License

Some buy a license for fishing
Some get a license to hunt
Some buy a license to marry
Bout all, I'm going to be blunt
Some dress up for hunting and fishing
Some spruce in their wedding gowns
So many are ready for wishing
And licensed just to be clowns

They catch all their fish in the Tavern
Their stump a seat at the bar
They talk long as others will listen
Of bucks they have shot from afar
His name they are always profaning
To show what big men they are
They brag of women they're chasing
They're manhood seeming ajar.


You can't tell what manner of man you are with just a looking glass.

Men

There are men ever filled with new theories,

And men who would die for a cause.
There are men still schooling at fifty,
And men who are hung up on laws.
There are men who never miss meetings,
Just sitting there spinning their wheels.
You ask them just what they've accomplished.
They answer they're plotting big deals.

There are men who can't wait to get going.
Their minds are always in gear.
They are scarred and they're scratched by the battle.
Don't say they've never known fear.
There are men who think they are thinking,
And men who never have thought.
While some men are waiting for someday,
The deeds they would do are wrought.

-William Malewitz

Many are not intelligent enough to get to hell, but counselors and clergy without wisdom just might make it.

Voyageur Vision

We stood in the picture window,
Searching up lake through the years.
We know how the season's ebb flow.
Pleasing each prize that appears.

Unearthed, untainted treasures,
Panoramic through the glass.
Spent centuries our vision unmeasured.
Strange are the creatures that pass.

TV'd on this tube on evening,
Splitting the waves with its bow,
We thought our eyes deceiving,
Furrows, the white-waters plow.

Voyageurs bending their paddles,
Needing a pipe-stop they seemed.
Men made by the fur trades battles
Poured each a drink as we dreamed.

- William Malewitz

Recycle Rejects!

The Barrens

There's a land where the freeways are rivers,
Ice paved for huskies in winter.
There's a band, branded men who are livers,
No tourists their secrets could enter.

It's a wasteland of tossed tundra and mountains,
Wrong named when Barrens entitled.
It has waters unfished, falling fountains,
It's gold, no paper entitled.

It's a scene that's majestic, magnetic.
Untamed, unharnessed, its vastness.
Time to test what's improper, prophetic,
Crucible cleansed men of crassness.

- William Malewitz

Wasteland isn't.

Northern Lights

Star dust dancing shafts sky piercing,
Arching over the mountains, crags and waters.
Silent waves, silent sound rehearsing,
Lighting heaven's secret nooks, God's quarters.

Majestic bent colored search lights,
Probing atmosphere in soundless wonder.
Midnight man's restlessness delight,
Deep secrets, soul searching flame can plunder.

- William Malewitz

All squirrels aren't nuts and all nuts aren't squirrels.

Ghost Campfires

At ends of portage paths we find
The charred coal signs of former fires
A welcome mat the rare used kind
Old campsites kinship warm inspires

Outcropping shield and balsam bed
The breeze stirred night conjures old dreams
And fans alive those coals long dead
Till quickened flames spark ancient themes

Awakened shadows strangely merge
As long gone voyageurs bestir
Their mellowed songs no need to urge
Long silenced lore old campfires stir

-William Malewitz

Love and Religion should be deregulated

Bits & Pieces Of Driftwood

Driftwood gnarled and tortured, water and weather worn defies description. Hold a piece one way, than another and uncover fresh viewpoints and half hidden truths and unlooked for beauty. The choice pieces concealed under water, debris, and sand are ever awaiting discovery. Too many of us never unearth the treasures that abide in the sands and recesses of solitude. The pieces of driftwood often uncovered and reexamined around evening campfires are the essays of interspersed herein. The one liners are just that, "bits" often inspired by nature or the miracle of The Northern Lights at midnight on the trail. It is the fond hope and prayer of the Beachcomber that you will find some of his worth researching and deeper investigation.

- William Malewitz, The Beachcomber