

Looking there from the top,

Exaltation is unfailingly

Tempered with a piety

I haven’t otherwise got.

And I know I’ve come home.

When the overload occurs

I could scream out, but don’t.

Each tingling sinew of my flesh

And blue spark in my mind

Are roaring cathartic melodies.

Screaming isn’t pious anyway,

And I don’t do it at home.

On inevitably departing,

The grin will sometimes linger,

But more often, I am weighted,

Sobered, in knowing my descent

Is also into sickly artifices.

And I know I’m not at home.

Purgatorio

Faith and doubt
Have left me blind,
For when I have one
The other will mind.

Faith and doubt
Have left me bound,
For some knots loosen
As others grow sound.

Faith and doubt
Have left me deaf:
Their devotees shout
With every breath.

 Faith and doubt
Have left me mute,
Reluctant to choose
In a circular dispute.

 Faith and doubt
Have left me dumb.
When taken together,
They yield zero sum.

 Faith and doubt.
My guts says neither
Is worthy of trust.
Skeptic? Believer?

Rafting (Where I'm from Imitation)

I am from T-grips,
   from NRS and neoprene.
I am from the pump shed.
   (Dank, broiling hot.
    It smelled of mildew.)
I am from the slick-rock algae,
   the pervasive moss,
   the tree limb strainers
   that beckon with death.
I'm from swim beer and throw ropes,
   from Big Rick and Crazy Ray
I'm from combat rafting,
   stolen paddles and whistle blasts,
   signals to tighten up and roll.

From "Don't stand up in whitewater,"
   and "Get your feet up!"
I'm from Earl the river deity,
   and being humbled by hydraulics.
I'm from Hartford and Big Creek.
   Hasty sandwiches and orange juice.
From the finger that Clark lost,
   to a man named Moose;
   the beating Isaac took.
In the outpost are computers,
   pictures of every trip,
   frightened faces awash,
   recalling forgotten runs.
I am from those moments-
   before the waves crested,
   a ropes throw from brothers.

Bubbles Burst Bulldozing Budgets.

As bureaucrats began battle baying,

Debt degraded, deluded, decaying

Blunderers bluffed the bleating blind.

Whither would this warfare wind?

Filers filled with fury spilled.

Stampers stammered, styluses stilled

Loaners lowly longly groaned.

Invested listeners internally intoned.

Politics pandered to panicked pleads.

Conservatives clung to crumbling creeds.

Licentious liberals libeled restraint.

Querulous quacks were quickly quieted.

Argument augmented advanced ailment,

Deepening depressing dollar derailment.

 

Leaving?

I wish to live out there,
Under the trees.
But do I dare?

Would mighty wilderness
Break me to my knees?
I wish to live out there.

Or might nature caress,
Satiate, and please?
But do I dare?

Mountains: my address.
I could cast away keys!
I wish to live out there.

Tempting to regress
And disappear with ease.
But do I dare?

Life without duress,
Under the trees.
I wish to live out there.
But do I dare?

"Progress"

Rolling ridges  
Rushing falls
Deadfall bridges
Wooded halls

 
Water on rock
Thunder of May
Wary birds mock
Hunters seek prey

Moss of old
Ancient empire
Blossoms unfold
Virtue in mire

Man approaches
Spark to tender
Smoke encroaches
Flaming splendor

Laid to waste
Concrete disgrace

Breath of wind
Time may mend