"sitka" poems - Hello Poetry

it falls through the glow of the wintry trees building a cover under the breeze luminous lights sparkle and hatch snow pack high on the briar patch pine cones fall from rustic fir squirrel and robin shuffle and stir sitka spruce at tunnel bluffs ravens roost on the cedar rough dusted peaks at hurley pass snowline cuts the avalanche fox and lynx are on the prowl hollow eyes from spotted owl cool winds up the valley trail whirling snow round diamond vale chilling flakes in candle hands moonlight shines across the land northern lights in krypton green the sounds of verve are bitter sweet curtains hang from a cold dark sky counting stars, a lullaby

0

Feb 17, 2017

Feb 17, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC

ck-baker

January, on its knees

it falls through the glow of the wintry trees building a cover under the breeze luminous lights sparkle and hatch snow pack high on the briar patch pine cones fall from rustic fir squirrel and robin shuffle and stir sitka spruce at tunnel bluffs ravens roost on the cedar rough dusted peaks at hurley pass snowline cuts the avalanche fox and lynx are on the prowl hollow eyes from spotted owl cool winds up the valley trail whirling snow round diamond vale chilling flakes in candle hands moonlight shines across the land northern lights in krypton green the sounds of verve are bitter sweet curtains hang from a cold dark sky counting stars, a lullaby

20

the walls of the inside passage look the same from sound to straight tugs and plugs dot the coastline as the quartermaster rolls giving time for evening glare pods are in sequence as the high tail smashes and jaws at the krill white bellies and sea cows bob and weave as bow heads glide over haida gwaii northern lights dance and tlingit chant as the tide settles softly on savory shores their getting hungry in hoonah as the blue back and beating drums mark the life blood of the sea driftwood nets and sitka spruce surround the cook house ravens and tinhorns man the scullery kerosene lamps flicker as clam shells roast on open flames villagers stroll on pebbled sand *in the harbor of souls where ships set sail on might and mass into the steady winds of the golden skies* ice fields (to the north) of kryptonite blue cutting hills at a glacial pace knuckle clouds above the snowline where warlocks craft a hidden trade trappers, skinners muscle shoals grizzly feasts in kodiak bowl determined pilgrims on a dead horse trail in search of gold the holy grail

0

Mar 1, 2017

Mar 1, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC

ck-baker

black jaw

the walls of the inside passage look the same from sound to straight tugs and plugs dot the coastline as the quartermaster rolls giving time for evening glare pods are in sequence as the high tail smashes and jaws at the krill white bellies and sea cows bob and weave as bow heads glide over haida gwaii northern lights dance and tlingit chant as the tide settles softly on savory shores their getting hungry in hoonah as the blue back and beating drums mark the life blood of the sea driftwood nets and sitka spruce surround the cook house ravens and tinhorns man the scullery kerosene lamps flicker as clam shells roast on open flames villagers stroll on pebbled sand *in the harbor of souls where ships set sail on might and mass into the steady winds of the golden skies* ice fields (to the north) of kryptonite blue cutting hills at a glacial pace knuckle clouds above the snowline where warlocks craft a hidden trade trappers, skinners muscle shoals grizzly feasts in kodiak bowl determined pilgrims on a dead horse trail in search of gold the holy grail

46

#(a travelogue) He stared down through the unbroken silence lapping the shoreline Water skippers dart around the rocks and windfall driftwood settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds and emerging broadleaf sprouts A petrified heartwood timber lie fallow waiting bare barked, hushed like a pining lover’s timeworn love seat, rubbed smooth as the crystalline waters of half-moon lake Lingering for a while ― like a hidden stalker, a perched wildcat waiting for the full moon’s swooning spell to saturate the thickening dusk quietude; arousing the urgent call of the wild — exhaled from the held breath of the wilderness nocturne on half-moon lake The stillness was scattered with the soft downy hairs of the sleeping cattails, and the newly shed catkins a spring gust bestrewed from a tall resin birch tree nigh the Sitka willows He sat quietly ... time out of mind ― tossing his eyes up into the sky; taking the time to read the stars ― catching them each again as they fell into his gentle hands, to show him who he was Seeing their sparkly tracers trail-out above the cattails, from a distance they resembled falling stars unable to perceive their own renaissance ― plashing lightly upon the still-water on half-moon lake A lone shadow glides stealthily near mid-tarn,.. swimming enchantingly with the grace of a blackswan Appearing to glance shoreward at the glowing low stars rise and fall, as his eyes twinkled skyward over the moonlit lagoon ― heavenward of its moonlit ballet; the lone sleek dark shadow slipping through a faint circular ripple stirring the smooth as glass waters ― disappearing like a fleeting moment waning deep aneath a subtle silent wake. When all the clear lines blurred, he knew it had been so long ... but hearken ! … an interceding long drawn out wail echoed a feral ache across the stillness, breaking the silence ― as the shadow reappeared; his tears surrendered to the undulating call of the wild; he felt the spirit of the sole Loon, as black and white as the moonlit night, stir deeply in his wanting heart ― lay bare the silence in lengthy yodeled psalms to the god of the moon Diving down deep yet again, keeping the light he’d been given, vanishing into the lifespring sanctuary of half-moon lake harlon rivers ... May 2018 travelogue: 4 of some more

0

May 21, 2018

May 21, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC

harlon-rivers

On half-moon lake ☽

#(a travelogue) He stared down through the unbroken silence lapping the shoreline Water skippers dart around the rocks and windfall driftwood settled juxtaposed in cattail reeds and emerging broadleaf sprouts A petrified heartwood timber lie fallow waiting bare barked, hushed like a pining lover’s timeworn love seat, rubbed smooth as the crystalline waters of half-moon lake Lingering for a while ― like a hidden stalker, a perched wildcat waiting for the full moon’s swooning spell to saturate the thickening dusk quietude; arousing the urgent call of the wild — exhaled from the held breath of the wilderness nocturne on half-moon lake The stillness was scattered with the soft downy hairs of the sleeping cattails, and the newly shed catkins a spring gust bestrewed from a tall resin birch tree nigh the Sitka willows He sat quietly ... time out of mind ― tossing his eyes up into the sky; taking the time to read the stars ― catching them each again as they fell into his gentle hands, to show him who he was Seeing their sparkly tracers trail-out above the cattails, from a distance they resembled falling stars unable to perceive their own renaissance ― plashing lightly upon the still-water on half-moon lake A lone shadow glides stealthily near mid-tarn,.. swimming enchantingly with the grace of a blackswan Appearing to glance shoreward at the glowing low stars rise and fall, as his eyes twinkled skyward over the moonlit lagoon ― heavenward of its moonlit ballet; the lone sleek dark shadow slipping through a faint circular ripple stirring the smooth as glass waters ― disappearing like a fleeting moment waning deep aneath a subtle silent wake. When all the clear lines blurred, he knew it had been so long ... but hearken ! … an interceding long drawn out wail echoed a feral ache across the stillness, breaking the silence ― as the shadow reappeared; his tears surrendered to the undulating call of the wild; he felt the spirit of the sole Loon, as black and white as the moonlit night, stir deeply in his wanting heart ― lay bare the silence in lengthy yodeled psalms to the god of the moon Diving down deep yet again, keeping the light he’d been given, vanishing into the lifespring sanctuary of half-moon lake harlon rivers ... May 2018 travelogue: 4 of some more

88

i go through this daily plot waking, working, trudging first world ease, office walls wheeled chairs afternoon run tupperware lunch dinner the night before home again, dinner dishes again, play again, daughter picks up new phrases, new looks vegetable strainer toy "umbrella," she says i see those eyes, my wife's and i wonder what is this place? these walls, these roads, those sitka pines and shrinking glaciers? how 'm i supposed to be a father with all these things stretching out vaster than reason, than comprehension those talking heads, ranting this or that liberty's ***** freedom's snatched, the world warms, the world cools Filipinos scream in the face of angry winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly gestures at a colorful map, powerful he says, historic he says more dripping mouthes, government want guns now, more money to ****** our phones to send unmanned drones our president's muhammad, or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest a genius or incompetent everyone knows just back home a tiny algae grows and foams thrashing in the autumn water brown oxygen choking life never found on our shores before kills fish, i imagine so much more i hold my daughter in my lap reading mother goose, run my hand through her thin smooth hair, sometimes afraid of what she'll see and hear with her mother's eyes and her father's ears

0

Nov 21, 2013

Nov 21, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC

forest-kvasnikoff

Plea

i go through this daily plot waking, working, trudging first world ease, office walls wheeled chairs afternoon run tupperware lunch dinner the night before home again, dinner dishes again, play again, daughter picks up new phrases, new looks vegetable strainer toy "umbrella," she says i see those eyes, my wife's and i wonder what is this place? these walls, these roads, those sitka pines and shrinking glaciers? how 'm i supposed to be a father with all these things stretching out vaster than reason, than comprehension those talking heads, ranting this or that liberty's ***** freedom's snatched, the world warms, the world cools Filipinos scream in the face of angry winds, the prim cut weatherman wildly gestures at a colorful map, powerful he says, historic he says more dripping mouthes, government want guns now, more money to ****** our phones to send unmanned drones our president's muhammad, or jesus, or kenyan, or raciest a genius or incompetent everyone knows just back home a tiny algae grows and foams thrashing in the autumn water brown oxygen choking life never found on our shores before kills fish, i imagine so much more i hold my daughter in my lap reading mother goose, run my hand through her thin smooth hair, sometimes afraid of what she'll see and hear with her mother's eyes and her father's ears

54

Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts. Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers. A sweet thing for you! A growing circle of six-legged empty. Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton. Oh, what a dreadful sight! Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech. Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones. Not milky bones with calcium-love.. A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp. Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes. Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers. Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more" .......To the sun, the moon and the stars? Every star mocks, Every beam scoffs and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes. A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor. Oh how we are dusty and unsure! Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start. Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people". The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl. Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!

0

Oct 18, 2014

Oct 18, 2014 at 2:19 PM UTC

marie-chantal

Selfish Bugs

Stink up the beer house with unadorned putrid self-thoughts. Poppy-eyed and hating others is easy for blue bottled buggers. A sweet thing for you! A growing circle of six-legged empty. Filled to the brim with puffed up space. A white brim with a shiny red exoskeleton. Oh, what a dreadful sight! Hair strewn across a face and hooked into the teeth of the blushy lullabied insect screech. Clear liquid not blood, but blood all the same on an empty stomach with full vein-shot bones. Not milky bones with calcium-love.. A dead, deficient, cracked, neglected, insufficient skeletal frame, limp. Yellowed with hate-smoke and old book notes. Splintered, crazed and buzzed through the gridded bulging eye-window of every single one of those insect like Self-Loathers. Chosen out of pure sympathy "We should talk more" .......To the sun, the moon and the stars? Every star mocks, Every beam scoffs and every moon likes to deride on the pain that hides beneath the lies of human bug eyes. A simply formed pound of vertebrate flesh leaks soft plasma on the scaly moth floor. Oh how we are dusty and unsure! Forestry consisting of a Sitka Spruce and of a Japanese Larch was a claim I made from the start. Over gardens of attention arachnid lurking selfish bugs and even those half winged "friend people". The bell has rung the scariest of chimes and with every soul wrenching 'ding' a furry fang digs at the blotchy eyed, softly fleshed girl. Oh such a sweet thing to be surrounded by selfish bugs who spin webs with tear stained tissues!

23

There's a sharp frosty switchback that never sees the sun in winter skies of blue. The frost heave cut-bank rocks tumble down to the side of the road, in the ice shard mottled ditch lay frozen stiff Tall Sitka spruce marbled gray shadows mat the sparsely traveled corridor, paved with potholes, where the roads have no names Sometimes listening quietly to the bare stillness, there are rhetorical questions heard in the silent reverie's say: "Have you ever been afraid?" The tree-line gaps above the jagged gray stone ravine, disappearing down the rugged mountain shade, falling into the pillow-top fog bank blanketing the canyon's murmurs below — headed towards the ocean Crystalline spring waters gurgle up roadside — out of nowhere, where tired boots stand in reverent contemplation as it all sings out harmoniously to the trees in the key of silence; it was there in a gust of restless forbearance heard the frozen peacefulness say: "Have you ever felt alone?" Gathering a deep breath of marbled gray shadows, silence bears a loud holler's scorn — echoing back and forth down canyon walls, with the spirit of a voice a multitude strong, evanescent as winter's outgoing tide. January 2019 — Jesse Stillwater

0

Jan 3, 2019

Jan 3, 2019 at 6:19 PM UTC

jesse-stillwater

winter silence echoes

There's a sharp frosty switchback that never sees the sun in winter skies of blue. The frost heave cut-bank rocks tumble down to the side of the road, in the ice shard mottled ditch lay frozen stiff Tall Sitka spruce marbled gray shadows mat the sparsely traveled corridor, paved with potholes, where the roads have no names Sometimes listening quietly to the bare stillness, there are rhetorical questions heard in the silent reverie's say: "Have you ever been afraid?" The tree-line gaps above the jagged gray stone ravine, disappearing down the rugged mountain shade, falling into the pillow-top fog bank blanketing the canyon's murmurs below — headed towards the ocean Crystalline spring waters gurgle up roadside — out of nowhere, where tired boots stand in reverent contemplation as it all sings out harmoniously to the trees in the key of silence; it was there in a gust of restless forbearance heard the frozen peacefulness say: "Have you ever felt alone?" Gathering a deep breath of marbled gray shadows, silence bears a loud holler's scorn — echoing back and forth down canyon walls, with the spirit of a voice a multitude strong, evanescent as winter's outgoing tide. January 2019 — Jesse Stillwater

19

From this island water and more tiny islands heavily treed with Douglas fir landing ground for ocean otters while orca whales glide by spout and spray the beach, broken shelled puddled wells of tide pools filling, spilling over again brown bauble seaweed mingles round algae rocks, barnacle shingled here where the air breathes salt scented water running wild with salmon.

0

Apr 24, 2015

Apr 24, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC

ca-guilfoyle

Sitka

From this island water and more tiny islands heavily treed with Douglas fir landing ground for ocean otters while orca whales glide by spout and spray the beach, broken shelled puddled wells of tide pools filling, spilling over again brown bauble seaweed mingles round algae rocks, barnacle shingled here where the air breathes salt scented water running wild with salmon.

13

Remember art class in the big room with spray painted concrete ground where you were given a tiny mosaic square and asked to recreate it on a much larger piece of canvas when you knew full well you weren't an artist and you never would be? You spent the time mixing blue and white acrylic paint together on a small piece of a former gallon of milk, adding and adding until there was more than you would need but the color matched perfectly and of that you were proud. Now you're older and you know a bit more about hue and saturation and how difficult it can be, working with imprecise mediums, to do that, to make something to fit a very precise set of guidelines with no missteps, no miscalculations, no question as to its perfection. You wonder if the color really did match back then, or if you are remembering something that never really happened, if you wanted it bad enough that it changed your recollection. That day, everyone's large square canvas pieces went together into designated spaces on the wall to make a composite image and all the blues were different shades and that made you frustrated and nervous and disappointed in the other third graders sitting around in a circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's old dress shirts as smocks and throwing brushes at each other and giggling as eight-year-olds do. You stared at the tidal wave on the wall made up of all these disparate pieces and you told yourself that you'd notice when things matched as though they were meant, as though they were destined and divine. You see the waves lapping at the beach as we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand on the shore and you tell me that my eyes match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your flannel shirt matches the gray November sky. It took all the way to Oregon until it happened again, but you keep your promise to yourself. You notice the matching colors. You smile to yourself and look down at me. You grab my hand and pull me closer.

0

Oct 18, 2013

Oct 18, 2013 at 6:29 PM UTC

lyzi-diamond

Waves

Remember art class in the big room with spray painted concrete ground where you were given a tiny mosaic square and asked to recreate it on a much larger piece of canvas when you knew full well you weren't an artist and you never would be? You spent the time mixing blue and white acrylic paint together on a small piece of a former gallon of milk, adding and adding until there was more than you would need but the color matched perfectly and of that you were proud. Now you're older and you know a bit more about hue and saturation and how difficult it can be, working with imprecise mediums, to do that, to make something to fit a very precise set of guidelines with no missteps, no miscalculations, no question as to its perfection. You wonder if the color really did match back then, or if you are remembering something that never really happened, if you wanted it bad enough that it changed your recollection. That day, everyone's large square canvas pieces went together into designated spaces on the wall to make a composite image and all the blues were different shades and that made you frustrated and nervous and disappointed in the other third graders sitting around in a circle on wobbling stools wearing dad's old dress shirts as smocks and throwing brushes at each other and giggling as eight-year-olds do. You stared at the tidal wave on the wall made up of all these disparate pieces and you told yourself that you'd notice when things matched as though they were meant, as though they were destined and divine. You see the waves lapping at the beach as we stare out at the vast Pacific. We stand on the shore and you tell me that my eyes match perfectly the colors of the Sitka spruces reaching their arms out wide behind me. Your flannel shirt matches the gray November sky. It took all the way to Oregon until it happened again, but you keep your promise to yourself. You notice the matching colors. You smile to yourself and look down at me. You grab my hand and pull me closer.

51

In animal death, a breath of relief Tunnelling through the airways for one last Sigh of non-defeat, of exaltation and release Not to be, or better, to be free of mortality Made immortal with passing life Taking strife by the neck and repeating I am no longer your victim In animal death, a universal strength Where no obstacles lay before happiness And instincts are not policed Your fanciful dreams of green treats, fulfilled And failing kidneys can rot as they please Please, shed only a handful of tears On the graves of decomposing beasts Released from the shackle of domestication, For the ones that suffer are surely the living.

0

Feb 11, 2017

Feb 11, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC

estherrr

To Sitka

In animal death, a breath of relief Tunnelling through the airways for one last Sigh of non-defeat, of exaltation and release Not to be, or better, to be free of mortality Made immortal with passing life Taking strife by the neck and repeating I am no longer your victim In animal death, a universal strength Where no obstacles lay before happiness And instincts are not policed Your fanciful dreams of green treats, fulfilled And failing kidneys can rot as they please Please, shed only a handful of tears On the graves of decomposing beasts Released from the shackle of domestication, For the ones that suffer are surely the living.

16

He was a mighty Sitka spruce In the dense forest, Always stretching for new heights, But I was nothing but a bonsai tree, Small, beautiful to look at, yet Extremely fragile and insecure

0

Apr 14, 2015

Apr 14, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC

allura-dannon-smith

Untitled

He was a mighty Sitka spruce In the dense forest, Always stretching for new heights, But I was nothing but a bonsai tree, Small, beautiful to look at, yet Extremely fragile and insecure

6

Every day I set sail on a stainless steel ship. It’s a little too heavy to float but every day is just short enough where I can make it out and back before sinking. But I’d love to see the sun on a longer day, so I cut down the sitka spruce planted on the day I was born, and I whittled it until I had carved a wooden heart the same size as my fist Now I sail in my little boat with my beautiful new wooden heart to keep me afloat. I still have to use every ounce of myself to focus on keeping me above the water but the sun shines brighter and the days stay longer. One sunny day I found myself castaway along your shore. I still had my wooden heart to make sure I would get home safely and I was keeping it oh so close to me. You introduced yourself with a smile and all I could bring myself to do was give my wooden heart to you. I only left once every trace of the sun was gone from the sky to return home. Now my boat is holding water just as closely as I held my heart.

0

May 5, 2018

May 5, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC

martqin

Wooden Heart

Every day I set sail on a stainless steel ship. It’s a little too heavy to float but every day is just short enough where I can make it out and back before sinking. But I’d love to see the sun on a longer day, so I cut down the sitka spruce planted on the day I was born, and I whittled it until I had carved a wooden heart the same size as my fist Now I sail in my little boat with my beautiful new wooden heart to keep me afloat. I still have to use every ounce of myself to focus on keeping me above the water but the sun shines brighter and the days stay longer. One sunny day I found myself castaway along your shore. I still had my wooden heart to make sure I would get home safely and I was keeping it oh so close to me. You introduced yourself with a smile and all I could bring myself to do was give my wooden heart to you. I only left once every trace of the sun was gone from the sky to return home. Now my boat is holding water just as closely as I held my heart.

13