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Copyright © by
Bill Scifres
When I look at my life in the still of the night,
In scorn at the things I have done up to date,
My thoughts often wander to days long since passed,
And my lips often murmur: "Two hundred years late."
Oh, the magic of visions spread unto my view
As the moon sends a shadow that flits near my head,
A whisper of wind and the present is gone
As I journey far back as I lie in my bed.
There are great virgin forests and rivers that flow,
And life in the blockhouse with friendships so true,
The deer and the bear hunts . . . the skinning of game
And trips to the salt lick in fall's golden hue.
The clearing of ground through the cold winter months . . .
The plowing for crops on an early spring morn . . .
And as I work steady, the lone sentry stands . . .
The white cloth locating my rifle and horn.
But now, as the dawn breaks, my visions grow dim,
I know I must rise . . . there are steps in the hall,
And the only reminder of pioneer days
Is the old flintlock rifle that hangs on my wall.
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| Note: I wrote this on a beautiful
fall (full moon) night in my sophomore year at Hanover. . . A Saturday
night and most of the kids were gone for the weekend. . . I had been
toying with the desire to write the poem for some time (mostly subconsciously,
I think) . . . But the campus was dead and I was a little lonely, not to
mention the fact that my life was taking some strange turns . . . So I
went to bed about 10 p.m. (roommate gone) and awakened about midnight with
the moon streaming into my window . . . Before me (almost like on a blackboard)
the first verse appeared almost magically . . . I grabbed pencil and paper
and jotted it down . . . Try as I might, I could not get any further with
it . . . so I went to sleep again, only to awaken about 1:30 a.m. to find
the second verse there before my eyes . . . Again, I copied it, but that
was all I could come up with, and went back to sleep . . . And so it went
until at dawn I awakened exhausted, but with a completed poem . . .
There is no way to explain it, but it had to be some kind of guidance.
. . Another possibility might be that I was working on it subconsciously
all the time and it finally just had to come out . . . It picked that time
. . . I do know this, the best writing anyone can do is also the easiest
because it gets pent up in one's brain and, at the right time forces its
way out . . . this is especially true of humor, I think . . . humor writing
must be easy to be good . . . forced humor is not good . . . |
If
you'd like to read some additional original outdoor poetry, click here.
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