If you build it they will come.
And I did, not intentionally for him…
now them, but we never know how we
might be blessed by a cheap plastic pool
aslant In red clay hole, dug despite screaming,
deteriorating bone’s protest, now homing
lily pads teasing bloom and tadpole cloud;
a tinge of hope, of promise of life to come.
The instant he heard the cry, distinctly feminine, a moan of pain soften with a sigh, perhaps of acceptance, he knew his plan might be shot to shit. He had frozen at the sound, right artificial knee painfully pushing against the fern covered ground, left leg descending the steep decline braced again a long dead pine. Rolling to his back, he extended his right leg grunting at his own pain and listened carefully; a pileated woodpecker called in flight at a far distance. That was not what he had heard; the cry was human. Listening so carefully now, he heard water, a gentle rush; no wind, nothing more. He relaxed his unconscious, painful grip on his hiking staff and his fingers tingled in thanks.
The water below, hidden by verdant foliage, would be Bobcat Creek. According to the Bear Claw Mountain Wilderness map the trail he had left hours ago was the closest one to this point. There were no official trails this far up the creek, but maybe it was paddleable? He continued to listen. He had left Carter’s Ridge trail and descended at an angle heading further to the north planning to cross the creek and again ascend at an angle up to Bear Claw Ridge, the most remote acreage of the wilderness; trail bare supposedly. There! It came again, yes, from below toward the creek, maybe to his left a bit! This time it was a sharp grunt; an indication of effort, of movement. Shit! He didn’t call out or make a sound. He had to rest a bit. This stopping, this sudden freezing of movement allowed fatigue to catch and mock; punish him. This was not going to be the end of his final walk! He would persevere. He would not be that yellow-skinned, yellow-eyed man with the oxygen tank strapped to his wheelchair, tubes in his nose, pushed by his caregiver through the waiting room, followed by dozens of eyes including his, not yet jaundiced, staring at their own same perceived destinies. Fuck cirrhosis!
His end would be of his choosing; the time, the place, the circumstance. Over the past few months he had let go of most things including possessions, which had been surprisingly easy; almost joyful at times. He felt he had lived a good life; been a good person, but friends and family, passion and the years had gradually seeped away of their own accord. He had never craved trophies or accolades; he knew his worth. He had been so careful. No one knew or, for that matter, cared where he might be; far away from any acquaintance, no cards used for weeks, no records, nothing. All he wanted was one last walk, no matter had steep, to a final resting place in the wild. A burial performed by creatures wild and roaming; a scattering. Ha! Maybe this dying shit does affect your brain, I guess! There! Again, the plea, which wasn’t a plea, sounded from below; a mumbling….maybe names said, not called. A song? If he could find her; what help could he be? He could never pull her out of here. But, if there was a canoe, it might be possible, but…she might be on her own last walk. A twin soul! He knew that if he stopped now and did not make it to Bear Claw ridge by tomorrow, that he probably never would. They, he and the voice, might survive for a while; be found. Rescued! Bullshit! He could die here near the creek, perhaps with the voice calling from below, but they would be found and he would eventually be interred with a monument stone that would eventually tarnish and fall aslant and birds, and wind and falling rain would never hold his memorial.
“Are you coming? I am here….waiting for you! Please!”
Funeral Processions; yes, I've followed a few; led two
in the second vehicle, the family car, after the Hearse.
Yesterday on the bypass on way to the nursing home
I fell behind another; a slow, near stalling motorcade;
multiple police blue lights flashing at crossroads,
extended parade of taillight's paying homage. Then,
exit to Glory Gardens' acres and acres of Departures;
the ridge cresting crypts; roadside hugging flat stones.
Was the honored one a past friend I had forgotten?
Past is the word noting my ascension into the Present,
in which I have chosen, requested of my son, a plot;
a boundless plot unmarked, his choosing, along a creek,
a wilderness home where a discreet casting of ashes
elicits only bird hymns and fern frond's silent prayers,
and an endless cleansing by the gurgling creek
and scents of flowing seasons to converse with me.
For weeks they came daily; grackles and
vultures swarming in plagues and kettles
descending to take, devour claimed food.
A scold of jays bitching from leafless trees
did nothing to deflect or deter the feedings.
Now they are gone; the migrant portions
of their species; the uneasy, the unsettled,
the searchers. For days by my windows I
stood entranced, aching to leave, to gorge;
imploring them to take me along to soar.
Soybean rows paved the fields in tan shades
heralding by their dryness a nearing harvest;
a crop, a cycle, a promise of a fulfillment.
Lean, overalled, old man paces his fields;
squatting, testing multiple plants’ readiness.
A taciturn self can’t hide the bliss of Harvest.
A seventeen-year-old boy has harvested,
with, according to companions, “extreme
happiness,” a young, rare albino antelope.
Ask about the hunt, the harvester said,
“I‘m was so happy! I couldn’t git a breath!”
Culls blood runs thick-red over white hair.
“News! Breaking news! News just for you!
An illicit harvesting may have just occurred!
Apparently, the Harvester did not issue
any notifications prior to this culling and
states his intent was ‘totally eradicate, not
mere persecution, of those sordid, ethic beast!’”.
The old man saw her the moment he pulled into the the convenience store parking lot at the four-way stop; by the dumpster; a frail, hollowed creature hardly able to stand. “Fuck!” He made his way inside trying not to glance at her again. He decided on a twelve pack instead of six and a liter of Sweet Red and slowly with practiced care made his way back to the car. He wasn’t going to look but he did. “Fuck fuck”! She was lying by the dumpster now, still in the hot sun, struggling to raise her head. He bumped his forehead against the steering wheel, really too hard, trying to activate some sense which was he knew not going to happen. Again, slowly, he left the car and opened the rear passenger door. Leaving it open he made his way to the dumpster talking dog talk. The old dog seemed aware of his intentions and stilled her head on the ground obviously hoping for good, but ready, he could see it in her eyes, to accept whatever. She was blackish, short-haired with mangy spots and gruesomely starved. The old man grunted in pain as he tried to lift the now limp fur-bag of dangling bones. She whimpered a bit as he managed to lift her. Making it up with a jerk but still hunched over, the dogs shameful light weight pulled him forward and downward as he stumbled toward the open car door. But the four-way stop and some dumbass, forever unknown, intervened; blaring horns and a loud crash of metal caused him to jerk his head up, offsetting his balance. Knowing what was coming, with all he had, he tried to twist his body around as he fell, to protect her. When he hit, the back of his head bounced twice against the hot asphalt. The dog, though trembling, was still in his arms and he knew they had survived, for the moment. The raucous in the streets fell to silence. Everything did. There was nothing but the feel of his clutched bundle; the touch sense was strangely familiar, soothing, like a reoccurring dream; one he did not want to abandon. Gradually, sound seeped back, and it was the running, gurgling of creek water. Singing Creek ran as always washing, polishing its precious stones formed over millenniums. The cold water sliding over his feet, as he carefully tested with his toes the slickness of each stepping stone, soothed him. Beth was there, too, but not being so careful. She was doing more of a stumbling dance, skinny arms flying about mimicking what he did not know. She seemed distracted by the cute kid with his assumed dad across the creek on the falls viewing platform. “Careful Honey. It will get slicker the further we go. Do you know that boy? "A little.” “Is a little enough?” “Jeeze! dad!” she scolded him with her 11-year-old mind your own damn business face. “I love you too!” he smiled. They reached the huge boulders that formed the lip of the falls. The actual falling part was a narrow surge in the center and dropped maybe six feet during wet season. They had walked the trail to the north bank. From that side the boulders sloped down to creek level and were less smooth and polished, even jagged in spots with only enough water trickling over them to keep them slick. Beth, a resolute non-swimmer avoided the center, and continued her unscripted, flirting dance. He knew he should warn her again, but he had really never seen her so out of herself. He hardly recognized his daughter, normally so quiet, meek, even sullen at times. Of course, it only took one tiny, slimy slick of Diatoms to create havoc. Beth, her arms shooting straight up, gasped, but he was close enough to grab her and they fell together onto the sloping, sculpted granite. He managed to land on his back. A snaggy protrusion tore into his left shoulder, stealing his breath. Beth was immediately fighting his tight grip, struggling for release. “What are you doing?” she screamed. He couldn’t find air to ask if she was ok, but he released her squirming body, and she did an immediate crawling run to the bank. Still on his back, his eyes followed her struggling escape and he saw blood on her knees and saw her calling to him, again with a scolding face, but the sounds were a blasphemous cacophony foreign to the quiet, reverent creek. Horn blares bashed the old man’s head while his eyes squinted against the harsh sun. The dog, still in his clutch, was quiet. He rolled to look at his car only a few feet away. No one was around them. Releasing his grip, he slid the dog to the pavement and grunted his way to his knees and then to his feet. Grasping the dogs rear feet, whose eyes were still open and darting with awareness, he dragged her to the opened door without resistance. With one stooping movement and another stuttering grunt, he grasped the dog; half lifting, half dragging, heaving her into the seat. Sirens screamed in their approach. The only unblocked exit from the store was south and he quickly took it before it too was blocked. Half a mile south and he turned left starting a swing north towards the vet clinic. When he reached for the lease hanging by the door Old Dog was immediately there; her untrimmed nails keeping time to her clumsy-jumpy dance on the hardwood floor. His phone rang. “Shit!” It was Beth who he hadn’t actually seen in over three years. He plopped back down into his chair. Old Dog, disappointed, lay her gray muzzle on his knee. “Hey Honey, how you doing? I thought you died.” “Not yet. We ‘re still apartment bound. We even get our groceries delivered and we are doing the HelloFresh meals thing. We haven’t been out in maybe three weeks. It’s still terrible down here, so many cases and they are redoing the apartments landscaping so there is noise constantly. It’s hard to get any work done.” “IT nerds have a rough life don’t they?” “Ha ha! How are you doing? Bob told me you fell trying get a dog or something. You’re eighty…eighty something, now? You need to be more careful.” “That was months ago and no big deal. I’ve got a new best friend I have to take out dancing all the time.” “Dancing! You?” “It is a metaphor, honey.” “Oh, one of them thangs.” Old dog’s eyes lit up at the ensuing silence. “You two need to get out. Move back to the mountains. Come and see me. OK?” “Maybe someday.” Another silence. “Some ones knocking at the door and the dog has got to go out and pee.” “I’ll let you go. My emails going crazy, anyway. Love you!” “Love you, too!” Sorry I told a lie in front of you. Maybe, you do have to pee. Hey, let’s drive down to the lake. I know this cool creek that flows over a small falls and into the lake. I haven’t been there in probably forty-something years. I want to see if is as I remember or if my mind is playing with me. We can walk to it if we take it slow. We have water bottles in the car. Want to go? Old Dog did her butt wiggling, nail tapping dance in the affirmative. The old man’s mind was on the fall. He wondered if Beth remembered the fall at the falls. Surely she would; he knew she was just like him, never forgetting or letting go of a moment like that. Why had she stomped off up the trail leaving him in her wake of anger? Embarrassment in front of the kid across the creek? Could it be that simple? He knew he would never know because he would never ask, and she would never tell.
Days flow in incandescent, pollen-tinted light
moment by hour by millennium unstoppable;
sinuously hand in hand with time, their free arms
throw outward, chests pump to boast of being one
with the flow’s blasting bellow of life heard only
mutely by us, whispering under our constant din
of rants, proclamations and squeals of whiny ills.
As the river scrounges, ravishing, stealing
fish cavern walls from beneath its own banks
that hinder the flow it knows no purpose only
the god of movement’s flood. Stopping is death.
The mother oak by strength and massive reach
commands her hill only by chance and entrée
by tenacious grasp of Gaia’s breast sucking
the flow of mother’s milk. Her mammoth face
in breeze sings praise. The flow, not by beat,
but by constancy plays the melody of her song.
This is a slightly revised version of a poem originally posted in October 2012. I am slowly adding photos to each old post and, in a sense, reliving past memories and experiences; some sweet, some not so much.
Drenching us in golden sheets of birthing scents Gaia rustles us awake, aware to lift our heads and sniff her tactile sky of soothing intoxicates. We close our smiling eyes, caressing the moment. Kakia too does lift her nose to sniff, but fearing being seen, quickly jerks her head away to hide that twinge of delight she so distains and denies; her repressed smile contorts her face in pain. But Gaia sees all; even those flickers of Hope on Kakia's face and ours before we try to cast them aside; to be buried in our vaults of need and greed. All allures could not blanch todays golden sheets.
I Love Dirt! Even when poor, bland, dusty gray,
malnourished with no visible creatures crawling,
it is striving, maneuvering, clawing for sustenance
which we humanoids doltishly claim---and destroy
as ours in our ignorance of life's cycles and needs.
Dirt life will survive. Microbes are the living flow
with an innate Atlas persistence stronger than ours,
a will to live, to build by devouring---then sharing
a bite here, a bite there, yielding a crunch to savor
for them and for us; a taste of hope on craving lips.
A persistence of billions of living, moving lives
flow unseen by our minds and eyes, self-duped to
cherish only ourselves, not Archaea, Bacteria, Fungi,
Virus, Protists or any of those "creepy nasty things"
which are our true Creators, Sustainers and only Hope.
Redbird on waxleaf privet branch calls as he has a billion times past; enticing. Cheer--cheer--cheer--pretty--pretty we mimic, but what is he really saying; mere yakking, indoctrination, concert or berating, teasing, making fun of me as I sit in my closed windowed-box feeling belittled for my lack of a song? Swaying leaves, twitching penumbra, cast by light through my window, dance upon my dull blue wall to an ancient choral refrain. Even leaf-light has a song! What is my song? I don't know the words, the rhythm, the rhyme, the point of worth. Was the first song a mere utterance of awe; wonderment in the presence of sunlight. "Ah! Ah!" will be my song! I sing to the leaves and they freeze for just an instant to listen. Then, crackling into brilliant light slivers, they resume their own soft, dancing song.
Belated Words 