Alaskan & Western Reflections

        Anchorage, Alaska. Hoar frost, sunshine and the north aren't all bad.                       

It's winter in South central Alaska. The sun sleeps in on Skilak Lake, rises late. On the Kenai River at about mile 50, trumpeter swans spend the waning days of fall before flying south for the summer. The mountains are white while the spruce trees hold green.

by  Jerry D. McDonnell©2013 I stood on the ego edge of the ocean Owning my place, my space, A world of water on an orb of earth. The tide came in, water like a lover Caressed my calves, then Retreated playfully pulling the sand From beneath my feet. Small fleeting, white foam teased Tickling my ankles, and me, The fool, smiling, shuffling, Thinking I was in charge.

copyright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2011 Published in Over the Transom, #22, 2011 by Jerry Dale McDonnell Her hair was long past done: a homeless hairdo styled by the falling rain. Rags were far from riches. Shoes were worn Converse canvas. But behind her, firmly gripped in hand, a Louis Vuitton suitcase followed . . . on wheels at that. Her black-plastic, garbage-bag raincoat shining from the wet like patent leather shoes. Her wind-cured skin spoke of an age of maybe old. And all this on Market Street a few blocks shy of the district called financial. San Francisco, the Bay Area. I was history late far in the back of the line behind the Indians and the Mexicans. But I had a history there too. Once upon a time. I watched her plodding down Market Street, slow stepping, eyes down but alert for danger like she’d maybe been doing when the coyotes and foxes shopped in the territory now the habitat of Macy’s and the Mac store . . . maybe back then carrying, or wearing, cured f

Winter is coming to South Central Alaska. The tundra and trumpeter swans have come off their summer nesting grounds and are resting in Anchorage in preparation for their migration south. In September on the Denali Highway snow--initiation dust to the optimist, termination dust to the pessimist--coats the peaks while the caribou migrate across Alaska.

     The Kanuti River                                                                            Alaska

                                           

The Dalton Highway, 250 Miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska

--> copywright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2004 Published in Northwoods Journal, 2006 by Jerry Dale McDonnell The first thing I remember is hugging rolled-down hose, My head padded against thigh-high varicose veins while Grandma Baked muffins And love In front of the apple tree caressing the window. Outside, enormous bonnets and shy looks shed ultra-violent fall out, Haystack babies,         Catfish cravings, Joe Lewis heavyweight chocolate,                                                 Humid ice cream,                                                             Watermelon theft; The muddy Mississippi ground past Mark Twain's steamboat like an omnipotent glacier with an attitude.  We had a telephone but it didn't suck leach-like at our belt and Stalk us into the sunrise ringing at the climax of warmth. Ours sat stationary, politely, in its place, in the corner. Cars were plain, simple, good enough for the time: “We could

By Jerry Dale McDonnell Published: http://deadsnakes.blogspot.com/2016/01/jerry-dale-mcdonnell-three-poems.html Jan. 18, 2014 Half moon bright light Oregon Night Coyotes howl and yip around my camp. They frighten me a little, so many of them Surrounding me from everywhere. I am alone, yet I own my place And fall asleep in my worn, prime Goose down sleeping bag assuring Myself if I don’t frighten you You won’t frighten me. While hundreds of miles away Millions of serious people Frighten me more.