1 Icarus got too close to the sun; fell to earth when wings of wax melted.
2 The meadow vole never hears the owl’s wings.
3 Monarch butterflies cross a continent to mate in trees of Mexico.
4 Leonardo designed flying machines that never took to the air.
5 I still dream of flying and really want a set of mechanical wings like those worn by the protagonist in the movie Brazil.
6 Only when designers gave up on the idea of wings which flapped did the reach the skies.
7 That driver is flying low. 

Alabama Highway 75
 Words from the Labyrinth Ray Zimmerman (c) 2014
​
Churches without steeples line the road.
Buildings Methodist and Pentecostal pass my view
as the car radio blasts out Johnny Cash.
 
It’s not just any tune by Cash, but
a religious classic recorded near his death,
“When the Man Comes Around.”
 
Despite the apocalyptic images in the song
I see only one church that boasts the name
Holiness, and none mention “Signs Following.”
 
My mind is on that book, Salvation on Sand Mountain
as one other church boasts a “No Denominational” sign,
but I still see no indication of snake handlers.
 
I can’t blame those folks if they’re circumspect.
Strangers might confuse their services with theater,
though one should never make a circus of another’s beliefs.
 
If it’s rattlesnakes you want, I once photographed a beauty
crawling along another mountain, up near Mentone.
Big around as my forearm, she must have been pregnant.
 
A Chattanooga naturalist once took a program to a church.
She delighted the audience with hawks and owls.
At the harmless blacksnake, someone shouted,
“Wait, it’s not that kind of church.”

The Zen of Cranes
 
This poem appeared in my brief self-published chapbook Words from the Labyrinth which I distributed to friends instead of holiday greeting cards one year.
© Ray Zimmerman, 2014
 
Cranes circle over Dayton, Tennessee, turn eastward.
Said to be an ancient species with millennia of history,
they provide a tourist attraction for neighboring Meigs County.
 
Dayton is home to Bryan College, named for an attorney.
He prosecuted a man named Scopes for teaching
human evolution, a banned subject at the time.
 
Bryan won his case against the famous
Clarence Darrow after losing a presidential bid,
as dramatized in the film, Inherit the Wind.
 
Faculty at Bryan College sign an oath affirming
Young Earth Creationism, implying the cranes
could not have a history of more than five thousand years.
 
The trial is presented again and again in a festival and play.
Tourists are asked to join a debate in which the cranes offer no opinion.
They seem to enjoy the corn fields though.

​A few months ago, I tried to recast some of my performance art as essays. The experiment was an abysmal failure.
Performance art depends on audience interaction, or at least audience response to the speaker, It is art for the ear, not for the page. I have long known art which sparkles on the page may well fall flat on the stage. I now suspect that the converse is true as well.
I have often seen the author of a prize-winning story, essay, or poem fall flat when reading from the stage I used to write this off to delivery, but I now believe the issue may ring deeper. Performance is, I believe, a genre all its own. It is sometimes grouped with poetry, possibly because poets often give public readings of their work. Of course, plays were originally written in verse, and Aristotle’s classic work, The Poetics, is a work for playwrights.
So Poetry, Performance Art, and Plays may have a common thread holding them together, but each is its on genre, as is storytelling, one which may have more in common with performance art than the others. Here is a link to a video of me reading several poems in front of an audience. The very first work is performance art, and you may notice a subtle difference between it an the others.  
It appears on this page:
https://www.facebook.com/PechaKuchaChattanooga

A Visit to the Body Farm
This post is a response to “Back to the Land,” an article which appeared in Orion Magazine https://orionmagazine.org/article/bac... 

​Chelsea Bandalillo takes the readers on a brief tour of the Texas State Forensic Anthropology Research Facility where forensic anthropologists research the decomposition process of cadavers, hoping to learn gems of information which will help them investigate crime scenes. Though I cannot place a specific reason for the thought, I got the impression that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter. Despite the assertion that she tries but cannot see the remains as human, she tours the facility with “eyes open and mouth mostly closed.” 

The short form, in our time challenged, compressed world, gives readers a snap shot view. Perhaps she chose the short form for that reason, or perhaps she senses potential discomfort for readers and chose the short form so that they will read through the text without putting it down. 
The subject matter provides rich ground for a more in-depth treatment. Though I have not toured the Texas facility or the similar one operated by the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, I have taken the virtual tour of the Knoxville facility http://www.jeffersonbass.com/tour-the... . Dr. William Bass oversees the Knoxville “body farm” and teamed up with writer Jon Jefferson to produce ten volumes of mysteries known as the “Body Farm Series” under the pen name Jefferson Bass. 

Fans of the Jefferson Bass series or the successful television series, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, with its multiple spin-offs, would probably enjoy Bandilillo’s article more than literary readers. They might even read a more in-depth article. Though Bandiillo cannot bring herself to say the word cadaver in reference to the bodies which attract them, the paragraph on butterflies at the end is a nice touch. I would enjoy seeing the butterflies. 

Written as an assignment for an online course on writing nonfiction.

It may have bn the last warm day of the year. 

​A backlit tree delights the eye, but one fall leaf in gold or red, translucent with the sun from an angle behind, makes a striking photograph. Light passes through the leaf as it passes through a cellophane wrapper. The forest floor has become a carpet of gold, red and brown as Glen Falls murmurs in the distance. Today, it is strange to think that I wrote the poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” which cemented the persona of nature poet for me, near the diminutive waterfall from which I drew the title. That was nearly twelve years ago, in 2007.

I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls, with Lookout Mountain stretching south and west from my home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mountain is a misnomer, for it is a plateau eighty miles long and stretching across the corners of three states. The twin cities of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee and Lookout Mountain. Georgia occupy its northeast end and several villages dot the rest of its landscape. Several steams and one river originate atop the plateau and flow to the valley below. In the Georgia portion, a stream at Cloudland Canyon State Park flows over two falls visible from a hiking trail which descends limestone steps from the top. 

Further south, in Alabama, the Little River descends DeSoto Falls at DeSoto State Park, named for the explorer whose party passed near by when Spain was the colonial power in the southern parts of what is now the United States. The Little River continues down the plateau to Little River Falls, where it enters the Little River Canyon, a gorge with high limestone cliffs on either side. It is a National Preserve. The name Little River is locally confusing. Another river with the same name flows through part of the Great Smoky Mountains, two hours to the Northeast. 

I have visited and photographed these grander falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. By comparison, Glen Falls is a mere trickle, a gentle stream such as are found throughout the length of Lookout Mountain to the south, the Cumberland Plateau to the west, and the Appalachian Mountains to the east, all within a day’s drive. Each of those regions has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls. 

When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the leaves were just emerging from buds and the birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of the river of warblers which flows through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were still a hope in the heart. 

The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with a list of words, a writing prompt received at the open mic at a local bookstore. It also began with the murmur of the stream over the falls, and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:

“I never knew this George or Lisa
The rock bears their names in silence, 
names the stream forgot years ago.” 

There ended the poem, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned that I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capitol, on Legislative Plaza. 

As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced energy a result of aging. Meanwhile, I took a job which proved to be more physically demanding and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night. I thought it was just my body adjusting to the demands of the job, but in September my doctor performed a stress test and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.

I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just sixteen days away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the turning point of my successful poem I was at another of despair, thinking I might die during surgery or I might become an invalid. 

Friday night and early Saturday I was in and out of consciousness like a failing florescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with an audible buzzing sound. By Saturday night I was in a private room, where I would remain for six more days. The mental adjustment after such a surgery is a whole other story.

After discharge from the hospital, I rested for three days at a friend’s house before returning to my apartment, where I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously. My neighbor Julie spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She became convinced that I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend Matt along for support. I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and with the stress of a healing body. 

At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright and the crowd noisy. It was my first visit to a crowded urban area since the surgery, and I was in my own world. The canopy under which the ceremony would take place was surprisingly easy to find, though the ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs taking place on the plaza and in the surrounding buildings. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival, a document the size of a small tabloid newspaper, and noticed that a friend had given a reading the day before. Too bad I missed it.

I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart shaped pillow in the other. I explained the importance of the pillow in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance. The pillow was emblazoned with a lovely color schematic of a human heart, not of the valentine’s day ilk.

Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before I stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was in fact an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading in a random manner. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers. 

With my return to Chattanooga, my neighbor amazed I did not die on the trip, I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but my inspiration from Glen Falls and survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet. 

I have since visited Glen Falls on numerous occasions and written two more poems there. I have discovered that I write best while outdoors and have published several poems. The poem “Glen Falls Trail” went on to be included in the Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VI, Tennessee, an annual publication of the Texas Review Press. Each year, they publish a volume of poetry from one state, so most poets have but one chance to be included. Most of the poets are far better known than me and most have three poems in the volume in comparison to my one. I am honored to be included. 

​Events described took place in 2007. Photographs are from November 27, 2018, Canon DSLR camera with 18 to 55 mm lens. 

Sunrise
November 11, 2016
 
The morning sun gave light in brilliant bands of red, offset by cloud cover gray, the sort of brilliant sunrise once attributed to air pollution. The air still smelled of yesterday’s smoke, a thick haze of particles. I could smell the smoke in my apartment, in my workplace, and anywhere I went outside. I was frightened.

I had heard about how the fire at Gatlinburg had invaded the city and burned a thousand buildings, but that did not frighten me. Neither did the tales of all the timber burned at Cohutta wilderness in North Georgia.
Health alerts from local agencies warned those with heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality to stay indoors, run air conditioning not at all. I have heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality. I was afraid I would breathe smoke until I gurgled my last breath through congested bronchial tubes, unlike the pleasant sensation as my exhalations once gurgled from the hose of a regulator as I observed shocking neon green and blue fish at coral reefs near the Florida Keys.

This dry October caped the hottest summer on record, with the driest October in 140 years, according to official figures.  A man from California said that this is no drought, not like it is out west, with his state and several others dividing the water from the Colorado River. That river becomes a dry stream bed by the time it reaches the Sea of Cortez.

This year, our relative abundance of water is paltry. The parched leaves and twigs of forests became a tinder box prepared for any spark. The land may lose its hair at any turn.

Mountains blaze in Georgia and East Tennessee. Gatlinburg suffered the worst but is not alone. Campfires are strictly prohibited. Lightning struck at Cohutta Wilderness. The area remains closed until further notice. Fires rage on Fox Mountain and Signal Mountain, on Lookout Mountain, and at Cleveland, Tennessee. More fires blaze in North Carolina.

Meanwhile, there is good news from out West. Conservation groups bought some water rights and left a little water in the Colorado. Water reached the Sea of Cortez and recharged marshes and estuaries.
Here in Tennessee, we hope for rain that the green earth may be restored.