"fairbanks" poems
S-Smart
A-Angelic
M-Merry
M-Marvelous
Y-Youthful
A-Adorable
N- Nice
N-Nerdy
F-Fascinating
A-Adventurous
I-Impressive
R-Rare
B-Beautiful
A-Affectionate
N-Necessary
K-Kind
S-Supportive
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 6:49 PM UTC
Fairbanks Alaska
Was harsh and cold and was
Not as fair as it was originally thought.
A rifle too small for big game
And Galliens shoes two sizes too big on Chris’s feet
He set off for his last adventure
Hiked towards Stampede trail through the wind and ice
With nothing but a grin on his face and his ten pound bag of rice
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
The moonlight was shining serenely over still water
Reflecting like a mirror,
Glistening golden stars hover above like flickering Fireflies.
Crickets singing a melody to one another
Tucked away in the uncut grass.
The branches on the old oak tree gently nestle their leaves.
sitting on wooden planks crookedly aligned to perfection
Gazing out in awe, listening to the orchestra
Saturating Mother Earth as she sleeps.
A moment of purity and innocence
Drowns out tomorrows chaotic company.
© 2013 Rachel Fairbanks
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Let me tell you about Drew Barrymore:
First of all, she got an early start on self-awareness,
To wit: her breakout role as Gertie in
Steven Spielberg's E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial,
And quickly became one of Hollywood's
Most recognized child actresses,
Going on to establish her self to this freaking day.
From wit: Yeah, sure, she got an early start,
She literally grew up inside her movies.
And if we had ever had a
Shirley Temple of our own generation,
Drew is it.
Simply put:
Drew is sweetness personified.
N'est-ce pas?
But Habitat Hollywood needed more,
Must dwell on the Barrymore name,
Pounding that angle,
Sledging the dynastic anvil,
Forging consensus:
It’s in her genes.
It’s that sangue royale,
It’s in her blood.
All those Fairbanks & Randolphs,
Harrisons & Blyths,
Palazzoli & Giofredi . . . ***
That’s where you get your looks,
You little guinea ****
That olive oil & garlic,
Enhancing that gilded
Barrymore Blood!
It must have been an
Early pink thrill for you, Drew,
Seeing all those
Doors spread wide open--
Widespread like a ****** legs--
Career barrier walls,
Inhibitions crumbling.
What a pleasant realization!
“I am a member of a
Multi-Generation
Theatrical Dynasty.”
And going even further back than
John, Ethel & Lionel, Babaloo.
We’re talking the British Stage here,
We’re talking Legitimate Theater,
As in: Tread those boards, GB Shaw!
Which brings me to my point:
Drew’s had a long time to get over
That Diva
(Louie Prima) Donna thing.
She knows who she is.
She’s comfortable out here,
Way out here in the
So-called real world.
Out a monk’s her environment at-large.
Query: heredity or environment?
Always.
To wit: It was always
Her habitat doing the molding--
From Wit: *******
It’s in her ****** DNA.
In her freaking genes:
Which is precisely
Where I’d like to be right now,
My cherished,
My sweet Drew:
In your freaking jeans.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:28 PM UTC
A jackhammer smashing into concrete
Flooding my ears
My brain pulsates against bone
A volcano is on the verge of eruption inside my chest.
Snooze…exhaling fire
Inhaling crisp air crystallizing my lungs
Fog engulfs the place that used to be my bedroom
Awake or dreaming?
Warmth and comfort are now distant pictures
Shattered from the tremor inside my head
Smooth angelic touch of finger tips
Slipping away into a riddle
© 2013 Rachel Fairbanks
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 2:24 AM UTC
Impenetrable like callused hands
My smooth garment is my shield
My chambers gate is sealed with cement
Insides tossing and turning
A sudden tremor has cracked my shell
A speck of light squeezes through
Cold...broken in two
All that I held within pours
Out like raging tides
Into a fiery pit
Sizzling from treacherous heat
My flesh melts
Changing who I once was into what you want me to be
Which is
........................ Sunny side up.
© 2013 Rachel Fairbanks
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
Rocks of all shapes and sizes
Spread out along a river bank
Piled on top of one another
No sense of boundaries.
Pressed firmly against the soil
A touch of green adds some color to the shadows of grey.
Life forms in the most unexpected places.
© 2013 Rachel Fairbanks
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
It was cold my first trip to Nome. Okay, it's always cold in Nome. It was February, still going down to -55 degrees some days. This was generally a one or two night stay. You really only needed a day, but the weather is unforgiving and so sometimes you wait most of the day. It is still dark up above the Arctic Circle, which Nome is only about 150 miles south of. The ocean ice will not start breaking for a month or two.
The morning started with an early flight from Fairbanks to Anchorage. It makes for a long day with approximately a 500 mile flight south so I can grab a 1,000 mile flight north to Nome. The first flight in had no delays so there was hope for the day. The hotel I booked which sounded quite grand was “The Nugget Inn”. It felt good knowing I would be in a nice hotel in this barren land.
It was a clear morning as we came in over the Bering Strait. I waited about 30 minutes to get my bags, then headed outside to see if I could flag down a ride. Taxis here in a village are a car passing by. You just waved before they go on by and hope they see you. It does not matter where you're going, Nome is not that big. Paid my three bucks and took a seat and said good morning to the driver and one other. The process is passenger in and passenger out until your destination comes up, but no hurry as you enjoy the warmth of the car.
Checked in and got a key, so I could begin my adventure at “The Nugget Inn” and Nome. I got to my room and checked it out and yes I was in for a surprise. The room was configured like a bunkhouse shack, two beds on old rusted iron frames. A small table and chair between the beds with a very small lamp. Well this was work and not a vacation and I was at the edge of the world.
The room had the feel that it was the same as in the gold rush days. And when I pulled up the blanket to check on the sheets. I am sure they were there when Jack London was here. Since the sheets were worn down to no more than gauze. So I take my first night in the city of Nome. And sleep tight under northern lights.
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 10:16 PM UTC
but with my last breath
I wouldn't hesitate
to tell you one
last thing and just
as it airs out
I lose consciousness
leaving you with
"You are my-"
then I'd ascend to the skies
becoming your guardian angel
how quickly times have changed
I find myself guiding you to places
you've never been, giving you hints
to the end of the sentence
destination one, Wyoming
meeting at the peak of Elbert
this is the closest you've been to me
you're screaming my name asking
If I can even hear you
and my response
brings the sun out of the clouds
this is the closest you've ever been to me
destination two, Alaska
you've come here to escape the world you left at home, just for a week
camping out in Fairbanks
you've slept through most of the nights
but this night you'll see me again
when you suddenly wake up at 12:45 AM
and look into the sky
You'll see all the lights I promised you
I know we're not in the big apple or the city of sin, but Fairbanks had a view that even us Angels couldn't believe
destination three, Paris
You continue to play the voicemails over and over again
hoping to get as much out of this city that you can
I'm the one that's gone now as you beg for my return..
reading the book full of poems I gave you
under the Eiffel Tower, you stumble upon a series of words you haven't seen before in the book
And you've read it front to back every Sunday morning
"You are my rock, my beautiful night sky, my love."
tears run down your face
now that you know
what my last
breath meant
Jan 23, 2015
Jan 23, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
I.
We ***** our tents on the hardpack
of the town’s airport,
rows of stakes and guidelines
like a fishing wharf in the tundra;
the mail plane comes at one,
an overfull vulture circling above
before looping North towards
the Gates of the Arctic for the approach run.
The landing is
a front row rock concert
where the bassist only knows one chord
and the drummer is still setting up:
the tone resonates in the ooze of our marrow;
that is to say, the landing is simple,
drifting over alpine fir and spruce tops
with ballet grace
before cutting power
and slamming wheels to gravel.
II.
Yesterday’s rain feeds the Yukon today.
Its hands reach for a hard cloud ceiling
and its lows, its troughs call my name,
call my name, call my name,
endless waves in the river’s center,
arcing with storm energy
and grip strength.
III.
Other planes come, and leave,
and helicopters set down near us.
We play cards in their wind,
drink camp coffee that strains
through the teeth and plugs the gaps;
we watch and we wait
for seats that never come,
waiting to leave this airport runway,
waiting to fight the big fires.
IV.
We hear the boats before we see them,
curving around the clay banks
and we line our packs along
their aluminum walls.
We sit in plastic bags
to keep dry of river spray,
I hear my name again,
and another mail plane
takes off. The hardpack vibrates
under the wheels, the engines scream
their one note show,
and the DC-3 sinks off the runway towards
the Yukon – and us – before catching itself,
then slowly, so slowly we can almost touch
the silver belly, it growls to the North
and loops South towards Fairbanks.
Apr 6, 2020
Apr 6, 2020 at 7:34 PM UTC