About Me

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Sometimes, I just need to go for a bicycle ride, on my Schwinn Cruiser, around the Loop Road, Rainclouds or Sunshine. And sometimes, when Lifes circumstances prevents me, I do it anyway, with Windy thoughts peddling circles in my mind. I am D.M. Beebe . . . Born July 07, 1967 in Seattle, Wa. Sprouted one hour away, due North East, in the fertile Tualco Valley. I didnt really ever go too far away from the Valley, as I didn’t need to. As Life in Tualco Valley, seems to have always intrigued me. As I pay attention to the Valley, I do notice the slight changes every day. Throughout the 4 Seasons, within the Valleys full Spectrum, Rainbow array. When I watch, and when I pay attention, I develop many reasons. To have many thoughts about Life, throughout my Lifes Seasons. So I think about Life, and about Nature, and Plants and Animals, and Humans. And how it unfolds, within my mind, and my thoughts, and my insights. And so I write Story Poems of my Lifes experiences, and of my observations. And so I go forth, to reveal my conclusions, of my slightly insane perceptions. Thank You for reading my Poems . . . D.M. Beebe

Monday, December 12, 2016

Poetic Stories by D.M. Beebe

12-01-18 - 33,414 page views . . . thats a lot of poem reading. I am glad you found my blog page and are reading my poems. I hope you enjoy them and relate to them like I do. Continue to check in and read my poems and look for a new one which surfaces every now and then when something inspires me to write. Tell your friends and family to read my poems and share my blog page with them. They are here on my blog page to read for free or click on the Poetic Stories by D.M. Beebe links below for the Amazon or Barnes and Noble online bookstores to purchase my book. It makes a great gift and Thanks for reading my Poems . . . D.M. Beebe - the4beebes@frontier.com .



Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Gold Rush -

What would you do, Im sure like many, if given the option and time, amidst Lifes hard 4 hindering Seasons,
Oh to Live Life uninhibited, free and ambitious no matter what, your unruly adventerous, and Exploring reasons,
Some will say your tormented, inevitebley, but truly Spiritually satisfying, and somewhat selfishly appeasing,
Different ways to look at it, and all of the ways have hard Bones, but also a Soul, thats pain letting and aleaving.

When we all Travel through day and night, under the Sun and the North Star, upon the Land, of the new unknown,
Eventually we will soon realize, that we are all Similar, and are not far away, from our old Township local Home,
Hardscrabble Villages will tell you, the Coyotes howl at night, means the Packs caught dinner, and is eating well,
Ramshackle safe and fed for another night, Us like the howling Forest Dwellers, with bellies filled, round as they swell.

The Desert is so barron clean, and dusty dry, with sand and rocks, upon the surface of a dried Oceans prior existance,
Many have joined its side, to be on their own, by Trekking out, into the dehydrated Landscape, of isolated resistance,
Many say Good Luck, all of the Fortunes already been struck, like the Ghostly Townships, times have come and gone,
Miners seeking Fortune, with moral hearts and ethical picks, and Sourdough shovels in their hand, never quit and toiled on.

The Norths Explorers Adventurous lives neared the end, when their Gold Rush Fortunes, either struck out, or hit the Big Jackpot,
Then they slowly drifted down the Cold Yukon, to sell their Dust and Nuggets, weighed up on the Scale, to see what its bought,
This is when Many O' Miner, have earned or lost their Mother Lode, at this very end of a hard Season, many too often go broke,
The logbook records their Ounces, and also their Souls, and valuable Dreams into History, tribulations of many good worthy Folk.

D.M. Beebe - the4beebes@frontier.com - Poetic Stories by D.M. Beebe : Amazon and Barnes and Noble online bookstores.

Thursday, October 13, 2016

Shu Shu Ga -

When you see see it, you stop and think to yourself, what was that, was that a big blue bird ?
Its swoops in the reeds and cat tails, to evade detection, whithout anything, ever having heard,
It is so stealth, it is so silence, it is so elagant, so long leggy lengthy, within its silent existance,
Not even a green slough frog, can hear it coming, to defend against it, nomatter stealth resistance.

The Native American people, a different name, to them, they called the dinosaur bird, Shu Shu Ga,
It always walks in the shallows, fishing for minnows, or polywogs, with a long beak, to skewww ya,
In the evening, when feathery bird bellies are finally full, and its time to go nest, not low on the loost,
They take flight, in the twilight of the night, to the hills estuary evergreen big tree tops, up high to roost.

They stay there all night, in their old growth evergreen estuary, of tall timbers, on the big green hillside,
If you look from afar, you will see the tall group of trees left, upon the hills, the rest is a clearcut homicide,
The old blue dinasour birds, dont have many places left anymore, in the treetops, for their branchy nests,
After hunting in the valley for frogs, during the day in the sloughs, they have to fly home, after their quests.

The coyoyes howl at them also, while hunting in the valley at night, they hear sounds in the trees, birds ?
My farm dogs also bark at them all night from the porch, waking me up, off and on, making my dreams blurbs,
In the twilight, or in in the dawn, to see the magnificent take to flight, or glide and land, upon the thick, foggy air,
You realize that the big blue heron, has a respected purpose in the valley, its a iconic relic, prehistoric, very rare.

D.M. Beebe - the4beebes@frontier.com - Poetic Stories by D.M. Beebe : Amazon and Barnes and Noble online bookstores.

Monday, October 3, 2016

Climate Change -

Spring : The Spring rains, storms pour down, cats and dogs, raindrops drips, a wet spatter, a splashing spither,
Summer : Flowers of Summer wilt, and so to the season soon will dry up, dust devils swirl, as it all does wither,
Fall : Ghostly fog flowing, nightly into the valley, bringing with it, windy colored Fall, doth our way hovering hither,
Winter : As Winter slowly sets in for a spell, orange spice tea is on the wood stove, a simmering steaming sither.

Spring floods the valley, with rushing early mountain snow and ice melt, and rain storms saturated water tables,
Rising liquid levels of rip-rap levy breaking rivers, catastrophic events, in which made are long told old time fables,
Farmers hurrily move machinery and livestock, up to high ground, before the water rises, to the barns high gables,
Cows and other critters, moved to safety, rounded up and herded, out of the barns mucky, stanchions and stables.

Summer is hot and dry, 5th year in a row now, leaving strange sunspots on the crops leaves, and my burnt skin,
We have nearly run our well dry, trying to irrigate, it just evaporates upon the surface, the soil is to dry to sink in,
Carbon monoxide, and sulfur dioxide, up in the atmosphere, hovering the Earth, how to fix it ? how do we begin ?
Lucky for all, it helps the depleted ozone layer, deflect solar radiation from upon us, yay ! greenhouse gasses win ?

Fall like all 4 seasons now, are a month or so early, bringing with it spectacular colors of leaves, and orange sunsets,
Last chance to swim in the green river, enjoy bbq campfires, kids have no school or college, lifes time with no regrets,
But soon the chemically intoxicated sugar filled leaves will fall, with gusty gail force winds, chased by big storms of fret,
The atmospheric pressure changes, your ears will pop, fun times are gone now, a new season has now commeth to beget.

Winters icy cold crystal frosty frozen wrath has eventually arrived, the season of harsh, wood stove heated, white asunder,
Times of frozen pipes, crawling under the house, hairdryers thawing out icy plumbing, myself man-made unprepared blunder,
Some are enchantingly sledding or skating, or making snowmen & snowwomen, upon the 3 feet of powdery snow to plunder,
A wonderland of fun times to some, and when will this white blizzard end to others, signs of Climate Change to me, I wonder ? 

D.M. Beebe

Cruise The Loop -

The trek to town, across Lewis Street Bridge, to stock up on feed store supplies, Safeway, maybe dinner ?
The family together, shopping in town, for lifes wares, sometimes Pizza, games, quarter machine winner !
And on the way home, we did sometimes Cruise The Loop, to view the farmland scenery, to guess, to talk,
The Tualco Loop Road, many good Valley memories, to view and remember, just go drive on it, bike, or walk.

Some day you will remember, Cruisen The Loop, as you keep going straight, at the old Grange Red Swiss Hall,
Lets roll around the Valley family, Valley watching, to see whats maybe new, even if its nothing old, or new at all,
Look at that, and look at this, these are the things, in time to remember, to think back on, just maybe even miss ?
Like rumbling across the old Riley Slough Wood Bridge, certainly memories I will not forget, or ever easily dismiss.

Somedays its a good thing, to just go drive, or go walk, or go ride your Schwinn Cruiser, and just go Cruise The Loop,
I know you will also find, in time, thinking back about the Valley, as you circle around your own lifes ring, Hoola Hoop.
As you think back, memories take you back, once again, in body and mind, so take your own time, to find your own loop.
As you remember and try, to keep your eyes dry, old memories, as you make your life anew, upon your own farms stoop.

Nothing forgotten to me, my Valley good life history, I have had to ponder, through my life, like at the sky river, Camp Beebe,
A good life in the Valley to live in, but more important always is my kin, do you remember eM & Kels, The Big Maple Tree ?
It has been a long time now, that we have lived in the Valley and how, nothen is taken lightly, as you too will eventually see,
Family, friends, and neighbors, helping each other out and get by, all of us, you, me, we, in our lifes loop, called Tualco Valley.

D.M. Beebe

The Barn Swallows -

The barn swallows, have come to surprise me again, this sunny day, in spring time,
Right on time, upon the blue skies, and white puffy clouds, as the sky turns on a dime.
The clouds are changing now, to blueish lavender, and pinkish orange, even greenish yellow,
As the barn swallows, circle and swoop about, to eradicate the skies, of the pesky mosquito.

I hope they make nests, in my farmland barn eaves, with eggs full of babies, to be hatched,
In years past, they have done so, I Iook forward to them every year, I have become attached.
They are a signal of transition, a changing of the seasons, from the spring, into the summer,
As times change, its natural to think about life, I contemplate my place, my mind gets numb-er.

Maybe the swooping barn swallows, that have come here this year once again, to live, and to explore,
Might remember being hatched from shells, in nests in my barns eaves, to thrive, as done times before,
I want to hope so, that they feel safe enough here, to continue their many generations, with no fears,
To me that is a honor, I want them to continue, so they can populate my barn eaves, for future years.

The barn swallows, are a elegant flying seasonal sign, of a wet spring, changing into a dryer summer,
When I see them for the first time of the year, back again to visit, it makes me question, and I do wonder,
Where do they go, to the south somewhere to over winter, only to fly north again, into mosquito filled warm air,
I think to myself, when I see them again every year, my feathered friends are always welcome, my shelter I share.

D.M. Beebe

The Dirt Witch -

Clump . . . scrape, clump . . . scrape, clump . . . scrape, clump . . . scrape,
The Dirt Witch, makes her way up the stairs, dragging her long, old, black cape,
With unkept long and gray, dusty hair, green mildew eyes, and yellow jaggedy teeth,
Crooked, barefoot, long boney toe and finger nails, with red stains, deep underneath.

The Dirt Witches cackle, makes you sit straight up in your chair, at the lonely dinner table,
Cuz you know then its real, and the warnings, are not of, a long old made up, household fable,
She is coming for you now, this creature, that lives in the basement, imaginations do create,
For the solitary young boy, sitting at the table, that didnt eat it all, and clean up his dinner plate.

Fear comes to mind, thinking back, at my limited time I had, to finish and save my own fate,
Apparently the Dirt Witch didnt mind, if I let my dog Chance help, as he never did hesistate,
And so miraculously, when I scraped off my leftovers, under the table, upon the old, checkered, vinly floor,
The Dirt Witch would go back down the basement stairs, and I did not hear her cackle, that night, anymore.

One night around 3am, I tip-toed down those stairs into the dark, thinking of the Dirt Witch with no food,
I felt sorry for her, down there in the cold basement, by her solitary self,  I do hope shes in a friendly mood ?
So with my little plastic bags of cheerios, chocolate chips, and green grapes, I entered into her dark space,
I waiting down there for awhile, disappointed, she did not come out, relieved, my mind and fears, I did embrace.

D.M. Beebe

White Waterfall -

Its never scheduled or planned, life ends suddenly, it always strikes too early, and too soon,
A loved ones passing, what will you do ? when the time comes, reluctantantly, some full moon ?
We cannot guess or forecast, our ancenstors longevity, in front of us, maybe in July, or June ?
We do know one thing, their lives are of most value, the fabric of our souls, living within us, they do tune.

When the time comes, it will be hard, it will be the hardest thing ever, that you have ever gone through,
The doctor and pastor puts you in the quite room, to tell you the news, that you cant believe, its not true,
I dont want to walk down that hallway, to see my mom, laying there, bandaged in the cold room, not alive,
Covered in many white towels, like a angel, so sorry I cant help you mom, your gone now, you did not survive.

A week or so later, after memorials and rememberances, and personal recollections, and special whatwithalls,
Is a cardboard cylinder full of ashes, after it all doesnt calm down, after we dont regain our wits, or our wherewithalls,
But we have to take you mom, where you said you wanted to go, up to the hillside, evergreen treed, flowing clear, water falls,
So we all walked her there, after her memorial, through Steffans green grass field, and I did hear the flying angels calls.

So we all carried moms ashes, across a 40 acre field, up to the foothill treed mountain, to our sacred, giving water falls,
To the flowing falls we grew up drinking the water, our whole life upbringing, it still does flow, turbulent, with echoing calls,
Those sacred falls that gave us all life, to be nourished and to be raised, and to grow tall and big, and to survive and give,
Then moms ashes, poured down from the top, cascading down, making a holy, white waterfall, for us to all, see and again live.

D.M. Beebe

Once in a Blue Moon -

Every now and again, visits me every few years, Once in a Blue Moon,
A friend like a stellar event, from near or afar, floats in on a hot air balloon.
Setting down, to just check in and say hi, then bye, might see you again soon ?
Saying as floating up, up, and away, from the Tualco Valley, hot July afternoon.

Memories upon my porch, a sitdown of coffee and thoughts, its asked of me,
Where, if anywhere, would you move, south like me, to the capital of Albany ?
I would like to move to Oregon, but its the wrong direction, catch me if you can,
I would rather visit for a year, the South Pacific, or SE Alaska, the Islands near Ketchican.

My friends facial espression, that knowing smile, of what I adventursome, exploringly meant,
Its hard to come by anymore, the older we get, as our lifes exploring treasure, is already half spent.
Its within us all, traveling times have passed on now, of going round the world, here and there,
If I travel now, near of far, it better have abundant fruits, to sustain me and mine, to bountifully bare.
Once all the old things, have been newfound, what will travel have to show, for mankind, our soul to heal ?
Where will we travel and explore anymore, the smaller of the Earths surprises, and adventures to reveal ?
I think the answer, once mankinds done exploring Earths lands and oceans, might come none too soon,
Its traveling through time and across space, to find new habitable planets for us all, past the Blue Moon.

D.M. Beebe

Skywriter -

The day nears an end, as the downflow wind starts to swirl and blow,
I look up as the light suspends, the inverted pressure is at a evening low,
The orange blue skies palette is streaked jetstream white, its a skywriter !
Triggering my thoughts instantly, antiquated, an old memory enlightener.

Days of old, days of green grass on our backs, upwardly cloud gazing,
Whats that in the sky ? A skywriter making a white trail, curiously its amazing !
We also look at the clouds and shapes, is that Charlie Brown, or Scooby Doo ?
Shapes and thoughts, in the minds of us, on our backs looking up, me and you.

Times experiences rise and set, round and round the Earth, and sometimes back again,
But some things like skywriters, and guessing shapes in the clouds, certainly do remain,
When I see a skywriter like this evening, I think back and remenisce, into my history,
I remember who I was with, in the green grass, upwardly gazing, into skyward discovery.

So some sunset look upwards, at skywriters and cloud shapes, to view the setting sky,
Look up with a friend, discover and make memories, in your minds to recall later, if you try,
It is strange, that many years later, when I look up into the evenings, orange blue skylight,
I see the same skywriters and cloud shapes of our past, circling the Earth, in a prior twilight.

D.M. Beebe

To The $5 Flower Bouquet Thief !

When you first encounter, the honor system, of the beautiful, $5 flower bouquet stand,
A regular, honest person, pays a $5 dollar bill in the money box, with cash readily in hand,

Gladly and happily, one will pay a $5 dollar bill, for a beautiful handcrafted, flower bouquet,
But some of you thieves, deem it not worthy, and pay nothing at all, to our fuhqen dismay ?

We cannot understand your thievery, of our flower bouquets, sneakthieves, hands oh so fast,
Your thievery, is unjustified, its gotten old now, its gone on way too long now, finally at long last !

So go forever away now, you flower bouquet thieves, as we have watching eyes now, as of today,
Otherwise we will quit offering these flower bouquets, to the honest customers, who do honestly pay.

The Flower Shack  !

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

Mount Index -

When I need to getaway, away from life, get lost and not found, to be with nature, just my dog and myself,
I drive towards the foothills mountains, on hwy 2 eastbound, just past the lateral moraine, Cascade shelf,
I usually turn right onto the gravel Mount Index River Road, and park at the new discovery pass gravel lot,
However, if you are a iron oxide, rusty hiker like me, you know the way up and around, to the other parking spot.

If not so, park and hike, suck air in as you trek, up the old road, a mile or so, up to the Bridal Veils sign of Falls,
Stop there, if you know the old trail to the right of 4 falls, with Honeymoon Mine, take this route as whispers calls,
Exploring the mines branching shafts, into its tunnel maze of amazement, flashlight faces do adventourously show,
The old copper mine branches multiple time, left and right, even goes up with ropes, with a trecherous 30' cavern below.

Then hike up the old trail of many boots, climb up the old vines, take a break at any of the 4 falls, along the misty way,
The falls are all beautifully dangerous, so find a safe viewing spot, upon the glacial granite rocks, with splashing spray,
Take pictures, make memories, but also take time to look out at the valleys horizon, to find the truth inside yourself,
Then look up, when you get to Lake Serene, at Mount Index's towering peaks, recaculating your theories of wealth.

A blue tarp I have hidden, for my tent if it downpours, where mice and hawks only now go, as rockslides show,
The forest service, closed off that side of the lake, where winter glaciers and summer rockslides, always will flow,
I had many tent nights, at that little west side, mountain side, rodent infested, rockslide treed, Lake Serene, oasis,
I will hike up and go there again, whatever the rules, as it gives peace to my spirit and mind, nothing else ever replaces.

D.M. Beebe - the4beebes@frontier.com

Friday, August 26, 2016

Old Growth Trees -

I admire, the last big Trees that have still survived, to exist, and exhale air for us all daily, listen to their sound,
Humans persist, but I think the Trees are all more worthy of forever standing, upon their Old Growth high ground,
As they were here before us, and no others have a right more than they do, to be in their forest, in their surround,
Except their true friends; the wind, rain, sun, animals, and mycology, full of interactive nutrients, the soil is bound.

Sometimes you might want to listen to them, at least once in your life time, take the time . . . make your mind clear.
These special Old Growth Trees have something to say, they are the teachers full of wisdom . . . listen, can you hear ?
They have tried to talk to us for hundreds of years now, for the harmfull species to learn from . . . we are their friends, right ?
The Trees have real true friends, but its not us, even though we cant exist without them, does that shed some forest light ?

We humans are the takers of the Old Growth Trees, the gravel mines, the oceans fisheries, the animals, and the gas and oil,
We are exploiting at will, to meet our needs, how much more can the Earth take ? With this surface and sub-exploring toil ?
I mean really ? What can we do now ? To save our planet Earth, our special one of a kind, unique, Galactic, little blue marble ?
Give me an answer, because I dont have one, Im sorry, I tried long and hard to think of something, my mind has tunnel carple.

What I do when I feel lost within this World, and I have many questions, that nobody can ever give me answers to, or correlate,
I go for a drive to the foothills, park and take a hike, to a place in the mountains, by the falls, in the woods, to think, and to relate,
I know when I get there, Im with friends, with many answers for me, their always there for me, to breathe air with, and appreciate,
The Old Growth Trees are always my friends, and I am always their friend, until humans with saws invade, to friendship delineate.

D.M. Beebe - the4beebes@frontier.com