we are driven

 

who's the driver?

what drives us?

I have long felt

great currents pulling at me, pushing at me,

I am in a stream across which I want to move,

instead, I am challenged

by the stream's imperative

to rush downhill and take me with it,

it cares nothing for my desire to make my own way forward,

I am irrelevant to its imperative,

metaphorically, I know that my emotional currents 

care nothing for my will,

I need to let them carry me a ways,

to learn from them,

until I can reassert my will

and find myself a new footing,

though farther down the stream bed 

than I hoped for in my naivité,

I know we are driven,

the dark currents below our sureness

need to be embraced,

before they're resisted,

we contain multitudes, or, rather,

we are contained in multitudes,

our current is buffeted by currents

we need to notice, to acknowledge,

to move with,

and then maybe beyond.

by Henry H. Walker

August 23, ‘26

little cat feet?

 

like shadows

bears appear, and disappear,

in a moment,

I rarely even notice,

one moment they're not there,

then they are there,

then they're not there,

they remind me of Carl Sandburg's line 

about the fog coming in as if on little cat feet,

bears are large in body,

and in commonality to us,

but they move through their world,

and often through ours,

as if of no more substance than a passing breeze,

as if cloaked by their introversion,

I love to snap awake

and realize an important visitor has come

to share our world for a time,

and I subordinate my agenda 

to the new clerk of the meeting,

a day later and I sit down by the creek writing of Dolly Parton,

my wife hollers at me from the porch

as she is setting the table for supper,

I look to my right, 

and the great bear, maybe 400 pounds,

who has shared this valley with us for at least 10 years,

calmly walks to within fifteen feet of me,

looks at me for a moment,

and then matter-of-factly chooses another way across the creek,

showing me his backside,

I love that this huge bear has found how to coexist with us,

and still be true to who he is.

Huge bear in cabin yard a previous year

by Henry H. Walker

August 25, ‘26

what an incredible person!

 

of Dolly Parton

those of us from East Tennessee

are blessed with roots in these old, provocative mountains,

and we are often blessed with families

without much wealth as measured in dollars,

but who do have much wealth as measured in love:

the parents who would see us, know us, care for us,

and help us find our way,

even when that way was unique, challenging, a risk,

Dolly Parton grew up within a cocoon of love

that she carried with her throughout her life,

even when her individual path led to success after success,

she still was dedicated to family,

both the families she was born with and the ones she worked to create,

even though so much was stacked against her,

she still was true to self,

success required her spunk, her chutzpah,

to market her appearance so that doors could open,

only then could her full self be seen, 

be heard, be appreciated, be itself,

though selflessness fit her,

she still needed to market her self

so that the public would wake up and notice her,

hours ago Dolly Parton died

and left us to be ourselves without her,

it is time to play her songs, to remember her accomplishments,

to rededicate ourselves to empowering the spunk within us,

like she did, to rededicate ourselves to taking care of community,

maybe first within East Tennessee

but then within all we can touch with our lives,

consider: Dolly found the way to give, to share,

over three hundred million books with the young across all the world

she could find a way to touch,

even unto those kids in Australia, or those who speak Spanish,

for all children are as much children of God

as those in her family and those sharing roots in East Tennessee,

Dolly was incredibly gifted,

but the gift she shared most fully

was the gift of unconditional love,

and the spunk to let it thrive.

by Henry H. Walker

August 25, ‘26

the serial story of the creek

 

change and the creek

change throws itself at the world,

excessive rain pummels the mountain and valley,

raises the creek,

empowers it to reshape the flows,

the mountain stream shifts toward what was secondary before,

now just above our cabin,

much more water flows in what was a minor branch,

rather than in the formerly main branch,

the creek decides it is easier to flow

down a different channel,

constancy is not how streams manifest

unless we define constancy as change,

great trunks of hemlock 

slowly make their way downstream in the high water,

each felled by a voracious insect, an adelgid,

that hurries along their meeting their maker,

these logs change the stream bed

and have their own stories to tell,

it is exciting to anticipate

the next editions of the serial stories

that are all around us.

by Henry H. Walker

August 22, ‘26

what's the draw of a stump?

 

stumped

what did my brother Clarence

like so much about stumps?

he invested more pictures in his daughter,

but his pictures of stumps are a close second,

remnants of trees broken off near the ground

yet still enduring to echo the tree's audacity to reach for the sky,

I like to notice stumps,

to remember the tree that rose above them

that is still rooted deep but quickly fading from its life,

I like to watch fungus work its will upon them,

I watch the land around them erupt with growth

with new life now allowed

to work its will with the sunlight

no longer dominated by the will of the fallen tree

I see stumps as they appear to me

and still I cannot make the empathic leap into what my brother saw,

I remember a story of Aunt Lindy

who lived ¾ of a mile up valley from here,

her niece, Lucinda Oakley Ogle, quoted her

as appreciating her husband

for somehow, who he was,

worked well with who she was,

a luck of the draw not as universal as might seem best,

fate can make us each ourselves, and different,

it is marvelous when who we are

can work well in connection to others,

our likes and dislikes seem to have the random all about them,

for my brother and the stumps,

I can appreciate that his enthusiasms were real and important,

but profoundly beyond what I can know for sure,

love can help me appreciate, even when I cannot find the way

across the chasm between me 

and even those I dearly love, and know.

by Henry H. Walker

August 22, ‘26