Dec 2018
In my New Day I arose from my
screen-tent-squirrel-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet
that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing
against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working
at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
cold sea of countless
converging
never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.
I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only
winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages
but now also following a more
pastoral idyllic and super-natural course.
A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze.
Work ethic
Family hearth and home
Days of scent
of freshly mown grass
barbeques
campfires
coffee brewing
children playing
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake.
Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.
This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing . . .
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.
Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding,
even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised sleep.
I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.
I must taste life
Smell and feel life
Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind
against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.
--Daniel Irwin Tucker
screen-tent-squirrel-hole-flimsy-bomb-shelter-for-my-soul
and walked down to the banks of the Missinabi River
at the Mattice Landing
with dog’s leash in one hand and my right hand
leading lady’s in the other, hearing and feeling tall grass
swishing against my pant legs
and the crunch of course sand under my feet
that once trod fields of green tall grasses swishing
against my pant legs in the meadows and rocky woods of
my childhood and youth where I spent summers working
at my Aunt and Uncle's farm in
New Liskeard, Ontario and in the woods and along the banks
of the Lackawanna River just over the **** behind
the house of my childhood and youth in the Anthracite coal
country of Northeastern Pennsylvania, which is light years away from the land of my birth where I now live in this Northern Ontario port in the middle of a deep
cold sea of countless
converging
never-ending
rivers
lakes
trees
swamps
bogs
muskeg
and mountains of snow
where snow white and black flies freely fly.
I am always trying to go deeper into the trees and bush
burning deep inside my heart of hearts to follow the Moses
that is in all of us. This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching
under foot and tall grasses swishing and canoe parting
water that flows deep in my mind and spirit once only
winding past burning villages where man rapes and pillages
but now also following a more
pastoral idyllic and super-natural course.
A vagabond never quite understands the working-class
woman and man living their small dream with their offspring and slice of land. I thought they were all ostrich with head in sand. But I now see that we can't all afford to brood as I often do over the daily news. They must rise early the next morning, alarm clocks not set on snooze.
Work ethic
Family hearth and home
Days of scent
of freshly mown grass
barbeques
campfires
coffee brewing
children playing
TV and music blaring
dishes rattling
in sink or
swim in the lake.
Loosen the watertight mind drum and just dive into the
crunch of pebbles under foot treading fields of green tall
grasses swishing against pant legs. Not only wishing
but going deeper into the trees and bush burning
speaking to our primeval consciousness.
This eternal Voice in pebbles crunching and tall grasses
swishing . . .
The whooshing sound of wading in a stream streams
through my soul as I savour the body taste of wet gritty sand
between my fingers and toes, crouched down wet-crotch deep waiting long enough for minnows to tickle fingers and toes as mosquito’s pin-prickle skin.
Watching creatures much smaller than I gliding,
even walking on calm still water that we humans can only dream of doing in our motorised sleep.
I think I now understand . . . to not be constantly mourning the plight of man isn't being ostrich with head in sand.
I must keep gunning-off addictions alluring stare.
I must taste life
Smell and feel life
Enjoy life outside of my troubled mind
against the backdrop of the latest holy war
and the imploding creations of our kind.
--Daniel Irwin Tucker
