Red Hand of the Hunter

Red hand of the hunter

filled with the swept blade—

deft strokes unlimber

muscle, sinew, and bone.

Kneeling before the quarry,

back to the sinking sun:

red hand of the hunter,

the work has just begun.

Red hand of the hunter,

proficient from years gone by

in a craft too savage

for the naïve, urban eye.

From field, to truck, to gambrel—

a harvest grateful held!

Red hand of the hunter,

it so reverently felled.

Red hand of the hunter,

not a blemish, but a badge

on each of the kindred brethren

unwilling to beg or cadge. 

Song of November

I guess this is what happens when you read 400+ pages of Kipling in two days and think about hunting season....

Hunter’s moon—full of light,

shining amber, radiant bright!

Wheat fields glow the ghostly hue;

whitetails graze in the midnight dew.

Here they low (nocturnal beasts),

shunning daybreak for protected feasts.  

Antlers glisten, no light to bleach

far away from the hunter’s fatal reach.

Secluded revelry, hidden dance—

frolic in moonbeams, autumn romance!

Carefree courting here begun

and ended ‘fore the rise of sun.  

When the blue-grey morn does peek

‘neath the horizon,  salmon pink,

they slip and melt into the shade

and their visage hastily fade.

Brethren hunters, stir not then

for the cold will burn the skin;

all your effort will be in vain

if last night the moon did reign.

Sharpen knives and oil the gun,

bide thy time until set of sun.

If then the lunar face is new

tomorrow’s hunt will be more true.

Old Friends Are Best

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best.

Old friends are like the favorite flannel shirt,

worn when the wind comes far frae the west.

They envelope in woolen splendor

and in humor are blest.

What else offers comfort

when the solstice is near?

None but the comrade, with a heart full o’ cheer!

No doubt the tales grow

as the year comes to rest

and the roar of laughter by hearth,

quiets even winter’s hoary test.

But what when they’ve gone

to lead lives like the rest?

Kinship doesn’t wane like a flame in the wind,

rather it bristles as the fires are stoked hot again.

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best.

They rise like the phoenix

through nostalgia-fueled flame

and triumph in jubilation

at the sound of their name!

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best!

Come hither! Come hither,

ye comrades of old!

I will not forsake you,

nor ever be cold!

What once was, still is;

What is, will remain.

Come again, old friend,

and your rightful place reclaim!

Old friend, dear old friend

sit near me once more.

Tell of the days gone by,

those wonders of yore!

Southern-Rock Christian Transcendentalism --- A Philosophy

The band Lynyrd Skynyrd and Henry David Thoreau walk into a bar…

Sound like a far-fetched joke? Perhaps, but the sentiments echoed in both Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” and Thoreau’s “Walden” resonate the same chord. The Skynyrd hit, oddly enough, is transcendental. Moreover, the two works underscore a fundamental truth. By living simply, seeking a higher purpose, following your heart and finding self-satisfaction we achieve more than any miser on a heap of gold.

The modern measure of success is the antithesis of  the comparable definition as understood by someone who grasps the transcendental conceptualization of the term. In addition, this modern concept is in complete contradiction to any Biblical standard of success. We see a massive concordance of this in the Bible.

Matthew 19:24 “And again I say unto you, It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

Mark 10:25 “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.”

Luke 18:25 “For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” 

If one truly subscribes to the doctrine of Christ, the principle motivating force in one’s life cannot be monetary wealth. Rather, it has to be that greatest of forces—love.  Yet all too often we mock and disparage those people whose lives are not oriented toward and a product of riches. We all know the stereotype of the simple country-folk: they toil at their labors, don’t get too enraptured by “culture” and have primitive motives. The truth is that despite their common fiscal struggles, these people often lead a life “closer to the bone” that ultimately leads to purer motives and a closer relationship with God. 

Wealth is in the end a carnal substitute for the Grace of God. It is intended to replace the dependence that we have on the Creator and to ensure security in an insecure world. It’s a fool’s bet, for no amount of money can ever hedge against the uncertainties in this life—and no amount can substitute for the closeness to Christ that a life of servitude can yield.  The person who stakes it all on riches can only expect to reap sorrow in the end. Why then should we not give and love freely? Why should we disdain those who lead lives that are simpler than our own? I know of no reason. 

In the hustle and the bustle of our helter-skelter lives we miss the minutiae of the wonders that surround us. Who can afford to stop to give thanks for an unexpected summer shower when our society has declared that time is money? No one. Who can reject the opportunity to advance their well-paying career instead of spending time with loved ones when our society has declared that money is power? No one. The socio-cultural norms that exist around us are not neutral guidelines, but are in actuality burdensome shackles that keep us from achieving our life’s purpose—to love and serve God. This epiphany is unbeknownst to most. Why should we guard this secret? I dare not. I love my companions far too dearly to such. I say let us cast off the shackles of greed; let us embrace a life centered on a higher purpose. Love God, love people and realize that wealth is no substitute for Grace!

Love from on High

Were it not for rain,

that comes on the southwestern wind

and cleanses the sidewalk

of oil—and the heart of sin;

were it not for the rain

on a begrudging Sunday morn

who could stand triumphant

that once was forlorn?

Were it not for the rain,

that gives life anew

our hate might swallow

and no truth ring true.

Yet there we stand

o’er pine-boarded pew

and sing forth,

“Arise  O Lord”

and in me,

your spirit imbue.

Were it not for the rain,

that wells up inside

each time we’ve suffered

and each time we’ve cried;

were it not for the rain,

that mercifully cast

among the host of sinners

the thought of repast;

were it not for rain—

the tears of heaven come down,

no life could cleave

this parched mortal ground!  

Early Spring: A North American Panorama

In the mountains...



Spring in the Rockies
Columbine peeks from stone beds
snow-melt feeding life


In the prairies...



Lark in the morning
sings in the great golden hall
nature bows in awe
the hushed prairie applauds, sweet
enrapturement takes the breath


In the woodlands...



Wood duck chicks nested
far above the creek below
SPLASH--courage mustered!

Shine

Madness comes in daylight hour;
Starbucks-driven motorists glower
from behind metal beasts with V8 power.
Depart from here, I must soon try
before this place my countenance sours
or else my spirit decides to fly.

A grove of trees in some shady vale
with babbling brook that calls me to dwell
where olden homesteads have stories to tell.
Here among the crumbling stone
a copper pot drips into a galvanized pail—
100 proof percusses in a silvery tone.

No revenuers crouch in the laurel bed
for this is an art long thought dead.
What is there for a ‘shiner to dread
when black bears mill around the place
and leg-hold traps, threats and hot lead
are no longer needed to deter an unwanted face?

No, the game is now to sit and pick—
try to learn a new banjo tune or lick
and hope the boys at the Elks’ don’t drink themselves sick.
Yet the spirit still persists
and the cocked hammer’s mighty click
awaits anyone who this practice resists.

One owl hoot right at dusk
marks the arrival of the upper-crust—
a Cadillac emptied by a persona too brusque.
City folk from Baltimore welcomed by fiddle tune
seeking to fill some primal lust
don’t realize that they themselves are the real loon.