Alaskan trail

The only sound was the rhythmic crunch of the snow beneath my boots as I followed the trail through the forest.  My breath was captured by the ice cold air and turned into clouds of steam that lingered and formed ice on my moustache. 
The trail had not been travelled in a long time.  The snow was crusted and smooth.  The trail almost indiscernible except for the subtle row of white mounds that rose from its sides.  The bitter cold of winter had sucked the color from the forest, leaving it a dark silhouette in a white world.  An icy blue haze filled the air around me, making the silence more ominous.
The bush plane had dropped me off in the Alaskan wilderness less than two hours before, and I had already barely escaped being torn apart by a wolverine.  My assignment of finding a man in this inhospitable land was not starting off well.  I focused on my assignment and trudged on, keeping a close eye for movement in the forest around me.  I reminded myself that this isn't as bad as combat, the scent of which was still fresh in my memory, and I had spent most of my life in wilderness areas, but nothing quite like the Alaskan wilderness.  Wilderness in the lower 48 did not challenge a person like Alaska did.  All of the predators that were ever here were still here - in abundance.  The weather alone challenged a person's survival skills.  Alaska was a land unchanged by time.  It was as it had always been, and civilization was a humble presence, if present at all.
The trail ended abruptly at a wide, snow covered road.  Another road T'd from its side, lined by wooden buildings.  Hitching rails for horse jutted from the snow in front of buildings.  Dog teams lazed in their harnesses in the snow at the hitching rails.  Snowmobiles parked near them at the curb - the traditional mode of travel and the modern, rested acceptantly next to each other.
It was mid-day, and I had finally found the village.  I should have felt comfortable - finding an oasis of civilization, but I didn't.  People stoped and stared at me.  I was a stranger, and one who had arrived in the harshness of winter.  I could see mistrust and some times fear in their eyes as they watched me walk down the wooden sidewalk that rose from the street.  I had a suspicion that the danger of the forest had just been traded for a worse danger.












All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

The Wolverine

When it first came over the snow covered hill, I didn't know what it was.  I had never seen an animal like that before.  I heard it before I saw it, snarling and snapping in a tone that made me think it was cussing.  The sound came from the other side of the hill that I was climbing to reach a trail in the frozen Alaskan forest.
A bush plane had just dropped me off at a snow covered airport that had no planes, no tower and no people.
"There's a trail up in those trees."  The pilot had said, pointing at a wall of forest that contrasted black to it's stark white surroundings.  "Just follow that for a few miles and you'll come to the village.  Good luck."  He said as an afterthought before closing the cockpit door, turning the plane around and flying off into the wilderness sky.
As the snarling, snapping sound came closer, I stopped and pulled my backpack off, but I had no weapon.  I had left the 44-magnum back at the cabin just outside of Anchorage.  Something told me not to bring it.  I was going to a village looking for a man who had broke a contract with my company.  Out here, in the Alaskan wilderness, everybody was armed.  Carrying a gun, especially the cannon that I owned, offered a threatening aire to my arrival.  I did not want to appear dangerous, or, even worse, to be law enforcement.  People did not have much use for authority figures in the wilderness villages.
As the animal came over the ridge, it's eyes locked on me.  It moved over the snow quickly and easily on its huge, clawed feet.  It looked to weigh about 40 lbs., and displayed lethal looking fangs as it came directly at me with a look of pure aggression.  It looked like a miniature bear on steroids, and had the attitude of a guy in a traffic jam who had overdosed on caffeine.
I quickly put my backpack in front of me to deflect the attack as the animal started to lunge.  A crack of a rifle split through the quiet forest, and the animal flew to the side as a bullet dropped it near my feet.  From the edge of the forest, about 100 feet away, a man emerged with a rifle in his hand.  He had a long beard with grey streak and long hair that escaped from the battered cowboy hat that he wore with three feathers jutting from the band on its crown.  He was clothed in animal furs, a large knife hung from his belt.  On his back was a backpack with some furs tightly wrapped and tied to the bottom of the pack.  Even though I was fairly new to Alaska, I recognized him as a Sourdough - men who live in the wilderness, existing off of their proceeds from pelts and gold mining.  These men had been here for over a hundred years, and had not changed a bit in that time.
He silently walked down the hill from the forest and stopped in front of me.  He looked at the animal and then looked me up and down like I was a foreign creature. 
"Where's your gun, boy?" he asked gruffly. 
"Don't have one with me."  I responded, looking him up and down also.  He looked like he had just escaped from a Jack London book.
"Pretty damned stupid to not have a gun out here.  Where you from, boy - the city?"
"I'm from San Francisco, but I'm based in Anchorage."  I said.
"Yep."  He said nodding his head knowingly.  "Anchorage - the big city.  I suspected as such."  Anchorage was anything but a big city.  It was an oasis of civilization that ended abruptly where forest and wilderness began, but I thought it best to not point this out to the man.
"You know what that is?"  He asked, pointing to the animal with his rifle.  Assuming that I didn't, and not giving me a chance to say so, he said, "That's a wolverine.  Pound for pound the meanest damned animal you'll every meet.
"You must have irritated him with all the racket from that damned plane that dropped you off."
"Yes sir, I guess I must have.  I want to thank you for saving me.  What's your name?"  I asked, extending my hand.
"Montana John."  He said proudly.  "That's how I'm known in these parts."
"Oh."  I said conversationally.  "So, you're from Montana?"
He looked at me with mild irritation.  "I didn't say where I was from, boy.  I told you my name."
"Well - yes - I caught that, but I assume you're from Montana."  I said.
"I don't know why you would assume that.  I didn't tell you where I was from."
"Well - okay, Montana."  I stuck my hand out again.  "My name is John."  I hesitated to ask, but couldn't help myself.  "So - Montana - where are you from?"
"Oregon."  He said with a straight face of seriousness.  It took everything I had to not smile. 
"What are doing out here, city boy?" 
"I'm going to the village down that trail."  I said, pointing to a slight opening in the woods.
"Yeah - a couple of miles."  He said absently as he looked at the carcass laying in the snow.
"What are you going to do with this."  he asked pointing at the dead wolverine with his barrel of the rifle.
"Do with it - -?"  I didn't want anything to do with it.  For one thing, it stunk like hell.  If you know what a wolverine smells like, you should be able to get away before you ever see it.  Not that I would even consider it, but carrying around a stinking, dead wolverine over my shoulder might be a distraction from the purpose of my trip into the ice age.
I looked at the pelts hanging from Montana John's pack, and realized what he was subtly suggesting.
"You know what, Montana?"  I said with a smile.  "Just to show my gratitude, I'm going to let you have that pelt."
A smile crossed his face as he slid the big knife from the sheath at his belt.  "Well, you're alright in my book."
He said, and then turned his attention to the carcass.  "Well, good luck, city boy."  He said dismissively.  "I best be attending to business here."
I figure someone you meet out in the middle of one of the most desolate areas of the States, would be someone you would never see again.  But I was wrong.  I would meet Montana John in, of all places, Anchorage - the big city.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

I Love Being An Artist

I love being an artist.  I see the world more deeply than most people.  When I look at the sky I don't see blue.  I see a lot of colors, but I have to look deeply to see them, for they are subtle, and they are also the skies character.  I see it in the greens of the forest and the shadows of the mountains.  I see it in everything - if I look deeply.  The world is an amazing place to an artist.  It gives us the inspiration for paintings, sculptures, music, poetry, novels, dance and acting.  It gives us the ingredients to intrepret it and express it from the depths of our souls.  We, the artists, are very lucky people.  We have been given the greatest birthgift of all - the ability to express our souls in creative form.  Knowing this, I cannot help but look as deeply as I can into the self-expressions of life and be compelled to express the feelings and impressions that it ignites within me.  I love being an artist.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Selling Artistic Expression

I read a twitter the other day asking why the really good artists don't get the recognition they deserve.  I can answer that question, and I'm qualified to answer it as well.  Being a really good artist doesn't have anything to do with "making it big".  I know great artists, musicians, writers, dancers and actors who will not only never make it big, but will probably never make a dime off of their talents, and the reason is, they are not business people.  Being an artist may be a calling, but if you aren't willing to expose your work and try to sell it, then it's a hobby.
I have worked over 2000 art shows across the United States, been an art show director, owned an art gallery, been an advisor to artists, and was president of a company that produced film on artists and their arts.  In my spare time I wrote seven books of poetry that sold in the numbers to make each one a best seller many times over in the field of poetry.
Scattered throughout my successes are also many failures, even though I hate to use that term.  My theory is the only way you can fail is by not doing anything at all.  Failures are often the greatest teachers.  I have often call a failure 'a trial run'.
Every successful artist I know - let me qualify that - who makes $100,000 or more a year, are not necessarily great artists.  Some are good and a few are great, but every single one of them are very good business people.  They always keep their mind open to opportunities, most often 'thinking outside the box'.
Opportunities constantly present themselves, but if you don't look with an open mind and relate them to the world around you, those opportunities will  pass you right by without ever being noticed.
I suggest you don't shoot for being a star. Shoot for being a working artist who makes a living at it. Not only are the stars great business people, they have a little luck to go with it, plus they are they very few among us, the very many.  If you can make a living as an artist, you have succeeded.  Getting paid for expressing your soul is far more than most people could even hope for.  You are an artist.  That's what you do.  Open your mind to an exploration of the world around you as an outlet for your work.  See your opportunities and act upon them.  Who knows, it might make you a few hundred or a few thousand dollars.  It may last a week or a few years as an outlet.  Don't pass up any chance to display and sell.  Do your best and display it well. That's what the successful artists do.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Making myself a poet

When I was 18, I sent a poem to Rod McKuen's manager.  If you don't know who he is you're a lot younger than I am.  At that time, McKuen had attained recognition most poets only dream of in the U.S.  Everything he did was a national best seller.
His manager was kind enough to write me back and encouraged me to work harder at my passion and never give up. Encouragement that I didn't really need, but appreciated.
Not long ago, I started going over some old material for a poetry project and ran across that poem.  Sitting in the garage reading it, my face started turning red.  I couldn't believe that I sent something that bad to McKuen's manager, even though I thought it was great at the time.  Continuing my wandering through the boxes - looking for copies of out-of-print books, I started reading my first two books.  Again, I found flaws in almost every poem in those books.  I wanted to re-write them.  I must have been stoned when I wrote those, and the 30,000 or so people who bought them must have been stoned too.  You know what they say about the hippie era - If you remember it, you probably weren't there.
My third book wasn't bad.  I had matured by then, and it reflected in my writing.  By then I was well entrenched into art shows, galleries and boutiques as outlets for my books and poems, which I displayed in artistic presentations that I had developed.  I had discovered that people who like art tend to also like poetry, so that was my target market, as, poetry and art were my passions, but by then, selling them was also my business. 
I had the privilege of meeting most of the people who bought my work face to face.  They shared the most intimate aspects of their lives with me, as they assumed from my poems that I would not judge them, and they were right.  I also would have kids come up to me and show me their poems, which in some cases were surprisingly good for such young people.  I never discouraged people, young or old.  I encouraged them to always follow their passions and to express themselves artistically, because, even if they were as bad as I was, they had the potential for greatness as they matured.  My mantra to people beginning - discovering who they are - is to never give up.  Explore who you are and display it from your soul, for that is your beauty to share.
I have done this with literally thousands of people.  I don't know if I helped or changed peoples lives for the better in all those years of encounters.  I know they made my life better.  They did more than keep my family housed, clothed and fed.  They shared who they were with me as much as I shared who I was with them.  I could not have asked for a better life.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Wish I had a dime

I wish I had a dime
for all those lonely times
I fell in love again.
I'd hop a passing train
and ride through all that pain
just to feel the sun again.
Now there's just the sound
of tires going round
and a long empy road ahead,
but this old truck and I know
before this guitar gets cold
I'll be at a show
and just might
fall in love again.










All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

I'm writing a new book - in fact, I'm always writing a new book.  I have one novel that I've done six re-writes on and am considering going at it from a new direction, but that ones resting in a dark room at the moment.  My books are usually poems with a few very short stories.  This new one, which is about half finished, is mostly short stories with connecting poems.  I've been sending each short story to my proofreader, who offers very helpful suggestions for re-writes.  My marketing agent has told me to stop writing on it and pay attention to getting my last two books on Amazon paperback and Kindle.  Guilt has forced me to do that, as he's working his butt off for me while I was having a good time writing.  Writing is my idea of a good time.  My friends think I need to get a life.  I was surprised when informed that I didn't have one.  I'm going to have to party - - as soon as I finish this next chapter.





All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Rainy Sunday

The cold, bitter wind shakes rain from the trees, tossing drops like wet diamonds, but the rain is relentless, filling the trees once more.  Spring - grounded by winter storms, must wait.  Great weather to write a poem or a story next to a fire.  Perfect weather to travel the hills and valleys of one you love on a Sunday afternoon.











All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Empty room

Starting off on blog is not even as good as being at a party where you don't know anybody.  It's more like an empty room.  I can almost hear the echoes of the keys as I type.







All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Today

Today was 2 three hour meetings with clients and two office meetings with supervisors for 2 hours each.  I didn't write a poem today, and I haven't worked on the new book in over a week.  Sometimes, life just gets in the way of what you really want to do.







All content - poems, posts & images - are ©2010 by John Evans. No permission is given to post, share, copy, print, e-mail, reproduce, distribute or link to. All Rights Reserved. Please contact John Evans at JohnEvansPoet.Com for licensing inquiries.

Walking the fish

It seemed like good weather

to walk the fish,

but they snarled like dogs in a corner

when I showed them the leash,

then dove to the bowels

of their planet

the way frightened lumps of sugar

try to disappear

at the bottom

of a cup of tea.