Let Go

Somewhere outside of Kotzebue, Alaska

Let Go


when you stand
in that spot where the earth curves
tomorrow sitting on the horizon
a blade of grass tall as a mountain
the sun a cold white eye
watching your every move
remember you are not a deity
control beyond your grip
let go

when you stand
in that spot where the earth curves
remember to cry out when
she turns you upside down
gently pats your buttocks
and holds your feet tight
swinging you through space
let go





[That is it! Poem #30 for April. Thirty poems, one a day for National Poetry Month! Thanks to all for sharing my work! See you next year? Perhaps you'll write too?]

The Fear and Hope of Salmon

A photo of a painting by my sister, Beth Hill.

The Fear and Hope of Salmon

when the river ice rots
if the conditions are just so
perfect sun, wind, warm
the sheets become crystals
millions of thin cold daggers
one rubber boot kick and an ice pan
disintegrates with the sound
of chandeliers coliding
into mirrors and

the feeling
as that ice rushes
past the riverbank
is sadness and excitement
winter all but a desiccated corpse
summer just days away
and fear and hope
the salmon will fill
the void the ice left behind




[Poem #29 for National Poetry Day! Yup, a poem a day for a whole month. I'm all but there!]

Death By Social Media

Death By Social Media

you should have seen her facebook
when she found out her instagram had died
her world began to tumblr
the beat of her heart reduced
to a twitter, just a flickr
she couldn't pinterest 
the source of her pain
a dark soundcloud followed
she no longer felt linkedin
didn't write in her livejournal
the netflix of her life, reduced to cobwebs
without a friendster
she felt herself snapchat
she found only the wordpress to write:
mylife is over, there is no one to yelp
then she wrapped a lifeknot
around her bebo
and jumped into myspace 







By Don Rearden, 4/28/14 www.donrearden.com


[Poem #28 for National Poetry month.  That is right, twenty-eight poems in April, two to go. They are all here on this blog for your reading pleasure and/or pain.]

Samurai Sword Glassmen

 Samurai Sword Glassmen


In silence sitting on sills

in buckets and baskets

on beaches and bobbing in bays

treasures, trickets, trash

Japanese fishing net floats

from another era

half a hemisphere away

on turbulent seas

from samurai sword glassmen, 

to a life drifting

beneath and above zeroes

sunken ships and skeletons of

Aleutian battle heroes 

we all long to find on the shore

a glass bottle with a message 

of hope, love, or fortune

but the recycled sake ball

contains only old air

crack one open and for

an instant smell the daphne,

tatami, fresh ramen, or charcoal 

trapped an eternity 

doomed to never return home

like so many soldiers

on this shattered coastline

Peacefully at War

our wars are over

we no longer 

have to sacrifice

the space on our bumpers

or cover our trunks

with yellow ribbons

peacetime now

no need to 

support our troops

with stickers and flags

peacetime for now

no more moments 

of silence before games 

or cell phones for soldiers

our wars are over

no more rationing 

or restrictions of

our anti-war sentiment

we are at peace now

at least until the next 

as we are best at being

peacefully at war

For Cliven Bundy and his Citizen Soldiers

citizen soldiers where are you
when the poor need protection
when children are battered or beaten
by big brother or bullies

citizen soldiers where are you
when white men hurl insults
and bottles at women with skin
the color of the boots
with which you kick and stomp
their sons

citizen soldiers where are you
when the country you claim
comes first, comes last
for everyone but your kind

citizen soldiers where are you
when your constitution is colored
not by compromise or care
but by fear and despair

citizen soldiers, gather
like cattle with your cloven shepard
in the desert and claim
that country for your own
and stay there

Circle of Silence

unlike some cultures

we have a word for everything

we never know when to stop

to shut our endlessly moving

mouths and mandibles

unlike some cultures

our circle is meant only

for wheels, for work, for worry

unlike some cultures

silence to us is ice

nice only for a moment

then uncomfortable.

then painful. then scary

unlike some cultures

we will fall silent forever

unless we learn

without worry of words 

to sit in a circle

Waiting Room

I wait in a waiting room
waiting
across from me a modestly dressed woman
dark skin, blue scarf over tightly curled black hair
she holds a sleeping boy,
and I wonder what
they are waiting for
what procedure or percentage
awaits them
insured or uninsured?
urgent or elective?
and does she wonder why
I am waiting?

the Botox brochures
and photos of smiling white faces
glossy perfection
perfect, perfectly fake
wait with us

I'm not waiting here for Botox, I want to say
as I fill out the paperwork
it's this little bump, I don't say
running my index finger to my cheek
just getting it checked, I could say
in case, you know?
probably nothing

but I say nothing and wait

this is, after all, not a talking room
this is a waiting room
and small talk seems plastic here



[Poem #23 for National Poetry Month.]

Feeling Your Weight

Check out Portugal. The Man's new song for Earth Day #EndangeredSong

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling Your Weight

 

 

we hike through the hemlock

trunks thick as the two of us

combined, you riding in a pack

upon my back

the sharp rays of evening sun 

reaching into the forest

I wait for the towering trees

to inspire you

will it be another bear hunt?

a monster chasing us? 

perhaps bigfoot?

what will we play?

 

just shy of three

you are, it seems

always reading my mind

already finishing my sentences

always surprising me

and I'm waiting for our play 

to begin, but also thinking

about tomorrow 

I plod up the trail, feeling your weight

thirty plus pounds of questions

you point to one of the giant stumps

the trail winds around

what's that? you ask

I stop. A stump, I say

no, you inform me

no, that means the Once-ler was here

Are you the Once-ler? I ask.

 

Your answer?

 

No, Dad. I am the Lorax.

And like that, you tell me 

tomorrow will be okay

[Poem #22 --- National Poetry Month and Earth Day! In support of Earth Day please search for and share the Sumatran Tiger song and the hashtag #EndangeredSong by the amazingly talented Alaskan band Portugal. The Man. There are only 400 Sumatran Tigers left in the world. Share the song, spread the message. Thanks!]

The Words of the Earth

"Thank you" in Yupik.

The Words of Earth

when the words of the earth
fail to move the tongues
of those meant to speak
we lose more than language

when the words of the earth
fail to reach the ears
of those meant to hear
we lose more than a culture

when the words of the earth
fail to reach the hearts
of those meant to know
we lose our souls



[Poem #21 --- the morning after the Alaska Legislature finally recognized our State's incredible REAL wealth, the rich native languages of the land.]

The Miracle of the Chocolate Eggs

I remember 
questioning in my kid head
the possibility of such miracles

a fat man in red who could fit
down our chimney, a sled pulled by
reindeer who never lost their antlers
just to bring me presents

a fairy who could recover my tooth
after my grandmother accidentally
swallowed it
left in a glass of water
on the counter
and yet still pay me a dollar in coins

a man who walked on water
who died, just for me
then rose from the dead
and later into space
on something that appeared
to my kid skull a rocket
but was corrected,
that was a fiery cloud
and he was headed to heaven

then there was the silly bunny
who laid eggs,
and left candy

I never questioned the candy
or the miracle of the chocolate eggs





[Poem #20 for National Poetry Month! Happy Easter and Happy Spring to All!]

Gathering the Turds for the Final Vote

Gathering the Turds for the Final Vote

the turds were all gathered at the Capital 

the final big debate

the room smelled of money, sweat, and turds 

all the pressing issues of the day, for Alaska

resolved, solved, solutions in resolution

all that appeared to remain 

this final piece of 

legislation

the turds, in their place

the lobbyists, concerned citizens, activist students

even the governor,  in attendance, 

each with their own turd interests

discussion began

support for the clear front running turds, apparent

Moose turds already had their place

in many tourist shops, 

earrings, swizzle sticks, even a festival

and the lobbyists 

for those small round brown balls

had done their homework

the other turds just didn’t have the support

black bear and brown bear turds 

while often appearing to have perfectly edible blue berries

 and interesting colors

 lacked a certain commercial appeal

hare turds were too small, too much like kids’ cereal

whale turds, too big, too mysterious

owl turds, not actually turds at all

then someone suggested polar bear

and a lobbyist passed a note over the balcony

a reminder that turd wouldn’t be around much longer

they would have to gather the turds in another session

move on to other turds

musk-ox and caribou were proposed

but no one felt any particular attraction to those turds

unless there were wolf turds involved

a few moments before the vote

moose still the front-runner

a new turd appeared

more specifically: a whole white five-gallon bucket of turds

conservative supporters of the moose turds laughed

just another silly liberal ploy

 to bring attention to rural turds and the buckets

 that so often hold their foul stink

this was, after all, their last vote of a banner year

beautifully un-bi-partisan

this was an important vote for a singular object

turd not turds

just like they had voted for the Alaska State Gun, a Winchester Model 70

 the Alaska State Boot, Bunny

 the Alaska State Lubricant, Crude

 the Alaska State Position, Missionary

Yes ---

 this was the time to vote for Alaska’s State Turd

[Poem #19 ---- special thanks to  Scott Woodham, my editor at Alaska Dispatch for the crappy idea. ]

Anything Helps

Anything Helps

I ready myself for morning
phone calls, messages
they found you today, "he's blank"
they say, "blanked himself"
"he was blanking" they repeat

I ready myself for the afternoon
when I roll to a redlight
winter cold, windows half frosted
four o'clock, twenty minutes until dark
you at the corner, shuffling in frozen boots
cardboard sign, black marker letters
anything helps, thanks

I ready myself for nights
when I can't find sleep
because, I'm not ready
for what the morning might bring





[April 18th --- the 18th poem for National Poetry Month.]

On Enormous Wings

may you spread
your enormous wings
and fly
as you carried us
through vanilla bean air
through sleepless nights
curing us
with Father Gonzaga, and
turning us into spiders
pondering how you
flew so effortlessly
with language and love
the logic of your wings
so natural
so completely human



[Poem #17 for National Poetry Month --- April 17, 2014 --- the day the world lost Gabriel Garcia Marquez.]

What Good Remains

One of the most remote graveyards in America...trust me.

What Good Remains


disturb no dirt when I depart
leave the earth alone
topple no trees
carve no cross
carry no casket
pluck not a flower

donate what good remains
place the remains on a hill and
thank the scavengers I so love

cry no tears
remember how I believed heaven a mountain, a river, a snowstorm
recall how I said I would return in the wind, the waves
listen to the ravens, the leaves, the caribou click
forget not how I saw life everywhere and
know that is where I went

Windshield Stars

No Alaskan car window is complete with out these!

Windshield Stars

on the radio
the anniversary of the Boston bombing
fragments fly at my face

an explosion of white

from the tractor-trailer

I close my eyes for a moment

the dust clears
 the only scars

small stars on my windshield

a marathon from home

just a short distance

by car

but on foot

bloodied, chaffed, dehydrated

a different story

fear is a pressure cooker and

distance from loved ones

grows with each moment

each foot step

each fragment that flies

in our face

driving, running, living

the finish lines have blurred

the stars brilliant and growing

silver threads around our hearts 

leave me wondering when

we will wear safety glass 

in this new race 

The Complications of Clockwork

My view from Bear Valley, where this poem was composed...

The Complications of Clockwork

I try to imagine

this same spot I sit

centuries ago

Thirteen hundred and three

feet up the mountain

and let me pretend

that was the date

below in the valley

cacophony of confusion

cars, racing rocket bikes

train blaring at crossings, Cessnas,

Jets landing and leaving 

closer still

rolling rubber on gravel above

the distant freeway rumble

all this gas-powered earfiller

punctuated with a sleddog's bark

a confused rooster crow

then silence

the ears ring at first

adjust to the new era

then the hollows fill

the creek runoff

a chickadee chirp

a raven calls, then swoops

and prunes her wings 

beak pecking a feathers 

she croaks like a wood carved toad

snow crust crunches in the Hemlock

beneath moose hooves

the city below is gone now, too

a lone smoke tendril 

at the ocean shore

so far below

a campfire

perhaps a cousin

or an enemy from another tribe 

I let the spring sun warm my face

as I would have done then, too

and so many things would be

as they are without the rumble

of machine, the complications

of clockwork, castles, and composition

clear, clean, civilized 

Blood Moon

prepare for the monster
in two sleeps he comes

empty your cupboards
find the biggest pot
the widest pan
one of each

tear two strips of cotton
roll and wad them
one for each ear canal

gather outside just before moonrise
and when her pale orb appears
on the horizon
bring the pans together
with all the force of your soul

let the clatter fill the night sky
so that the monster relents
and does not devour

so we may, for once be
a celestial savior to 
she who turns our tide




[Poem #13 --- for National Poetry Month. The Blood Moon will be Monday night....]

Old Dogs

Lego

We sat on the a gravel bar
a campfire between us and Three Step
"go get me a Coke" I said to your father
and he cocked his head, half lifted an ear
my friends roared in laughter, at me
my silly notions that I could teach
an old dog, a new trick, on the spot

they weren't laughing when he appeared
by my side, with the red and white can
in his mouth
and for a moment, we were all scared
he understood something we didn't

for ten years he was the best dog ever,
your dad, a red merle Aussie
a fighter, a lover, a fishcamp stink-head thief

and now, nearly fourteen
you plod down our gravel road
glazed with an ice, like the thin layer over
your old eyes, your ears failing you
Kita, Yuma, Charley, your father Loc,
even your own sister, Tundra, now just
a wooden cross on the Takotna River

for ten thousand years
dogs like you, like your father
like all those good dogs in heaven
have joined us around campfires
brought us warmth and laughter
licked the tears from our cheeks

we are better because of you
and perhaps all these years
it has been you, trying to teach
us a new trick or two

When the Darkness Returned

when the world was dark

they found fire

when the fire burned 

they concocted medicine

when the medicine failed

they said prayer

when the prayers went unanswered

they made war

and when, the darkness returned

they gathered 

around a flickering fire

and found hope 

Uluaq

half-moon 
handsaw blade
filed to an edge
for cutting, chopping, skinning
no knife as efficient
no knife sufficient
once you've used an uluaq

referred to as a "woman's knife"
by some scholar

or polar explorer

who wasn't smart enough 

to recognize the shortcomings

the fulcrum failure

of his own blade

Lost in the Flash

Lost in a Flash

the pen is only mightier
when the sword hangs
upon a wall
an ornament of old
object of inspiration
for fantasy
blood on the page
imagined and mere metaphor
for adventure and dragons
to slay and the knights
in their armor on horses
not stampeding masses
of terror and childhood
lost in the flash of
kitchen knives
flourished like swords
in a place meant
only for mighty pens





[Poem #9 for National Poetry Month --- a poem a day. Today's poem my response to the horrific school stabbing in Murrysville, Penn.]

Recipe for Peace

lead the men, every one of us

by the hand

from our cells

our precious boardrooms and barrooms

banks, bunkers, and bombshelters

tiptoe into the bedrooms

of our sleeping children

let us see their soft

round faces in the glow 

of a nightlight, or flicker of a candle

stand with us

for a heartbeat

let go of the hand

allow us to cover

the sleeping child with

a soft blanket, adjust the pillow

pick the fallen stuffed whale

or bunny or bear from the floor

and slip it in the hollow

between blanket, pillow, and bed

allow for one last look

guide us from the room

leave the door cracked

and then ask us to explain again

this war, the last, 

and the one on the horizon

ask us once again 

and if we have no answer

take our hand tomorrow night

and repeat

National Champions

National Champions

they packed the bars and living rooms
cheering, drinking, yelling at big screens
at the referees, at their friends

we sat in a theater, transfixed
empty stage, save for two chairs
two writers
speaking of love
for language, for mothers
for ancestors and healers
the magic of life and slap of tortilla
makers and brick-makers
garbage pickers of the heart

no game could have equaled tonight
no score, no last minute shot
not one shining moment

they should have been there
turned off their screens
to listen, to learn
travel across the borders
that bind us, and blind us



[Poem for Day #7 of my poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Month. This poem was inspired by a 49 Writers Crosscurrents Event at the Anchorage Library with the amazing and inspiring author Luis Urrea and the talented and insightful Alaskan/Los Angeles writer Bryan Fierro. ]

The Blue in Your Heart

Portage Glacier, Alaska 2014

The Blue in Your Heart

the color of this ice
has no more to do with the light
of the sun
than blood has to do with the love
in a heart



the blue in your heart
has no more to do with the light
of your love
than ice has to do with the sun
in your blood



[Poem #6 -- Poem a day for National Poetry Month]

Totem ---- Poem #5 in the poem-a-day challenge

Sitka, 2014

totem

reach like a totem
into the sky
the blue
beyond

build like a totem
upon the ancestors
animals all
kin

stand like a totem
testament to time
wooden warriors
waiting

Zoology

Inside the People's Zoo

zoology

the animals came from all over
to see for themselves

the habitats were the finest
almost so natural
some didn't seem aware,
of their circumstance, didn't bother
to look up from the small light boxes
those devices that had ended it all for their species,
the captives barely noticed the zebra or kangaroo family passing
by the bars
or the brown bear, stopping to
study the strange antics
of one of them, a tall skinny male
as he paced, made strange sounds
speaking to the air, left hand waving,
the other holding one of their false brains
pressed against his pale face

momentarily amused
two monkeys paused at another display, drawn to the noise
hoping to catch the creatures procreating
instead, another of their light boxes
this one covering an entire wall
on it half-sized images
--- from the time where their numbers were great ---
in their silliness scurried about
kicking at a round ball
those watching cheered
and drank deeply from troughs
of beer

disinterested,
the monkeys moved on
wondering what life had been like
for the last of these crude beasts before
their rescue by the zoo





[Day #4 in my poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Month]

Theory of Mind ---- Poem #3 in My Poem-a-Day for April Challenge

Theory of Mind

the elephant studies himself
in the mirror
twists his trunk
opens his giant mouth
all but takes the razor
and shaves his chin

this, scientists tell us
reveals the potential
for the theory of the mind
an elephant's capacity
to see the world
from someone else's
point of view

perhaps even to see
what that we
so often lack
 - this self same theory -

and can see only
ourselves

Flash Burn ---- #2 Poem of An Original Poem a Day for National Poetry Month

 Flash Burn

the patterns of kimonos
seared into skin
blistered burns and scars
intricate designs upon flesh
of the dead and dying
thin man, little boy, fat man

shadows burned into walls
walls burned into shadows

the flash burn they say,
"is typically a surface effect"

but on the surface
of a man made sun
in two thousandths of a second
the effect, mere shadows
tattooed on our souls






[Day #2 of my poem-a-day challenge for National Poetry Day.]

A Poem and An Apology, from a Fool.

Today, this is me...your writing DODO

I will once again be posting a poem a day for the month of April, as a celebration of National Poetry month and a thank you to all those who have supported me and my writing endeavors over the past several years. I hope you enjoy the poems this month, and I hope you'll share and comment on those that move you, make you laugh, or cry, or curse.

Speaking of laughing, crying, and cursing...I owe many of you a huge apology for my devious joke today. I did not anticipate such an overwhelming and supportive response to my ridiculous announcement of publication for my new novel. It is true that I do have a new novel written, but I am as of this moment sans publisher. There is no Dodo Books. No Great Auk House. No 189 countries pushing to bring the novel to the US before climate change really devastates us. Those were all the words of a joker, perhaps one who is a little sad that he can't yet share with you his new work, perhaps one a little frustrated with this whole glacial world of publishing while the glaciers are melting and his book becomes less and less relevant!

Nonetheless, I am sincerely sorry for the prank. I wanted people to laugh or be momentarily tricked, not cheer and be excited for me and write kind notes of congratulations.  I didn't anticipate that in the busy rush of the day folks would cheer and give me accolades and not realize I was being a complete and utter smart-ass.

Today I learned a little something about April Fools Day...and your response was humbling and really a bit of a lesson for me, today, the fool.

And NOW for your poem of the day.



Play. Ground.

to let the blinding sun
reflecting on the snow
etch each second upon your memory
like a flash burn shadow
as your son cackles like a goose
chasing you around the playground

remember the crush of gravel
beneath your boots
the cold iron of the equipment
the splash of slush

his laughter, so pure
then small black boots
betray him on the ice
silence for a fraction
as he flies, a superhero

that moment of the air
sucked from the world
then open mouth,
a wail, then tears

remember that, too
and the hug of endless tomorrows
as you carry him towards home

US Publication coming for My 2nd Novel

-->

 It's happening! US publication for my next book!

-->

Shishmaref, Alaska. Photo by my friend Dennis Davis

 Many of you are already aware of the long struggle to get my novel The Raven’s Gift into print here in the US. At the time, that manuscript, with themes of the world ending, faced the publishing boards in some major houses as the world did seem to be ending. The big houses here in America passed on the book, but other countries snapped it up. Three years later, Penguin Canada brought the title to the US through a cool little boutique of Penguin US called Pintail. The Raven’s Gift went on to become a one of the Washington Post Notable fiction selections for 2013.

Until today, my new novel, Moving Salmon Bay, by all appearances, seemed to be headed down the same strange river. Where The Raven’s Gift was initially published in Canada, this new novel seemed as if it would first be published in France and only in France.

Once again rejected by the US, I thought I would have to wait to see what would happen in France and hope for my own stubborn country to come around some day before it was too late, and this stressed me out to no end. The book simply couldn’t wait. We as a species couldn't wait. The title says it all, the book is about a fictional Alaskan village that is moving. The reason they are moving? It isn't because they want to live somewhere with a IHOP. It's climate change. Global warming. Seas rising. This is a reality that nearly a dozen Alaskan communities face right now. The projections from scientists have revealed our earth's warming rates are increasing. The projections haven’t even been fast enough to keep up with the warming trends.

The peril some Alaskan communities face is the same that so many other communities across the world are or will soon also be facing themselves.

 If Moving Salmon Bay wasn’t going to be published within the next year or so, it might be too late. The story would have been not only passé, but completely irrelevant, as the major publishers themselves will have relocated, leaving editors, publishers, and publicists at the major houses themselves climate refugees.

Great Auk House

While climate change and the threat of rising seas appear to be something that America cannot or isn’t willing to address in any meaningful way, there is suddenly hope for the publication of Moving Salmon Bay! Just as the Canadians knew that the message in The Raven’s Gift would resonate with Americans, when our own American publishers did not, a multi-lateral publishing house, comprised of 188 of the 189 countries attending the United Nations Climate Change Conference will publish the novel in the USA under the Dodo Books banner, an imprint of Great Auk.

While I’ll still have to toss and turn in bed at night, distressed for my Alaskan friends who live in fear of each big coastal storm, I no longer have to shrug my shoulders when fans of The Raven’s Gift ask when my next book will be out. I no longer have to lie about interest from publishers to friends and colleagues who have read the manuscript to Moving Salmon Bay and who say it’s better than The Raven’s Gift.  I can now tell them they can pre-order a copy of the novel on my website. I am relieved and grateful to the rest of the world for their support of my work (and for acknowledging climate change), and while those countries don’t have the military or economic power to make the US do anything related to saving the planet, they can at least bring us good books to read while the fool ship sinks.