Words from the Labyrinth Sampler
Ray Zimmerman
Previously published and unpublished poems.
© 2014, 2020 Ray Zimmerman
Introduction
Second Edition, 2020
I self-published the brief chapbook, Words from the Labyrinth, and distributed it to friends in December of 2014. I printed and center stapled the original with no illustrations. One of them appears here in two forms. The second, altered version, got a strong audience response (laughter) at a reading with "PG 13" language restrictions. I added the cover photograph for this edition.
This sampler will become the first section of a much longer book. The project will grow over the next few months as I build the book, section by section. As I add the sections, each will have a title page with a photograph.
During the Shelter in place orderss of the Covid-19 Pandemic Panic, my occasional newsletter became a more structured and regular feature, Ray’s Reviews. They are published on my blog page: https://rayzimmermanauthor.com/therainscome
Ray Zimmerman
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Contents
Introduction
The Zen of Cranes
Alabama Highway 75
Lookout Mountain Railroad
Tonight
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner
Ocoee Diner Revisited
Edge
Walking the Labyrinth
About the Author
Author Photograph
The Zen of Cranes
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.
Alabama Highway 75
Churches without steeples line the road.
Buildings Methodist and Pentecostal pass my gaze
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.
Another 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.”
Tonight
Tonight, I wear a heart monitor,
wonder about the arteries in my neck.
Could they be closing?
Poppa wore one before he refused a second surgery
on his carotids. I watched him decline. I took away
his shotguns, told him, "No more hunting."
His keys went when he opened a car door without looking.
A truck promptly struck the door.
Its license plate faded in the distance.
When voices filled his head, he went to a locked ward.
He returned changed by the medications.
The voices remained, but no longer threatened him.
Special locks on my doors prevented his escape.
Like a young child, he went to a daycare center
so that I could continue to work.
As I contemplate my father, forgetting who I was
and eventually forgetting his own name,
I will not sleep tonight.
Lookout Mountain Railroad
What’s that bear doing on the tracks?
He wants to ride the train.
Don’t let him board without a ticket!
I think of Arctos who nearly killed his mother,
Calisto, changed into a bear by Zeus; pursued by
Hera’s jealous rage. They circle Polaris.
Deputies armed with rifles followed
our local bear, made no effort to catch
or intervene, so long as he was not aggressive.
Neanderthals buried bears beside their dead.
In medieval manuscripts, bears carry
the sarcophagus of Christ.
This bear didn’t want a ride.
He harvested blackberries beside the tracks.
Bear and berry, they’re almost the same word.
The great bear rises in the North. The hunt begins.
With summer’s end, celestial arrows pierce he skin.
The bear’s blood falls to earth, turns autumn leaves red.
He must have been a young male fleeing other dangers.
Old bears chase them out of their territories.
They don’t want competition for the sow’s attention.
Ancient myths tell of a young girl married to a bear.
Her cubs became great hunters and teachers.
Modern myths let Goldilocks go home.
The local bear was later sighted at a fire hall.
He moseyed through several backyards.
He won’t come back to buy a ticket.
A skinned bear looks human. Muscles and tendons
appear the same. The Great Bear sleeps the winter through.
In spring she arises, gives birth to myth.
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner
Conveniently located near a dam,
their name provides infinite marketing opportunities.
“Dam Staff” emblazoned on servers’ shirts.
The word liberally sprinkled throughout the menu.
I chose the Garden Dam Wrap, nestled among
Dam Burgers, Dam Salads and other dam selections.
A veggie burger wrapped in a soft shell,
its topped with salsa, lettuce and cheese.
I found the black bean soup worth the upcharge,
substituted for the normal fries or chips.
It was a real meal after three lunches of turkey sandwiches,
my fare for previous days on the road.
Informal attire rules the day, t-shirts and shorts,
No bathing suits allowed. The rule endorses
proper attire and health department regulations.
Crowded on Friday with adventurous souls ready
for a whitewater trip, or just finished with one,
the place looks prosperous. I wonder how they do
in January. No matter how they do its dam good food.
I once read this poem at a venue with language restrictions. This is the result, which got laughs from the audience
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner, Censored
Conveniently located near a blank,
their name provides infinite marketing opportunities.
“Blank Staff” emblazoned on servers’ shirts.
The word liberally sprinkled throughout the menu.
I chose the Garden Blank Wrap, nestled among
Blank Burgers, Blank Salads and other blank selections.
A veggie burger wrapped in a soft shell,
its topped with salsa, lettuce and cheese.
I found the black bean soup worth the upcharge,
substituted for the normal fries or chips.
It was a real meal after three lunches of turkey sandwiches,
my fare for previous days on the road.
Informal attire rules the day, t-shirts and shorts,
offset by an occasional long, tie dyed skirt.
No bathing suits allowed. The rule endorses
proper attire and health department regulations.
Crowded on Friday with adventurous souls ready
for a whitewater trip, or just finished with one,
the place looks prosperous. I wonder how they do
in January. No matter how they do its blank good food.
Edge
Ecotone: a transitional area of vegetation between two different plant communities - Encyclopedia Britannica
Sunrise tinges the edge
where marsh meets sky,
land meets water,
night meets day
and life meets death.
Among predators bearing tooth and claw,
I feel at home in this place.
I gather meals among the sedge.
We hunt and eat along the edge.
My paddle bumps gunwales,
pulls up insect eating bladderwort.
Half-digested bugs are black specks captured
when the plants translucent bubbles implode.
Sundew leaves radiate on stalks
like the orb, the spiders web.
Red and green leaves stretch outward.
Sticky hairs ensnare flying food.
Pitcher plant leaves curl into vases.
Half filled with water they drown
flies trapped by downward pointing hairs.
Slowly the digest their prey for minerals.
Fingerlings and dragonfly nymphs
swim among the maple roots.
feed on mosquito larvae.
feed the perch I catch for dinner.
The maple swamp is green
this spring day as bud scales
open to release tiny red flowers.
They offset green leaves,
I once called the red fruits hellicopters
and dropped them to watch
the wings spin but give no lift,
except on windy days.
Blue Jays call from branches,
grab nestlings and eggs for lunch.
Red crested woodpecker
drills a snag for ants.
Green leaves prepare
to turn red in fall,
gather warm thin sun
make sugars to feed the tree.
Today I cruise the marsh
among fertile fronds of ferns.
dislodge the red brown spores
which give cinnamon ferns their name.
This land is barely wet, barely on
the edge where sterile fronds
grab sunbeams, make food in
leaves that are not leaves at all.
A month ago, they curled,
fiddle heads like knobs on violins
above the swampy ground
home to snakes and frogs.
Cleaning the day’s catch by the fire
I contemplate herons. Like
spectacled scholars they stand,
beaks waiting along the edge.
Like old men they lift knees high,
put feet carefully down.
Better fishers than I, they impale
fish, snakes and frogs
Walking the Labyrinth
October 2013
The path of the soul is not linear.
It spirals like the turns of this maze,
outlined with bricks on sides.
Like time, it circles back
passes by starting points.
I turn left, one hundred-eighty degrees.
Not exactly the way I came, this path
to the center, where there is no Minotaur.
My dragons are all in my heart,
slain or otherwise.
The first wall outlines a square
which no paths cross.
Is this square sacred ground,
reserved for shaman, priestess
and holy man?
If I stepped inside where
no tracks appear, would I
transport to another place or time,
reappear burned to ash
by sacred Geometry?
A friend asked a transit driver
in Nashville's less sacred geometry,
Is this my stop? Her simple reply,
“Either sit back down or get off the bus.”
About the Author
Ray Zimmerman has worked as a park ranger, a naturalist, a science teacher, and a bar tender at a winery.
His essay “The Tonic of Wilderness,” appeared in Watershed Review of California State University- Chico. “Post Card from Hiwassee Island” appeared in Cagibi; A Literary Space. His Essay “Late August Tapestry” will appear in the forthcoming issue of Catalpa, a Chattanooga Publication.
Ray has published poems in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume 6: Tennessee (Texas Review Press), Number One (Volunteer State Community College, Gallatin, Tennessee), and The Avocet (Fountain Hills, Arizona).
Additional poems appeared in the Anthology of the Chattanooga Writer’s Guild, Soundtrack not Included (Nashville Writer’s Meetup), A Tapestry of Voices (Knowville Writer’s Guild) and the Weatherings anthology (FutureCycle Press).
His Poem “Glen Falls Trail,” received an award from the Tennessee Writer’s Alliance, 2007. He read at their awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books. In 2013 he debuted Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets at the Southern Festival of Books. He and two other poets edited and published that volume.
In 2015 Ray debuted his poetry chap book, First Days, at the Southern Festival of Books. He has since self-published two booklets combining poetry with photography.
As a journalist, Ray has published articles in The Chattanooga Pulse, Envirolink magazine (Chattanooga), Photo Traveler (Los Angeles), The Hellbender Press (Knoxville), and The Journal of Interpretation (Fort Collins, Colorado.
His Photography has appeared in the Photographic Society of America Journal (April 1997) and the Tennessee Conservationist.
Ray Zimmerman
Previously published and unpublished poems.
© 2014, 2020 Ray Zimmerman
Introduction
Second Edition, 2020
I self-published the brief chapbook, Words from the Labyrinth, and distributed it to friends in December of 2014. I printed and center stapled the original with no illustrations. One of them appears here in two forms. The second, altered version, got a strong audience response (laughter) at a reading with "PG 13" language restrictions. I added the cover photograph for this edition.
This sampler will become the first section of a much longer book. The project will grow over the next few months as I build the book, section by section. As I add the sections, each will have a title page with a photograph.
During the Shelter in place orderss of the Covid-19 Pandemic Panic, my occasional newsletter became a more structured and regular feature, Ray’s Reviews. They are published on my blog page: https://rayzimmermanauthor.com/therainscome
Ray Zimmerman
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Contents
Introduction
The Zen of Cranes
Alabama Highway 75
Lookout Mountain Railroad
Tonight
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner
Ocoee Diner Revisited
Edge
Walking the Labyrinth
About the Author
Author Photograph
The Zen of Cranes
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.
Alabama Highway 75
Churches without steeples line the road.
Buildings Methodist and Pentecostal pass my gaze
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.
Another 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.”
Tonight
Tonight, I wear a heart monitor,
wonder about the arteries in my neck.
Could they be closing?
Poppa wore one before he refused a second surgery
on his carotids. I watched him decline. I took away
his shotguns, told him, "No more hunting."
His keys went when he opened a car door without looking.
A truck promptly struck the door.
Its license plate faded in the distance.
When voices filled his head, he went to a locked ward.
He returned changed by the medications.
The voices remained, but no longer threatened him.
Special locks on my doors prevented his escape.
Like a young child, he went to a daycare center
so that I could continue to work.
As I contemplate my father, forgetting who I was
and eventually forgetting his own name,
I will not sleep tonight.
Lookout Mountain Railroad
What’s that bear doing on the tracks?
He wants to ride the train.
Don’t let him board without a ticket!
I think of Arctos who nearly killed his mother,
Calisto, changed into a bear by Zeus; pursued by
Hera’s jealous rage. They circle Polaris.
Deputies armed with rifles followed
our local bear, made no effort to catch
or intervene, so long as he was not aggressive.
Neanderthals buried bears beside their dead.
In medieval manuscripts, bears carry
the sarcophagus of Christ.
This bear didn’t want a ride.
He harvested blackberries beside the tracks.
Bear and berry, they’re almost the same word.
The great bear rises in the North. The hunt begins.
With summer’s end, celestial arrows pierce he skin.
The bear’s blood falls to earth, turns autumn leaves red.
He must have been a young male fleeing other dangers.
Old bears chase them out of their territories.
They don’t want competition for the sow’s attention.
Ancient myths tell of a young girl married to a bear.
Her cubs became great hunters and teachers.
Modern myths let Goldilocks go home.
The local bear was later sighted at a fire hall.
He moseyed through several backyards.
He won’t come back to buy a ticket.
A skinned bear looks human. Muscles and tendons
appear the same. The Great Bear sleeps the winter through.
In spring she arises, gives birth to myth.
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner
Conveniently located near a dam,
their name provides infinite marketing opportunities.
“Dam Staff” emblazoned on servers’ shirts.
The word liberally sprinkled throughout the menu.
I chose the Garden Dam Wrap, nestled among
Dam Burgers, Dam Salads and other dam selections.
A veggie burger wrapped in a soft shell,
its topped with salsa, lettuce and cheese.
I found the black bean soup worth the upcharge,
substituted for the normal fries or chips.
It was a real meal after three lunches of turkey sandwiches,
my fare for previous days on the road.
Informal attire rules the day, t-shirts and shorts,
No bathing suits allowed. The rule endorses
proper attire and health department regulations.
Crowded on Friday with adventurous souls ready
for a whitewater trip, or just finished with one,
the place looks prosperous. I wonder how they do
in January. No matter how they do its dam good food.
I once read this poem at a venue with language restrictions. This is the result, which got laughs from the audience
Ocoee Dam Deli and Diner, Censored
Conveniently located near a blank,
their name provides infinite marketing opportunities.
“Blank Staff” emblazoned on servers’ shirts.
The word liberally sprinkled throughout the menu.
I chose the Garden Blank Wrap, nestled among
Blank Burgers, Blank Salads and other blank selections.
A veggie burger wrapped in a soft shell,
its topped with salsa, lettuce and cheese.
I found the black bean soup worth the upcharge,
substituted for the normal fries or chips.
It was a real meal after three lunches of turkey sandwiches,
my fare for previous days on the road.
Informal attire rules the day, t-shirts and shorts,
offset by an occasional long, tie dyed skirt.
No bathing suits allowed. The rule endorses
proper attire and health department regulations.
Crowded on Friday with adventurous souls ready
for a whitewater trip, or just finished with one,
the place looks prosperous. I wonder how they do
in January. No matter how they do its blank good food.
Edge
Ecotone: a transitional area of vegetation between two different plant communities - Encyclopedia Britannica
Sunrise tinges the edge
where marsh meets sky,
land meets water,
night meets day
and life meets death.
Among predators bearing tooth and claw,
I feel at home in this place.
I gather meals among the sedge.
We hunt and eat along the edge.
My paddle bumps gunwales,
pulls up insect eating bladderwort.
Half-digested bugs are black specks captured
when the plants translucent bubbles implode.
Sundew leaves radiate on stalks
like the orb, the spiders web.
Red and green leaves stretch outward.
Sticky hairs ensnare flying food.
Pitcher plant leaves curl into vases.
Half filled with water they drown
flies trapped by downward pointing hairs.
Slowly the digest their prey for minerals.
Fingerlings and dragonfly nymphs
swim among the maple roots.
feed on mosquito larvae.
feed the perch I catch for dinner.
The maple swamp is green
this spring day as bud scales
open to release tiny red flowers.
They offset green leaves,
I once called the red fruits hellicopters
and dropped them to watch
the wings spin but give no lift,
except on windy days.
Blue Jays call from branches,
grab nestlings and eggs for lunch.
Red crested woodpecker
drills a snag for ants.
Green leaves prepare
to turn red in fall,
gather warm thin sun
make sugars to feed the tree.
Today I cruise the marsh
among fertile fronds of ferns.
dislodge the red brown spores
which give cinnamon ferns their name.
This land is barely wet, barely on
the edge where sterile fronds
grab sunbeams, make food in
leaves that are not leaves at all.
A month ago, they curled,
fiddle heads like knobs on violins
above the swampy ground
home to snakes and frogs.
Cleaning the day’s catch by the fire
I contemplate herons. Like
spectacled scholars they stand,
beaks waiting along the edge.
Like old men they lift knees high,
put feet carefully down.
Better fishers than I, they impale
fish, snakes and frogs
Walking the Labyrinth
October 2013
The path of the soul is not linear.
It spirals like the turns of this maze,
outlined with bricks on sides.
Like time, it circles back
passes by starting points.
I turn left, one hundred-eighty degrees.
Not exactly the way I came, this path
to the center, where there is no Minotaur.
My dragons are all in my heart,
slain or otherwise.
The first wall outlines a square
which no paths cross.
Is this square sacred ground,
reserved for shaman, priestess
and holy man?
If I stepped inside where
no tracks appear, would I
transport to another place or time,
reappear burned to ash
by sacred Geometry?
A friend asked a transit driver
in Nashville's less sacred geometry,
Is this my stop? Her simple reply,
“Either sit back down or get off the bus.”
About the Author
Ray Zimmerman has worked as a park ranger, a naturalist, a science teacher, and a bar tender at a winery.
His essay “The Tonic of Wilderness,” appeared in Watershed Review of California State University- Chico. “Post Card from Hiwassee Island” appeared in Cagibi; A Literary Space. His Essay “Late August Tapestry” will appear in the forthcoming issue of Catalpa, a Chattanooga Publication.
Ray has published poems in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Volume 6: Tennessee (Texas Review Press), Number One (Volunteer State Community College, Gallatin, Tennessee), and The Avocet (Fountain Hills, Arizona).
Additional poems appeared in the Anthology of the Chattanooga Writer’s Guild, Soundtrack not Included (Nashville Writer’s Meetup), A Tapestry of Voices (Knowville Writer’s Guild) and the Weatherings anthology (FutureCycle Press).
His Poem “Glen Falls Trail,” received an award from the Tennessee Writer’s Alliance, 2007. He read at their awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books. In 2013 he debuted Southern Light: Twelve Contemporary Southern Poets at the Southern Festival of Books. He and two other poets edited and published that volume.
In 2015 Ray debuted his poetry chap book, First Days, at the Southern Festival of Books. He has since self-published two booklets combining poetry with photography.
As a journalist, Ray has published articles in The Chattanooga Pulse, Envirolink magazine (Chattanooga), Photo Traveler (Los Angeles), The Hellbender Press (Knoxville), and The Journal of Interpretation (Fort Collins, Colorado.
His Photography has appeared in the Photographic Society of America Journal (April 1997) and the Tennessee Conservationist.
