Thursday, June 25, 2015

June 25 -- Lost in Nature


26 comments:

  1. _Lost in nature, John? Not so much_

    Re: your story about Sears.
    One place I have never gotten lost is in
    A department store, John. Otherwise I get lost
    All the time in urban settings. I dream about being lost
    In foreign cities — cathedrals looming, strange stores
    And I’m always being told to retrace my steps
    And those steps always lead to the loading dock
    Of a train station - but I
    Digress.
    Re: doing something stupid in nature.
    John, I don’t get lost in nature because I stay
    On the trail and if that doesn’t work I walk down
    The road like he and I did that time in Orcas and walk
    Back to the parking lot that way. Look I said here
    Are the paddle boats and here is the restroom I used
    Before we got on that trail that ended and there was
    That young girl running down off the trail in a skirt
    And Tevas. We looked at her wonderingly — we have
    Never been hike-in-sandals sort of people except that
    One time in France we went out for lunch and there I was
    Hiking up a mountain in high heels and a dress — I felt
    Stupid until I got to the top and saw 5 other women in
    Pencil skirts and stilettos. I looked at them and then at
    The view. I lost myself in it.
    Re: So there it is at last, John!

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    Replies
    1. Re: Good poem Stephanie! Re: I love the stylistic choices.

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    2. FW: FW: FW: This is a great poem, you ought to read it

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    3. thanks for letting me talk to you John.... re: sears. :-)

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    4. I never get tired of saying how much I love reading you.

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  2. I became lost in the Sierra above a valley named Mineral King .
    I decided to cut across switchbacks and ended up losing the trail
    for several terrifying hours.
    The area is home to some of the oldest trees on earth.
    The giant redwoods have survived centuries of wild fires and heavy snow.
    A band of colonists even tried to form a utopian society by cutting them down,
    cutting themselves off from the world
    and now here I was too cut off from my utopia.
    My only hope was to retrace my steps
    go back the way I came
    and pray I’d find the trail again, which eventually happened after I spotted one of the massive trees
    with a huge face-like burl staring down at me.
    I remembered the landmark and it led me to safety. Those colonist,
    the Kaweans, had to go back too after the government revoked their homestead
    to save the remarkable trees
    and in doing so probably saved me

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    Replies
    1. That's fantastic and what a tie in with me filming it there!

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    2. Thought you would get a kick out of that John. Love MK been going there for many years. Mosaic published my short story The Trail (I won an award for it) about this very incident!

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  3. Lost in This Wild World

    what is this place
    who are these creatures

    here I am in this
    strange room these
    odd animals sitting

    in neat little rows
    facing front hands
    calm on their little

    tables could I open
    my table and hide
    in the space

    with my lunch
    books pencils
    and papers

    the big beast up
    front is yammering
    invading my mind

    if I lay my
    head down
    they’ll all
    go away

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  4. I don't ever recall being lost anywhere because wherever I go there I am

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    Replies
    1. you can never go wrong with a good Buckaroo Banzai quote. :)

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  5. Mingling With Bodie's Ghosts

    The heat is so thick, it feels like you can chew it
    Baring down, I can almost reach up and touch the sun
    There's no wind, to swirl the dust along the main street
    The weeds cry out, their silent screams for mercy

    The tour begins, at the old Shell gas pump at the end of the road
    My eyes wide, I fixate immediately on the rusted bullet holes
    I'm surrounded by the clicks of cameras, capturing the lost moment
    The echos of technology, are strolling down the streets of Bodie

    We stop at the old saloon, its crusted windows holding back time
    There are dozens of abandoned bottles, at different levels of emptiness
    I can hear the clinking of the glass, the shuffling of boots against wood
    The clack, clack, clack of the faded roulette wheel, and I am lost in it

    As I move on to the hotel, giggles and whispers drift down from the balcony
    Ladies of the night, begin to catcall the miners as they pass on the street
    A hand covers my eyes, while another ushers me past the harlots
    My face burns hot, not from the sun, but from knowledge of the forbidden

    Further down, I stop and mourn the burned remains of the church
    Its bell still ringing, calling the faithful and long departed, to mass
    Faintly I hear singing, the choir lifting its hollow voice to the Lord
    The words are forgotten, and yet somehow can still be felt

    I'm diatracted by voices, coming from the general store
    Laughter and cussing and dickering, as men buy and sell their goods
    I pick up the pace, sensing a tension in the stagnant air
    a shot rings out, but of course, there is no shooter

    The clatter of carriages and clomping of hooves excites me
    I can smell the stench of horse apples, sweat and black powder
    The jingling of coin, the creaking of scales, the striking of matches
    I drink in the music, a symphony of wild west life, and I am lost in it

    At the end of the road, the tour abruptly ends
    The voices of the present, rush back into my ears
    I stand before the cemetery, with its cockeyed gates and worn headstones
    And can't help but feel, as though a part of me is buried in those graves

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  6. Molly, fantastic. I think this might be your strongest of the month. It really captures the feel of the place and the genre of that kind of poetry!

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    Replies
    1. Thank you!! That trip was hands down my favorite family vacation. I still feel kind of foolish though, having zero experience in writing poetry (before this month) so, I'm not even sure what kind of poem I wrote. I just put my memories down and held my breath :)

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    2. Actually, that's kind of what poetry is!

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  7. Lost in Rhyme

    I used to be confined by the lines with rhyme
    Always taking time to find the right lines
    To end in rhyme
    always defining
    The world of words
    always designing
    With compromising and hiding
    behind the rhyme when deciding
    What words occur in words constraining
    To try and find the rhyme abstaining
    To say what I really want to say in verse
    When I can right without a fight to thirst
    for words to flow and figuring prose
    Flows like
    water around
    the rock
    in the river
    The difference of the poem the poet considers
    Every line as a better time
    endeavoring to find unfettered rhyme
    Free as a bird
    with wings
    to begin
    Flight into the night stretching again
    To motion within the emotion in making
    A poem alone to poetry forsaking
    The choice to use the rhyme and lose
    what is wrong
    And the poem we choose is a song we long
    Free as a bird
    Free as a river
    Free as the words
    we freely deliver
    Endeavoring the spring
    to bring forth flowing
    Forever to sing
    Believing in knowing

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    Replies
    1. Holy crap I am so out of my league. .. that was AWESOME!!!

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    2. Like the poem expresses rhyme as a form confined to always be constrained in it's reason, but being you are on the right track free to say what you have to say, keep it up and find the emotion in the poem.

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    3. That was awesome Daryl! Fantastic. You really took this concept and ran with it!!

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  8. Russian Scrabble

    On our first Christmas together
    snow covered the sidewalk,
    the street, the park across the street,
    the neighbors’ rooftops. We played
    Scrabble in Russian. I left you
    to decipher squiggles in the dictionary
    and went for a walk in the new
    white world. I crossed the bridge
    that led from apartments to houses
    where smoke spiraled up from chimneys;
    trees were lit in living room windows.
    The snowplows were still locked
    in their corrals, the snow too high
    for cars to pass, the squeak of snow
    beneath my boots the only sound.
    My feet grew cold and I found myself
    in a strange new world, could not retrace
    my steps in the falling snow. All the warm
    houses turned their backs on me,
    the white streets hostile. I don’t know
    how I found my own third-floor home
    across this unfamiliar distance. Up two
    flights of stairs to my tree-level rooms
    and there you were at the kitchen table,
    setting Cyrillic tiles to form words
    more unfamiliar than the white streets
    that finally led me home.

    TM

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    Replies
    1. That's wonderful. That metaphor working through it is really brillian.

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  9. Russian Scrabble

    On our first Christmas together
    snow covered the sidewalk,
    the street, the park across the street,
    the neighbors’ rooftops. We played
    Scrabble in Russian. I left you
    to decipher squiggles in the dictionary
    and went for a walk in the new
    white world. I crossed the bridge
    that led from apartments to houses
    where smoke spiraled up from chimneys;
    trees were lit in living room windows.
    The snowplows were still locked
    in their corrals, the snow too high
    for cars to pass, the squeak of snow
    beneath my boots the only sound.
    My feet grew cold and I found myself
    in a strange new world, could not retrace
    my steps in the falling snow. All the warm
    houses turned their backs on me,
    the white streets hostile. I don’t know
    how I found my own third-floor home
    across this unfamiliar distance. Up two
    flights of stairs to my tree-level rooms
    and there you were at the kitchen table,
    setting Cyrillic tiles to form words
    more unfamiliar than the white streets
    that finally led me home.

    TM

    ReplyDelete