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Wally du Temple Dec 2016
I sailed the fjords between Powell River and
Drury Inlet to beyond the Salish Sea.
The land itself spoke from mountains, water falls, islets
From bird song and bear splashing fishers
From rutting moose and cougars sharp incisors.
The place has a scale that needs no advisers
But in our bodies felt, sensed in our story talking.
The Chinese spoke of sensing place by the four dignities
Of Standing of Reposing of Sitting or of Walking.
Indigenous peoples of the passage added of Paddling by degrees
For the Haida and Salish sang their paddles to taboos
To the rhythm of the drum in their clan crested canoes.
Trunks transformed indwelling people who swam like trees.
First Nations marked this land, made drawings above sacred screes
As they walked together, to gather, share and thank the spirit saplings.
So Dao-pilgrims in the blue sacred mountains of Japan rang their ramblings.
Now the loggers’ chainsaws were silent like men who had sinned.
I motored now for of wind not a trace -
I could see stories from the slopes, hear tales in the wind.
Modern hieroglyphs spoke from clear-cuts both convex and concave.
Slopes of burgundy and orange bark shaves
Atop the beige hills, and in the gullies the silver drying snags
and the brilliant pink of fire **** tags
A tapestry of  times in work.
A museum of lives that lurk.
Once the logging camps floated close to the head of inlets.
Now rusting red donkeys and cables no longer creak,
Nor do standing spar trees sway near feller notched trunks,
Nor do grappler yarders shriek as men bag booms and
Dump bundles in bull pens.
The names bespeak the work.
Bull buckers, rigging slingers, cat skinners, boom men and whistle punks.
…………………………………………………………………….
Ashore to *** with my dog I saw a ball of crushed bones in ****
Later we heard the evocative howl of a wolf
And my pooch and I go along with the song
Conjoining  with the animal call
In a natural world fearsome, sacred and shared.
---------------------------------------------------------­---
Old bunk houses have tumbled, crumbling fish canneries no longer reek.
Vietnam Draft dodgers and Canucks that followed the loggers forever borrowed -
Their hoisting winches, engines, cutlery, fuel, grease and generators.
While white shells rattled down the ebbing sea.
Listing float homes still grumble when hauled on hard.
Somber silhouettes of teetering totems no longer whisper in westerlies
Near undulating kelp beds of Mamalilakula.
Petroglyphs talk in pictures veiled by vines.
History is a tapestry
And land is the loom.
Every rock, headland, and blissful fearsome bay
Has a silence that speaks when I hear it.
Has a roar of death from peaking storms when I see it.
Beings and things can be heard and seen that
Enter and pass through me to evaporate like mist
From a rain dropped forest fist
And are composted into soil.
Where mountains heavily wade into the sea
To resemble yes the tremble and dissemble
Of the continental shelf.
Where still waters of deception
Hide the tsunamis surging stealth.
Inside the veins of Mother Earth the magmas flow
Beneath fjords where crystalised glaziers glow.
Here sailed I, my dog and catboat
Of ‘Bill Garden’ build
The H. Daniel Hayes
In mountain water stilled
In a golden glory of my remaining days.
In Cascadia the images sang and thrilled
Mamalilikula, Kwak’wala, Namu, Klemtu
The Inlets Jervis, Toba, Bute, and Loughborough.
This is a narative prose poem that emerged from the experienced of a sailor's voyage.
No fifty shades
no shadows prancing in the glades
no faeries picking dandelions to try on for a hat,
none of that.

Bulldozers, dull dozers scape away the topsoil, spoil the landscape, mar the view, build new homes for me and you and what do we look out upon?

Worn down, torn down, trees would grow well in the town, in the square, no faeries there, pigeon **** not a lot just a bit and dog poo the new view, tear it up that's what we do and start again.

We build a tomb of many rooms and think we call the shots, but from infancy unto the grave
we think someone will come along, drop the bomb, but save us from the blast.

I have passed you in a day of many moons while you were building fireproof tombs and you never heard me say a thing just whisper futile juvenile.
Styles Sep 2015
The peaks of the mountains cloud the skies eclipsing the light of the sun, glaring down thier backs, melting glaziers with waves of heat.
Johnny Noiπ Dec 2017
u'll get rich from reading this---I swear 2 u
I am of Denisovan descent;
u are Neanderthal;
I am a capital letter,
u are a number---
the senses are violently
gaining ground---the winter has left us
yet again, aged ice aging
no more coursing through
glacial views, no-more---
glaziers on Mars?
the city has fallen into the well,
Lassie isn't coming, Jesus is---
now u're ******---depending
on Zeus' temper---deep-ending
her thoughts so I've heard
are like coughs inside the TB ward
& the Crimean War death rate---****** as a Tarantino,
windows like walls;
she is my green psychic queen---
do not lean on her big-eyed bifocal
telescope voyeurs eating naked when asked
in restaurants---look out ur windows
right now! the cops are at war
w/ the antifa---we are winning (girls
are hip & cool again---
u have 2 get them drunk
& **** them
so they can complain to their lesbian
gfs later, otherwise
there's really nothing 2 talk about
& girls carry razos--- & use them,
not enough on racists granddads, Israeli settler moms
& suburban nazis---
(we we we) ...
there's really nothing 2 talk about---
the revolution is splitting hairs,
literally
...
Johnny Noiπ Mar 2018
Carrera lit the lamp and his cigar w/ that same match;
sitting to write against the rocking motion of the Green
Belle as it made its way over the dark waves; headest
as far south as any ship had ever sailed Carrera felt the
world shift as gravity swung everything on the planet
around like whirlpool; the feeling of sinking below the
horizon to reemerge with high mountain glaziers in
sight; Fritz in the Green Belle's crow's nest saw nothing
but blinding icy white from sky to sea; this was the
bottom of the world where mother's nature pink sphincter
lay hidden between the rounded mounds of beaming
ice like a giant white woman's backside free of infernal
tattoos; but who knew what thrived beyond the cold
white barrier; they would find out but just then a gust
of frigid air swirled around the crow's nest & Fritz felt
he might need a heavy fur coat to wear over his short
black hair; Jacques had Sing and Apore go to the dining
room and bring back some hot chow for the three of them
while he sat trying to finish the ode to nothing he would
call Untitled; thinking the girls had returned w/ something
delicious from Annabella's kitchen upon opening the
state room door he was disheartened to see only Dawn &
Bonnie who asked him if he'd heard the Good News;
knowing full well what they meant he slammed the door
in their faces & returned to his parchment; Chico perched
on the swinging bar beside the window waiting to carry
Carrera's next poetic off off to the editor of the Biedermann
Weekly who waited with eager anticipation for the nest
installment of the poet's journey to unknown parts to fly
in through the window attached to the talon of the giant blue
parrot; the bird named Chico could talk, sing, play the guitar,
smoke, drink & play Texas Hold'em; so naturally the
Weekly would publish & syndicate anything Carrera wrote

— The End —