A contribution

This one was inspired by a pond that I often walk around. I'll bury it there:

Nature trail prance –

A one mile promenade around

The green slimed pond –

Fine for the heart

And spirit

Bright moist clippings

Stick to my soles

Like wet static

Until the forested needle carpet

Exchanges green with brown

Fresh with humus

A hindered progression –

Low, prickly archways and

Untamed overgrowth remind

Of intrusion as deerflies alight

And bite – I think a cap next time

As I elude in spurts

A bird’s song – a warbler?

I never could remember

Who is who

A fox settles in the sun

Confident pup – regal and

Unaware of observation –

Too far for a cell phone pic

I’m hot and I sweat –

There is little air

In such dense confines with

Scents of scat

On the windless path

Brown ghosts

Wary in the brush –

A snort and gone

In a rustle

Back on grass –

A goose provoked tiptoe

To the car with a breath –

The forced world awaits.

d.g.pratt

Addendum and clarification

I wanted to briefly thank those of you keeping up with this project/exercise/experiment.  Also, I feel I did not make it clear that this blog is open to any and everyone. Again, comment, critique, discuss, and  actually, I have a greater desire to see others take part if you have the desire.  Write a poem, find a poem, write a story, find a story, create and bury it somewhere that makes sense to you.  Do not feel obligated to explain why or what.  I, in establishing this, feel an obligation to at least see the project through over the next few weeks, so I will continue to write and bury what I create in my meditation on place and moment, but now there have been five poems, tomorrow there will be a sixth, some have felt like sketches in a notebook, others like raw entities that I merely played a part.  So please, some people have emailed me already discussing a desire to bury their own work.  Do it.  Share it.  The format is simple, a transcription and general place setting would be nice, but don't feel the need to take pictures or give an exact  global position.  Just create and let go.

Burial Poem 5 --36 9' 9.38" N 95 56' 14.28"

After days of road
Qwik stops and fast marts
fuel and microwaved delicacies
you and your wife
opened the door to a home
and a day to rest
the dogs ran around our feet
licking and sniffing
we were laughter
and the moment
the hours ticked away
but no one counted
no miles to go or maps
to study
only here and only now
you led us out back
to your garden and picked
potatoes, cucumbers and a puppy
rolled around in the fallen
tomatoes as the night
approached you lit the grill
to cook your uncle's corn
some chicken the vegetables
we picked and the bread
we shared over dinner
with stories of late
night fountain dancing
as our wives rolled
their eyes tales of family
and places we were
laughter we were now.
We've come to morning
too quickly my wife and I
are moving on as I look
upon your garden say
thank-ya and plant these
words amongst the seeds
of the food we will
continue to share.

Burial Poem 4-- 36.9870 North, 94.8395 West

Picher, Oklahoma

The Gorillas don't play here anymore
        between the industrial dunes
        and dead streets
                                state football champions
        1984 a modern day boom town
        full
             of vacancy now
                                  as the wind
        is slow a yellow jacket
             is stuck in sludge covering the stadium
        stairs--buzzes
                           flutters its wings
                 it will never
                     leave
                            the streets taken
         by the weeds
                          empty houses with
                unhinged doors
         only the insects survive
                  the fallout the rest
            is a hollow silence
                   like a death rattle
          the buildings creek and yet nothing
                  moves
                            so I bury you here
          outside the gymnasium
               where the town's people
             said good-bye
                             June 29, 2009

Burial Poem 3 --37 15' 14.67" N 93 16' 00.53" W

Cultural Collage

The mountains fell down
     hillsides slipped away
to the long drawn out roadways
                                           of Americana
   Bigger is better
                         advertise here
           between the cornfields
                     and mile markers
Come visit Ted Raper
                          for all your RV needs
           Eat at the Amish diner
           Buy from the Polish trader
           Refinish with Indian marble
           Traditional
                        high quality
                     original
                          you'll never use
                                     you'll never need
The slight slope becomes a thrill
          the bend a mystery
I fueled up
                 sat all day
            to watch the landscape
                                           continue
Now I've dug my hole
            and cut my finger
       which bleeds into
                          the muddy wound.

Burial Poem 2--41 1' 13.52" N 77 57' 11.45" W

With this spade
          in my hand I thought
      myself unusual
      mad on my knees, yet I want
             to be humble to rise
      with the thousands beside me
      and in the dust below
I could speak
              unaware
                   of this moment
   listen
         and create stories
      as lies are inherent
                              in my words
beneath a shadow of the thunderhead
     black dirt beneath my fingernails
          I dug the grave before
     I wrote
                 though the highways
     brought me here I waited
     for the light
                      the moment
              the place
     and abandoned the new
            before we even met.

Burial Poem 1-- 42 20' 26.57" N, 71 35'10.23" W

Just Beyond the parking lot
now,
a siren climbs the highway
below
Today I thought, tomorrow
I remembered
but yesterday I was a dream.
Hidden behind the small hill
the sun breaks
the morning dew, my hand claws
at the dry earth,
a few bees begin work on the wild
flowers before me
I am a breath between the song
of the morning larks
and the distant hush of cars
passing my words.