Emptiness is Form

Someone recently told me that the Spartans were unequivocally the greatest warriors of all time. I dare to disagree.



Frost on hammered steel,
the hamon like coastal waves
sings in winged death.
Sandal tracks in mountain snow
forsake the ensanguined scene.

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).

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

Neither Fish nor Fowl: Well, Maybe Fowl

As part of my Advanced Composition class today we were supposed to write a Villanelle poem. An excellent example of a Villanelle is Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night": http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377 That poem was always one of my favorites! While my work certainly isn't of that caliber I enjoyed writing it. It may not even be a Villanelle, but it's about duck hunting, so it has to be good! :)

The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
A weather-worn barrel with bird-shot sings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

A drake swings wide and circles the pool.
My hands are cracked; the wind bitterly stings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I squawk into the call and sound like a fool.
Snow falls downward like heavenly rings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I am coated in ice, pond scum and drool.
My fortune is great as fate rarely brings
the steel grey skies are dark with wings.

I sit here alone on this rickety stool.
I drop my shotgun and add to the dings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.

I sip at my coffee and gag 'cause its cool.
A shotgun shell bounces and pings.
The steel grey skies are dark with wings.
Chopped ice, cork blocks, gun dogs, cold socks.