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The Treasure Hunter

The Treasure Hunter is a poem about a father figure in my life who passed away in early October 2020. I call him the treasure hunter, because that was his job and his passion. Collecting treasures to sell and give to others. He was the most generous man I have ever met, and I miss him dearly. This is free verse, it cannot and will not be contained, much like the treasure hunter. This is poetry for the hurting, poetry for those in need of healing.The treasure hunter knew that many things could not be healed materially. I hope that you find these words well and as a form of medicine for the heart.

It has only been three months
Since I last saw the treasure hunter.
I drove near his house today
Over the ashen roads.
They remind me of his smile
Crooked teeth between taut cheeks.
They hold back stories of childhood
Of simpler times before iPhones
A time where a four-wheeler
Was better after a bout of beers.
That is not to say I condone it,
Nor do I understand his stories
But I cherished them.
And I cherished him.
He was not my father.
Yet, he was my father.
That role that was already filled.
I never knew that it could be coordinated
And I’m certain that it was not meant to be.
I’m certain that it will never come to be again.
Yet, I am forever thankful that it was.
For the treasure hunter was a man
Who collected everything in the land
Taking what he could, the garbage of others
Giving all he had, to sisters and brothers.
If he saw the ash on those roads today
He would have something to say
Hooking up some plow that he found
Clearing away and salting the ground.
If he were here today
He would have something to say.
Maybe a story of old, laced with proverb
One that would make many bothered.
Yet he would tell it with that crooked smile
And drag you in, even if only for a short while.
For he not only hunted for treasures
He hunted for hearts, non-material pleasures.
A conman of the people and for the people.
Now, my final memory of him is in a steeple.

May you all find your treasure hunter.
May you all cherish them as my mother did.
May you all respect them as I did.
May you all love, as he did.

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The Crab Apple Tree

Out of season considering it’s October (at least as I type). Just some more dreaming of childhood.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
Pink petals burst from their dormant state
The sun calls their name with each rotation
Without fail, they answer, never late.

Every year the pink petals call the bees.
They stir from their winter slumber
With jet engine like wings buzzing
An army of pollinators, ready to encumber.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
For fifty weeks the bees wait for this show.
For two weeks they work sun up, sun down.
Thankful for the death of the white snow.

For two weeks the crab apple is the queen.
After two weeks, the blossoms drop,
The greenish brown leaves start to show,
The curtain falls, the show will slowly stop.

Every year the crab apple tree blooms.
It has only one moment to show its beauty.
Once the blossoms are gone, the bees leave
Onto new prospects, as is their duty.

What remains of the crab apple tree?
Branches close to ground, easy to grab.
A new creature approaches, that of a child,
Who will play an old game, called king of the crab.

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I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

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Dirt Roads. Frogs. Hospital. + Announcements

What do dirt roads, frogs, and hospitals have in common? Nostalgia of some sort. These three quick poems were supposed to be posted Monday, but I lost track of my days. Things have been busy lately. Let me know what you think. There’s also an announcement at the end of this post if you’re interested.

Dirt Roads

Dirt roads wind
Down the outskirts
Of my mind

The scent of rain.
The scent of dirt.
Brings me to childhood.

Frogs

The chirp of tree frogs
Resting on an old window
Puts me to sleep
As they begin their feast.

Hospital

Heart rate: one-fifty
Dropped to sixty
Ten nurses enter
Running us down hallways
Commotion. Chaos. Then-
Silence. Restricted doors close.

Announcement

I’ve been less active on WordPress. Partly to spend more time with my family. This takes a lot of time, you know. Another part of that is trying to figure out where to spend time wisely to foster the best result. I’ve found that many of you are actually more present and active on Substack.

For those of you who are, I’ve started to release poems over there. I’ve also started to include dissections of those poems there also. I want to keep Primitive Poetry strictly poetry with the occasional announcement. Substack allows me to go beyond that a little and have some more fun.

If you’re interested in reading the background of some of my poems, find me on Substack. I just released yesterday’s poem “What is Real?” With a dissection. We can even get a little political over there. Link on the button below.

There’s no pressure to hop over there. I’m not sure it will benefit many of you, but I’ve enjoyed engaging with a few of you on Substack anyway. I find it easier to find your poetry in the format that Substack promotes posts.

Anyway, I hope to see you on Substack. If not, then we can still chat in the comments.

“What Is Real” on Substack

Hold up a minute.

I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

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Check out my Substack

What is Real?

“What is Real?” describes those moments where our mind wanders, perhaps mental breaks where we snap into a different world. There’s not much reasoning to it. This is also free-verse, so don’t expect much structure. After all, who among us can say their mind is well structured! The poem is intended to question what is real in the writer’s mind (I guess that means my mind). This piece is a little jarring, it’s supposed to be!

Dropping my son off
At his university designed
For infants and toddlers
I saw the sunrise
Over a pasture of green tide
With cows painted in the foreground
And barns in the middle ground
As Kendrick Lamar told me
To Turn the TV Off.

Knowing how that TV
Had already moved
To the cold dark attic
Where the mice keep company
And sweaters are knit with cobwebs.
Where the sunrise is hidden
Yet sunset peaks through
Old water-stained windows.
Where reality blurs
And old photos fade
Forgetting the faces
Which frames pronounce
As the names become harder
To recall, to cherish, to speak,
As I wonder who these people are.
There’s music playing.
Is it jazz, is it country?
My ears can’t tell.
Depends on today’s mood.

Wait. The painting.
Remember the painting?

I was dropping off my son.
I was studying the cows.
The sunrise. The barns.
The grass, trapped by fences.

I don’t know what is real,
Who among us does?
All I know is that this moment-
This moment of orange and pink
Painted pastels on gray clouds.
This green field of black dots,
The occasional brown or white.
This is real. This moment.
This moment is the most real,
More real than that attic.
More real than Lamar.
More real than music,
Mice, cobwebs, and stained windows.

This simple ten second observation.
This is real.

Hold up a minute.

I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

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Hemingway Runs In My Blood

“Hemingway Runs In My Blood” is a reflection on creativity.

I’ve often said that one of my favorite parts of poetry is the opportunity it presents to create small worlds and move on from them quickly. As if that world exists one moment, and then is gone the next. This poem is kind of part of a series that I am just now realizing I’ve written about a space I call “The INBETWEEN”.

Links to the other two poems in this series can be found at the bottom of this page.

You can read a “behind the scenes” of this poem here.

Hemingway runs in my blood
Like interrogative thick mud
Which pumps through heart
And flushes my pale skin.

The want, no, the need to create
To inflate and then deflate
An id which has ravenous
Appetite for The INBETWEEN.

Creating worlds with words
Which are born of three chords
Then destroyed within the next breath
To make room for the next body.

This harmony, this Imago Dei,
Is seen in all who look intro the fray.
Though all people have it in them,
Not all observe that cliff.

For it is a terribly long drop
And those who look over the top
Will find themselves shaken,
For they are not truly prepared,
For what they will see,
Looking into the abyss,
Looking into The INBETWEEN.

Other poems about The INBETWEEN.

The INBETWEEN
My Pillow Acts As A Light Switch

Hold up a minute.

I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack

Burning Fuel (Spoken Word Poem)

Have you ever put your own value in being accepted by others? This poem is about that. Maybe it’s a friend, a family member, someone you want to be either of those things. I wrote this one years ago. While I don’t remember the specific event that led to writing this, I do remember how this “fella” would make plans, only to cancel them last minute. Usually timed perfectly where you would arrive to your selected meeting spot then get the call or text.

“I’m not coming.”
The famous words,
Whispered over the phone,
Making a man’s value drop, two-thirds.

It was expected,
It was not wanted,
Nonetheless it was expected.
The cold silence on the line haunted.

I sat silent,
My car immobile,
Yet fuel was burning quickly.
Abandoned once more by a man who’s “Noble.”

Click to see Poem Breakdown

Hold up a minute.

I’m interested in what you think! I read all comments and do my best to reply.

Please consider subscribing to stay up to date with all things Primitive Poetry.

I am actively looking for ways to collaborate with other poets. If you have a podcast, or are interested in creating together, please go to my contact page and send me a message.

Follow me on socials:

Check out my Substack