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.
Haywire Poetry
Saturday, December 10, 2011
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
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Jack Russell Terrier Chasing Crows on Garbage Day
flicking tail
bark of a much larger dog
patrols the block
sky filled with mocking black
wings, wednesday
on the edge
of some hapazarded village
not yet old enough to be settled in it's ways
crafty corvids pry and peck
scatter disposable diapers and
chip bags to the smoky wind
the dog never stops can to can he barks
corvids flutter with bags quickly grabbed
but never have time to enjoy fully
their pillage
retreat to the wires and mock
as the mutt barks with every inch
of his tightly wound body
the dog and I are stuck
hunters drawn out of the woods
by love and Loyalty
fealty to our pack
to sit in this strange interface
with forest so close
you can smell it burning
today
but in spring Solomon seal and roses draw us out
fall it's dying mushrooms, highbush cranberries
filling misty air with sour indescribable dank
the crows fade
as we take to the trail
squirells tease us out of town
the crows mocking demons
of our mock creation
sentinels of our
sentence self imposed
One day the villagers will
rise up
the dog- catcher will come
realizing
that the boundries have
been breached
the barbarians are with in the gate
and it's too late to draft a bylaw
today under the tainted sky
no one notices
even to laugh
except the children
and they are on our side.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Requiem for The Cosmic Vagabond
Three lines in a second rate paper
"No service by request of family"
falls miserably short
in commemoration of any man
let alone
one who was my mentor
muse, straight-man , un-indited co-conspirator
un-ending source of bad jokes and good music.
Let us take you
away
away from an inauspicious end
in a town you loved to hate
from a family
who never forgave you
for being the sand
in the vaseline that lubricated
their slide into oblivion
for speaking unpoplar truth
unprofitable truth
for putting your elbows on the
country club table
let us take you away
Let us burn you like the Viking in your heart
let us burn you
in a cathedral of trees
sourrounded by poets ,madmen, gutter punks
farmers and shaman
"Rage against the Machine"
Screaming in the back ground from some unsolicted
anaglog source.
Let us bundle your corpse
into the "Yellow Submarine"
the old Chevy ,heavy on the axles
with books, batteries,
spare alternators and U-joints
Let us light the pyre
Kindle it with bio-diesel
and a big pile of Ben-Franklin Bills
ignited from the cherry of a sticky stick of "the Finest"
"It's not smoke til ya burn it!"
Let us let the old truck burn
hot in the starlight glade
'Til the tank blows and the steel belts glow
White in the embers
Let the flames carry you up
toward the clarity of space
the clarity you always sought
Away from the memories
of Ghettos Burning
of Molesting priests, Insane Mothers
and the chains of smaller betrayals
personal demons
nagging decay of age
Let the high stratos winds lend you their strength
and carry you high.
When the fires have died and all firery toasts have emptied the Tequila
the words once meticulously underlined
of the philosphers have been re-defined
reduced to quietwhirlwinds
of white ash
We will gather your ashes
mingled with the ashes of the words
take them all in the blue boat
weighted with fishing lures
fashioned from the gold in your teeth
to the still waters of Little Bear
We will release all that remains
to the hand of the Blue water
the cloud movie playing overhead
and the soundtrack of the waves
kissing the sacred shore.
"No service by request of family"
falls miserably short
in commemoration of any man
let alone
one who was my mentor
muse, straight-man , un-indited co-conspirator
un-ending source of bad jokes and good music.
Let us take you
away
away from an inauspicious end
in a town you loved to hate
from a family
who never forgave you
for being the sand
in the vaseline that lubricated
their slide into oblivion
for speaking unpoplar truth
unprofitable truth
for putting your elbows on the
country club table
let us take you away
Let us burn you like the Viking in your heart
let us burn you
in a cathedral of trees
sourrounded by poets ,madmen, gutter punks
farmers and shaman
"Rage against the Machine"
Screaming in the back ground from some unsolicted
anaglog source.
Let us bundle your corpse
into the "Yellow Submarine"
the old Chevy ,heavy on the axles
with books, batteries,
spare alternators and U-joints
Let us light the pyre
Kindle it with bio-diesel
and a big pile of Ben-Franklin Bills
ignited from the cherry of a sticky stick of "the Finest"
"It's not smoke til ya burn it!"
Let us let the old truck burn
hot in the starlight glade
'Til the tank blows and the steel belts glow
White in the embers
Let the flames carry you up
toward the clarity of space
the clarity you always sought
Away from the memories
of Ghettos Burning
of Molesting priests, Insane Mothers
and the chains of smaller betrayals
personal demons
nagging decay of age
Let the high stratos winds lend you their strength
and carry you high.
When the fires have died and all firery toasts have emptied the Tequila
the words once meticulously underlined
of the philosphers have been re-defined
reduced to quietwhirlwinds
of white ash
We will gather your ashes
mingled with the ashes of the words
take them all in the blue boat
weighted with fishing lures
fashioned from the gold in your teeth
to the still waters of Little Bear
We will release all that remains
to the hand of the Blue water
the cloud movie playing overhead
and the soundtrack of the waves
kissing the sacred shore.
The First Cattle Driven In
White Devils
Deviled by Flies
Haloed and stung
oppressed by everpresent Hum
Ride on Shouting
through Devils Club swamps
and rocky ridges
Horses slipping
Ride in Cow stink
wet and slippery grass
grass to their bellies
Left Anahim in June
Nineteen and Seven.
to the bleating soundtrack of the calves.
Tetachuck Charlie Hoists his son
His Michel, strong and bright
with shiny new whiteman name
freshly installed by the mumbling priest
"Their Animals smell worst than they do!"
They Laugh
standing on top of an abandoned beaver lodge
as the herd bellows through the Tetachuck Marshes
"Too short, not like moose, I bet they get stuck alot.."
Michel laughs at the strange wallowing beasts
never dreams he'll own his own herd
never dreams fity years of cutting
Cutting the Land with fences
Cutting trees for cabins
Cutting hay with scythe and McCormick Mower
Cutting all he knows into measurable peices
The Herd moves on
leaving behind strange tracks
in strange black mud
The first cow pies
on the hillside
instantly swarm with flies...
taint the air with faint ammonia
for several days
The herd moves on
first to feast on virgin meadows
then to starve
at Tatalrose
on Meager haystacks
chewing Tag Alder
never dreaming winter could last so long
On to grow fat and sleek
with the railroads and the mines
Beefsteak on the mess hall table
Protien for the collective Muscle
Building the ancient land
into straight lines
Bridging the rivers
This day, Crossing the Tetachuck Marshes
the Bovine invaders
have no inkling
of the destiny they bring
to this new land
They only see fresh grass ahead
Hoarse throated cowboys behind
and flies all around.
Nathan Nicholas
July 2005.
Deviled by Flies
Haloed and stung
oppressed by everpresent Hum
Ride on Shouting
through Devils Club swamps
and rocky ridges
Horses slipping
Ride in Cow stink
wet and slippery grass
grass to their bellies
Left Anahim in June
Nineteen and Seven.
to the bleating soundtrack of the calves.
Tetachuck Charlie Hoists his son
His Michel, strong and bright
with shiny new whiteman name
freshly installed by the mumbling priest
"Their Animals smell worst than they do!"
They Laugh
standing on top of an abandoned beaver lodge
as the herd bellows through the Tetachuck Marshes
"Too short, not like moose, I bet they get stuck alot.."
Michel laughs at the strange wallowing beasts
never dreams he'll own his own herd
never dreams fity years of cutting
Cutting the Land with fences
Cutting trees for cabins
Cutting hay with scythe and McCormick Mower
Cutting all he knows into measurable peices
The Herd moves on
leaving behind strange tracks
in strange black mud
The first cow pies
on the hillside
instantly swarm with flies...
taint the air with faint ammonia
for several days
The herd moves on
first to feast on virgin meadows
then to starve
at Tatalrose
on Meager haystacks
chewing Tag Alder
never dreaming winter could last so long
On to grow fat and sleek
with the railroads and the mines
Beefsteak on the mess hall table
Protien for the collective Muscle
Building the ancient land
into straight lines
Bridging the rivers
This day, Crossing the Tetachuck Marshes
the Bovine invaders
have no inkling
of the destiny they bring
to this new land
They only see fresh grass ahead
Hoarse throated cowboys behind
and flies all around.
Nathan Nicholas
July 2005.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Haying season
Haying Season( for PT Maguire)
Dust frozen by sunlight
precious time captured
like spiderweb dew in dawn rays
this brotherhood of men
working like the Chinese
ass-up-headdown-wheelbarrow-legg-ed struggle
iconoclasts of the land
still striving
while the air conditioned proletariet
dismisses sweat
disdains the communion of the land
assumes food comes from a package.
the fishbowl of Blue
Sky with fields
Hinting at the curvature of the earth
This is where the Sun is Harvested
Turned to Hay
Neat square bales
in clouds of green dust
wearing yellow googles -
Moose-hide chaps still stink
of Injun piss as they protect
the legs from the stem stratched rythm
Knee-up-kick
the Bales going up
rumbling swaying old blue truck,
a deck in a sea of blue sky and
brown stubble
Smelling sweet in the stifling heat
Top of the Barn
tin roof pinging
with the blast of afternoon heat
dust rising
captured by light through
film cobwebbed windows
Great walls of green
going up 50 pounds at a time
Thousand bale days
wring water from our souls
so deep only the lake
can quench our thirst
immersed
home-made-beer sweating
in a mug
the first pint hardly tasted going down.
the Old man Prayerfully rates the day
fingers folded after a meal fresh from the garden
"with two hands and a will..."sez he"Any thing can be accomplished.."
and then he drifts off
head swaying to the crunk of the baler
lost in replaying the cloud-movie behing his eyelids.
so the day ends
swimming into sleep
dust frozen once again by sunset rays
dew formed by the breath
of the sleeping land.
Dust frozen by sunlight
precious time captured
like spiderweb dew in dawn rays
this brotherhood of men
working like the Chinese
ass-up-headdown-wheelbarrow-legg-ed struggle
iconoclasts of the land
still striving
while the air conditioned proletariet
dismisses sweat
disdains the communion of the land
assumes food comes from a package.
the fishbowl of Blue
Sky with fields
Hinting at the curvature of the earth
This is where the Sun is Harvested
Turned to Hay
Neat square bales
in clouds of green dust
wearing yellow googles -
Moose-hide chaps still stink
of Injun piss as they protect
the legs from the stem stratched rythm
Knee-up-kick
the Bales going up
rumbling swaying old blue truck,
a deck in a sea of blue sky and
brown stubble
Smelling sweet in the stifling heat
Top of the Barn
tin roof pinging
with the blast of afternoon heat
dust rising
captured by light through
film cobwebbed windows
Great walls of green
going up 50 pounds at a time
Thousand bale days
wring water from our souls
so deep only the lake
can quench our thirst
immersed
home-made-beer sweating
in a mug
the first pint hardly tasted going down.
the Old man Prayerfully rates the day
fingers folded after a meal fresh from the garden
"with two hands and a will..."sez he"Any thing can be accomplished.."
and then he drifts off
head swaying to the crunk of the baler
lost in replaying the cloud-movie behing his eyelids.
so the day ends
swimming into sleep
dust frozen once again by sunset rays
dew formed by the breath
of the sleeping land.
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