On an errand from my town to another
(a lazy man’s errand- don’t you dare schedule me anymore)
I pass by the old weathered sign “Trail Entrance”.
It’s a blue arrow, meant to point north, to the left,
but now decrepit and flaccid in its old age.
Doing a face plant into the dirt,
telling us all to go to hell.
It’s been ten years, maybe longer,
since i took pride in making that steep ascent,
fording streams on stepping stones,
marching up muddy slopes,
finally reaching my destination:
a balding summit called Teapot hill.
It commanded a beautiful view of the countryside, and,
immersed in its quietness, on just the right day,
I could watch the cloud shadows roll across green fields,
gobbling the golden sun.
In the late summer, when these dark ships passed over me on the summit,
I felt a slight chill,
as little vortices of whirlwind seemed to spring up from the earth around me,
dispersing bugs and scattering the ashes of old campfires.
Tempests on the Teapot.
After a time, those black windblown spaceships would disperse,
giving way to green radiance once again.
A one act play that I would give anything to call up at will.
Today is such a day, and I know it, even from the pavement well away.
God, can I make it? (I think)
I surely would like that feeling once again.
That feeling of being soothed, of being comforted, of being spoken to
Of owning my place in this, a green jewel of the universe.
I stop, and reverse back down the gravel shoulder. Lock up and go, you fool.
It’s mid September. The rains have not been kind this summer,
and so the steep sections of the trail are not so muddy.
And, another kindness- someone has built rudimentary bridges across the streams.
Even with these blessings, I have only half the wind, and take twice the time.
I look nervously at my phone. Plenty of battery, but no signal.
On my own, I stop three times, and then reach the flat top.
Someone has carved an old stump into the form of an armchair, and I sit,
catching breath, head bowed.
There’s a sign, crudely carved.
You Are Here
You Are Here
Lee Dunn has been writing since the age of 18, but found that work got in the way for the ensuing 48 years. In his home town of Toronto, Ontario, Canada, he reveled in his independence at an early age, and spent as much time as he could exploring the city’s Arts scene. He was introduced to poetry and prose by the works of two literary giants, namely J.R.R. Tolkien and J.W. Lennon and thence fell in love with the written word. His work includes poetry, short fiction, and personal essays, and ranges in theme from the surreal to the horrific, nostalgic, and themes on the human condition. He has been published on Spillwords.com, The Dark Poets Club, Journal of Undiscovered Poets, Crepe & Penn Literary magazine, and the Shelburne Free Press.