Saturday, December 10, 2011

Solsttice Burns Lake

Scream of snowmobiles in the dark
Res. Dogs howling on short cold chains
spiked tires sing on frozen fog
coming off the icy road
my snowshoes crunch all day in the forest
soundtrack for a life half over
but far from used up

this is how we enter the tunnel of winter
the darkness
sun mocking on the south horizon
a reflection of it;s summer fullness
this is the curse of the northern tribes
cold reminder of Mortality
Mistakes are magnified by cold
one wrong turn in the dark means a night spent in the forest or worse

but I have survived winters before,
swam through darker days than these
I can still feel the fire of the sun
I've stored it in my heart
stored it in my young
can drink from it like a flaming cup of absinthe
It sustains me while it numbs me

I watch the cold slow sunrise
nine a.m red
ravens on the wire
puffed up
voices like gargled glass

perfect company.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

The Hannay

Ancient River Strangled by time
abandoned by the retreat of the glaciers,
now a ghostly dragons back
oxbow lakes long and deep ,
sand and muck on mountian tops
rocks in the valleys,

even now laced with logging roads
and abandoned mines
primordial spirit is evident
giant moose wallow though the endless bogs
just emerged from Ice
the sand permeates into your boots
the alders and ferns turn to jungle
the moment they are given light.

The stumps of half-century old logging camps
sprout impossible coloured mushrooms.
Life is never denied here
heaving bumps of moriane,s and drumlins
geologic gravel
heaved up and left behind
the whole valley an abandoned ghost of cataclysm
surveyed but never settled
rumours of abandoned homesteads
beneath the understory.
A rotting fence rail sprouting from the moss
a mooses skull w/ mushrooms growing from the sockets
Geology is the poetry of time
writing with the hand of rot
sculpting with a million trickling fingers , sanding with the gusts of wind and waves .
Painting it with the circus of leaves and flowers.


Thursday, March 24, 2011

Peaceful in the forest

It must be peaceful in the forest
they say, half curious with confused condescension
Well I never hear a phone all day
and I'm far from the rodent scurrying
vacuum of empty chatter
I'm out here with the real squirells
Quiet yes
peaceful no
The forest is a long silent war
the trees bear scars, deep frost cracks
twisted stumps and stems as they struggle for the light,
jockey for position
jostle for moisture
fight off beetles and
finally in spite of all this effort
drawn from the very soul of the soil
rooted in the strength of bedrock
die
are torn apart by woodpeckers
and legions of fungi

All illusions of peace
are just anthropomorphic mis-representations
Humans squeezing all life
into our own frantic time-frame
the only peace is balance
death with life

struggle with growth

but at least the phone never
rings
and the squirells never talk politics