By Patrick Johnson Hot, stifling Sound deafening So dark Smoke intense Confusion, panic Running, scared Deploying shelter No time to wait Why are they going up there? Shouting, they do not hear Drawing shelter over Laying on the ground Can’t breathe Will we all die? The screaming But life continues in the Okanogan Patrick...
Here we are again. Embers falling People falling Looking for the bright spot Of resilience Rain falling, snow flakes falling Be aware. It’s all here What is important Pull deep from inside Thankfulness. This poem was submitted by a Twisp resident who wishes to remain anonymous.
By Cynthia Mitchell The curtain of smoke parted for a short while, this morning, bringing relief from burning eyes – not to be confused with relief from burning fires. Suffering immeasurable, devastation widespread. Many beings of mountain forests losing more than humans, whose homes somehow rated more valuable, are built on top of theirs. Tragedy...
I am from
houses washed away,
water, and rocks
coming down on the road.
and hay barns;
other houses are destroyed, too.
And it brought a lot of logs
down to the road.
By Ryan Brennan Snow falls a silent curtain ice turns the world to glass darkness falls suddenly and black shadows become a deep pool he is out there searching for food or for shelter solitary and seldom seen he remains a mystery then the day comes a blinding glare he settles back in his protective...
(With apologies to Carl Sandberg) By Aristides Pappidas The fog comes on elephantine feet. Somnolently looking over the river, with ham-sized thighs it sits where it wants to then reluctantly moves on to visit the next day and the next and the next. Aristides Pappidas lives in Winthrop
By Ryan Brennan, July 2014
I gaze at the destruction and ruin of the landscape
I can feel the hot breath of smoke beneath my skin
Haunted shapes flutter on the edge of the horizon
Begging us to join their dance of hell
By Sam Owen
between Cougar Flats and Rising Eagle
looking south and east and back to south
weather vane’s tedious turning predicts
which way I’ll drive outta here, cat
squawling in the back of the car
By Julie Tate-Libby
It was the summer of fire
not one, but many
you thought the whole valley
gone up together like some of sort of
By Tamara (Dicus) Hillman
How can this be—in one fell swoop,
only memories remain
of places I so cherished
and would visit once again?
Now only devastation,
ash, and cinders lie
where once I spent my childhood—