THE SONG OF THE WOOD MAN—
A POETIC JOURNEY
by Allan James Grund
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © June 2003 by Allan James Grund
Endorsements:
“I began reading your poetry last night and WOW! I am blown away! You are an artist on so many levels and your words paint an engaging picture. I love the imagery and the message…minor league of major friends-waiting for the game to begin et. al…”
Jackie Kochevar, GM Executive
“Allan, loved your book. As an English major I thought it all perfect…”
Judy Hickson, Retired Teacher Waterford School System
“I thoroughly enjoyed both the book and the chap books. You have great description and your love of nature comes through in your verses...”
Jan Rynearson, Feature Writer, Tri-County Times
“Thoroughly enjoyed all of "The Song of the Woodman." An incredible autobiography written as a poem is an exceptional idea; intriguing. Each and every poem leads seamlessly to another. Although each poem in the "Song" is complete in and of itself, it is in their compilation, the sum of their parts, the entirety, that the work is so profound. You may not have thought of your poetry in this manner, but the "Song of the Wood man" is not only absolutely honest and thoroughly understandable, it is eloquent. It is quite remarkable that you have an affinity for the mathematical as well as the creative; that there is interest and ability in both the arts and the sciences. That is rather unique in people…”
Pat Johnson – B.S. Sociology, M.S. Library Science
Other Books by Allan James Grund:
Poems of the North
Along the 45th Parallel—Poetry and Prose
Alex of Bendelow
Upacqua—The Bearer of Logs
Two Soldiers—Companion Book to the Sesquicentennial Edition Audio Book
Confessions of a Lousy Grouse Hunter
Paradise Mountain
The Portal
CD’s by Allan James Grund:
The Would Man
Archives
Two Soldiers—Reflections on the War Between the States
Two Soldiers—Part II
Two Soldiers—Sesquicentennial Edition Audio Book
Two Soldiers—Part III
Dedication:
This book is dedicated to the memory of my late wife, Karen Jean Parker, without whom the spirit of the man stood no chance of ever finding the spirit of the boy.
From the moment our hands touched, we were like two children who meet on the playground at school and never stop chasing each other. Would that all should know such a feeling.
In the end, I can only hope that I gave as much to her as she gave to me. She taught me that “letting go” is the greatest lesson in life and so now, with this, I must let her go.
Until we meet again, in Luzerne, farewell Parker.
Synopsis:
An autobiographical collection of poetry in which all poems – from start to finish – are linked by one common theme: the search for old logs to burn. From childhood to middle age to older age, the pursuit of honesty in writing is the ultimate goal of this book.
Forward:
Most of what Allan James Grund does is an expression of his creative soul. You can feel it in his work, music, stories or poetry. He is a sensitive man of quiet strength, which will “come out and play” as his mood allows.
As Allan has traveled the journey of his life, he has paused to put the reflections of his soul into words that are sung or spoken. This book is one of several collections in which Allan allows us to be guests inside his inner being. Enjoy the tour!
By Dave Kuehm, TWS Press of Pittsburgh, PA
Table of Contents:
It’s a long slow train
but it’s comin’ down the track…
when the frost is on the pumpkin and the leaves begin to fall
and the early winds of winter come to call from day to day
and the hay is in the barn and the harvest-time is ended and the phlox have disappeared
and the flowers of the mums have finally been expended
when another summer season slips away and beauty bites the last remaining apple
in the orchard
and falls asleep again to wait the return of spring’s prince
and the promise of a warm
life-giving
kiss
when snow is in the air blowing this way and that and the ground begins to freeze
and the feint of heart begin to stay inside warm cottages
where thermostats sit at seventy-five degrees
and all outdoor activities seem to end for all but a chosen few
then do i return to the woods to renew my life-long search for old logs for burning
for i am the wood man
i ignore the cold and snow in my pursuit of old logs
the cold and snow are not my enemies
they are but minor cogs in a major wheel that i roll up and down a path each day
as i proceed with the long and arduous task of accumulating a year’s supply of firewood
to use myself or sell to bars that make pizza or sell to the feint of heart inside warm cottages
who buy the pizza
or occasionally for those in need to give away
i must say this process is as difficult as any i have ever done
it’s physical
it’s dangerous
it’s lonely at times
and yet somehow
sometimes it’s fun
the constant repetition of the tasks involved
become so second nature
like a simple daily chore
that my mind is free to wander and explore where my heart is on that day
or where it’s going to be or where it’s been before
some people lie on couches for an hour spilling the beans to someone who will not judge
some sit silently in pews begrudgingly and pray that all will be forgiven
i go to the woods
driven by the seasons
driven by the need to find old logs and in that search to find the reasons
for the way i was
the way i am
and the way i wish to be
when the frost is on the pumpkin and the leaves begin to fall
i go to the woods to perform a simple task but my reward is great
for in the doing of the task i am free to contemplate all that has gone before
and to try to understand it all
so that i might right the wrongs that i have done and never do them anymore
and thus begin to tilt the scales of justice that apply to me
far more to the right than to the wrong
i am the wood man
this is my song
it’s about beginnings
it’s always about beginnings
it’s about finding a way back to the beginnings
it’s about finding a way in
a place to start
a vantage point
it’s about people places and things and proper nouns and improper
love
lovers and
loves
of friends and foes and family ties and the joys and the woes and the highs and the lows
of the ties that bind and the ties that break
it’s about standing in front of a dense forest and choosing a direction
it’s about cutting a path through it to get to the source
it’s about grabbing the handles of a wheelbarrow and wheeling it down that path
it’s about the young trees that obstruct the way with their long skinny branches
that bend backwards and switch and swing this way and that
and give and sway and spring back like catapults and leave whip marks upon a face
it’s about growth and learning and letting go and setting a pace not too fast not too slow
it’s about being in the middle
in the middle of a woods in the middle of a job in the middle of a day in the middle of a life
it’s always about being in the middle
it’s about making it to the source loading it into the wheelbarrow
and wheeling it back out to the beginning
it’s about remembering how to get out
it’s about remembering all the young trees and their long skinny branches
that were there on the way in
it’s about getting in
being there and getting out in one piece
it’s about the conscious and unconscious counting of the steps on the way in to the source
“i am therefore i count”
it’s about the counting of the pieces loaded into the wheelbarrow
it’s about the need to count everything and make calculations
as if all of the numbers add up to something important
it’s about the counting of the numbers of everyday life
and trying to make some sense of them all
trying to round them all off to the nearest whole number
and being too pre-occupied to count what really counts
the blessings
the memories
the stuff of legends
where past and future meet
where beginnings meet endings and the memories of the beginnings
and of being there in the middle at the source are what carry the endings through
it’s about endings
it’s always about endings
it’s about tying up loose ends and adding up the numbers
achieving totals
balancing the sheets
closing the books
double lines
it’s about taking the time to contemplate the memories of all of the paths ever taken
for in their interpretation
their meaning is the essence of spiritual growth
it’s about beginnings
it’s about middles and it’s about endings
it’s about finding a way in
being there and finding a way out
and it’s about memories
i am the wood man
this is my song
before i could discover who i am
before I could find the way in i had to remember who i was
the paths i had already followed
the roads i had taken
this i did daily throughout the long winter months
by going into the woods to find old logs for burning
i stood in front of a densely wooded forest and carefully chose a direction
pushing wheelbarrow
saw
and axe
i followed my instinct and trusted the direction of the path i would cut to get in to the source
i was a boy when i first went in
somewhere among the fallen trees and standing dead timbers
the spirit of the boy waited for resurrection
i did not know i was looking for that spirit
i was only trying to cut a path
to blaze a trail
to get to the source
i thought i was looking for old logs to burn
but i had much to learn
i was a free spirit once
i would be a free spirit again
i went into the woods
to find old logs
for burning
and there they all were like memories waiting for an audition
in numbers too vast to comprehend
some standing
diseased
stripped of all bark
some lying still upon the forest floor
some broken and twisted
gnarled
aged
aging rapidly
some rotten
some forgotten
some fading in the twilight of a long day
and some were not old at all
some were as fresh as the new fallen snow perhaps fallen just recently
from the striking white blow of hot lightning or perhaps crushed by the weight
of a giant old one unable to stand any longer
i had only to collect the logs and cut them and split them and stack them in cords
according to their age that i might pick and choose between the old ones and the new ones
and the rotten ones that i would use to make my warming fire
and when i had made my warming fire i would pitch the rotten memories into the hot flame
and hope that was the last of them
and then i would stand beside the warming fire and dwell on the old ones and the new ones
and the ones that were perfectly seasoned
something there is about a fire that makes people tell tall tales
the oyster shell scales that lined the bark of the rotten trees by the millions all went up in smoke
i knew that fire alone could not burn away all the rotten memories
but on the chance that in the flames i might recall the spirit of the boy within the man
i had no choice but to destroy each rotten memory if i could
i went into the woods to find old logs for burning and there they all were for the taking
i would cut and split the old ones first and use them before they rotted and disappeared
i would separate the new ones from the old ones and cut them and split them
and stack them for future use
i would burn the rotten ones right away and clear the path of bumps and humps
and stumps that lay in front of me and stay the tire of the wheelbarrow
every time i wheel it in to the source or wheel it out again with yet another load
standing by the warming fire counting all the rotten memories that would soon explode
i soon began to contemplate the good ones i had yet to cut along that densely wooded road
i went into the woods to find old logs for burning
and as the normal
routine
counting soon began
with every step along the path i thought of ways to stop the counting
and i began to think of how it all began for me
from memory i thought of her for she had long since passed
the one who’d given life to me and gave me my beginning
mother
small in stature
slight of build
so many lives touched
touched in return by so many lives the circle is complete
shining light through dark of night
beacon of hope to those in need
grand
humble
giver
of faith and hope and love
above all else within us all the same seed lives
sow the seed
shine the light
light the lives
everyone goes to the woods at one time or another
even my mother
there was a large cross in the woods where she wheeled things in and out
where she counted up the blessings of her earthly life no doubt
some woods have walls
some have chairs
some have desks or stairs or beds and pillows
mine had mostly oaks and ash and maples
sometimes hickory and occasionally willows in the low swamp lands
sometimes i wondered what would she say if she knew my life had gone this way
would she be happy
would she be sad
if she knew the kind of life i’ve had
would she feel helpless in my defense as if the way i am just makes no sense
would she desert me or stand by my side if she knew the kind of road i ride
i’m out here momma
out on a limb
once again it’s time to sink or swim so don’t desert me wherever you are
out with a rising moon or falling star
if there is a hard way to do something you will find it
she prophesied and ever since i’ve done my best to make that prophesy come true
taking my last steps into the source
i broke from the reverie long enough to resume counting all the things i had to do
soon i would have enough pieces for another warming fire
other memories began to stir as i sifted through the rotten wood
and found better rounds along that trail
i thought of the house on Bendelow and how like Camelot it was to me when i was just a boy
and i took me a bucket or a pail down to the creek out on the golf course
to catch me some frogs or better yet to find some of those brand new
dirty
white
balls
that hid so well down in the swale that was the creek and embedded themselves in the mud
underneath the tall grasses and cleaned up so nicely with a little soap and brushing
hidden treasures they were
stained
marked
cut by slicing seven irons
some were old beyond salvaging like rotten logs
but often perfect ones were there for the picking
all one had to do was look beyond the dirt that covered the white dimples
look until you really see said i
back then a brand new Spalding could be worth a quarter
maybe fifty sixty cents
maybe all the innocence in all the world or as my brother used to say a world of hurt
even now i can hear my older brother speak
hurry up hurry up hurry up
you know it’s not safe out here
if we get caught Old Baldy’ll beat our butts
well we had some guts all right but not enough to face Old Baldy
no not near enough for that
not even a Spalding worth a buck was worth a run in with the balding one
no way no sir no ma’am
i’d sooner slam my finger in the door than face that one-eyed giant
many times the neighbor’d swore Old Baldy‘d lost one eye in some world war
and if there’s anything in all the world he hated more than chasin’ kids
it was kids themselves
i never did find out the truth
oh i got chased a few times in my youth all right but i was fast enough to stay ahead
and sometimes that’s what it’s all about
it’s about stayin’ ahead
its about findin’ a way in
takin’ a lead and stayin’ ahead
i began to count things when i was eight
oh i knew how to count before then
a multiplication table wizard i was
i had arithmetic in a one room school with a golden ruler close by
why i could memorize four times four equals sixteen in a heartbeat
but don’t ask me how or why a could equal b plus c
i was good at memorizing things and early on
i caught the rhythm of what times what equals what
and why some words were spelled so funny
like pique
and peak
and peek a boo
and i won spelling bees because i could memorize
who what when where and why
why i won enough times they gave me a hard cover book
with my name engraved in gold embossed letters on the cover
a dictionary full of words and definitions and proper ways to spell
and i thought how ironic that they gave the champion speller a book on how to spell
when all the others needed it more than i
and what good would it do anyway if one did not know how to spell to begin with
and the irony of ironies of my entire life was wrapped up in those spelling bees
i spent the rest of my life trying to get my name embossed
on a different kind of hard cover book
but that was not as easy as winning spelling bees for that required living
and committing all the young trees along the path to memory
and so i began to count things more seriously when i became a paperboy
paper!
collect!
i yelled out every friday afternoon for years as i peddled up to every house on Bendelow
and stood on porches knocking on doors waiting to get paid
ask and it shall be given to you
seek and ye shall find
knock and it will be opened unto you
none of my customers would ever know that i had a book with my name on it
i’d rather face Old Baldy any day than admit that i was good at spelling
that would have been a weakness akin to yelling uncle!
while under attack from someone’s hammerlock
but then the counting began as the money changed hands around the clock
and i handed over that day’s bad news and off i went riding down that rocky road
on to the next house
saddlebags flapping alongside bicycle tires
i didn’t choose this particular path
it was handed down to me from brother to brother
like all the handed down clothes i’d ever worn whether torn or not
and it was just expected that i would go to work at such an early age
and learn to count for real and keep an accurate account
of all my customers and what they owed
and as i filled another wheelbarrow load of rotten wood for a warming fire
i did take account of all the customers i could recall
spread out over three miles of rough country roads
the names came back to me like legends
nearly all of whom are gone now
Fredericks
Morris
Basch
Bommer
Hooker
Tuohy
Zumwalt
then up Auburn to the Hartshorn’s and the Whitsell’s and the Vincent’s
then back down to Berney’s service station for a candy bar and a coke
from there down John R to Pajares and Abernathy
then across the road to Holtz’s Orchard and back to Doral then on to Dionne
and then down Enfield to a sunday only
back to Couch’s and over to Reverend Saunders with his signs