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
And the Mountain Burns Page 1