la de, freakin’, da

I just heard the news

you got your M - F - A

well, la de, freakin’, da

your commitment to the craft has been cemented

by amassing unbearable, unending debt,

to be endured through a string of dead-end jobs

enabling you to write poems that confuse the masses

while sucking up to annoyingly presumptuous critics

you've got that stash of words

that few understand and fewer use 

to be meted out one or two per poem

faded, forgotten chapbooks

will litter your home, car, and backpack

as you anxiously anticipate the next time

you will see your name

in some obscure, yet thereby elitist, publication

to impress your parents and

be read by those few, now distant, friends 

you met while at school

to get your M - F - A

Winter 2017, Bellingham

Never thought
I'd get tired of snow.

I was wrong.
Very wrong.

Continue my way home

Heading north out of Oak Harbor

traffic is squeezing from four lanes to two.

I give way to a logging truck.

Could have pushed and

beat him through the funnel.

But, true to self, I let him go.

Chunky, dark bark surrounds

damp, shiny rings of timber,

glowing with the orange of a perfect setting sun.

I have no clue what grows on Whidbey.

Maybe it came on the ferry from the peninsula.

Seems I should know my trees.

There’s the story of the day the Grandfather I never knew

didn’t come home from working in the woods,

resulting in seventy-five plus years of my Mother

floundering as a rootless soul.

I remember the family buzz

when Uncle Earl, his hard hat catching a glint of sun,

had his picture in National Geographic, The National Geographic,

reaching deep into the wedge of an imposing redwood.

And then that tale of Grandpa S. developing

the process that made Presto-Logs.

He did the work, company got the credit

and the money. Not sure they still make Presto-Logs.

After a few miles the truck

edges to the shoulder.

I pass, make momentary eye contact,

acknowledge the kindness, and continue my way home.