Edwin Muir 'THE HORSES'
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The Muir
As a child living on a farm during the war
had a pond on peatland, the pond’s water
was fenny and dark.
Slow swimming trout that tasted of mud
Swam, near the surface of the pond.
My friend and I built a boat with sails,
It sunk, I clung to the mast, Peter swam
didn’t make it, screamed before being
dragged under by something atrocious.
The adults came running, they didn’t find
Peter, the pond had endless silt, lukewarm
infinite, its foundation in the maelstrom
of conflicting horrors.
The Ballad of John Muir Woods
I squint at the splendid morning sun
golden filtered bright rays conveyed.
Speaking they say, sit, little one
rest a spell in our noble shade.
I squint at this forest of titans
sitting, I wait for more whisperings.
They weigh my thoughts across the breeze
you are part of our air, they sing.
Youth returns in kaleidoscopes
sprightly green patterns swiftly shift.
Tinged golden from morning’s new hope
their harmony in sea breezes drift.
These conifers sprout from stump and boast
wildness, our need is undisputed.
Redwoods, the glory of Cali’s coast
engage me and call me beloved.
DE Fullerton
“Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God.” John Muir
MUIR MUSINGS
filling in the crags,
my mind like a maelstrom,
soaking up the thunderclouds and waves.
10/31/2019
Tom Waits sang, And I hope I don't fall in love with you.
But I did, fall in love with the land. I fell in love with Warren Zevon
and the idea of telling something about who I would like to become,
even if I may never, it never did matter all the same to me.
"The road is like a river, the moon is like a bone,
she said exactly what is your meaning, he replied, I'm only stopping
to get some gasoline".
Life is like a shrill, it could be like a grain of something you remember
and never ever forget.
And just like any wild flower, the dreams were always there growing
in between the magic of your eyes.
Peace!
From pine-scented forests, past boulders and streams,
To clear lakes encircled by murals and dreams
Where bright clouds emblazon a warm azure sky,
A trail through the mountains is one I must try.
When bluebells stop blooming and nighttime grows cold,
The breeze makes the aspen trees shimmer with gold.
The chirp of the pika is scarce to be heard;
The eerie elk-bugle is now the watchword.
The sounds and their season soon snuffed out by snow,
The silky white peaks wear a pink, sensual glow
At sunrise when raw arctic blasts turn serene,
Inviting to view how they’ve sculpted the scene.
As ice turns to water and lush green arrives,
The crags reappear and new wildlife thrives.
Soon streamlets will gurgle and columbines grow;
The mountains are calling and I must go.
THE GHOST AND MRS. MUIR
The lighthouse beacon where a captain lives
alongside the sea he loves. The ghost thrives —
With relish he scares,
The ugly not fair,
Falls madly in love when widow arrives.
With gruff bearded spirit by candlelight,
Mrs. Muir taps on type paper to write
Of his time at sea.
He sells it all free.
The editor is awed by her ghost write.
8/2/2018
4th place multiple placements
SEA TALES LIMERICKS CONTEST
Sponsored by Carolyn Devonshire
It was not a decision taken lightly
When we found that our free servitude
Unrequited was by our chosen masters
With their metal monsters they had fallen in love
Growling,roaring and spitting fumes
Our nostrils filling with the smell of burnt sugar
Until that became an acrid stench
Drowning all the sweet sounds and scents of nature
In the raw
Our fields they usurped
While we were driven into odd and idle corners
To become their playthings
For pleasure alone
No more did we strive together in mutual harmony
With our erstwhile lords
According to the laws of the cosmos
Divinely ordained
Now their homes at night pulsed with a ghostly glow
While by day their gazes were held on screens
With the digital pallor
Reflected on their faces
Totally immune to the cycle of the seasons
It was then we chose to withdraw
And quietly retreated to our spiritual home
Bereft and pining for that lost communion
Which had served man and horse so well
In the Creator's plan
There was no more for us to do
Than to commune with the divine presence
Until they were wrenched free fom their spellbinding devices
And needed our companionship
Once again
The Muir
There was a small lake near the farm I lived at for some
years in my childhood. The lake was on peat land, and
it water was fenny and dark. The lake also had slow
swimming trout, that tasted of mud when eaten and
where left to swim placidly around near the surface of
the lake tarn. My friend and I built a small boat with sail
we tried to cross the mere, but the boat sank. My friend,
Peter, who could swim tried to swim ashore, but didn´t
make it. I remember his scream as a thing dragged him
down and hoped he would stop. There was a silence, then,
I heard the voices of the adult coming to the rescue.
They never found Peter in a pond that had no bottom,
was lukewarm and boundless and had its foundation in
the maelstrom of conflicting horrors.
People bat these words around -
Majesty and grace;
Yet it's hard to find them both
Embodied in one place.
I've gazed on snow-capped mountains,
Seen that Canyon, truly Grand;
And loved Sedona and the red rocks
Of that native land.
But when I saw the redwoods
Jutting straight into the sky,
No words could paint that picture
So I will not even try.
I will repeat majestic, though,
And that will have to do,
For once you see those trees
I think that you'd be humbled, too.
Haunt
Lucy
Captain Gregg
Love beyond death
Ghost
Contest: My favorite movie
Sponsored by Royal Trevino
Form: Lantern
I'm not like you John Muir:
I haven't fell into the deepest well;
I haven't swam through a solid stream;
And I haven't felt a gushing geyser's steam--
I've only been forever locked in this cell.
I'm not like you John Muir:
I've never slept under the stars;
I've never had grizzly meat for a snack;
And I've never ridden on horseback--
I've only ridden in lazy cars.
I'm not like you John Muir:
I will never fight for a cause;
I will never see mountain peaks;
I will never bathe in bottomless creeks,
And no one will ever know who I was.
I'm not like you John Muir,
But I wish that I was.