And the Mountain Burns



  And the Mountain Burns

  a book of poems

  by

  Karen E. Hoover

  Published by Karen E. Hoover and Tin Bird Publications

  Copyright © 2022 Tin Bird Publications

  Copyright © 2011 Karen E. Hoover

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, certain characters, places, and incidents, unless specified in the acknowledgements, are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4658-3890-2

  And the Mountain Burns / Karen E. Hoover/Tin Bird Publications:

  1st Edition, September 2011

  The Burning Mountain

  The mountain’s on fire again.

  Smoke smears the valley

  like brimstone remnants from Satan’s pit.

  Three times now it’s caught aflame,

  thrice in a single season,

  as if Hades rose from the depths of earth

  to settle on her slope.

  It’s eerie how the orange glow

  only shows itself in the darkness,

  and during daylight hours the purple stain

  of smoke dirties pristine skies.

  The acrid stench of ash and char

  poison air perfumed

  with summer flowers and alfalfa fields,

  until a single breath feels dirty.

  The glorious sunset turns an angry red,

  filtered through the smokey clouds—

  my sunset gone awry

  as the mountain burns.

  Bones

  Their bones line the streets where I live

  They shed their clothes months ago,

  and now they shed their skin.

  The glorious covering of summer,

  more beautiful still in naked majesty of the fall

  and now death comes in winter,

  with bones of life all around.

  What a mess they leave behind in the cycle of life!

  I shake my head at the sight,

  take up my rake,

  and gather the leaves.

  Awakening

  Deep in the earth she is buried.

  Asleep. Silent, but for the gentle creak

  Of boughs in the breeze

  And the occasional stir

  Of a rabbit passing through—

  And then the awakening begins.

  Darkened trees in a monochrome world,

  Soil and grass covered with snow

  That now begins to melt

  And the water that has been frozen

  In endless sleep

  Frees itself to soak into the soil.

  The sun arises high in a clear,

  Blue sky, its rays shining down,

  And the sleeping earth stirs.

  The trees, so dark and sparse,

  Sprout leaves of green

  That wave and whisper in the breeze.

  The grass, yellow and brown, transforms

  And grows into tall stalks of life.

  The underbrush moves as squirrels

  And rabbits, deer and mice,

  Come out to see the sun

  And high overhead the birds flit

  From branch to branch

  As they sing their songs.

  Mother Earth came to life today

  And brought my heart back home.

  Desert Rain

  A single drop and then another

  As the darkened skies

  Release the rain.

  Most days the water

  Would make me sad,

  Upset I’d missed a sunny day,

  But in a desert where rain

  Is so very rare,

  It is a welcome and nourishing

  Sight to see.

  Who needs a raindance

  When the sky spills its wealth

  Like coins among a crowd.

  The smell of dry and thirsty earth

  Now wet and satiated

  Brings longing to a parched soul.

  I wish the water could fill me

  The way it does the earth.

  Firedance

  Primal sounds from another world

  A copse of trees, an empty field,

  With fire in the middle

  Surrounded by stones.

  Feeding the fire, a man dances,

  Swirling around the brilliant flame.

  His feet pound the naked earth

  As he twirls and stomps,

  A wooden flute to his lips.

   He calls forth the fire—

  Elemental spirits answer

  And join in the dance,

  Until a ring of flame leaps

  With the man around the burning mother

  —a small campfire

  In the clearing.

  He calls and they answer,

  The little sparks of flame,

  And together

  They weave magic

  In the night time.

  Settlement Canyon

  Mustard moss on twisted bark.

  A maze of spindly branches and leafy fans.

  Sharp rocks jut from the hillside,

  and a fallen tree with still-green leaves, broken—

  bare wood points skyward—accusing fingers

  not sure who to blame for the pain.

  Blinding sun plays peek-a-boo,

  one minute harsh and painful,

  the next offering welcome warmth.

  Crickets sing in the middle of the day.

  A crisp, autumn breeze cuts

  through a narrow ravine, while a jet

  streaks overhead.

  An occasional whooperwhil sounds.

  A chipmunk explores left-behind food.

  Flies and bees come to see the bright cans

  and shampooed smells-like-a-flower girl.

  Tick-tick-tick the locust start their song,

  while the ash-powder dirt stirs in the breeze.

  The usual green leaves are painted now—

  half up the mountain’s side

  freckles of orangy-red change the view,

  and here the girl sits to write—

  here the woman comes to find peace.

  A Place of Solace

  I’ve found a new place of solace

  in the whispering band of trees

  who put on a fashion show of autumn leaves

  and fading summer green.

  The music of the breeze sets tree trunk legs

  to dance with a bow and a sway,

  then the trees put their heads together and whisper,

  whisper their secrets,

  and I am finally allowed to see.

  A doe and her two fawns

  tiptoe within sight to stand in stillness

  and watch me, too frozen in awe to move.

  Finally, unthreatened, Mother Doe moves closer

  to drink from a stream at my feet.

  Her back leg reaches up to scratch—

  like a dog she hoofs at her cheek, then rests.

  For ten long minutes I saw their secret,

  saw the deer live among “my” trees

  before they darted back to the hiding place

  wherever the deer call home,

  like fairies retreating to their ring,

  and I sat alone again,

  a little wiser,

  in my new place
of solace.

  Earth Eater

  The great, red dragon burst to life

  the growl thrums deep from engine throat

  while clouds of smoke

  billow and whirl about his snout

  He raises his great snake neck

  head swaying as he searches for prey

  then dives to the earth

  and devours great chunks of her flesh

  Earth eater he becomes

  as time after time

  he dips his head to feed,

  a pile of refuse building beside him.

  And as the sun begins to set

  the great red dragon

  lifts his head

  and pauses.

  The smoke stops

  the growling ends

  man drops from dragon’s back,

  removes hard yellow hat and wipes his brow,

  And leaves the dragon

  with nose perched in the air,

  waiting for another sunrise

  in which to feed upon mother Earth

  Sunflower

  Impatient as a sunflower

  alone amongst a field

  of rocks and weeds

  and tetherball

  it grows from cast off seed

  Spat out from home

  it claimed that spot of earth

  for its own

  and pushed beyond the stones

  to sprout up all alone

  Impatient am I

  pushing against constraints

  the schedules, rules

  and time limits

  trying to hold me down

  And yet I grow here

  all alone

  in rocky barren soil

  that makes me strong

  and tall and proud

  Tough and sunny

  I spit my own seeds

  upon the ground

  and hope they too

  can grow in rocky soil

  Snapshots of life

  Life—

  still as a photograph

  soft as a whisper

  savory as stew

  frozen within my mind

  Memory—

  sad as a teardrop

  safe as an embrace

  sunny as a sunflower

  captured in my soul

  Love—

  sharp as a needle

  salve for my heart

  silent in secrets

  burns through my being

  Mourning—

  sounds of heart breaking

  silver clouds leaving

  sickened in soul

  tears lance my eyes

  Silence—

  sought in quiet moments

  sent in from Heaven

  solace in sewing

  knitting the self

  Egg Rocks

  A field of broken rocks

  like nestled eggs from dinosaurs

  thwart our efforts at planting grass

  for each time we pick up tools to dig our holes

  —the rocks conspire and multiply

  If I did not know it could not be true

  I’d swear we took that monster from the ground

  last Tuesday noon—and Saturday too!

  With all these prehistoric eggs

  I could build a wall and waterfall

  yet carted off to neighbor’s plot

  they sit in piles—I hope they rot—

  In ancient times the raptors came

  and took the precious eggs

  Right now,

  as I stand with pick in hand

  and sweat on beaded brow

  I think I’d pay a thief to steal my treasures

  —if they would only take these ‘eggs’ away

  and smooth my broken field

  —and ease my aching back.

  Heaven’s Beach

  The sun has set

  and midnight skies

  have turned the world

  upside-down.

  A darkened afternoon

  of pregnant clouds

  that drip no rain

  turn silver

  in the moonlight

  and roll in waves

  of ocean clouds

  that surge and sway

  with the moon’s rise.

  The wind whispers

  and nearly sounds

  the breaking waves

  of sky

  upon the mountain’s peak

  —the Heaven’s beach—

  upon which only God

  can stroll.

  Hurricane of the Heart

  The storm clouds

  have settled in my head again.

  Lightning flashes

  in my eyes

  and thunder in my heart.

  The heaviness has sunk into my soul

  and I only wish

  the rain could pour from my eyes,

  cleanse my soul,

  nourish my heart,

  and let hope spring anew

  —but the rain does not come—

  just this endless

  pitiable sadness

  that pushes the storm on

  to settle stagnant

  over my eyes

  and leave foggy murk

  within myself.

  Drout

  Where are the tears I cannot shed?

  they’ve left me dry and thirsty

  for emotion and life

  beyond the aching numbness

  that inhabits my heart.

  I’m starving for the life blood

  the thirst quencher

  the rain

  to leak from my eyes

  and fill my heart again.

  Where are the tears I cannot shed?

  dust and salt bitter my tongue,

  ashes are all that remain of heart,

  all that remain of self

  in this drout of tears

  —an empty husk, hardened like a lemon

  and just as tart—

  Can’t I have a little rain?

  Can’t my soul be peppered

  with even a drop of emotion?

  Parched of feeling

  I lean my head on weary hands

  and feel the rain

  begin to fall.

  Cradled

  The mountains surround me

  a cradle

  of tumbled stone

  and leafless trees

  that take me to her breast

  and nurse me

  like a newborn suckling.

  Parched,

  I’ve found sustenance in her

  craggy embrace,

  found peace

  in her dribbled essence.

  She feeds me

  and raises me up to my feet

  to take step after tumbling step,

  so different than the flailing falls

  of years past.

  Father’s spirit,

  Mother’s embrace,

  the child at last stands on her own

  and wanders into the world,

  fed and fulfilled.

  Blind on the Bluff

  Blind on the bluff

  I search my way

  wth questing stick

  and cautious toes

  Snap! goes the trap on booted foot

  Bang! goes the snare on imbalanced hand

  Ow! cries the heart full of pain

  This maze I quest

  this blind man’s bluff

  I set before myself

  could be solved with ease

  —if sight led my way

  if eyes could search the rough place

  but I am bound with cloth and rope

  and darkness is on every side

  Up and down

  all around

  there is no light to see

  not from sun nor moon

  nor hand-held beam

  not heart nor mind nor soul—

  I cannot see this blind man’s bluff

  this maze of pain
made for me

  and yet—

  it was I who set the traps

  and bound my eyes

  it was I who blinded me

  and set myself upon this path

  much too scared to see

  the pits and traps

  the scrapes and falls

  the fear has blinded all

  Why can’t I reach and take the cloth

  from these stubborn eyes?

  If sight is what I really want,

  why not remove the blind?

  and yet I trudge along my path

  questing, seeking, pained

  refusing light

  refusing life.

  Blinded

  Memories of Home

  Monochrome mountains stand tall and proud

  encircling this valley of mine

  while their children litter the fields

  and the yard

  where I plant seeds of grass

  and rows of peas

  and they

  not so gracious as their guardian fathers

  nibble at my garden and twist my carrots

  to grow sideways instead of down.

  Most days I know not

  whether I shall harvest potatoes

  or infant mountains masquerading as stone.

  Still—I love my rocky home

  with spritely sunflowers and prickly burrs

  that whisper against little boys’ shoes

  and gather in pantlegs to come in from the heat.

  There is safety in this frozen desert

  joy in this simple life of seasons

  —and stone—

  with granite majesty

  gurding the seeds of my life

  and memories of home.

  In Oklahoma

  Red earth baked

  like clay in a kiln,

  sun so hot

  it cooks all thought

  and we run,

  dancing,

  from shade to shade.

  Silent

  but for the sound

  of grasshopper flight.

  Still,

  but for the shimmer

  of heat from blacktop

  and we,

  so desperate for cool,

  climb trees to the tippy-top

  and sway with the breeze—

  or dash for creek haven,

  despite cottonmouths

  and the threat of Mom’s belt,

  and sink knee deep

  where baked red earth

  eases to cool mud.

  Heaven and Hell

  in Oklahoma.

  Night

  I laid on the roof

  one summer night

  and stared as the stars

  came to life

  sputtering like candles

  in a midnight parade.

  The cicadadas sang

  the wind whispered

  and the moon answered, rising

  The luna pearl smiled upon me

  throwing her light

  like gold to the poor

  as she raced across the darkened sky

  and faded before dawn—

  And I lay on the roof

  Silent

  Alone