Category: Poetry

One of my favorite animals is the eastern chipmunk.  While it’s safe to say they’re a common animal in the woods of north Alabama, it seems as if they’re either ubiquitous or nowhere to be seen.  I suppose it’s a matter of food.

Anyway, I’m out on the trail the other day and there’s a lot of chipmunk activity–this was a ubiquitous kind of experience.  The little guys were all over the place (my theory: it’s springtime and love is in the air).  Chipmunks are funny, because they have a  warning chirp that almost sounds like a bird.  They’re running around, so there are leaves rustling, and the ‘munks were chirping up a storm when suddenly one of them stops on a rock some 15 feet in front of me.  

He (?) faced toward me, sat up on his back legs, and just started barking at me!  It wasn’t a dog-like bark, but it certainly wasn’t just a chirp either.  This went on for a few seconds, then he jumped down, ran between two rocks, and was gone.  

And then it was quiet.

Okay, I’ve been in the woods a lot.  I’ve seen a lot of chipmunks.  I’ve never experienced something like that though–it was strange and a little bit funny, all at the same time. 

In keeping with the strange and a little bit funny theme, I had the sudden urge to share the experience on Twitter.  I’m not a big Twitter user, but that’s where I chose to share what had just happened.

In keeping with the strange and a little bit funny theme, my sharing turned into a haiku, compliments of Jean LaTourette (@mz_lat).  

Thanks, Jean, for a fun experience as fellow writers, technology, and an irritated chipmunk all came together on a Saturday morning!

Today’s post is just a simple quatrain that came to me after I spotted a small tree frog out on the trail yesterday. I’m oftentimes surprised when I actually see things like this, because I know I walk by them all the time. Camouflage is an incredible survival adaptation for so many animals!

Sometimes I find myself surprised
by the things that catch my eye
Though they often make me wonder
‘bout the things I walk right by!

---

Hiking with children leaves me wondering
Am I seeing my past or experiencing a vision of their future? 

Watching them, I remember my early steps 
     when everything was new and simple
          — when the immediate was infinite —
and I could see all there was to see.

I have a glimpse of the paths they have yet to walk
if they choose to take them.

We’re planting seeds from an unmarked envelope.

We walked through the evening woods, my wife and I.
It’s this time of the year that she was born, which seemed fitting 
as we moved among the new and re-newed life.

The dogwoods blooming and the elms coming into leaf.
Virginia creeper emerging in delicate goldredgreen
and the recently silent trees alive with robin song.

We walked, sometimes speaking, but mostly in silence
hands in our pockets to defeat the just-cool evening air.

We walked with the setting of the Sun and the rising of springtime
absorbing the newness of it all.

Draft, Tim Gels

It’s the 2nd day of National Poetry Month. This month I’m writing and sharing poems about walks in the woods. Here is a tanka for today.

The month of April is National Poetry Month!  This is the first time I’ve done anything to participate as a poet, and I’ve made a few decisions about how I want to do so.

First, I’m going to work off the theme A Walk in the Woods.  Walking in the woods is something I’ve done quite a bit lately, so this seems like a natural fit (no pun intended). 

Second, I’m going to share original poetry throughout the month if I’m able to do so.  I enjoy writing short forms (haiku, tanka, cinquains, etc) as well as slightly longer (12-20 lines) works, but if I’m not feeling it, I don’t want to force it.  I’ll share finished pieces, as well as drafts I’ll revisit later.  In addition to my stuff, I’ll be sharing other poetry I like.  Some days I might do both.  

Third, I’m going to probably miss a day, and that’s okay.  I thought about missing today, just to get it out of the way, but I wanted to share a short poem I found, so I set that plan aside.

—–

Recently, I had the opportunity to spend time with an American Kestrel.  Held under permit by Rise Raptor Project, an organization with which I volunteer, this bird we call Blue is a feisty little guy who is unfortunately non-flighted.  That doesn’t affect his attitude and personality, though, and I enjoy working with him.

This found poem is a cinquain that I took from The Sibley Guide to Birds, Second Edition (pg 326).

kestrel
small and slender
flight is light and buoyant
often hovers in search of prey
falcon

Around this time last year, I posted a version of this poem to my blog. I stumbled upon it recently when I noticed on my website dashboard that someone visited that post.

As I re-read the post and the poem, I realized that my attitude has changed over the last year, and I like writing in my notebook more than I did back then. Look at me, growing and stuff. Anyway, I rewrote the last stanza to reflect my new practice.

---

Notebook: Revised

A pencil on paper
A mark on the page
It’s like watching live music
Or an actor on stage

It’s not fingers on keys
And there isn’t a screen
It’s real, and it’s physical
Do you see what I mean?

Is it good? Is it better?
This writing by hand?
Does this scribbling unplugged
See my vision expand?

Well, maybe it just might
I have to confess
Perhaps I’ll pen more —  
And keyboard a bit less

The bare branches of winter
begin to disappear
replaced by a hint of Frost’s first green

The trees silently taking their cues 
from the lengthening days

The equinox is here

I don’t know where
but there is water
in the tree line across the way

Water from the Gulf of Mexico
dropped below the foothills of the Appalachians
for a season

Vernal pools
shallow, ephemeral
long gone by the time summer arrives

I stand, on these cool spring nights
and listen from a distance to the frogs
who tell me of those pools

Mountain chorus frogs
unaware they were left behind
when their mountains took a long, slow walk

to the ocean

I was driving past some farm fields recently, and what I saw brought this poem back to my mind. I was surprised at how much I wanted to revise it, so I did, keeping some from those four or five years ago.

—–

Fields

As the new crop comes in 
I see the remnant of the old 
scattered around the edges of the field 
still standing 

I know time will eventually bring it down
It will, some day, fall 
but for now, it stands
the remnant of the old

And so it is with me
A new season
A new crop
A new direction

With the remnant of the old
still standing