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The Charcoal Forest

The Mendocino National Forest has been a part of my life in some capacity since childhood, so I have on occasion explored its remote forest roads a year or two after a fire passed through and was able to bear witness to its resilience and capacity for self-renewal.

This time was different. For nearly the entire length of my drive all I saw was dead forest—from where state route 162 ends, splitting off into several small, dirt forest roads to well beyond where it reconsolidates dozens of miles later on the east side of the Inner North Coastal Ranges to continue on across the state. The fires that decimated these lands burned through in 2017 and 2018, and yet where I would see regrowth and renewal in the past I now saw only ash and charcoal, stand upon stand, ridge after ridge, vale after vale, from the western boundary on through to the east.

The forest was not showing signs of regrowth, and in some areas I could see grasses sprouting up that grow in the grasslands in the valleys below—but no sapling trees or bushes, not even wildflowers.

The Charcoal Forest

Mendocino National Forest
September 2022

Most of the pines still stood
tall slender shadows lifeless
in the midst of long thin
shadows cast or fallen beneath
the all consuming light of day
a few remaining limbs crudely
sharpened to flintstone javelins

Younger pines curved seared tips
back to the ground or arched
their black carcasses out to form
an eldritch tunnel over the long
and narrow meandering dirt road

Those more mature towered
abruptly devoid of life every
branch burned down to the trunk
so that rank upon rank of giant
obsidian spears lunged out
at harsh unblemished skies

The old madrones loomed
with chasmal cracks revealing
streaks of inmost heart-wood
two to five large barren limbs
tapered to blackened points
no leaf no twig no branch
remaining—great misshapen
wrists and hands reaching up
in prayer from ashen earth
long fingers twisted in their
final moments of torment

The ancient black oaks—
matriarchs of the wood—lay
with their sprawling crowns
reduced to a tangle of broken limbs
broad charred tentacles writhing
out from the ground a mangled
black mass of horror and pain

Mile after mile the scene
played back again and again
sometimes here or there far
in the distance a small island
of still living green nestled
in the curve of a deep ravine
otherwise only the silence
of charcoal ash and death
a massive gravestone raised
at the head of man and his cities
                                          below

Upon reading this poem, a friend of mine commented saying he liked that I only mentioned three types of trees (the pines actually cover a few species thereof) rather than running through a whole catalog as us Western poets tend to do. Truth is, if there was more to observe, I might well have ended up with a longer poem. But there was nothing else left, no manzanita, no birch, no aspen, no scrub oak at the higher elevations, no birds, deer, or rabbits, just quite literally ash and charcoal and a few small, dead strands of valley grasses from seeds blown up the mountain through the leafless, lifeless spires that once had leaves and underbrush to keep those valley grasses in the valley.

In 20 to 30 years I suspect there won’t even be even many hints left of the lush, diverse life that once flourished here. There aren’t many pathways left for it to return. The ground has been baked free of the microbes and fungi that nourished these trees. The seeds have been reduced to carbon dust.

Posted on by EAT

When I’m gone

There was a lot of mystery surrounding my father’s death when I was 10, especially when you consider that my only source of information at the time was—and still is—incapable of anything resembling honesty—my mother. I knew he committed suicide, or at least this is what I told. But there was never anything more.

Any attempt to discuss my father’s death with my mother, then as now, invoked tirades of vitriol that still reechoes on perpetual repeat within my mind—“I told your father I was pregnant with you and he said I want a divorce;” “He never wanted anything to do with you;” “Maybe he faked his death and went underground;” Oh, and more.

I was left to fabricate my own reality around his death, especially when you consider that my mother in a very direct way seeded doubt as to whether or not he was really even gone. This created a lifetime of confusion that was only really resolved a couple years ago when my uncle contacted me out of the blue in his old age having learned that he himself did not have much longer to live.

He sent me his death certificate, coroner’s report, and a detective’s very detailed report—he actually interviewed multiple parties, including my mother, and documented his impressions about my father’s state of mind from those interviews, which lead him to believe that he was capable of suicide and there was therefore no need to investigate further.

Thinking about all of this, amongst other things, I realized I wanted to leave some thoughts for my son with regard to my eventual passing. I understand that the human psyche generates a mythos around the passing of a loved one all on its own, but I thought I would guide this a little in relation to my personal cosmology.

When I’m gone

You will not need to look for me
               when I have ventured on
     for I will dream in memory
          till all your days are done

But if you look I think you’ll find
               me high in cottonwoods
     that fork like lightning in the wind
          from out your childhood

You’ll find me where gray ridgetops rise
               above broad seas of pine
     that shimmer greens beneath clear skies
          like echoes out of time

You’ll find me where long breakers crest
               and roll to wide-mouthed coves
     to crash on sands that span abreast
          tall cliffs and alder groves

You’ll find me deep in giant fern
               that glimmers from the shade
     of ancient redwoods, taciturn
          as prayers lightly laid.

But if you look for me in rows
               of sorrow, loss, and care
     that stretch beneath the call of crows,
          you will not find me there.

Posted on by EAT

cherry chant

It is that time of year again. The cherry blossoms are coming into full bloom here in the Reno area. They are everywhere on the campus where I work, and as I move between buildings throughout the course of my day, I often stop to appreciate all they bring to the world.

cherry chant

if you look closely and hold your
face near their outstretched petals
they will look right back at you
small round mouths gaping wide

their many translucent tongues lick
out and taste the brisk spring winds
and with all their might they reach
small white arms out to touch the sun

they are not hungry or calling
out to preach you their truths
or admonish your wrongs
they are singing their inmost prayers

they want nothing from you but
if you listen as closely as you look
you may just hear their songs
a sound like the slightest whisper

our human ears cannot hear the full
vibrancy and range of their choir
only the gentlest motions as they
weave and dance to rhythms of wind

Posted on by EAT

A Poem About Anything

This poem is extracted from several conversations with my son over the course of maybe a year. All of the dialog herein did actually occur—as best I can recall—and probably more or less in the same order, but over time and with a fair amount of repetition.

A Poem About Anything

This is not a poem about everything,
for everything has been explored,
written about, and published—
                                   at least online.

This is a poem about anything,
for anything is possible, which is
well beyond the scope of everything 
                                   until it happens.

“You can be anything,” I tell my son.
“Even a road or a highway?” he asks.
“Anything within reason,” I suggest,
                                   “as a person.”

He can be a very literal little boy.
“What about a speed limit or route
number sign?” he asks. “Well,” I say,
                                   “you could hold the sign.”

He has yet to separate what he
can one day be from things that are. “You
could also design signs,” I add, “or even
                                   roads themselves.”

“Or US highways and interstates?” He
clarifies.—A very literal little boy.
“And even rail or maglev systems,”
                                   I propose.

“I just want to design roads and highways,”
he decides. “What are those kind of people?”
“Civil engineers I think,” I tell him. “They
                                   design these things.”

“I want to be a civil engineer!” his voice
loud—triumphant with new understanding.
“Sounds good, but you’ll really have to work
                                   hard to get there.”

“Why?” his voice surprised. “You said I
can be anything.” “You can,” I affirm, “But
anything requires work, or you’ll just end
                                   up being something.”

“Just some thing?” he stretches out both
syllables—slowly. “Exactly,” I confirm, “for
something doesn’t require any work at all, but
                                   anything takes work.”

“What kind of work?” his voice seeks. “Well,”
I ponder, “math for one thing. Engineers are
math-magicians.” “I’m really good at math!”
                                   his voice climbs high.

“You are,” I assent, “but math is quite deep,
and you’ve only just scratched the surface.
There’s much more to learn if you’re going to
                                   become an engineer.”

“A CIVIL engineer!” he clarifies, indignant—
A particularly precise boy. “You’ll also need
to be a strong reader,” I add. “Why a strong
                                   reader?” he implores.

“You can’t just build roads and highways
anywhere anyway you like. There are laws.
You’ll need to know them. That’s a lot of
                                   reading,” I explain.

“Too much reading!” he asserts. “You’re
already a strong reader,” I grant, “just keep
reading and you’ll be fine.” “What else?” he
                                   quizzes, eyes eager.

“You’re not going to like the next thing,”
I hint, “yet you’ll need it for anything.”
“I hate writing…” his voice trails off. He
                                   figured it out.

“How else will you present your designs?”
I probe. “I’ll tell the construction workers,”
he determines. “I don’t think it works that way,”
                                   my voice treads lightly.

“Engineers don’t work alone,” I offer.
“You’ll need to present, defend and explain
your designs.” “All in writing?” his voice
                                   a little deflated.

“You can always just be something,” I point
out, “if you don’t want to write. But
it probably won’t be a civil engineer.” “Or
                                   anything?” he checks.

“Well, anything will require strong writing
skills,” I attest. “You can still be something.”
“But I want to be anything,” he stresses,
                                   “so I’ll think about it.”