Wind brushes by trees
which are a stop over to
skies pointing upwards
and hills in chorus claiming
mortality. No change, these
hills suffuse time and space
leaving a huge blank of hope.
They spill over into dreams
but when morning arrives
they change colours in shades of blue and green.
They a crescent, they the upper crust of fields that
Tremble in eternal rock climbing.
A sunlit garden path,
with roses in full bloom.
The aroma is heavenly.
It is a great place to relax
and smell the flowers.
Winter passed, shadows fell
foreshortened, snow patches
yielded sight of forest floor depth,
early morning’s sunlight blazed
on tree tops, in motionless calm
of nearing spring; evergreen’s
burgeoned leaves where songbird’s
trumpet clear piping followed
far cirrus banners along chilled
blue skies. Distant summits rose
above high plateaus, ascending
sweeping arcs; capped stone spires
cleaved through like wave’s crests
below a cloud capped majesty
hidden in mystery.
Shoreline’s gentle swell rolled
in cradle rocking pulse, met stone
strewn land’s edge, pines stood at
water line; bathed chill dampness,
faint breezes landward rising; all
gazing to the waters’ embraced earth
like sentinels from other lives
and times. Unto it flowed jumbled
snow melt wash, cut bare swatches
down long slope forested parks
to shore’s waiting arms. Freshets
yielding washed away sparse soils,
spring runs heavy through tight
boulder strewn gullies, murmuring
rapid’s misty churning pools, swore
boundless sustenance; as others
had seen the same, yet turned away
to the traces of their own arrivals
in morning’s wakening chants.
Freighter’s gear wheeling along,
white mist; pillared tall smoke,
columns climbing straight as ship’s
spars, rattle of camp pans, turning
mill of yarder’s engines, silence
parting bite of faller’s axes over
rhythmic cross cut choruses digging
into wood, and when it finished,
only overgrown roadways remained.
There they slept, wending ancient
stump strewn landscapes; new growth
meeting its long struggle, reclaiming
daylight set barrens beneath low
brushy canopies; mournful cooing
of doves above small hooved herds,
moving haltingly to water.
Not a leaf left on the crabapple tree
instead little red apples hang
like ornaments on a Christmas tree.
Little red apples that spend
most of the winter covered with snow
waiting for the robins of spring
to fly back for a feast
so little pink flowers can bloom
and become little red apples again.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn’t know them.
They’re missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.
Their eyes no longer dance, I’m sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven’t worn heels
since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I’m certain,
wouldn’t recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.
They can’t recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.
Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,
Hepburn’s eyes and Hayworth’s hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/.
All everything loaded
to one afternoon
the grass itself printing
to our limbs
and clouds washing sky,
the birds below us
reeling and unreeling
climbing in arced waves
and wonder is a moment
burning skywards- cut away
from all,
time fettered and tethered
at bay.
We exist a May flown day
hour glass full
sated-
gone.
Toxic algae blooms
killing wildlife as red tides
roll in.
A sign reads, “No swimming.”
Birds don’t know of the danger.
Cows drink the red sludge..
The stagnant, dead fish smell
permeates the air.
The flowers along the water’s edge
are pretty for now.
Picking them could be deadly.
a misty morning
clouds floating on tree-tops
art of becoming!
thunderstorm and hail
has just passed away
stormy silence!
raindrops falling on the roof
trees are but
signature of nature on the orb.
here lies
the poet
you once
knew, now
the verse
is closed
while living
the poet
gave us
rhymes,
words to drape
around our
cold shoulders
now we must
bring flowers
and a few
lines of our
own.
Landlubber lived in the forest.
He built homes and splatted his tail
in the stream when danger was near.
Landlubber’s gnarly teeth chewed branches
creating shelter for his little ones.
Life was good until the owner
arrived and blasted his home to pieces.
The farmer was glad he got rid of the beaver.
Landlubber moved on to build the house
of his dreams on some
other land lover’s property.