"yukon" poems
I want to be more active
And not spew about all my feelings
I'm done pitying myself,
I just need to trust God,
Anyways here's an ending bucket list
Because I won't write back in a while:
Free swim with whales and sharks
See a lion pride
Shark cage diving
Sky dive
Ski a double black diamond
Climb a mountain
Film a tornado
Learn to surf
Learn to snowboard
Learn to scuba dive
See a wild wolf pack
See a wild brown bear
Hang glide
Paraglide
Cliff dive
Ride Route 66
Camp in complete wilderness of Yellowstone for week
Hike mount Haleakala, Hawaii, and photograph night sky
Visit equafina springs FL (again)
Camp on a beach (not crowded) with friends
Kiss in the rain
Go tree tent camping in smoky mountains
Own bonsai tree for many years
Own horses
Dye my hair (once)
Camp on my own private sail boat w friends
Write a book (actually commit, doesn't have to be good or published)
Own theses dogs: Newfie, husky, Akita
Live in Alaska
Live in the Yukon
Live in Colorado
Climb the grand Tetons and pray
Live without a cell phone
See Unimak pass Alaska and film orcas
Milk a cow
Nov 4, 2014
Nov 4, 2014 at 11:08 AM UTC
at night, i dream of sun-drenched eggshell walls
baking in the morning like yukon gold potatoes
where we wake unbothered by the encroaching light
i’ll meet you in the kitchen to switch on the toaster oven
the coffee *** pulling our ceramic mugs from the drying rack
carrying our books with bent covers to the balcony
where you set down thick slices of french bread slathered in butter
and a bowl of fresh, cold strawberries on a small round table
that we found at a sunday yard sale two summers ago
we take turns taking crisp bites in between sips of steaming coffee
mine with raw honey and cream, yours black
our oily thumbs staining the corners of thin ivory pages
i listen to the sound of you reading; of the world waking up
birds singing their sunrise songs; and my heart
slow, and buoyant, and irrevocably yours
May 26, 2019
May 26, 2019 at 11:41 PM UTC
When I was wee my feets was small.
They found no grip, I'd trip and fall.
I'd stumble bumble left and right
From morning sun to bed-time night.
But as I grew my feets did too.
They grew out of both sock and shoe!
And when I slept they grew some more.
They grew right out my bedroom door!
They grew right out onto the lawn
And when I woke my feets was gone!
I sat there scared within my bed
Just wondering where my feets had fled.
Did my feets go out on a trip
Along the Mighty Mississip?
Were they stomping Kansas corn,
Or hanging ten in Californ?
Hiking in Saskatchewan
Or Yucatan or cold Yukon?
All day long and into night
I worried of my Feets's plight.
Worried that they'd never phone
To tell me they was coming home,
Worried that I'd be bereft
Of both my feets, the right and left!
And so I pictured my two feets
Just wandering dark Parisian streets,
Or alleys in the south of Spain,
Or freezing in the Russian rain,
Or separated in Des Moins
Without the calf, the knee, the *****
But wait! Hold on! What's this I see?
I'm such a goof, oh silly me!
I did not lose my big old feets!
They were just sleeping 'neath my sheets!
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 9:57 PM UTC
In Abraham Lincoln's city,
Where they remember his lawyer's shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham Lincoln's city ... I saw knucks
In the window of Mister Fischman's second-hand store
On Second Street.
I went in and asked, "How much?"
"Thirty cents apiece," answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
"I sell a carload a month of these."
I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the "malice to none" stuff.
I started for the door.
"Maybe you want a lighter pair,"
Came Mister Fischman's voice.
I opened the door ... and the voice again:
"You are a funny customer."
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham Lincoln's home town.
1.6k
She's manifested today like a ghost
appearing from a haunted house.
Desertion is that inhabited manor
from which the voices in her head
urge her into exile, urge her phantom existence.
Sitting upon the berm overlooking
the beach and lighthouse of Coos Bay,
she wishes she could ride the setting
Pacific sun to New Guinea or beyond.
Below five athletic young women
contest the physics of a soccer ball,
imagining the red-white lighthouse a goal.
In other times she'd ask to join them,
but she must lose her personal history now,
remain hidden in plain sight.
The loneliness of this subsistence
a charnel house blackening her heart.
She's Amelia Earhart about to crash
the Yukon's heartbroken cry.
Feb 22, 2012
Feb 22, 2012 at 2:01 PM UTC
Late morning after dreaming of these
hand-written Alaskan three-dollar bills
Polaroid photographs of empty silver screens
hidden elevator button escape routes
mid-performance ****** reconstructions
I half-wake from my half-sleep and in seventy-five-cent consciousness
beg the man of my waking misconceptions to meet for one more
one more double latte Marlboro 27 kiss behind the parking lot than we’d ever had
before we part again and he will reunite with his lunchmeat of holiday hopes and aspirations
And I will return to
the land of brotherless love and flaming heterosexuals
the land of ugly **** and self-righteous queers
the land where there is no God because I chased him from the West before he could do me harm
the land filled with my pity and inebriated mindless self-perpetuation
the land consumed with no passion because the Yukon’s landscape eyes are bleak and empty
the land where the only direction is floating down-river to the blood-stained rocks of our maturity
still within my mental prison with my other mental inmates and mental shanks and *****
I dream again with my eyes wide open and lips drawn in two-tier lonely grimace
dream of the blue green red-eyed beauty that I have never known
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 6:07 PM UTC
The day is ebbing, shadows fall,
While twilite deepens nite birds call
The works of mortals fade away;
In quiet care a sorrow lay;
Soothing evening breezes whisper,
Telling of forgotten lands-
Softly speak of Eden's Gardens,
And of earth's dear no-man lands.
Murmur of sea island countries,
Drowsy birds, faint scents of flowers,
Silver moons and star lit meadows-
Tell of slow, enchantful hours.
But the vision swiftly changes
Northland wastes and solitude
In their place lied coldly calling ,
Luring your adventurous mood...
Beckoning to unclimbed mountains,
Treacherous glaciers, unexplored,
Ice and rivers, frozen fountains,
Long from which Aurora soared.
But the zephyr now has ended,
In the midst of Yukon flats
Come, regretful, to the present-
Just remember where you're at.
But in future desolation
When your thoughts are glum and sour,
Think back thru your "Syncopation"
To the zephyr of this hour.
And when wind and winter harden
All the leafless, loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden--
It will bid you understand.
And the moral of the story-
(For it has one as all should)
Is: "When all are shorn of Glory--
God alone will choose the good."
But let's leave that as it stood...
For from here, where ere you wander,
Whether it be near or far,
Without stopping long to ponder--
Just be thankful where you are.
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 1:29 PM UTC
You’re my Calvin and I’m your Hobbes
You lead me to adventures that will change our lives as we know it
I follow, the faithful companion, always ready to assist in any way
During the day we plot the Yukon and sail the seven deadly seas
At night we fend off terrible monsters under the bed and the adults who try to ruin us
I never leave your side, and if I do you very well know where I am
Best friend no matter what, guardian until the bitter end
We stand tall together and have each others’ back
We are two of the best friends in the universe
No one has anything on us
The child at heart and the tiger in spirit
You think we’ll ever break apart?
Yeah... me either.
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 1:36 AM UTC
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang -
'Tho mum had told me it'd be over when Mrs Jones came on -
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
It was at this talent show; I'd come to see this smoking Orang-utan.
I'd seen the mediocre 'Mystico', the lacklustre 'Lassie' and a small man named Ron;
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang.
The final act was to be signalled with a gong and a bang,
Then out came Mrs Jones, the size of the entire Yukon.
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
I guess it was a perfect example of yin and yang,
And since it happened Mrs Jones is quite the local icon.
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang.
It'd seemed like she'd be better suited at a competition eating pie, or meringue,
At her local diner with her 20% off coupon.
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
The bass kicked in, she belted it out and the whole audience sprang
Into frenzy and boogied, like night had been and gone.
It turns out the show's only just started when the fat lady's sang
So imagine my surprise when she burst into Kool & the Gang.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
He sleeps
How silently he sleeps
Safe from drunken misdemeanors
Safe from incoherent talk
I think I love him
Second love,
It's unknown territory
It’s the Yukon
Should I leave this alone?
This is unknown territory
Please do not look at my ****** interpretations
Just please, just please answer
And leave it alone
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 5:17 AM UTC
Contains More Than Kernel Of Truthful
alienation, expulsion, ostracization
from body politick
if member of society resistant,
indifferent, adamant, et cetera
despite differentiation
(across the figurative board)
intolerance opposing ethos,
asper unspoken social graces extant
(albeit manifested amidst diverse
livingsocial variations) within
rubric of global civilizations primal,
oral, nonverbal, et cetera codas
automatically decreeing manual Kant
instilled from cradle
to grave impossible mission scant
acceptance toward recalcitrant
challenging precepts via rave and/or rant
thus when born into whatever culture,
steeped with historical paradigm
one can protest superficial nigh cities
til ivy blue in the face,
or try to concoct a feeble rhyme
but culture club richly identified, endowed,
brewed from heritage long time
ago until the cows come home to roost
hence creative pursuits one direction
can turn to swiftly tailor
if harried styled
with perceived restrictive parameters
and cuss like a sailor
with song and dance routine
(perhaps appearing on Dancing
With The Stars), or
choosing subterfuge viz
writing nefarious malware code, wheremailer
daemons spring to life, when computer code
following infinitely jesting illogic causing exhaler
(case in point - myself, hoot
ends tubby humorous) as yukon gauge
yet another Internet end user might experience
greater reason to rage
against the machine before
turning rogue gushing renegade, stage
jing anarchy against disparity
with equal pay, cuz a working wage
aint nuttin boot peanuts
so if strong willed, hook hairs
if you appear like a putz
just realize doggerel
of this pooch iz gaseous
boot utterly without guts
and hangs around the junkyard
with other nerdy mutts.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 6:47 PM UTC
With Ma Lil **** Dill
one bilabial fricative smacking
tongue thrusting (lizard like)
indefatigable prelapsarian
Garden of Eden dwelling primate
doth pine with two lipped treating zest
for Eve fun juiced a tasty droplet, wrest
ting kitty meowing Mz er loo,
sans verboten fruit Yukon die vest
via jump starting
a hovering damn
electric kool aid acid test
Hair and there, a bare naked lady attired
in her birthday suit, the sexiest
plump ***** roseate
sear suckered ******* trickling milky nectar
when casting shadowed umbra at rest
thirsting, unleashing, vaunting,
et cetera viz prurient quest,
whereby this rambunctious
***** bull lever severely oppressed
condemned with life sentence
of ****** solitude, nest
souled (sorely testing
agonizing Victorian modest
tee primly and properly
tortures carnal temptation lest
surrendering syllabus "C" ) even jest
a jot, cuz tis pure torture restraining
feral, hormonal, integral hankering
to stoke libido at Parochialism be hest
thus, aye feel unfairly deprived,
no hello kitty will be guest
unsure how helpful "getting off my chest"
works thee unnatural tethered
****** suppression, perhaps best
left unmentioned, encumbered
with jiggly, flabby droopy breast
works, and unwanted love handles
state of reined swiftly tailored
harried stylishly groomed
FitBit bridled uncertainty I attest.
Jun 11, 2018
Jun 11, 2018 at 10:00 PM UTC
a curved knife lays on the table
as a fire crackles
and the wood-smells
fill our mind
the cold looks into our home
with disinterest
you lay
stretched out in the bed
a woolen blanket wrapped
around your form
and
I cannot see your
face
I see this scene
as clearly as I see these
words flow from my
fingers
but I cannot
see your face
maybe there’s reason
for this
I look at the log walls,
the books stacked on the
book shelf made of raw
timber,
the pattern in your quilt,
your face
but I cannot see it,
I cannot remember it
I wonder constantly
when this picture shall
be complete
May 19, 2012
May 19, 2012 at 10:45 PM UTC
There was another brother whom history forgets
And though born a fisherman, he preferred other nets.
The coterie of rink rats who lived on the Left Coast
Thought he was sine qua non, and they would often boast
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
His slapper had heat to make a goalie wet himself;
His wrister was money either five-hole or top-shelf.
After the goaltender felt another puck **** by,
He’d curse and bang the crossbar as fans took up the cry
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
He dominated rinks out West like no other man
From Calgary to Saskatoon, Fresno to Spokane.
He’d hat tricks in Winnipeg, six-point games in Moose Jaw
Moving scribes to hackneyed verse written in fits of awe.
*He’s better than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.*
Though the man was a fine skater, strong, agile and fleet
The slightest flaw in the ice caused anguish to his feet
And he would scold arena crews—*What’d you call this mush?
‘Tis nothing but chips and ruts; I’d rather skate on slush!*
(More prickly than his brother Joe,
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gio.)
After one match in Oakland on ice unduly rough
He stormed into the locker room, shouting ‘Nuff’s enough!
He didn’t change his sweater as he stormed out the door,
Hopping on a trolley car, to be seen never more
(He’s a bit loony, don’t you know.
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
He was sighted in the Yukon, once or perhaps twice
Engaged in some mad mission to find the perfect ice.
Neither man nor beast can say what became of this fool,
Though bits of skate lace appear in petrified bear stool
(Tastes better than his brother Joe?
Es-ki-mo Di-mag-gi-o.)
Mar 29, 2017
Mar 29, 2017 at 10:10 AM UTC
Up in the Yukon
they use gold ***** for ping pong.
Heavy duty.
I wish they'd
re-route me
to there.
Down here with Babylon
truncheons and
helmets on
I wish that I was gone
elsewhere.
Jun 24, 2015
Jun 24, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
There's a tale that is told
In the night Yukon cold
Of the shooting of Dan Mc Grew
The truth as it's known
Is a legend that's grown
And the truth is known by very few
It's twenty years on
The Malamutes gone
There's nobody left from that night
But there's talk of some gold
That sometimes is told
Of what happened just after the fight
There is word of a bar
"The New Yukon Star"
And a fellow down there who can play
The place it is grand
The best in the land
And it's found down by Old Frisco Bay
Now, remember the poke
Of McGrew's the tale spoke
And what happened when Dan was now dead
From his neck it was freed
And the poke held the deed
To Dangerous Dan's claim it was said
When the Northern lights glow
Bringing life to the snow
They say that old Dan walks again
But twenty years past
Dan took that breath, yes, his last
And left the world of mortal men
Now, the saloon down in Frisco
With a barkeep named Cisco
Had a picture of Dan on the wall
They say that his ghost
Makes it smile when you toast
Dan McGrew when it is last call
A traveller came
And remembered Dan's name
One night as he sat with his drink
The piano was loud
And he saw through the crowd
A face, which made the man think
He once was a cop
And on occasion did stop
At the bar when Dan McGrew died
He looked at the face
But wasn't sure of the place
That he knew it, but **** boys he tried
There's a place saved in hell
For those under the spell
Of those who cheated out old Dan McGrew
In the stories it's told
how his poke with his gold
Was stolen by someone he knew
Think of the name
Of the one living with shame
From Dan's last night beneath the north star
Just who could build
A place always filled
A hotel and a popular bar
There on the stair
With long silvery hair
Through cigar smoke that made the air blue
Was the girl who once danced
And had Dan entranced
The girl known only as Lou
Jun 24, 2018
Jun 24, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
I remember the little bottles
All lined up neatly on the floor next to me
Waiting to feel my hands around the cap
The little "crack" as the seal is broken
The room temperature liquid slowly emptied
Rushing down and giving warmth to my belly
False sense of numbness rising to my lips
Believing all the pain is gone
One after another, each little bottle giving it's life
The numbness turns to darkness...lights out
I awake to realize that nothing has changed
The pain I thought I chased away returns
The cycle repeats itself, pain grows stronger
Numbness is not easily attained, chased with more
Darkness is all I wish for, permanent like a sharpie
Sadness turns to rage, rage to shame
Fog sets all around my world
The darkness spreads, so much darkness
Shame turns to regret, regret to change
28 days cracking my skull to find the spark
The spark becomes an ember, glowing
Therapy and a hard look in the mirror provide the oxygen
It turns into a small flame, the light
The light pushes out the darkness
Fog rises up and becomes clouds on a sunny day
I see it all clearly now, life anew
The pain doesn't go away but is managed
Hard work, perseverance, honesty are my new friends
A Yukon Boy,
Becomes a Sober Man
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 9:57 PM UTC
The warm kiss of a summer breeze
The melodic singing of birds
The quiet mornings after rainfall
The sting of cold water on your feet
The dull itch of soft grass
The soundless echo of caves
The life vibrating through forests
The rough, comforting feel of trees
The bubbling laughter of rivers
The cool breath of winter to come
The warmth of sunbeams
The tall mountain sentries
The dust left over from climbing claycliffs
The numb feeling of snow
The peace of twilight
The smell of woodsmoke hanging in the air
The dark of long winters
The joy of short summers
The yukon
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
For America
it's Hawaii
For Canada
it's the Yukon
Still good to be
American
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC
early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
lapping along a weir
thumb and fore finger
of right hand would peal back,
(via diagonally flippant motion
asper calendar
representing progression of time)
gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
revealing the next month at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit galloping tear
thy head immediately lost hirsute thickness,
i starkly share
male or female pattern baldness
extant along
Harris genealogical trunk line rare
yet divulging distress
about limp decreasing strands
sends shivers along spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of queer
and perchance tis foolhardy
reeding this Samson night issue must ap pear
tis unstoppable inching closer toward
as mortality gets near
youthful robustness fades
replaced by senescence mere
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
one evinces gargoyles mockingly leer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
ring sound reverberating hair
splitting decibel jamming primary cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold, et cetera locks mud dear.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:48 PM UTC
Far moost o' me
three score minus one year
tethered upon terra firmae where
planet Earth doth veer
(spins upon the global axis
(tilted 23.5 degrees from the plane
of its orbit around the sun),
terrestrial genesis (perhaps accompanied
for Pete's sake by Gabriel
blowing his horn) in all honesty unclear
boot more oven concern
points to thermonuclear
and/or subnuclear
war, particularly at forefront
of thine primate noggin
actively hypothesizing
theoretical armageddon,
when non plus ultra gravitates
with e pluribus unum necessitating
each individual to bend over
and kiss his/her rear
goodbye unless total merciless queer
hue loss atomic fallout immediately
incinerates e'en
the moost savvy profiteer,
which aforementioned prognostication
arose from overbear
ring hazy, hot and humid
dangerous heat spell near
lee approximating insufferable
temperature nearing triple digits
(along Eastern Seaboard
of United baked States
makes this human,
an immediate convert to climate control
(though he happened tubby already)
basking, glorifying, and luxuriating
within delightful 60º Fahrenheit mere
really expressing gratitude for such
creature comfort donning my
stretched out birthday suit,
(yet thee moost comfortable leisurewear
then thrift store "special bag
mountain of clothes
as mooch as Yukon sales,"
no matter mine ill mannered
mirrored reflection doth jeer
at such a sorry sight, and/or
laugh reading interlinear
monologue colloquy,
which message gleaned between lines,
and should this poem be red aloud,
thy ******** passion linkedin
with humming HVAC, ye would hear
courtesy hove cochlear
(hollow tube in the inner ear)
sensitive to deafening sounds...so beware!
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 4:02 PM UTC
early this year
gentle as calm ocean waters
gently lapping along a weir
thumb and fore finger
of right hand would peal back,
(via diagonally flippant motion
asper calendar
representing progression of time)
gets flipped over to veer
in one direction (linear)
revealing the next month at lightspeed
vis a vis tempus fugit galloping tear
thy head immediately lost hirsute thickness,
i starkly share
male or female pattern baldness
extant along
Harris genealogical trunk line rare
yet divulging distress
about limp decreasing strands
sends shivers along spine,
gloomy feeling linkedin
with old fashioned meaning of queer
and perchance tis foolhardy
as reeding this Samson night issue must ap pear
tis unstoppable inching closer toward
as mortality gets near
youthful robustness fades
replaced by senescence mere
really ambling along tragicomic stream,
one evinces gargoyles mockingly leer
loosing sleep and kept raggedly awake
in conjunction dreams fraught
with frightful haunting monsters jeer
ring sound reverberating hair
splitting decibel jamming cranial gear
aye tell mice elf nothing to fear...
yet maximizing this plight with poem 'ere
Yukon also temporarily part
blond, brown, gold, et cetera locks mud dear.
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
like the gold at the bottom of a Yukon stream
I need to stop underestimating myself.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC