Tag Archives: wild

Incident In The Zoo

From Prairie Schooner

The little fennec foxes from the veldt are shy
And quiet and they keep
The largest ears of anything so small
Wide open in their sleep.

There in the corner of the slatted cage
Stirring awake
The shudder at the city’s iron pulse.
You cannot make

Friends with them. No one can make friends with them,
They are too shy
From fear of the shaking ground, the thunder
From track and sky.

They move in memory among mint leaves.
Their lives are bound
To a lost land, all night their ears have captured
No friendly sound.

Only once did I see their ears uplifted—
Wild hearts so wrung!
It came as the lion house—remote and dreadful—
Spoke, in its tongue.

-Loren Eiseley


Resplendent Empathy


Rhythms peer out over the pulse, a hawks hood of feather, tracks of impression left indebted to follow. An edifying return, warm laps of wind, thinking not of thoughts, but rather in an exchange of inference, an inflection of speaking wisdoms embodied by the contours of the foots fall. Free from learned form, to slip gently back into the shadow, to swim out over the hill. Learn to walk slow, listen deeply. Beyond the pattern of the familiar is the groundswell of a breathing world. Such a delicate noose. Poets nurture their craft, to frame the word, the sound, the delicacy of knowing a moment, as it is lifted from the earth and sacrificed to the page. To try and gift some measure as to gleam in the reader’s eye, to awaken some ancient murmur still beating in the cords of the heart. As death comes swiftly for us all, but life is forgiving of borrowed time, as time can be slowed, if we are willing to walk within its pace, to venture into its pasture and lie withs its passage. Engrained in wood are truths evident in speaking, in stone, entombed memories of a shifting perspective. As light gathers behind tall mountains, to tell us a story of our long walk. Will it reside only in the distant flocks of memory, in the grazing stones, or will it blossom in the active imagination of a child. To walk backwards, but gain a forwarding momentum. Beyond the prison walls, a world awaits to be of its company. We are social beings, that have forgotten to invite ourselves over the threshold, to be a guest in this house, to give respect and to be beheld by its revery. Honor can only be bestowed on those that would listen before attempting to speak a language that has gifted its vital ear, its broken back, its breathing breathe, so that we may walk along its spine and bear witness to its story.

-Josh Fleming

Inspired by: Dr. Martin Shaw, Scatterlings


Image by: Andreas Levers


A Walk From The Village


To not draw forth from the deep well of reassurance. To walk out amongst the desert with cupped hands. To drink when spoken to. To be not in mind, but of mind. To be of faith without belief, to take refuge in the blinding light. To return to the well, to make offerings, to keep the deserts flame in the cavernous heart.

-Josh Fleming

Image by: Sanja Marusic


Rites Of Passage


There was never a reason to stay, as I slipped away. Detached to remember what leads, to follow the shadow in through the dark. As a canopy of dense limbs envelopes a narrow passage that carries me through. This old canoe is rough, worn like the earth, yet hangs steady in her balance. Between the final dances of scattering light, the moon broods, as black smoke remembers the day that died. The eclipse of night shifts the shape and form of what stood before, as I follow the river that runs wide into the great expanse of earthen-sky. Such clarity is held in the stillness of our minds, to percieve the wild motions, the ebb and flow of all time.

– Josh Fleming

Image by: Rudolf Vlček