The Quandary©

Standing high on the mountain side
I take in the first breath of morning
It seems so much more refreshing here
Maybe it is the altitude that we are at

The aroma of my morning brew reaches my nostrils
The steam a reminder of the time of year
As I survey the pristine landscape my thoughts wander to home
Father would be at the farm readying for harvest

He too would be having his first cup of java
I can hear mother in the background reminding him of something
Soon he would be culling the herd for winter meat
Isn’t that what people say I do, cull

Yet for me gazing down the hillside it does not feel the same
Sure I do this with my fellow men to survive
But it feels like to me that we are taking them out in their prime
That somehow it is a travesty

Back at some headquarters they will remind that others will follow
We are only doing what needs to be done
That much good will come of what we will do today
And in that is my quandary

I see them fall some younger, some older, some not at all
Those few spared to provide seed for new generations
That last gasp is the same regardless of their age
The word “timber” signaling their death knell

That which took decades if not centuries to grow
Will be felled in a matter of minutes
The tree which has lived longer than I now dead
A seedling placed where it so proudly stood

I am a logger
But you can call me Bob

Andreas Simic©

Some time ago one went on a little trip*
To check out the internet poetry landscape
What one saw remained in the mind's tape
A movie reel which had a compelling grip
Poet's comments were of such cliquish old rock
Like being an exclusive remarking club
Outsider verses left out of their hub
The scenery verily stunned one with much shock
One so wishes one had not gone away
A dream of venturing did disenchant
The roads lead to (an in house favouring)
After sighting the terrain's mode of sway
Taking a journey one may well recant
*These vistas weren't enjoyable savouring

The rolling hills
Crest and
Dive and
Move like
Oceans,
Covered in armies of trees.

Trees,
Like thousands upon
Thousands of warriors
Made of leaves and
Dirt and
The souls of prehistoric
Insects that may have
Planted them.

The trees carpeting
The thunderous hills
Have a sort of marching
Energy to them.
Like they
Were frozen
In place.

I am reminded of the
Army of terra cotta
Soldiers.
Unstuck in time,
Stunned in space,
They silently guard their own hill,
Crumbling slowly,
Like cheese.

And the terra cotta arms
And the terra cotta legs
Of the terra cotta trees
Are attempting to drag
Their iron roots
Through the hills,
Sinking like lead
Through the earth,
As if it was meant to be the
Ocean it resembled so much.

Maybe,
Armies of troops once trudged
And fought through swamps
As vast
And troubled
As seas.
And a terra cotta war,
Unconqured by
Shattering warriors,
Is left like
Smoldering porcelin,
Still being fought
On the hills
Of Utah.

2.
You can still
See the remains
Of their clash;
You can analyze
Their placement
And movements
Like battlefeild strategy.

You can wonder what
Terra cotta general
Put them there.
Did the trees respect him
As a father?

His tactics
Funneled down to
Swarming like ants
Or dripping like oil.
There is the occasional
Silent,
Lone,
Watchman,
Angled towards the
Power lines,
The coursing blue veins,
And the sky,
Filled with the
Bright and
Rippling trails
Of their valiant enemy.

3.
The terra cotta trees
Give way
To the stone,
Brick,
And steel,
Of an upright man,
Overwhelming white
Against
Overwhelming green
Against
Overwhelming yellow
Against
Overwhelming blue
Against
Overwhelming black.
The people live unaware,
(With meerkat eyes
And posture)
Of the armies surrounding them,
Signaling the dusk of their time.

The trees will outlive us all
By millennia.
Their war will continue.
Our bodies will become
A wave in the hills
That they march through,
A crater in the commander moon,
A foot soldier in their
War,
A leaf,
A branch,
A bird,
Food for a plant
That is food for a squirrel,
Soaked in through
The churning,
Breathing roots
Of the terra cotta trees,
In the living,
Moving,
Tumbling hills.

The perfect union of the warmest sun and the most refreshing wind. Smiles of strangers, now familiar faces. Five minds and hearts, five vibrations and colors, an indistinct rainbow as travel companion. Life of self-absorbed villages in Kriti's heart, an old man sitting out the bar. Fast moving eyes, eager to get every single branch of olive trees passing by... and the leaves falling behind as a continual green stripe between the light brown soil and the sky. Rawness that bites our senses and leaves us a fragment of itself without losing its eternity. Greetings from the insignificance of our moment compared to the landscape's symmetry. And yet, for us, those minutes are sealed into mortal memory. Poor leaning trees, beat by the ceaseless wind that blows in the veins of the giant island... Spectacle of colours and shadows of a sunset surrounded by hypnotizing hills. Astros gradually showing off... first is the crescent moon and its perfect curves contrasting the dark blue/grey/orange skyline... then a lonely star whose brightness outshines alone, until the grey and orange decline. And only then, with the sun long gone, and your heart in your mouth, you understand why the trees were leaning down south.

meet at 6 pm
at the sunset glow
crossing between
the day and the night
till broaden
the perspective
of its landscape
shading the sky
more of a blue,
as it warm by the moon
in light to shine.

It's 5:54 a.m. and the hot salty water bashes against the sand.
Now, the first cars emerge from the night-time lights.
I see a couple,
Him white shirt
Her black shirt
Looking like tourists,
They have the same desoriented expression as I do.

Couple blocks away I watch the red neon
Blinking from the distance,
Next thing I know I'm traveling through
                    each yellow light
                    each window
                    every spit of sea foam
                    every palm tree,

On top of another hotel
I found a room with lights on, yet
No one seems to be dazzling
                         in the dark
Gazing the horizon and the dark sea
All by himself...
                                        ...besides this hopeless fool
                                        waiting for the sunrise

Now that she is middle-aged, my wife
likes to stand before the window
and comb her hair

Her only makeup a trace of cloud
the landscape of a graceful
poised maturity

Like a remote, breathtaking painting... my emotions lost in your two dimensions.
I gaze at your masterpiece reigning, pure blaze in all directions.