Chuck Buckner's Writings

Environmental

Chuck buckner — Wed, 26 Mar 2008 04:05:23 GMT

Crystal clear water,

cold and flowing slowly

from the mouth of

the cave.

Ankle deep, magnifying

Many-colored stones

in the sunlight, filtered

by giant beech trees.

The sound of a gentle breeze

rippling the leaves

a louder sound of chainsaws

not too far away.

Red as a Rose

Chuck buckner — Wed, 20 Feb 2008 13:12:37 GMT

Blood dripped

from the thorn.

Red as the rose

I was reaching for.

Greetings

Chuck buckner — Sun, 17 Feb 2008 05:01:08 GMT

Greetings

There was a letter

from Uncle Sam,

Lying

on top of the stack.

Dear Friend.

We need you in a

foreign land.

We'll train you well.

You'll be alright.

All you have to do

is fight.

I thought about,

what I'd read

Then answered.

No thanks

Is all I said.

Poem, A Dream

Chuck buckner — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 04:09:09 GMT

A Dream

I walk through the woods of my dreams.

Oak trees so big that six men can't reach

around them reach toward the sky.

Squirrels eat acorns at my feet.

Huge antlered deer move among

the shadows, but don't run away.

Gun shots and chainsaws have never

been heard here.

Stalks of wild ginseng reach as high

as a man's waist

and provide shade for goldenseal and

bloodroot--all magical herbs

valued by the forest kings.

One may drink from mountain streams,

pure water,

that has flowed over stones in miles

of underground passages.

The word pollution is not known.

The wind blows through the trees

and whispers, like a spirit in the night, the names

of the ancients; Walking Deer, Brother of the Owl

and One Who Heard the Moon Weep.

Even the largest trees sway gently

as if to bow in reverence

to these names.

Poems

Chuck buckner — Sat, 09 Feb 2008 05:47:45 GMT

Cold Wind

The wind blew from the North Pole,

across the mountain.

The trees swayed back and forth.

Dead limbs hit the ground.

Cold rain turned to sleet.

The lights flickered,

went out, then came back on.

In those moments,

there was total darkness

and the wind howled louder,

like something maniacal.

Fishing Trip

We used to walk

off this mountain

down to Guess' Creek.

We'd take fishing

line and hooks

and cut cane poles.

We'd dig red worms

in wet leaves and dirt,

on the creek bank.

We'd catch bluegills,

redeye and

smallmouth bass.

And then we'd

have a long walk

back up the mountain,

before dark.

Welcome to PNN.com!

Chuck buckner — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 03:53:45 GMT

This is your first article. Feel free to add more. To Edit me (or any item) just click 'edit' in the blue menu bar. Then, edit the text and click 'save' at the bottom- that's it!

Going Further

Adding to This Page: Click the buttons on the tool bar (left). It's easy to add things like graphics or more articles.

Change the Look: Click on the 'Page Layout' button

Personal Preferences: Click on the 'My Broadcast' button

Delete Something: Click the 'trash can' in the upper right of the blue menu bar.

Moving Things Around: Put the cursor in the blue menu bar at the top of an item, click and hold the mouse button, and drag it anywhere on the page.

Need Help?

Visit http://help.pnn.com or the question mark at the top of the page.