The Treasure Hunter

I don’t often give context to my poetry. I think that poetry is something which the people should interpret for their own. This poem calls for context. It is about a father figure in my life who passed away in early October. I call him the treasure hunter, because that was his job and his passion. Collecting treasures to sell and give to others. He was the most generous man I have ever met, and I miss him dearly. This is free verse, it cannot and will not be contained, much like the treasure hunter. This is poetry for the hurting, poetry for those in need of healing. The treasure hunter knew that many things could not be healed materially. I hope that you find these words well and as a form of medicine for the heart.

It has only been three months
Since I last saw the treasure hunter.
I drove near his house today
Over the ashen roads.
They remind me of his smile
Crooked teeth between taught cheeks.
They hold back stories of childhood
Of simpler times before iPhones
A time where a four-wheeler
Was better after a bout of beers.
That is not to say I condone it,
Nor do I understand his stories
But I cherished them.
And I cherished him.
He was not my father.
Yet, he was my father.
That role that was already filled.
I never knew that it could be coordinated
And I’m certain that it was not meant to be.
I’m certain that it will never come to be again.
Yet, I am forever thankful that it was.
For the treasure hunter was a man
Who collected everything in the land
Taking what he could, the garbage of others
Giving all he had, to sisters and brothers.
If he saw the ash on those roads today
He would have something to say
Hooking up some plow that he found
Clearing away and salting the ground.
If he were here today
He would have something to say.
Maybe a story of old, laced with proverb
One that would make many bothered.
Yet he would tell it with that crooked smile
And drag you in, even if only for a short while.
For he not only hunted for treasures
He hunted for hearts, non-material pleasures.
A conman of the people and for the people.
Now, my final memory of him is in a steeple.

May you all find your treasure hunter.
May you all cherish them as my mother did.
May you all respect them as I did.
May you all love, as he did.

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That Cracked Fallen Tree

In my woods, only about ten feet
Off the path lies a tree.
Fallen and cracked, covered in peat,
It works as a seat, big enough for three.

It was there that we ate dinner
Taco meat, made in a gray teapot
If I could choose anyone, it would have been her
To sit and make a fire, and possibly be caught.

I cannot forget that day we shared.
It is burned into my memory like that scar
We left on the forest floor we swept bare.
Someday we will travel back there, despite it being far.

Now we sit in our kitchen, far from woods.
The teapot in storage, waiting for us to leave.
We cook on electric stove, improving our goods.
We will return my dear, to that cracked fallen tree.

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Sunrises and Sunsets are Cheap

Sunrises and sunsets are cheap.
An easy display of colors
Plastered as crass metal in sky,
Textured by puffs of vapors.

To think, you were created
With more care than some sunset.
More intricate details lie in your freckles
Than a sunrise I will soon forget.

I tell you the truth, the God honest truth,
They got nothing on you.
When God created the sun it was for all,
When He created you, it was for few.

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Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

I watched as salty water
Repainted her pink toenails.
Gray sand stuck to them
Like ten fingers intertwined.

In a sea of faces red,
She is the wave above all.
Roaring with power, yet-
Graceful as she moves.

She has no idea her significance
No idea how she washes over
My skin, leaving trace of salt
With every gentle lap.

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Broadway, Nashville.

Push past the homeless people.
Step over the waist-high garbage piles.
Ignore that triple digit bar tab.
That smell? Snub your nose.
The music is but a hum in my ear.
Everything is background.

You. You are what I reach for in this place.
I step in line with your off-tempo pace.
I spend lavishly, for money is cyclical.
Your perfume is all I smell, so mystical.
All I need to hear is your voice,
It carries me from here- your choice.

I am a sucker for your love
Though it is not pure as white dove
I hope it to be eternal
I pray it to be immortal
I realize your limitations
And I’m not too stupid to realize imitations.

There is fake, there is real
What I can promise of how I feel
Is that my words, these words,
They are forever, like hymnal chords.
For when our vessels fail and the end is near,
History will remember my prayer.

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