light in my word

 

a new day's promise

I like to watch. . . 

I study the sketches of lines

life has clawed into the sky,

it feels like there's an artist

who carefully then dabs color onto the trees,

one cautious step at a time,

as Robert Frost wrote, "nature's first green is gold,"

there's a soft tentativeness that builds each globe of glory

making itself before me on the hillside,

I have never developed the landscape painter within me,

and I am in awe of those who dare the attempt 

to echo what every branch, every tree,

shows us, proudly, of their becoming themselves

in the fullness that is Spring,

there is a hope that all that is young

wishes to find and express

so that tomorrow is better than today,

despite all that seeks to blight such hope,

an Indigenous prayer to the spirit who comes out of the east

every day reminds me to have light in my word, 

to appreciate the promise of a  new day,

the denial of sorrow that starting over

releases anew unto the world,

by Henry H. Walker

April 5, ‘25

while still allowed the views

 

pull out into view

every day, I hope to check in with my psyche:

are there constellations of meaning in my sky

whose patterns I need to notice? and to chronicle?

my life moves forward,

and I am along for the ride,

each poem I write is as if I reach a pull-out

with a view that beckons me to notice it,

to pause, and then to realize where I am,

and to notice what reveals itself to me, now, before me,

the journey pulls me forward,

and eventually all will end,

I want to chronicle what I can

while I am still allowed the views.

by Henry H. Walker

April 4, ‘25

maybe we should chronicle?

 the push for tomorrow

we are not in control:

Spring is fully upon the land,

trees indiscriminately spend their savings

on the pollen that lightly covers everything,

in the hope that an infinitesimal percentage will find the right host

and more of themselves will be here in the morrow,

insects crash the gate

and elbow their way everywhere around me,

on my legs, across my skin, onto my paper,

for this is their time,

and my reality is but a blank canvas 

upon which they stumble, and they, 

like the ubiquitous pollen,

spend enormous resources

so that the tomorrows to come include them,

today is of the quiet pervasive pollen

and of countless insects who we didn't invite to the party,

though I have to realize

that it's more their party than ours,

we are just uninvited guests,

maybe our value can be to chronicle the festivities.

by Henry H. Walker

April 3, ‘25

the rough touch of the chainsaw

 an unwitting casualty

the mountain laurel,

who has graced the edge of the creek

at our mountain home for generations, isn't there!

it must have been an unwitting casualty

when they took out a great, troubled red oak,

I find it sad that those with chainsaws

might not have even noticed this casualty

from their battle with the tree.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25

our betters

 

blood root in blossom

so much depends on a bloodroot in blossom. . .

so far we usually only get to the Smokies

when it's convenient to our schedule,

wildflowers have their own schedule,

today we were blessed with an intersection of the two schedules,

two bloodroot held off while their peers flowered

and opened for us today,

many other wildflowers joined them,

yellow and white trillium, miterwort, violet, 

and more and more,

I often feel like I am a lesser entity

and that the blood root are my betters,

I love it when they open,

and I can be around,

I am sad when I realize

the peak of their show was two weeks ago.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25

The Tail of the Dragon

 

great wrinkles of mountains

"Highway 441 is closed,"

announces a small sign,

right after we've traveled about 280 miles,

we just need to step over

the main high ridge of the Appalachians here,

and now we can't,

the interstate that slips around the eastern edge of the Smokies

is troubled with delay since Helene washed out

too much of its underpinning

east-west travel is reduced to two lanes, one each way,

with traffic probably backed up at least an extra hour,

the two lane road over the crest of the Smokies

should usually take less than an hour,

instead we drive around the west side of the Smokies,

sometimes directly following the rivers and TVA lakes

and sometimes roughly following the rivers,

we wind up and down ridges,

slowly, many a 15 mph sign,

roads that have more turns than anyone from the flatlands

could possibly conceive of a road's needing,

roads traditionally follow watercourses

for water finds a way we love to emulate,

instead we spend 11 miles on The Tail of the Dragon,

318 turns as if it wants to know every in and out

above and below every contour line,

an almost intimate embrace of the slopes

wrinkled upon the land,

after an hour or two of the mountains making us deal with them,

the road re-finds the Little Tennessee River,

where the 20th century damned the river

so that we could harness its power,

on The Dragon, twisting and turning,

with motorcycles thrilling to the challenge,

we cross under great power lines,

strung straight between the ridges,

from the dams to the city,

while we on the road get to know the mountains,

and a bit of why these wild mountains

still remember who they are

and daunt our arrogance with the truth

of their folding and unfolding.

by Henry H. Walker

April 2, ‘25