No Rhymes or Reasons: where freeform poetry meets literary snobbery

I love the days when I wake up slowly

I pull back the shade to find the sun

And I feel the urge to roam tugging at me

I don’t have to pack or get myself ready

Everything I need to survive for a few days

Is already in the truck just waiting for me

The gas tank is full, the air crisp and cold

It’s just one of those perfect fall Colorado days

And I’m reminded in a not so subtle manner

That this is why I left my home of almost 50yrs

And moved 1000 miles away from all of it.

To be here. To see this. To follow the wind.

My mom passed away on Mother’s Day in 2023

As painful as that was, as much as I miss her

She took with her the anchor that held me

Captive and yearning, that kept me

resisting the pull of this amazing place

The place I fell in love with fifteen years ago

It was my respite from the crippling pain

I was being swallowed whole by after the

Death of my first wife. It was home before it

Was home. I knew the first time I saw the gorge

Of Gunnison, and the river flowing through it

That one day I would live here, and never leave.

I think about my mother a lot these days

As I wind my way over cottonwood pass

The rugged beauty of the mountain tops

The thinness of the air as my breathing changes

Fluttering now and then; to remind me that

This world and its power can take me

Anytime it wants to. That I’m here by its mercy

She would have loved this place. The snow,

The elk, the deer, the yellow aspens turning red

I wish I could tell her all about it. Every detail.

And sometimes I’m haunted by the fact that

I never told her I was leaving Mississippi

Even though I know she would have understood

Why I left, though she would have forgotten minutes later

At that stage of her life, her mind was failing

Almost as quickly as her body. Then she was gone.

I probably drive close to 50k miles a year

From one end of this state to the other,

sometimes alone, sometimes with Gia,

Sometimes with GusGus my protector

I’ve planted my feet in almost all the rivers

The ones I read about for years, the ones

Known around the world for both their beauty

As well as the epic brown and rainbow trout

The cut bows, the cutthroats, the brookies

The green back cutthroats on special days

I love them all, the raging rivers and the fish

I’ve spent my days on The South Platte River

I’ve spent nights in The Taylor chasing dinosaurs

I must admit I’ve lost far more battles

Than I could ever win, and both are beautiful

Those were my dreams, all of those hot days

Sitting in a boat in Mississippi damn near dying

In so many more ways than one. “One day”

I always said to myself, a mixture of words and tears

I fell in love with fly fishing as a small child

Watching my father at Billy Walton’s farm pond

Slinging a popper at bream beds methodically

The occasional largemouth exploding on the surface

He never really taught me; I learned by watching

Now and then he would tell me what he was

Doing, and why. Mostly I just watched in awe

It was like watching poetry being written

Or a painting being panted only it was just

A rod, some line, a fly, and physics

I couldn’t have been more than 9 or 10 when

I tried it myself the first time. I was not good

At all, but I felt like I was conquering the world

My fly fishing was put on the shelf mostly

By the time I turned 15 and discovered things

Like girls, and whiskey, and morphine derivatives

Dad got sicker and the time I spent on the water

Dwindled down to almost nothing, but I knew

The water was always there waiting for me

The water never judged me, or lectured me

It never spoke to me in condescending tones

It never took anything from me, it only gave

It gave me precious time, hours when I didn’t

Have to think about my father dying, or the dope,

Or the long list of failures and mistakes I was

Steadily creating. It was my respite from all of that

I’ve never looked at the water in terms of what I could take from it.

It’s always been what it is willing to give to me

and I’d like to think that sometimes I even give something back

I was 35 the first time I chased trout on fly

We weren’t poor growing up, but we didn’t

have much to spare either. chasing trout

Out west during spring break wasn’t an option

For me, as a blue collar kid in Mississippi.

I learned to chase trout in the thick woods

Of western North Carolina and East Tennessee

Right now I’m watching those areas fight for their lives

and for once it isn’t at the hands of men

Nature brewed up a hurricane for the ages

Rearranging those rivers into places I barely recognize

as I look at the harrowing photos people are posting

in a selfish way my heart breaks for myself

that’s where I learned, it was my first church. 

it’s  a different world, trout fishing.

There’s more intellect involved in the way of science

and book knowledge, and insects, insects, insects…

The first trout I caught was a wild brown trout

Probably 14 inches long. I wasn’t impressed.

Come to find out years later that was not

A fish to be ignored. For that region, that was a

large wild brown trout. I guess what I’m saying

Is that it wasn’t the fishing that grabbed me

and never let go, although I do love catching fish.

I was captured by the game and by the hunt

Creeping through heavy forest along tiny little

Streams; fish that spook at the sound of a

Branch breaking underneath your foot

Silent, stealthy crawling. A different kind of

“Technical” fly fishing. Bow and arrow casts,

Roll casts over and under the trees crowding

the banks of crystal clear Carolina streams.

It brought back the innocent child in me.

Something that had been gone a long, long time

Amidst of a level of grief I didn’t even

know existed, fishing for my life in so

many ways, and I came back to life.

I haven’t stopped chasing trout since.

For me it’s about my soul, and my sobriety

Because make no mistake my soul and

my sobriety rest at the altar of the river

Without it I would be dead from the grief

Or the needle, or both. It’s my church

I’ve spent my time chasing the trout of a lifetime

And while I still chase that toddler sized trout

I find myself circling back to my roots

These days I seem to be called to the wilderness

And though I’m 50 now, and full of aches and pains,

there’s something about watching a tiny little

Brook trout rise and take my fly

That makes all those pains disappear completely

During that moment nothing else exists in my world

Just me and God, as I understand him now.

The smell of the leaves and the trees…

The sound and the hollow feel of my

carefully placed steps on the forest floor…

The leaves singing in hues of yellows and reds

As the wind whistles through the hollars

Not another man in sight.

Now and then, when I’m lucky

I hear the sound of an eagles call

Mixed into the sound of the river,

steady and as old as time.

This is why I choose to spend the days of

my life here. The river washes away the secrets

Of my past and the fears of my future.

And I know, as long as I am here, I am safe.

The river gives everything

The river takes nothing.