Last Places #1


by

copyright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2013

 Published in: Over the Transom #23--2013

Mysterious wind chimes in a land of wood and rock,
Hot metal ticking down the engine heat of my rust colored
’72 Ford pickup parked on the AlCan Highway:
Late May east of Whitehorse, the Yukon Territory.

A short bridge crosses the Yukon River here. A bridge,
An effort of steel and sweat for man, a pitiful patch on the earth
Connecting this solitary highway slicing a wound through this vast
Last land of, not the wild, but the free, like thousands of miles of a bandage.

The breakup of winter is in retreat; the mighty Yukon River moves justly
Without mercy into spring carrying and caressing all in its methodical path.
All is quiet, not a car or truck within sight or sound. A silent pickup on an
Empty highway, yet the mysterious sound of wind chimes in this land of wood and rock.

On the riverbank, standing in melting snow, I find the mystery lies at my feet.
Ice. Small slivers of delicate ice floating on the surface of the river
Gently playing beautiful tones from benevolent collisions, like
Fairies playing a symphony with small harps and delicate flutes.

When I die I would like to think I’d be one of the musicians playing
Musical ice on such a place as the last throes of a breakup on a mighty
River. And if one is lucky, they may be able to hear my song.
It will probably be jazz, gentle jazz . . . but a little up beat.
_______________________________

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Regretful Death

Published in Cirque, Vol. 7, No. 2; 2016 www.cirquejournal.com by  Jerry Dale McDonnell Above the routine of the rasping, cutting sound of the crosscut saw the noise and demeanor of the late-September afternoon woods changed. We didn't immediately quantify the change. We just knew it changed. The odor of standing pine and fir, of sawdust and fresh cut wood, the light dampness of the air, the gurgling water in the creek dancing around rocks all remained, but something had changed. Even the camp robbing Gray jays in the trees were on alert.   Living in the woods, paying attention is just the way of things. Sounds, smells, clouds, the wind, changes in plants and trees, migration and habits of animals are like news on the radio. In the timber-pole corral our lead and riding horses were agitated, which is a blip on the radar. Joker, the smallest, but oldest and wisest horse of the herd snorted, laid its ears back briefly then spun and jumped to the other side of ...
Read more

Glory Royal

Published in Over The Transom #27: February, 2016 by Jerry Dale McDonnell It’s our bar. A day’s end hard work bar with a too recent nod toward tourist hippie/yuppie types. It’s long been my comfort zone where I’ve spent much of my dead-end life and where she found me and took a hold of me and twisted me around. Bras of various cup sizes—donated after the shots and beer back have done their work—hang down from the ceiling like plucked chickens. Twas usually around midnight when the occasional gal pulled her bra out from under her blouse, or if the booze had brought her to stupid, tits were bared. Hooting and hollering of tit bragging and admiration is standard. Two visiting strangers started the collection years ago but now most of the hundred or more hanging bras are from young just turned legal drinking age city girls sometimes escorted by long hairs with unearned holes in their jeans on a weekend toot to our small village in the mountains just shy of Canada. We, a bare knuck...
Read more

Beluga Fall

Published in Explorations, ©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2000 Anchorage, Alaska; September. 1993 He said he was sorry. Some people believed him. The judge didn't. He was still a teenager . . . eighteen.   They gave him sixty-five years. No trial. West of Dillingham, Alaska; March 1976. The view from under the bed is limited: six shoes on the bare boards,   the empty whiskey bottle spinning crazily. The gun-shot explodes; cringing, he holds his ears, his mouth frozen open. A body slams to the floor. The bottle stops spinning against the fallen face of his older brother whose cheek is smashed up against his eye, his tongue hanging from the open mouth. A second shot rocks the bare, wood walls of the tar-paper shack; he flinches, banging his head on the bed springs and bites his tongue in terror tasting his own blood. Another body shakes the room as it hits the floor; the face of his older sister twitches as it hammers into the bare wood.   Dead, his brother stares a...
Read more