seeking serious enlightenment
without huge statue
silent bronze buddha
massive european cathedrals
stained rose windows
muslim mosques
with tall minarets
living alone
solitary wilderness days
becoming one with nature
joyful songbirds chattering
musical pine needles hum
rich evergreen scent
surrounded by beautiful wildflowers
wild thimbleberry blossoms
spring campfire smoke
bringing new poems
later cold autumn ashes
scattering words
lost in the winds
“brevities”
licking wet leaves
delicious morning dew
like emily drunk on air
# # # #
thelonious monk
soft jazzy touch
world full of edges
# # # #
poet’s ashes scattered
light wilderness breeze
sky taking him back
# # # #
the splake chair at brautigan creek
the recent cover for “trajectory,” edited by chris helvey in frankford, kentucky, was a photograph of the splake chair located at brautigan creek.
in “trajectory’s” editorial remarks, helvey made reference to my recent book “ahhh” published by transcendent-zero press in houston, texas. he said “it is full of splake’s own inimitable staccato lines like these from “mad memories” – “old route 66/ mother road mainstreet/ concrete road to nirvana. . . . “
“u.p. reader”
there is a new michigan upper peninsula literary magazine, U.P. READER. it is published annually and is edited by mikal classen, of marquette, michigan. i have submitted both poems and photographs on literary spec for consideration in the next edition. in addition, the “splake writing room and library” in the calumet art center, calumet, michigan, will be advertised in the next issue of U.P. READER.
“depot”
the calumet art center press recently published its second title, “depot.” the book is a modest history of the old calumet railroad station. in addition to the historical text, there are several old photographs of the train station and railroad transportation. these photographs came from the michigan technological university archives in houghton, michigan, and the keweenaw national historical park library in calumet, michigan.
in memoriam
ward pratt was one of the new friends i had during the ten years i lived in munising, michigan. during those years of pursuing an understanding of writing poetry, i developed a new, deeper definition of reclusiveness..
ward and i often went fishing together. we seemed to enjoy our silent company while exploring new and used remote fishing sites. a couple of times we busted my old ford bronco through the wilderness and canoed and fished the headwaters of the fox river. many readers remember that it was the fox river that hemingway wrote about in his “nick adams stories.” however, for a more catchy short story title, old papa renamed the river the “big two-hearted.”
sadly ward passed away in november, and is greatly missed. yet, i am certain that he has found a fresh beaver dam in heaven and is waiting this graybeard’s arrival.
fox river odyssey
with nick adams
tried the question a couple of times in seney,
“anyone around who still remembers when ernest
hemingway jumped out the boxcar for a fishing
trip, and made the fox river the “big two-hearted”
of literary fame,
one spring steve at the mobilgas said “the old
SOB probably just came and stayed drunk for a week,
slept under the bridge, never wetting a line, then
went back to the newspaper and made up his fish
story,
next spring, steve’s son alan agreed that this was
probably true,
so i decided to roam around the fox headwaters,
fish, look, and try to find out,
first dawn light drove an aging bronco torturous
miles of winding two-wheel ruts, eventually sliding
a canoe down wet grasses to pond waters, scattering
nesting sandhill cranes, disturbing a beaver family
slapping their tails making hasty retreat,
fast rising un burning off cool morning mist, drying
icy beads in spider webs
black flies constantly hovered, biting clouds of hungry
mosquitos an endless swarm, around a pond dogleg,
portaging two ancient beaver dams, finally arriving at
flooded muskeg meadow of river meanders, one plump
brookie already in creel,
large brown fish hawk lazily circling as the high noon
sun baked hot against the welts rising from my neck, when
i saw nick, shadowy figure resting under some second
growth pines in the distance, where marsh grass turned
to upland soil,
trace of bacon grease and streak of dried condensed milk
in his beard, apple butter pancake and onion sandwich lunch
set before him, laughing at me,
greenhorn trout fisherman furiously grasping at small
willow branches, ass and billfold valuables soaked by
sudden icy plunge, finally pulling free of sinkhole ooze,
cold shock reminder of tragedy waiting the unwary alone
in the woods,
nick mocking the foolish who fish during hot noon,
when high sky and bright sun make trout wary,
temptation to wave, holler adams down to chat, tell
fishing lies, smoke, but quickly recall he did not like to
fish with other men,
so i left him to the bitterns high up among the
pine, cedar, and birches, let him have his dreamy
nap, knowing later when the dark purple clouds and
orange remains turn to dusk
bottle of grasshoppers around his neck, flour
sack tied to waist, he will climb over the log pile
amid cool evening shadows, this time working the
“big fish,” playing the sandy pebbles and gravel
further this time, maybe even into the swamp.
