Long Grizzlies Poems
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at 6:18 a.m. there was a loud crash in the woods
It startled Ed due to the hours of silent prelude
He lifted his Browning 1885 high wall to his shoulder
Thinking he was about to get a Canadian moose
More unbelievable silence
This time Ed was anxious, watching, waiting,
He finally put the rifle down
Two grown grizzlies stormed out of the brush
heading toward him with lots of teeth and claws
Ed was lucky enough to be right next to his moose stand.
He swung himself up on the first rung and climbed as if to save his life
The snarling and growling lasted for hours
Ed curled into his sleeping bag
Attempting to quiet his triple-time-beating heart
Hair rose up on the back of his neck with each snarl and growl
She was taken by bears;
that was the unlikely consensus -
dragged off in her sleeping bag,
tracks confirmed.
She lodged with the grizzlies,
growing sturdy, unusually hirsute
for a human girl,
but pretty in a wide-bottomed way.
Eventually she mated.
Frank Goddard and his buddy,
mistaking her form,
had her in his sights one winter.
He almost pulled the trigger
on his 30-06 Cal,
but saw that she was with cubs,
they were leaf-mossed bundles
of mewing need.
A calling wind demanded she leave
to live by herself alone.
She cried when she left the bear clan.
Many lean years past,
but she stayed in the wilderness.
Her limbs lost their ursine strength,
her body shrank,
became twiggy and hollow.
A party of campers from Cleveland
claimed to have seen her
buzzing through the tree's,
humming.
She grew wizened. No new leaf
uncurled in her, then she died.
Bob Turner found her remains
as he led a group of Eagle Scouts
over the 'Big Hole' mountain pass.
She had kept the sleeping bag,
and had made it something
she wore like an animal spirit.
Scavengers had eaten most of her,
but the bears killed the animals,
and brought them back
to lay beside her scatterings.
The Scouts took pictures
and reported the find to Rangers,
but the Chippewa Cree
had removed all sign of her death
by the time folks returned.
We're on an Alaska cruise - Hoonah Hoonah
Seeing many scenic views - all de Hoonah day
Gonna sail all night - gonna sail all day
Spending money in the tourist shops - all de Hoonah day
Skagway, Juneau, no debate - Hoonah, Hoonah
All seem similar 'til Icy Strait - where the Tlingit stay
Hoonah is the town - not of great renown
Grizzlies, whales and people coexist - that's the Hoonah way
Souvenirs seem much less tacky here - in Hoonah Hoonah
Authenticity won't disappear - all de Hoonah day
Though it's quite remote - it will get my vote
As a place you'll be surprised to like - all de Hoonah day
The earth shakes, quakes;
belches up ash, rock and smoke;
spitting tsunami’s and cyclone winds.
Here and there,
extinct species reappear,
as if they’d been spewed from cavern’s, at earth’s core;
perhaps they’ve been hiding for centuries.
As fracking splits the earthen floor and sea beds;
unseen and long forgotten creatures,
rise to exact revenge.
Churning waterspouts awaken sleeping dinosaurs,
while angry winds, spank the trees and buildings.
Who wouldn’t awaken to such a maddening tantrum?
Even the dead, in their graves,
are coughed up in droves,
as Mother Earth’s womb, is ripped apart;
by human abuse.
When…tell me of one time, just one, when…
You saw a lion shoot another, with an assault rifle or
a pack of wolves, building a bigger bomb?
I dare you tell me of just one!
Grizzlies don’t burn down forests; mankind does.
Mankind…is there any kindness about mankind;
once corporate demons, have taken control.
You’ll never see a canine, selling slaves;
no feline littering; no squirrel or rabbit,
dumping toxic waste into oceans.
Only man…unkind…destroys.
Isn’t it time for the human species,
to develop a conscience?
No, it’s past time!
Buttered pancakes, hot cocoa, cinnamon sticks,
Knitted neck shawls, all buttoned up jackets, "Phew,"
Some are ice skating, or skiing, and sledding,
~~"Ohh Little...," is sung,
Fabric weaves hills of ivory silk frosting,
Spilling streams of cream, pouring milk all astir,
Grizzlies, snoring, un-grizzled hibernal eve,
~~day's sun soon freezes,
Night has fallen ... sleep for some while others aren't,
Stars found a place for dangling nighttime twinkles,
Classic moon balm tryst desires, tarries sunrise,
~~hourglass sands sun soon.
I know if I could ever reach you,
i'd come to say I'd love to meet you...
In the days that lie beneath the open face,
in the simplest ways we live in our craze-
and the wildest braves...
They take up our maze,
and say to this-
to have no worries
or heartaches belonging,
no trendy tripping,
or grizzlies existing-
we may wonder aloud,
and take stake in each other,
even the faintest pictures of ourselves-
of the goal,
to bind with the sacred,
or even to just smile...
Because I know that if I could ever reach you,
I'd come to say I'd love to meet you...
In the plainest most original redemption song,
we'd never leave you behind as even a token-
printed with ancient words.
Three truant scholars spending our sabbaticals
in crisp Colorado, we all re-read Walden,
dared to drink from streams so icy clear
the fish seemed suspended in mid-air.
Our flimsy nylon shelters shielded us
from what weather there was to worry on,
as summer slipped to autumn
and autumn waned winterward.
Four full years past we trekked those trails
through stands of timber frequented by fox,
by birds, by deer -- and by growling grizzlies.
We walked well-wooded hillsides
of mixed conifers and broadleaf.
In deep drafts we breathed the earthy air.
Now, when my son hugs his honey bear,
red-jacketed, black-button eyed,
I see the hellish maw, the bloodied claw,
of the darkish-brown raging beast
that tore off my arm and maimed
two sages, amid the yellow quaking aspen
where, yet, that gory grizzly ages.
The late may sunlight is bathing a monument of Nature
so colossal in sculpted vertical structure
that it may very well be the palace complex of forgotten supermen,
stories from my childhood pastor of biblical Petra
discovered by Crusaders, or the Temple of Ramesses in Egypt
emerge in my mind as we course through this valley of watered chisled fascades,
sandstone worked by the trickles of centuries
has created craftsmanship of rusticly romanesque grandeur,
pillars, cornices, porticos, grotesque statuary
invites the imagination into the architecture of antiquity
and the legacy that looms in the landscape of divine forces,
these are the White Cliffs of America
born from the bone of Divinity
and worked by the water of will,
Coming out of the Atlantis precinct as Clark calls it
a fork in the river confronts us like a new religion
a pathway heretofore unknown to our shadowed souls,
the Hidatsas mentioned nothing of this avenue,
I am angered hot by this suprise of doom
if we choose the wrong river we find only dreadful failure,
both waterways are mighty , broad, and of a similar depth,
one goes northwest the other southwest,
I swear my brain is gonna burst,
Clark is bracing himself against a tree as if he is waiting for a heart attack,
nobody knows blue from black at this juncture
and the guys are gettin hyper as horses amid thunder,
after discussing the odds he and I return to camp
as professional officers, no doubts, only orders,
two small detachments , one led by me, the other by Ordway
will traverse on foot one river each
up to forty miles examining clues like owls on a mouse's trail,
each party is on extra alert for bear and Indians,
grizzlies have become a common monster lately
sometimes requiring 12 shots to subdue,
they are infamous for their zombie qualities
having freakish endurance and bloodlust while being injured,
as for the natives, one only knows after eyes are shown,
J.A.B.
She was taken by bears, that was the consensus,
dragged off in her sleeping bag; tracks confirmed.
Later the child was eaten, but not before she died of old age.
She lodged with the Grizzlies, growing sturdy, unusually hirsute
for a human girl, but pretty in a wide-bottomed way.
Frank Goddard and his hunting buddy Pete
had her in his sights one winter. He almost pulled the trigger
on his bolt action 30-06, but saw she was different and with her cubs.
They were leaf-mossed bundles of mewing need.
She was foraging for dead squirrels.
After one exceptionally hard year, an old bear warned her.
“We should have chewed you up, buried you in the forest
in juicy frozen lumps for when the hunger gnaws.” Said the bear.
She cried when she left the bear clan and her cubs,
but she stayed in the wilderness. Her limbs lost their ursine strength,
her body shrank, became twiggy and hollow.
A party of campers from Cleveland claimed to have seen her
buzzing through the tree’s, humming.
She grew wizened. No new leaf uncurled in her, then she died.
Bob Turner found her remains as he led a group of Eagle Scouts
over the ‘Big Hole’ mountain pass one summer. She had kept the
sleeping bag, she had made it her totem, a thing she wore like an animal
spirit. Scavengers had eaten most of her, but the bears killed the animals
and brought them back to lay beside her scatterings.
The Scouts took pictures and reported the find to the Montana Rangers,
but the Chippewa Cree had removed all sign of her death
by the time the Rangers returned.
Of spires of timbers tall,
mountains in the beauty of ancient.
The eagle’s flight takes my earthly breath,
as Native American spirit tales whisper
in the cool misty valley.
Lakes blue mirror the changing clouds,
sunlight dapples gold in the pine straw,
the deer with their grace.
I see my children the howling wolves,
their gray shadows loping through the
forest with their young.
Lumbering grizzlies dine on berries,
their cubs curious climbing a small
tree.
A hum of honeybees bobbing on
blooms.
Sierra Club is made up of so many
environmentalists to heal the
hurting earth.
Another generation joins in the cause
of her survival and a love for her.
The afternoon becomes a purple and
pink twilight,
crickets begin a starry song rising so
eloquent,
as the bats welcome night’s hunting,
with a whoosh of myriads of wings.
Thank you, Sierra Club,
this senior is proud to be a member. ~