Entombed

Entombed


Strong ancient one
Entombed in your winter
cold bars
Hold you within.

What sin
Traps you in your frigid cell?
What lies beneath
Your dark exterior?

Patience
Spring will come
Bars shatter and fall
You burst forth to majestic freedom.


Ken Goree



On my way home from snow shoeing on Saturday (1-8-11), I noticed a huge basalt cliff. The enormous boulders of dark, wet stone rose up 50 feet beside the road. Thick shining icicles hung vertically along the face of the wall. Row upon row seemed to trap the stone inside, a tomb.

My experiences that gave rise to "Goose Food"

The poem Goose Food is grounded in my memories of time spent in Eastern
Washington in the late fall and through the winter. The air is dry
and cold, and the bare surface of the highway is the only thing not blanketed in a hard white crust that will linger until spring. The harsh Kittitas Valley wind whips snow in a whirling, twisting dance, like ghost snakes writhing over the aged and worn grey surface of the pavement.

“V” after “V” of Geese in formation drop into fields until there are thousands gathered together. A few stand guard as the flock talk, quarrel and grumble among themselves, while working to wrest sustenance from the frozen soil.

The Third

Goose Food

While driving through the country
I passed a snowy field
What was in the summer bountiful
Has given up its yield.

A thousand black shapes on there
I see them from a far
Grow in size, grey, black and white
As I approach them in my car.

They prod and poke with long neck and beak
For what is left behind
For the farmer, feeding geese in winter
Was not on his mind.

A seed or two they pull from earth
Some juicy bugs there, too
The frozen earth so hard gives up
A worm they'd not eschew.

I sip from my warm coffee cup
And those geese I watch
I aim my brand new camera
And freeze them with one shot.

I appreciate their beauty
As they seek out frozen stem
Their courageous struggle awes me
But I wouldn't want to be them.

K.G.
Brandon Myuse