banner

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever" - John Keats
 

 

 

 

The Bear's Lair

five toes meant one thing.
he was near.
I followed his tracks.
passed a dead buck
probably taken down days before
by a lone hunter.
I secured my handgun and my rifle.

I must get the jump on him.
I tip-toed creekside.
then, suddenly, on the other bank,
I heard an air-shaking growl.
he was as big as mountain sky.

he had violence in his heart
and me in his eyes.
his jaw opened wide, his body
full of wanton hunger.
I grimaced.  he'd be a trophy,
his head standing proudly
nailed to the wall,
that is, if I could take him.
he rose on his hind legs.
I felt dread.  swallowed twice.
cocked my gun.
he's not taking me to the slaughterhouse.

but he was fast. me clumsy.
he crossed back.
his big teeth like bronze sculpture.
I hung like a toy.
I thought this is it. my last act.
the headlines will read
eaten by a bear.

but no, the ordeal continued.
he dragged me
through the gurgling stream
into bushes and across beds of rocks.
bruised me bad.

when we reached the beast's den,
I feared I'd be dinner. I saw mama bear
and her growing cubs.
they motioned back and forth
with their paws.
I understood. they said
I'd make a great rug.

 

bear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





 

 

 

 

 

 

Wahkeena Falls
(Beautiful Woman in Yakima Native Language)

bright, white and sassy,
she hops rocks then dives
beneath downed trees.
I track her fine spray,
her tidal like sighs
and leaping roar.
crowds congregate.
lounge in her gypsy soft air.
bath the inlays of their hearts
as she rolls out to sea.

she's a place of rest.
her roomy voice, abundant eyes
are a hotel for the frolicking soul
and the contemplative mind.
she's old, ancient.
has watched many
linger in her mountain mist,
then go gentle and slow.
she peels away pain.
handles fear and weakness
with imagination.
behind her cries and fury are whispers of joy.
her centuries old rocks shape her stride.
upon leaving, I always thank her.

in winter her lone body
rips out a rhapsodic roar.
spurious wind gusts bend her legs,
twist her lines as if she's a stick
of licorice candy.
she hisses and howls
yet her droplets touch your face
like soft winter kisses.
I come each week
with the satisfaction of knowing
she is never somewhere else.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

       

© 2021 K.J. Baker