Tuesday, December 29, 2020

boxes and community


 cooperation amidst the chaff


how extraordinary the loss, and the gain:


the pandemic has nixed gathering together in a house for a family party,

we have lost the warm womb of a cousin’s home,

the shared food and drink,

the easy flowing camaraderie of the face-to-face,

that which had done so much for us to feel the sharedness of our humanity,

now Zoom and Facetime can allow us to gather virtually,

the Internet connecting the far-flung and the nearby

into an equality with ease of access 

to a window to each other and to a group identity,

 that ease can hold us

more closely in its distance

than face-to-face could often achieve,


in a house or another central place,

like will find like, friends find friends,

families group into their own subsets,

so that while the physical closeness

allows an intensity of relationship denied in the virtual,

it also allows a distance and lack of connection

as people choose the familiar, 

the closeby, the neighbors in the same town,


if conditions are right online,

a ceremony can pull us together,

a pattern of sharing can pull us together,

can let folks be seen, be heard, be appreciated,

and those physically distant,

who could not make it to a house or place nearby,

can find their selves and contributions treasured,


our electronic webs can allow us to be known and to be connected,

yet we should also fear the predators of the herd out there,

who seek to know us so that they can use us to their own advantage,

maybe to monetize our relationships,

or maybe the social mediaists who monitor us to manipulate us,

who profit producing difference and conflict,


within the chaff that swirls through the virtual ether,

it is possible to cooperate more than compete,

I love the possibilities inherent in Wikipedia and in open sourcing,

for they, like with Zoom and Facetime,  show it is possible to find a way 

to allow us to transcend the boxes

and create a compelling intimacy I thought denied to us,

 to create the bonds of community where we work together

to build more and surer than we can create 

within the prevalence of division and subtraction.



by Henry H. Walker
December 27, ‘20

Sunday, December 27, 2020

pen and ink, with a wash of white

 

continuity and change


in relationship to partner, to job, to nature, 

I am constant in commitment and experience,


yet I savor the change of season,

the first flowers of leafing spring,

the fruiting of summer, the harvest,

the leaf change, the fall,


bright sun ruled the mountains a few days ago,

last night wind wrecked havoc on sleep and trees,

steady, soaking rain then brought the creek full and loud,



now a wet snow drapes itself over the woods,

and tomorrow is Christmas,




whatever gifts we can appreciate from both continuity and change

can help us know the moment well,





Christmas awakens to a white transformation 



as every line of tree branch

supports inches of a frosting of snow,






the clarity of the pen and ink sketch 

fall makes of summer’s billowed curves,

now overlaid with a soft extravagance,




the forest transformed with a white wash 

gentling the dark clear geometry

grown to catch and hold the sun,

the sketch spring, summer, and fall will build upon,

now it’s winter’s turn to reframe the skeletal sketch with white,


the cold is not enough to hold the creek from flowing and dropping,

though when it splashes onto leaf and branch,

liquid morphs into solid, clear icicles 

like ornaments that glisten in the sun.







by Henry H. Walker
December 24-25, ‘20

Friday, December 25, 2020

simple truths

 

the lay of the land


I am intrigued by what the lay of the land is,

what it says as to where to walk,

where a trail ought to be, then a road,

maybe where to sit awhile

and settle in to the world around you,


our place in the Smokies,

huddles next to a beautifully dropping stream,

the water so clear as to be transparent,

except where rocks froth it white for a bit

so that we are captivated by rapids and falls

which draw the eye and soothe the ear of the soul,


at our house here, two sides of the lot border the national park,

so that house and land domesticate our moments with comfort,

while our eyes and hearts are drawn to the wilding beyond,


this afternoon 8 wild turkeys pecked the ground just outside our door

and drew us out to marvel at their grace and purpose,






until they decided to move along, away from our presence,

so they crossed the creek where a month ago,





mother bear and her three budding adolescents

crossed after snacking on holly berries,

berries that downed tree trunks pulled low enough 

for them to be eaten,

trunks which allow relatively easy passing over the creek,

the turkeys in enough hurry to fly a bit,

a gift, I hope, to my camera, 

which worked to chronicle their passing flight 

and only managed to catch a hint of their open wings,



my mother often referred to the cabin as Grand Central Station

for all the coming and going under our roof,

a tribute to where we are and what we have wrought

with our dwelling as comfortable gate,


over a hundred years ago, 

a settler must have built house, barn, and tub mill here,

for the falling stream could readily be harnessed for grinding corn,


now we seek to harness the glory 

of the falling water and passing animals

to fuel our sense of wonder,

and to help us remember the great simple truths

that the lay of the land, water, and life,

reveal to any of us open enough

to see, to appreciate,

to let touch the soul within.



by Henry H. Walker
December 23, ‘20

Thursday, December 24, 2020

playing the hand we are dealt


 Family


each generation is challenged by circumstance,

by the cards the universe randomly deals

whether in our own make-up,

such as in how efficiently our neurons fire,

what parenting and schooling work to encourage and discourage,

what resources are available, or denied to us,

still the play is up to us:

How do we use the cards in our own hand?

family can be a grounding,

a way to be loved, and then to love ourselves,

to be known, and to know ourselves,

family, like friendship, can be amazing,


still, who we are has to look self in the mirror,

accept who we see, love who we see,

open ourselves to being the best possible us

as we play our cards,

as we hope we get it as right 

as the universe allows,


family can give us the love and support we need

to persevere, to endure, to forge the link of our own life,

to be worthy of the links that stretch back before us,

and of the links that can come after,


may we be strong and true to our best,

however the cards fall.



by Henry H. Walker
December 22, ‘20

Wednesday, December 23, 2020

the celestial and the mundane

 

Winter Solstice ‘20


Winter is coming. . .

in less than 12 hours the Sun will pause

in its escape into the south and consider returning to us

who live in the northern half of the Earth,

it is time for the dark to rule tonight and tomorrow night,

it is time for the light to feel its time coming,

and to hold our hopes in its rise and set,

in its defiance during the day as hope challenges despair,





morning dawns clear in the Smokies,

we decide to climb 3 miles up a mountain named Bullhead

to a stone table, gratuitously built by he C.C.C.,

while they fashioned the trail up from Cherokee Orchard

and on to the top of Mt. LeConte,

the stone table is just shy of halfway up Leconte

and near where a great Cherokee hero found Walisiyi, 

a great green frog,








we love to challenge our 70+ year old bodies with the effort,

I’m far slower on the trail than I was 20 years ago,

yet I’m also far more cognizant of the steep drop-offs

and of how each moment holds wonders,







the sun is bright today, despite how low in the sky it is,





broken icicles remember how cold it recently was

and soon will be again,

a bear or two casually haunt the middle slopes,

just where valley decides to steepen into rocky bluffs,


our afternoon passes with a few chores

and some relaxing to recover from our six mile effort, 


sunset comes early and we drive 

to the highest ridges the road knows,

warm color hugs the western sky

and blustering wind pulls the warmth from our skin

as the light fades into the west,


Jupiter announces himself 

as a bright dot of light to the southwest,



slowly, behind him and a bit up to the right,

Saturn reveals herself,



the two together a rare conjunction

not seen on Earth for about the last 800 years,

dark, menacing clouds swiftly gather overhead

and decide we should only glimpse moments 

of the great planets aligned,


we return down the mountain,

and I am appalled by the ego-centered crowds in Gatlinburg,

seemingly in pursuit of momentary diversion,

while in the sky above great gas planets align themselves

and the sun pauses to renew life in but a few months,

our car immediately followed by a truck

whose sound system assaults with its bass,

fifteen minutes of stop and go driving,

while discordant noise from his need for excessive stimulation

attacks us so that we, too, should know we are as nothing,

unless our senses are overwhelmed with noise,


it is hard to not despair

about the emptiness so many of us

seek to fill with excess,

while grandness is as close as the sky above

and the murmur of the streams nearby.



by Henry H. Walker
December 21, ‘20

Tuesday, December 22, 2020

the remnant, now dying away

 

Big Poplar, a white pillar now


winter is coming. . .

and the way cross-country is easy to find,

since so many leaves are off the trees

and gentle the feel of my steps forward,

so many plants have had to die back till spring,

I particularly don’t miss the rank poke weed,

and I don’t like the idea of it returning

when Persephone returns from Hades,


we climb half an hour up from the road

to the Big Poplar, a lonely remnant of the great old growth

that covered these slopes till the last 200 years

during which the wood within their trunks,

and the land below them which could be farmed for corn,

led to the axe and saw domesticating the primeval forest,


for decades I have visited this huge tulip poplar tree,

over 22 feet in circumference, high up a hollow,

butting up against a stone cliff,









I treasured it as a  last survivor

who helped me remember what was lost

when farms and lumber companies asserted themselves,

now the Big Poplar is dead:

a white monolith whose size and shape

still remember who it was in life,






but the rot, the loss, the forgetting, are setting in,

our aging bodies again pull us up to the Big Poplar,

and it’s hard to not feel the pull of letting go

that calls to all living things,

we also feel the pull to rise as high and strong

as we still can,

to not yet slip back into the past,

and to let the future do as it will.





by Henry H. Walker
December 19, ‘20