Posts tagged ‘Fish’

July 16, 2015

An Evening in a North Forest

Loam, marrow, stone, and humus—
where open groves of pine bent in sway,
stained-wood new growth,
a green tent setup
and stretched between.

We went tearing, hard traipsing,
gutting fish at a low fire glow
near an old truck.

A sharp knife’s prick in
a valley’s deep expanse—
words far off and then gone;

neighbors chattered, birds chirped,
and the wind whistled
where we breathed in,
adjusted focus, stretched, and pulled.

It was merely coming through,
it was a mere passing chance.

It was an evening in a north forest.

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April 26, 2015

Human Beings at Wm O’Brien State Park, MN.

Morning.
A passenger side ranger inquiry,
lead to fresh blinding light
and splashing potable water.

Campfire embers smoldered
after an evening’s neighborly introduction and proclamation
of “Uptown Pride.”
—We, not so much.

Dusk.
Shown tattoos
and mushrooms,
no room for outside,
where the suburbs subside.

Today.
Huddles of families on holiday,
weekend campers on parade;
an International Airstream
sat local in a vast
golden marsh glade.

Yesterday Afternoon.
Pulling from the Bulleit bottle,
to crack a cold and wet brew,
gathering sticks with the best,
for firewood,
for warmth under
the firmament in rolled tents.

Last Night.
Loud bullshit and no possessable fish,
dirty fingernails and a waxing moon paled.
Lagers along a road near the St. Croix river,
walking long lengths pinecone covered trails.

Morning.
Shoes on jet rocked gravel drive;
smoothed stone,
downed trees,
white smoke,
where the sunrays seeped cutting dried eyes.

Here was Sunday morning,
a question,
packed and coming down
to the sound of classic rock, shutting doors, and moving tires.

How it got away.

December 12, 2014

Winter 2014 (On: Summer 1969, by Seamus Heaney)

Thoughts of reading a text by *S. Heaney,
Bits and pieces of dewed Madrid,
With heavy inflections of Hemingway,
Scattered about within. Bull horns
And drink, and women, and sex. Smell
Of skin, fish parts, and molded excrement.
Emitting and emoting the pawing presence
Of death; Protestant and Catholic,
Rebellions over said claims.
There the air held hot, as one without water,
Lacking, in a vast desert, as a drunk’s hung-over
Morning plight, -head-spin, praying for the noise to fast die,
Lavishing in Great Lakes of the mind.
He spoke of letting it go, as in
Sobering up, as in really feeling this event.
He had been fearing the gun holster
And lack of action in present. Admiring the man
Who hand-gripped the cold barrel steel, afraid to notice.
But all those bleeding bulls, and fish debris, and local
Women, and spent shells counted. Dripping their sweetness
On his fingertips, wet, as the spilt thick
Ink of his pen. Language of stink
And movement. Surely he felt a bit
Satisfied as he sipped a beaded glass of beer
In the city center, in the summer, 1969,
In Madrid, as he wrote his free-verse prose. As he
Let his words come alive and go.

*Singing School (Summer 1969), BY SEAMUS HEANEY

October 15, 2014

Idiots with Entitlement

One is made pragmatic by experience;
A grave man
Speaks grave words
Of which the living cannot hear.

I would not spend $50,000 to buy shit.

Old-time orthodox tradition;
If fish didn’t kill themselves
By swimming out of water
We wouldn’t have cellphones.

Fact.

Relative relations wouldn’t spring so fast on advantage.

Fact.

Men wouldn’t stand on two legs,

Or breathe the thin air.

Or Fuck or Fight,

Or even care.

Fact.

Modern times,
What is art for?
Based on rhymes,
Behind closed doors.

And then they tell us to read:

Edgar Allan Poe,
Shakespeare,
Derrida,
Asimov.

Where “Lawyer” isn’t even a Word…

-Small town folk,
With small town ideals.
Maybe I’m joking,
Maybe I’m ForRealz.

I argue,
The same;
Because I am
Cut from the same cloth.

Then they tell us to fit in this:

Tight
Rigid,
Imposing,
Oppressive,
Box.

Though,

I was merely stuck in a book,
You merely read some words.
If things weren’t going for me
I’d probably too act on urge.

Now, how does one do the first part again?

August 26, 2014

Fishing near Lanesboro

Fishing near Lanesboro,

More beer than necessary,
one fish smoked, on a vast open field.

Spoken old-timers regale;
trials and tribulations in sar-ca-sm.

Late early last night,
Late morning faded blue-light.

fog that hung
on the fleeting dusk.

Lightening bugs
held within wind gusts.

Crept up slow
as sauntering drunks.

under low hung iron-bridge;
slicked mud and rocks.

Root River below,
life we fish, tied lures with knots.

June 17, 2014

Lock and Dam No. 7

On a boat close an expansive dam
A boy accompanied an Old Man
Fishing for hours cold hands
Only to have come up few clams

The river remained rough
Water spray wet brown splash
Bubbles in the water swirling
Bottom of boat held beer cans

Farther up the boy could see birds
Up close to the tumblers brightly red
Over white-caps exchanged few words
The Old Man palmed his rod in hand

Lock and Dam 7 lent no pension
Yet many prospered in its wake
The Old Man and the boy lay patient
They trolled up and down, but had to wait

Ice coated concrete walls
With rope or hook they fastened tight
Daylight lasted only so long in afternoons
The highway lights suggested night

Untying they came undone
River smell and worms in hand
The fish on the stringer were meager
Pushing off they went towards land

They passed others by and by
Anglers that were mastered
Coming closer to the landing point
Lights on avoiding disaster

Trailing wake in full gait
An out-board went ‘bout 20 knots
Blackness and bugs flew by about them
As they came closer to the docks

Lamplight held empty parking lot
Shown just below the river’s edge
The flat-bottom came parallel the wooden structure
The boy managed at his sea legs

With a hard bump from running in fast
A rope was fastened—quick, and down
The boat made way with the water
The boy made feet with wooden ground

Cold rushed from the river valley out
Nothing held the boy more in life
Than to be out near the Mighty Mississippi
In the dwindling hours of night

As children we are exposed to habits which prove a tradition
As adults we revisit those events to see what lessons were given.

May 21, 2014

Southern Minnesota Escape

Mother Nature’s gift,
Left the vast cityscape for unpaved ways
Longing for:
Peace
Quiet
And Solace…

Darkness beyond frail eyelids
As it was in the past
Hunter-gatherer sort of habits
Time logged and lost, amassed.

We once foraged
Now we pay for licenses, and pick up trash…

Gasoline—
And leave.

Collect wood
Make a fire
For light’s advantage
-With such a glowing desire.

Night sky bespeckled heavens’ mass,
Walking in circles on matted grass
Just to feel free,
-To feel life.

Smoke trails in our tracks
Cold comes when the blanket above has turned acutely black
Until morning dawns,
The city
The people
The hustle and bustle
The constant intention and interaction…

Out here,
Those things are all gone.