Saturday, June 17, 2023

BEMs

 

BEMs

by

Kenny A. Chaffin

All Rights Reserved © 2023 Kenny A. Chaffin

 

 

They call them BEMs, bug-eyed monsters because eyes are the windows to the soul and they are the most religious reverent beings in the galaxy. Doing Gods work as they see it and is flaunted by human blasphemy they cannot and will not tolerate. We see ourselves reflected in their black iridescent orbs, their gelatinous skins and feel the shame for what we have done to the Earth in the name of progress, mastery, pride, and profit. We are frozen by the depth of those eyes and know this is best. For the Earth, we the infection will be removed.


Kenny A. Chaffin = 6/17/2023


Friday, June 16, 2023

What Might Have Been (draft)

 (draft - in process - comments/input welcomed)

 

What Might Have Been

by

Kenny A. Chaffin

All Rights Reserved © 2017 Kenny A. Chaffin

 

 

            The visitors appear in the corner of his room at 5 P.M. every day along with his dinner. He watches skeptically, listening to them, arching his eyebrows at their claims, sneering regularly at the offered gifts but at times nodding, consenting, accepting.  The visitors are at least caring, concerned. Not like those who at times take their place. The loud, pushy ones trying to force their so-called gifts on him. Gifts he doesn’t want, need or care for. The loud pushy ones bring bile to his throat, knots to his stomach. His smile returns when the loud ones depart and his visitors return. He dabs the corner of his mouth with a paper towel and remembers. Remembers the waves of Calvary washing upon the shores of his youth. Remembers drinking those waters, the gifts they offered yet none fulfilled. He becomes still, sits, thinks. The oatmeal-raisin were always his favorites.

 

           

 

Kenny A. Chaffin – 5/18/2017

Revised 6/15/2023

Sunday, May 30, 2021

A Crisp Clear Morning takes Third Place in the April IBPC

 

A Clear Crisp Morning

by Kenny A. Chaffin
Wild Poetry Forum

The street racers are gone.
Only black marks and donuts
on the asphalt. Someone died
here last night. But you’d
never know.


http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/2021/04 

Friday, April 16, 2021

The Return

 

 

The Return

From Prosthetic Amalgams

by

Kenny A. Chaffin

All Rights Reserved © 2014 Kenny A. Chaffin

 

 

When I got up that morning and stumbled my way to the kitchen for my first cup of coffee he was waiting for me. Sitting at the kitchen table, back to the wall, he nodded. Rather than shock at a stranger in my home it was as if I had been expecting him though he’d been dead for over twenty years. I nodded my head, “Morning Daddy.”

“Coffee?” I asked as I filled my cup even though I’d never know him to drink coffee in his life. He shook his head and when he did I saw the crescent-shaped scar above his ear in his close-cropped hair – the one he’d gotten when a horse had kicked him as a boy.

“How’s the grandkids?” he asked. I shrugged, “Well as can be expected I suppose.” “Good,” he said. Silence filled the room. “Well I guess I best be goin’.” I nodded. He pushed his chair back and stood which is when I noticed he had his legs, he was whole, able-bodied. He stepped towards the front door and then turned back. “You remember that mean ol’ boar we had, the one that gored you?

“Daddy how could I forget, I’ve still got the scars.”

He nodded. “He’s up there.”

Tuesday, November 12, 2019

Smokejumper



Smokejumper
by
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2014 Kenny A. Chaffin


They call us smokejumpers but that’s a misnomer, we never jump into smoke if it can be avoided and it can always be avoided. It’s just a sexy, headline-grabbing moniker for what is a dirty, difficult, dangerous job.

After the Crystal Mountain fire Janie left me again. She said she couldn’t deal with not knowing if I’d be back or not. I sometimes think she doesn’t understand my work, how important it is and the care, safety and conviction we take in doing it. We almost always come home. I love her. I do. With her it feels more real than ever, but I’m torn by her reluctant support. Can’t she see this is my passion, my love? I’m a smokejumper. We save lives, the environment, perhaps even the world from global warming.

My dreams are of fire. It does not frighten me. It is warm, welcoming.

At first you do it for the thrill, the rush. Like wild passionate sex. It consumes you, draws you in. There’s building anticipation as the plane makes its way to the drop zone, your heart pounds as you step into the air and slows as silence engulfs you while drifting towards the ground.

All relationships are difficult, but more so when you’re a smokejumper. You can be called out any time of day or night for unknown durations. Even the military has better defined time-frames for deployment, leave, and duty. For smokejumpers it’s all up to the fire. Almost all of us are single, some in relationships, a few married – mostly the firebosses who somehow find a way to make it work. We don’t talk about relationships. On the fireline there’s no time for that anyway. We’re overwhelmed with clearing brush, digging firebreaks, setting backfires.

You do it for those that died. The fourteen on Storm King Mountain in Colorado, the nineteen Granite Mountain Hotshots on Yarnell Hill in Arizona, the twenty-nine at Griffith Park, California; Three hundred in the last ten years.

A wildfire burns at 1500 degrees Fahrenheit. It can consume you. You must constantly be on guard. We jump from planes to reach the fire in the backcountry before it gets out of control. With a forest fire you know exactly what you are up against.

They drop us in and once on site we establish a fireline, a perimeter. We fight the fire by clearing fuel it would burn, often by setting a backfire. When our work is done we pack out to the nearest access point. On rare occasions they transport us out by chopper if there is a base nearby.

Before Janie it was Mary. She was a vixen. We did it everywhere – in the car, in the shower, in the woods, in the elevator and yes we joined the mile-high club on a flight from Denver to Seattle. It was pure passion, pure raging sex. She was a wildfire.

The cones of the Lodgepole pine are sealed with a resin that requires fire to release the seeds. This is an evolutionary adaptation to wildfire called pyriscence.

Fire can be fast, passionate, intense, like first-time sex. Each fire has its own personality. Some are torrid and tempestuous others slow and sordid but all have the power to destroy.  The first time Janie and I made love I lost myself in her. It was a week after the Wind Ridge fire. She said she could smell the smoke in my hair.

Have you ever watched a wildfire move? It can be forceful, overpowering -- crowning, flashing and torching trees as it races across the forest and up slopes in a vortex of conflagration. It can be gentle like a first-time lover, moving slowly and carefully across the forest; caressing, embracing and loving the trees with its warmth.

The tools we use are minimal, a pulaski -- a combination axe and grub hoe, our helmets, protective clothing and fire shelters. That’s it. One-on-one, man against wildfire, digging a firebreak, setting a backfire, working with air support if we are lucky enough to have it.

It was the Rawlings Ridge fire that got us, climbing the hill in a swirling blast-furnace updraft, preheating and consuming everything in its path. We had only precious seconds to deploy our shelters and the rocky slope was a poor place to survive a wildfire. Jonathan didn’t. The rest of us are lucky to have made it, me with third degree burns on my back, and right arm, the others with similar injuries. Only Carol came away unscathed, having found an optimal place to dig in.

Janie was waiting at the hospital when I arrived. She never said it, but I knew from the look in her eyes, it would be the last time.

I’ve been through the initial healing, the therapies. Will need additional grafting, regrowth and recovery of muscle tone and I will never be as flexible as I once was, but I’ve had time to think, to realize and to know that the only time I am alive and at peace with myself is when fighting a wildfire. It consumes me, thrills me, centers me. It makes me who I am. Janie is gone, but the fire still rages. I will jump again.



Wednesday, October 30, 2019

But What about the Older DryAss




But What about the Older DryAss
by
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2019 Kenny A. Chaffin


Now they say the Younger Dryas
was caused by a comet or asteroid
wiping out the megafauna
of North America 12,000 ya
and cooling the world climate

Took out the Clovis people
mostly as well or they had
to eat roots and berries
til the fauna thundered
across the drained inland sea
after those ice dams burst

at least there were no more
saber tooth tigers to deal with
with those sticks and stones

‘merika was wonderful and free
but that was before Columbus
before the European plague

Sacre’ bleu, Donner and Blitzen
all your bison are belong to U.S.


Kenny A. Chaffin – 10/28/2019

Friday, October 11, 2019

Where Dark Angels Tread



Where Dark Angels Tread
by
Kenny A. Chaffin
All Rights Reserved © 2017 Kenny A. Chaffin



The reports were at first sporadic. Dark shadows in alleyways, behind buildings, in basements. Things seen from the corner of your eye but gone when you turn. A blackness blacker than black seemingly absorbing light from around it. Reports from Jacksonville, Amarillo, Tucson, L.A. By the time the media took note it was clear the shadows, the reports, were moving in waves, arcs, growing in strength and frequency. A wave of darkness moving east across the country like weather, like earthquake tremors but reversed, moving together, towards an epicenter, growing stronger, more focused on the Potomac, on the White House.