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?