Silvery Night

A wind from the North
blows unknown change from afar.
Silver comet falls
below night’s starry canvas—
A new year glitters to life.

Still-Hunting

Bare feet stride slowly,
deliberately feeling
the pulse of our earth
Oneness with the leaf litter
Elven footfalls make no din

Ekphrasis, "Monarch of the Glen"

The stag clacks up the stony ridge to a crest carpeted by wispy grasses. Here he surveys his airy dominion. The sky, a backdrop of slate, portends coming rain. The damp air folds around the Cairngorms. He strikes a noble pose with head aloft to scent the hinds lingering below. With neck thick in anticipation of autumn’s rites, his mane bristles like a rampant lion. His roaring bellow echoes from Ben Machudi—a proud declaration of his unrivaled sovereignty. Barrel-chested and prime in life, he struts with justified haughtiness. His sienna coat turns the howling wind. Is àrd ceann an fhèidh sa chreachann. Lofty is the deer’s head on the mountain. His rightful seat remains unchallenged. Satisfied, he beds on the lee side of the mount and chews the tender grasses. Above the wheaten cradle his antlers reach skyward like barren oaks. Their branches, unadorned, quicken the heart of a gamekeeper watching jealously far below. But safe still the stag remains, for even Bran or Sceolan dare not tread here.

Sermon on the Mount

This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
Grown tired of man’s pageantry for ego’s sake,
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Choirs of geese worship, as this sinner’s soul I search.
No crowd to please or reason to sincerity fake,
this Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

Christ’s Sermon on the Mount was taught from such a perch.
Light snow whispers liturgy as bowed knees quake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

I arise renewed—the grand panorama gives cause to lurch.
Testimonies whirl round me in each glistening flake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.

No apostate or hypocrite could this temple besmirch.
Holy Baptismal, each morn, is held reverently in virgin lake.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Come hither, yon saints, and my denomination research.
Hear with me the still, small voice whose Truth I dare not forsake.
This Sabbath I keep in Nature’s own church.
I humble myself on stony altar ‘neath one solemn birch.

Toxophile

A taught string anchored
with raw power suspended.
Thirty-two inches
of bright-feathered Lodgepole Pine—
a falcon screams in her stoop.

Election Day

A voting booth in Mt. Herman Baptist Church--
weighty decisions lead to a philosophic search.

A musty old building where doves and hawks preen,
guarded by elder women—an unlikely scene.

Yet here they sit as I slyly say “R”.
I watch for a reaction but this doesn’t get me far.

Matriarchs in folding chairs have seen the wars come.
They’ve hung up yellow ribbons and sent off their sons
dapper and proud as they marched to the drum
to be riddled and splattered by the other man’s guns.

I think of them in reverence as I blot with my pen
and their sacrifice in Normandy, in Kandahar and Phnom Phen.

I consider the debt, joblessness and libert-y;
I wonder if my brethren will decide the best for me.

I fear sometimes, this majority rule
and wonder if he that is served by a crowd is not a damn fool.

Yet my civic duty I needs must fulfill
So I drop my choices into a weathered wood box.
Despite all the snakes on Capitol Hill
I’ll take my chances with these frail-looking locks.

Free and fair elections are democracy’s thing
We will see how that goes with this new Arab Spring.

Oh for a chance to right what’s done wrong
and voice my opinion like a Seeger folk-song!

For now, a small sticker on my left lapel—
I’ve done my part and voted while the world’s gone to hell.

Houndsman's Winter (a Haibun)

No trail lies before me in this inky dark timber. I sweep headlamp to and fro in search for a glimmering eye. Ahead a tricolor hound bawls savagely, raking claws in an effort to scale a cottonwood. I splash deep into the river—chest deep in the icy current. The December air rushes to meet my wet skin and the Carhartt canvas only does so much. I make it to the towering tree only to see the raccoon bound from limb to limb. The dog, experienced in this game, trots alongside the shrewd foe. 2 a.m. has never felt so exhilarating. A barred owl’s hooting is interrupted by the crack of a .22.

One pelt for the wall
Southern pleasure as men sleep—
baying in the night


(Photograph is used under Fair Use Law 17 U.S.C. § 107. I offer the following commentary on the photo. This is a classic photo of a beautiful Treeing Walker. The original content may be found at http://i33.tinypic.com/vijfrp.jpg).

Holy Wells and Highland Fires

I've been reading a lot about the folklore of Scotland--about its holy wells, fairy folk, brownies, cairns, giants, and impressive saints. It is really interesting stuff. So, I thought to myself, why not write a poem rooted in these traditions? I started out will full intention of writing a poem simply about Scottish folklore, but somehow along the way it morphed into a commentary on the highland clearances and a change in an entire group's way of life.



Oh Holy Well, stony still, amang the heather bonnie,
what hae ye seen since Columba’s time, when saints roved a’ the dawning?
Wha hielan’ men hae sought ye dear, when mortal wounds where many?

Nae words do tell, the muckle feats o’ a cistern sae uncanny.
Nae cold iron brand or mystic ring hae e’er merited such fawning,
nor would a coven of ill fowk do sae guid wi’ a’ their conning!


Oh Holy Well, here I stand, wi’ home and land a-burnin’.
The Hielans, proud and gallant once, now a false laird’s claim,
For the Black Watch hae came and drove us oot, nae more to be returning.

Our lives hard-fought, but fu’ o’ guid—we now must be a-spurning,
Shoes did dance and whisky pour’d where now leaps peat-fueled flame.
Nae more forever we’ll blaw the pipes or sing o’ Hugh the Graeme.


Oh Holy Well, deep and cold, shall I cast myself down ye mouth
or will ye no, once more again, make a loch o’ a’ that’s yonder?
For the muckle thieves and vagrants would then ride the waters south!

For Alba’s sake, tried and true, let ye waters flood this drouth!
Scotland anew, awash with wi’ clans, I would embrace the fonder,
and hielan’ might and hospitality rare, would give pause for all to ponder!

Bear Country

Wet alders stand, where
broken branches cost dearly.
Old Ephraim bristles—
five chambers fully loaded—
a clash of bone and lead nears.

Night-fishing

Fireflies cavort in
night’s aphotic, velvet shade.
Sundry frogs exhort
the current’s babbled sermon.
Dusk brings summer lessons near.

November 20th

Footfalls on dark-shrouded leaves are muffled.
A trail illuminated only by memory is traversed.
It is 5:30 in the morning and three miles from the nearest road.
Searching feet find more snags than stealth would permit.
Somewhere in the distance comes a snort.
The game has been given away;
nothing can be done now.
Now we sit and wait.

Wait. Wait for the sun to rise.
Look. Peer through the fog.
Listen. Was that a squirrel or a deer?
I’ve done this for years
but it doesn’t get any easier.
The warmth from the walk in is gone.
Cold settles upon me.
It creeps to my toes
and harangues me for getting out of bed.

When the sun finally breaks the horizon
I awake from my sensory stupor.
Not only can I hear the calling of jays,
but I see the swaying of limbs overhead
as grey squirrels bound from tree to tree.
I do my best to sit still and watch.
Now is the time for magic.
The chorus of the woods is at its crescendo.

I check my watch to see how long it’s been
Since my cold hands wrapped a welcoming cup of coffee.
Three hours.
My careless movement disturbs the neighbors
and from a white oak a squirrel curses
my intrusion into the community.
He barks and scolds until I slink down
and let the buck-brush hide my shame.

But when I look up to assess my denigrator
something is not right about the scene.
He is not looking at me.

Deep breaths.
Where is the air?
Not forty yards in front of me
stands a ghost of wheaten brown.
How does an animal just appear
without sound or movement?
The hunted teaches the hunter a lesson.
But if I live for another hundred years
I will never be as at home here.

Her head is down.
Black eyes (like windows to eternity)
seem to meet my gaze.
Yet there is no flagging tail,
just flickering ears at peace with the world.
She takes a mouthful of fallen persimmon—
nature’s autumnal pride.
I’ve eaten many myself
and I think for a moment that it would be
a fitting last meal for me as well.

I came here for a reason.
I donned frosty boots.
I drew shallow breaths
after climbing hill after hill.
I even faced down a boss
who doesn’t understand
what it is to be called
to rejoin the circle of life.

Like many others led astray
he believes that food comes
canned or vacuum-sealed.
Is it naivety or willful ignorance?
In the presence of this sacred animal
I make a solemn oath.
Whoever my children will be
they will know what it is
to do what I am about to do.

Slowly, like an elm
bending under new-fallen snow.
I court the rifle
and we meet cheek-to-cheek.
A dark bead dances
over the greying coat.
In this moment of time
my heart is torn;
joy and regret intertwine.
The report silences the chorus
and nature is shocked at my act.
But I am thankful for her bounty.
With my stricken quarry
I make an honor-bound pact.

Setting Sail (For the OSU Seniors of 2011)

Now begins a time of change,
when old friends cruise with tattered mains,
their sails blown full with newfound dreams.

On some foreign coast they set their gaze
while we reminisce of the grandeur of our yesterdays
when kindred spirits and wry looks set hearts ablaze.

Emotions circle like gulls in the wind
and alight on the mast of beginnings and ends.
With sea breeze and freedom they now contend.

We wish them well with a pat on the back
and words of virtue to keep them on track
while hiding our faces when the tears do wrack.

They point their vessels to the rising sun
and feel the rays of a journey new-begun.

We see them vanish before our very eyes
and pray to God that true friendship never dies.

Ode to the Shotgun

I would rather have a shotgun than a car, home or steady career. In the well-crafted shotgun is the spirit of adventure, the soul of nostalgia and the dream of wilderness. A shotgun justifies the worn boot-leather of a wayward traveler. A shotgun provides a brace of game to both the pampered nobleman and the famished vagabond. A shotgun is the only worthy rival to the dog as utmost friend of man. The broken double-gun bespeaks the raw character of the olden sportsman for whom the beckoning fields are not an escape, but home itself. When the trigger is broken and the charge is sent to greet fur or feather the heart beats with a vigor rarely witnessed. A shotgun is the nobler firearm simply because its nature is that of fluidity and grace. As the cock flies in the copper-burnished sunset so the tempered barrels swing to it with equitable beauty. Even the residual trinkets of a sporting encounter are romantic. Those red hulls topped with gleaming brass release the fragrant curls of nitro—their pungency is the greater peer of bergamot. Hands that have not cradled the form of a fine shotgun have no more claim that those that have not touched smitten lass. Neither person should be entitled to the designation of “man”. Such is the understated merit of the shotgun!

On the Interview's Eve

Thinking on tomorrow
A host of possible outcomes
They settle not on my mind,
But amidst the hara

Deep breaths expel
the negative remnants of the lesser me
Like November leaves they fly,
And the clarity of fall fills my soul

One good suit in the back of my closet
hides like the doe in the oaken grove
I drape it over and imagine buckskin—
A cloak of confidence in a threatening world

An overpriced tie, all stripes and paisleys
The salesman said it was for “power”
I’m not naïve to believe all that is implied
God and I will make my own destiny

A rust bucket of a truck,
sails over the glassy sea of tarmac
I wonder if it will start
when I am to make my victorious return.

What does it matter after all
whether or not I am to succeed?
I would disappear into the shadows
of a world not confronted by the burden of achievement

Is a measure of devaluing currency
worth a lifetime of treading concrete?
Loam between bare toes appeals to
the untamed and unwashed self

When I speak to the interviewer
with words intended to persuade
I wonder if it is not society
who has in the end beguiled me?

Nomad's Spring

Fine sand deepens
As a foot crosses here
Shallow water speaks
A gobble echoes afar
Dogwoods dance at April’s bid

Product Review: C.E. Schmidt Hi Dexterity Goatskin Gloves

I have a love/hate relationship with gloves.

It seems like every pair of gloves I pick up have some hidden flaw that rears its ugly head at the most inopportune time. Generally when hunting I don't even like to wear gloves because they sacrifice dexterity and the "feel" of the trigger for warmth. I would rather have frostbite than make a bad shot.

How do you get around this? For several years I wore rag wool gloves that had the fingers lopped off. They *almost* worked for my purposes. The wool was no doubt warm and the tip-less fingers made squeezing the trigger accurately a possibility. But, again, they were flawed. Wool can get too hot and the pair that I had featured a annoying fold-down mitten that would not stay out of the way for anything.

Glove trial 2.0 was brought on two Christmases ago when my dad thoughtfully responded to a request for dexterous gloves. This pair was an very light, very stretchy blend of some sort of spandex/elastic compound. I thought that they might just do the trick! I wore them shortly thereafter on a late season antlerless hunt, snagged one briar and the entire glove unraveled from the wrist up. Splendid!

Once again today my common sense flew off somewhere to roost and I thought that I would look for a pair of shooting gloves. Of all the places I found myself it was Tractor Supply Company that had the best looking set. I picked up a pair of the C.E. Schmidt Hen's Hi Dexterity Goatskin gloves for $19.95. That is quite a bit of money for a pair of work gloves, but not so much for shooting gloves. A decent pair of leather shooting gloves will easily run you $100.

I brought the gloves home and fiddled with them for quite a bit. The gloves are a combination of spandex, neoprene and goatskin. They have a stitch around each wrist to ensure snug fit and do not feature a cinch or a strap. The gloves were not too hot at all in today's spring weather. The goatskin is fairly supple and dexterity was good. I attempted to test the dexterity by working the slide, ejecting and inserting magazines and manipulating the safety and bolt-release on my Ruger Mk. III. The gloves were satisfactory in all tests. I was also surprised that I was able to get my large fingers into the small trigger-guard of the Mk. III with little difficulty.

Overall, I really like these gloves. If I were to rate them on a 1-10 scale I would have to assess them an 8.

Pros
~Very dexterous
~Snug-fitting
~Lightweight and breathable
~Relatively low cost
~Palm and fingers padded (This is a major winner for shooting those hand cannons!)

Cons
~Goofy rubber tags on gloves (I removed them with my pocket knife.)
~Uncertain of durability (The goatskin is soft, but we will see how it holds up.)

I would recommend these gloves for anyone who prioritizes economy, comfort and dexterity. I don't think that anyone would have a problem looking pompous and privileged wearing them on the sporting clays range either...

(If you want to see a larger image just click on the picture.)


Manufacturer's specs and ordering:
http://www.tractorsupply.com/workwear-clothing-footwear/gloves/mens-work-gloves/c-e-schmidt-reg-men-s-hi-dexterity-grain-goatskin-gloves-734102599

The Best Apple

Bidh an t-ubhal as fheàrr air a’mheangan as àirde.

The best apple is on the highest bough.
Even the tallest man can reach only so high.
But the weak-willed would have his fruit now.

If not by ladder reached, then how?
He cannot help but fathom a try.
The best apple is on the highest bough.

What great wonders will the ruby endow?
How the matchless outshines those that are nigh!
But the weak-willed would have his fruit now.

What angels of heaven did this seedling sow?
His kingdom would he give for wings for to fly!
The best apple is on the highest bough.

The patience of Job he bids God endow.
For he has done all to be done except for to die.
But the weak-willed would have his fruit now.

Yet he manages to wait ‘til she falls somehow.
His gladness is announced with joy-laden sigh.
The best apple is on the highest bough.
But the weak-willed would have his fruit now.

On Saint Valentine's

February tide,
Spring lies round the bend once more
Human emotions
stir the bottom of deep pools
Dark sediments rise unbidden

At Grips with Geamhradh (A Gaelic Anaphora)

Unstoked flames scald my face,
A silver-white world my squinted eyes embrace.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I tell myself in jest.
But the shivering in my body will not allow for rest.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I mumble in vain.
The bean sídhe howls viciously, casting sleety rain.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!”— I curse at the haughty blast!
Snow drifted beyond my hips cannot long last.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I hold in my soul.
Such may happen if this tempest does not take its toll.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I uttered once before,
But I traipse on John o’ Groats no more.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” said upon a cairn of stones
was enough to cow a spirit of hoarfrost absent mortal bones.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” was my anthem and my dirge.
But now I am confronted with Geamhradh’s chilling scourge.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” now muffled by thunderclap.
Oaks shatter ‘round me as my tartan I o’er-wrap.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as blinding whiteness prevails.
My skin turns deathly blue and circulation fails.

“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” as I buckle at the knees.
It shall not be long til my soul spritely flees.
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” through lips frozen shut.
Burns’ ‘cauld blast’ will have slain this idiot mutt.

Lo! Ice is cleft and a sprout parts the ground!
In “Th' an t-earrach a' tig.” I have salvation found!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” Come O Mistress of Spring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and the holy Rowan bring!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and melt these days of woe!
“Th' an t-earrach a' tig!” and let winter hastily go!




1 “Spring is coming.”, Gaelic
2 Banshee, Gaelic
3 John o’ Groats, Scotland, 58°38'24"N and 3°04'12"W
4 Winter, Scots Gaelic
5 “O, Wert Thou in the Cauld Blast?”, Robert Burns
6 European Rowan, Sorbus aucuparia

Want, Discontentment and Human Worth

Here bides the unrepentant night owl. He keeps his midnight vigil not to entertain some rakish desire, but rather to breathe deep the draughts of the evening (soon morning) air. This is the time in which his inner philosopher awakens and he takes a hard look at himself and asks, “What do I believe in?” Am I a prince or a pauper? Am I am reveler or a hermit? Yes. Yes I am. The tinkling chimes outside his window remind him of a poem taught not so long ago. The tintinnabulation of bells Poe described and used as a marker of a man’s stage of life. Are the chimes outside my door akin to the brazen, iron, or silver bells? Where in my journey do I stand? I assure myself that I am always on the precipice. But who knows what lies below? Surely I cannot peer through the shielding fog into the future. Can any man?

A friend suggests a page on discontentment. The night owl would have scribbled a tome before the ink was dry. All religions, all philosophies try to ease the discontent. Capitalism claims that it keeps us lean—the more we want the better we perform. Maybe I don’t buy it. It is a bit of a disease to me. Discontent is purple polka dots on my skin. I wear a dark shirt to hide them. What would people think if they saw my dots? The intelligent character in the back of my mind says that they might relate to you, while the overpowering brute says that they would think you were a loon. From this, a song sneaks in. There is a beastie on my shoulder. Jethro Tull had his own set of polka dots, it appears. Jethro Tull tells me to really give them hell. How do I do this? Where do I begin? The answer comes from Christianity; be satisfied with your lack of possessions, appreciate love and salvation. That is obviously the answer, but it is hard to do. It is especially hard if you are a mere mortal like I.

I don’t want much compared to some, but I do want. Therein lies the issue! While a small cabin would do for me where a great palace would only suffice for others it still does not change the fact that I want. I do not wish to want. Wanting only causes grief. My life has taught me this—hasn’t it? Certainly there have been occasions when I have wanted something so badly that I would myself slay Caesar to get them. Upon finally obtaining those desired things I found that I no longer wanted them or that I was unready for them. That is worst. You look like an incompetent fool who has bitten off more than he can chew. It hurts to say that I’ve been there. Now I’m convinced that I am ready for such things. Did I fail to learn a lesson or am I finally prepared? I can’t write a blog with good cohesion for Heaven’s sakes—how am I supposed to lead a cohesive life?

Since I was young I have always been competitive in the things that mattered to me. When people say ‘fiercely competitive’ frequently they discount the value of the phrase. I was out for blood. I had no interest in taking prisoners and I had no interest in second place. Likely that has made me bitter. In high school I devoted myself to public speaking. I practiced memorization, gestures, pronunciation and articulation constantly. Often I did very well. In fact, I was quite self-assured during this time. But, hubris is a deadly flaw. I never managed to rank in the top three in state competition. I can’t explain it. People that I had utterly destroyed the whole year long beat me handily at state. My polished presence, delivery and rebuttal skills proved little avail. Each and every year that I did this I was subjected to the same fate: a loss at the state level. This led to much gnashing of teeth on my part. What did it matter? Sure, I dedicated myself to excellence and you could write volumes of psycho-babble about the benefits of healthy competition and positive mindset and goal-setting and the effect of a missing parent on the social development of a child (where did that come from!?) but none of that means anything because competitions do not define who we are.

Failure is the most dangerous word in the human language. It has the power to literally destroy lives. I am not speaking of failure itself but of the label. The actual act of failing is much like a drop of water that falls on a stone instead of the plowed earth. It will get there eventually. But the label has the horrendous capacity to assign a decreased value to a person. This is especially true in college. We place so much value on excelling as a student. What about excelling as a person? This is where competitions are dangerous. If you do not make an ‘A’ grade in a class are you any less of a person? Do your worth and virtues suddenly disappear? No. It means nothing. Allow me to contradict myself. College is an invaluable farce. It is invaluable because of the people that we meet there and the knowledge that we gain. It is a farce because it is a racket designed to make money based on an arbitrary assessment of human worth based on fancy documents and grades.
Broken down elementally, college is only an extension of us wanting something. We want good grades. We want a well-paying job. We want a balanced life. We want a lovely wife. What do we need? Fundamentally, what do we need? We need very little. I need only this: the knowledge that there are absolute right and wrongs and that I am capable of acting in either capacity.

May God bless you will all that you need.



Mentioned works:
~The Bells, Edgar Allen Poe
http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/medny/venturi-poebells.html

~Beastie, Jethro Tull
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7zw2tjnWdmc

Natural Law

Hunting is elemental.

We trade brass and lead for bone, cedar and steel for flesh.
Life is broken down—simplicity reigns. The struggle resides. Whether the cocked hammer or the bent limb hides in the brush, the plot is no different. The cycle is unstoppable. Nature gives and man takes. Soon it will be his turn to give. A breath is drawn, a breath released. The Earth gracefully turns. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes; the dirt and worm both have a claim. Divine design cannot be eschewed. Nature reigns supreme.