David Hecker has been reading, teaching and writing poetry for many, many years. This practice has been his salvation in response to the many difficulties that all of us face in life. He has had many of his poems printed in journals over the past years, but most importantly was the publication of his first book of poems, Natural Affinities, by MoonPath Press in 2017. Within one month of the publication, Garrison Keillor read one of the poems “Hitchhiking” on his Writers Almanac broadcast. In 2018, another poem in the collection, “In Memory of William Stafford,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Hecker earned a BA in English at Minot State Teachers College, an MA in English Education at the University of Minnesota, and a Ph.D. in American Studies at Washington State University. In his life as professor and writer, Hecker was selected as a Washington State Centennial Scholar in 1989. He co-founded and directed a writers’ conference for five years at Olympic College from 1992–1996.

Hecker wrote and published a memoir titled Full Circle: A Journey in Search of Roots (2012) that details his ancestry. In 2014, he wrote and published a historical novel under the title Strangers Before the Bench. He continues to write many poems and submit to various journals. The most recent poems are published or forth-coming from Cirque and Evening Street Press.

Vision

A philosopher once wrote,
“The world is my representation.”
We may not know precisely
what he meant,
but each of us possess
a unique world without 
really being conscious of it.

We don’t see what is actually 
in the world before us.

What we see is a representation
of the thing we think we see.
What we see is a reflection
on the iris of our eyes that is
filtered through memories.

What we have learned
about aspects of objects
from family, religion, nation,
and education reflects what we see.

A color, a word that represents
that color, releases an emotion,
desire, thought or bias. 
What we see is 
an accumulation of many responses 
but never the thing itself.

Madrone

For Madeline DeFrees

Dry leaves rust from your iron boughs 
descend along your leathery skin, 
your crown a circular repose. 
 
Your fifty feet in self-mulched ground, 
feeding from fluids in veins so thin, 
dry leaves rust from your iron boughs. 
 
As growth rings tell of many seasons found, 
pink blossoms promise more to win, 
your crown a circular repose. 
 
When woodpeckers tap scored bark to the ground, 
pile mulch to your shin, 
dry leaves rust from your iron boughs. 
 
If white pigeons fall upon your red rounds, 
hallucinate along your limbs, 
your crown a circular repose. 
 
Madrone, evergreen tree of Puget Sound, 
you live on and thrive with all your kin. 
Dry leaves rust from your iron boughs. 
Your crown a circular repose.