The Tip of Wilderwood

The Tip of Wilderwood… is it a nice place? Meh. Not as nice as that beach from Paradise is a Beautiful Song. Anyways, fresh out the oven, here’s that angsty little piece a’ pie you been waitin’ for. If you read this poem one of two things will inevitably wilderhappen- You’re either going to like it, which makes you a fan, which means I have fans, which is #siiick. OR… you’re going to dislike it, which is totally cool… cough *fucking hater* cough. Either way leave a comment, because I need more of an active audience than just bots and family members. Oh and one more thing, if you’re reading on a phone some of the longer lines will probably get cut off and pushed to the next line ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ you’ve been warned. Now, without any further ado… I invite you to come along and scale the forests of Wilderwood with me-

The Tip of Wilderwood

I sat treetip mountaintop looking up instead of down.
I’ve trampled that slow growing grove before-
I came here for the view,
I scaled this ascent for the Tip of Wilderwood.
Atiptop broken branches that haven’t broken yet.      Thank God.
I climb up and twigs snap and
ricochete off bark boom back to earth so they can
prematurely fulfill their destiny.
I break twigs from trees with tattered boots.
Treetip mountaintop looking up and down to watch
twigs fall and turn to sticks.
Eventually I’ll get down too.

But not yet.
Not before this old growth takes a tumble.
Right now I’m a grizzly mountain man.
Burlap beard brushing pine and sap
caked and crusted callused hands.
Atiptop mountaintop looking down on
sapling groves and tree trunk stumps.
Mighty mountain trees that grow and grew and
carved canopy before they fell
they fell back to bark bed to sleep tight with
broken branches.
Eventually I’ll get down too.

I wish I was a child.
In my little garden grove whittling stump sprouts.
Hidden in my stick thicket thick with warmth and faith in
my forest, my sanctum.
Not atip mountaintop but
below- on ground below, beckoning for boughs to climb and
birch to bend.
But now the wind!
The tides of time!
Treetops tremble in the wind, and I- I quiver.
I clasp with wounded grip while crippled sticks crumble.
Eventually I’ll get down too.

3 comments on “The Tip of Wilderwood”

  1. Sarah Netto says:

    Awesome poem Jack! You’re killing it. I’m happy for you!! 🙂

  2. Anonymous says:

    Great Poem! I really enjoy your unorthodox detailing and style. Keep it up!!!

  3. Anonymous --- SL says:

    Jack, A beautiful poem. I read it 3 times and each time the lovely use of descriptive and thoughtful language took me into those treetops. “falling back into bark” brought to my mind the cycle of life or it just might be where I find myself now.

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