Monthly Archives: August 2012

The Cottage in the Wood

Amidst the quiet wood, where never the sight of soul is seen,
where deep within the shadowed story, it seems,
there no one has been… ever…

Yet through the tangled brambles and vines wrapped to the dome so high,
when as the sun is setting soft, a clear rosed beam can aid the eyes –
and there amidst the quiet wood, it stood… as if a dream…

A cottage built of stone and stick, wholly swallowed in musty air,
entangled in the over growth, held in place with loving care –

Sitting still I gazed awhile until the dusky light let in
just the slightest edge of truth to the history there within.
As if enwrapped in elixir’s mirth, the day grew light before my eyes,
the clinging vines and woods there, resolved in finer lines –

The cottage path and gated wall, before me clearly stood,
an entry arch of river stone with coat of arms lined in green wood –
Walls of stone ran to the corners, set with rose and daffodil,
while lavender and scattered daisies revealed the caring of this fill –

The cottage, down a garden path, was set with stone, great beams of wood.
The porch and gable facings, of dovetail and a mason’s good
detailing at the window’s ledge.

Entranced, I rose, afraid to lose this dream state’s blessed gift,
yet slowly step, did I, toward the gate, silently adrift
in seas of timeless wonder –

The gate before me, of ancient wood, stood ajar inviting
all my senses to freedom’s grin, thus pulled me through with creaked enticing…

A cobbled garden path before me lay, a quiet welcomed girth,
twixt rose, gardenia and foxglove blooms,
fingered sun and fragrant mirth.

It seemed I floated toward the stoop, whose porch was blessed with swing and peace.
So there I sat with creaking chains, suspended in this dream so sweet –

As I sat and gently swayed, a reverent love enrobed me whole,
the sweetness of a “welcome home” bathed my heart and soul.

Eon’s may have passed, I fear, but not a fret was mine,
for from this place where smiled my soul, there was no sense of time –
but kind the loving left there, by whomever tendered this spot –
until the porch-side window fed my senses with a chicken pot
and scent upon the air,
a longing to “return”,
within the makings of this home,
to love and sweetness, I did yearn…

I left my perch to find the door,
hand hewn woods and hammered fittings,
gently knocked and pushed a tad,
to find myself inside, unwitting…

The light was golden and struck the sides of ancient dust suspended,
glittering in its gentle ride, as if for me intended –

The air was sweet with home cooked love, as if I’d find a stew a-brewing –
and through the simple rugs and chairs the shadows gently blue-ing.

A beam of golden sunset light embraced the kitchen’s hearth and stone,
and as I poked my nose there, no soul was found, but I was not alone –

Beside the hearth, a graying threshold stood,
nearly lost within the shadow, unique in hand hewn wood.

The scent of sweet tobacco beckoned my spirit “enter”,
and as my eyes began to see, my heart declared its center
amidst suspended smoke, left from ancient rest,
with bed and bureau quietly still, at bedside laid two shoes, and vest.

Upon the night stand, racked in dust, a dustless tin type photo stood –
a man, a woman, and a dog – at garden’s edge and wood –
As tho’ I were invited, I raised the photo to my eyes,
and from their kindest faces, I swear I heard the greenwoods sigh –

Her hand was wrapped in his, and tho’ they looked out from the frame,
it felt their eyes were locked on each other by the smiles and kindness lain.
Her eyes were deep in darkened hues, yet sparkled with a love
that only could have been for him, by a life blessed from above-
His were stern and determined, yet gentle in the lines there shown,
that I could tell his heart was hers, and he, her love alone.
The dog, a youthful grin portrayed, yet his colours showed him old and grey,
but this was is home by his look given, and no canine paradise could have beat this heaven –

It seemed as if I knew these three, the longer that I eyed the frame,
I felt a longing overcome my soul and knew I would be blessed in same –

A love so deep that time could not erase,
and truth so lived that even the woods, in decay, would embrace –
A soul so satisfied within the living that even long beyond the grave,
would continue and return with giving.

I know not how long I stood, or how I managed time –
but by the moment dusk was done,
again into the woods went I –

Witnessed there a lifetime’s mark,
the love of two and life of giving –
that stumbled upon in deepest wood,
did bless this one’s living –

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Histories Walk

Here in lies our history

I’ve walked the fields of stones,
where ‘neath the green of summer’s trees
lay memories of lives in bones –

Through Iowa and Illinois,
through Kentucky’s north and south,
through battlefields in Tennessee
where silence claimed my mouth!

I searched for family’s heritage,
starting with my own,
then deep into the history
of those I’d never known.

Some at rest in displaced fields
quite distant from the ones they loved,
yet sided by side their markers lain,
together here, and still above.

I wondered what regrets they kept
that left them in strangers’ fields,
I blessed and prayed they are at peace,
and that their loneliness has healed.

In some I felt life’s tragedies
might have been too much to bear,
of children lost in early days
as witnessed by the markers there.

Such sorrow overwhelmed me,
such sadness did I feel,
yet words of reassurance came
and prayers that their hearts had healed.

I walked the battlefields, where fallen,
their final breaths had come.
I cried that there was no return
to sights of youth and loving home.

I searched the markers tirelessly
and sought to feel their souls,
imagined I had found the place
where brothers lay when paid their toll.

I stood upon each distant hill
and grasped to feel their echoed hearts.
I sat in summer’s greenest grass
and talked of life until the starts
of sorrow left,
and then with heavy sigh and breath
I cast my blessings true…

… for I am but your distant son,
grandchild, cousin, kin –
and all that is the best in me
was granted by the best in you!

God bless you all –


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Eagle’s Distance

Distance twixt the moon and eye
of eagle, where such coursers fly,
the expanse of sparrow’s small foothold
to eagle’s nest, where values told
in stories of a childhood making,
fat with love, elixir’s baking
deep the sense of truths unknown,
but held within, till later shown
that sparrow’s life is all perception…

Of what the eagle calls and soars,
young sparrow strives and so adores
the fabric of the stories’ tale.
But since in flight, small sparrow sails
at levels suited for his wings,
yet in his heart desire sings
to soar beyond the clouds above,
along with eagle, along with love,
but the distance fixed by wing’s inception…

But sparrow’s come in every size,
hearts tall, and some otherwise,
find singing at a sparrow’s height
the perfect mix of sun and flight.
Some relay in anger born
where from the distance eagle’s torn
a nest upon a craggy peak,
lash out in disdained sparrow speak,
till what the sky yields in return
belays the sparrow, so in turn
denies the truth of sparrow’s wings,
turns angry, calls from where he sings,
hides the joy of sparrow’d flight,
and holds him to a lesser plight,
denied the heart of his conception…

So in honor eagle soars
above the quiet forest floor,
seeks solitude in reclusive height,
in hopes to treat sweet sparrow right
through distant love, no stories told,
alone on winds near mountains hold,
echoes cries in sad remorse
for tales that skewed a sparrow’s course,
so seeks a distant living,
that his is best when love he’s giving
is called from distant heavens

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The Poet’s Life

Word-ly indulgence,
ink stained to points on page,
through stumbling against grammar tossed
about the moment’s cage,
yet rolling in a wavelength’s hum,
and toiling not to spread the sum
‘cross horizon’s once thought flatter,
when prior sought beneath the banter
of words in greens and golds.

No care to which the lay be splayed,
twixt lame and grand, the pointings stayed
in temporal pinnings of pulp and ink,
there draw the mind to swim or think,
or sink in depths of wonder,
sustained in plex or conscious raised,
be true the moment’s ponder
in ricocheted allure, be grazed,
thereby strike a hold.

So there ye be in locks of flux,
ether’s words and pictures such,
so plant a moment’s memories’ brand,
beyond the temporal, beyond the hand
within the setting sewn.
Hold fast a pleasant memory,
transfix the beauty, extravagant,
derail the poised and wreckless day,
through-in, through-out the stitching lay
a calling to this pause,
just to thyself be known.

By frost on twig at morning’s break,
‘neath streetlamp’s hollow shadow, staked,
between the blades of grass on hills,
around each raindrop’s dewy feel,
the words of poets play.

By rush of feathered wings in flight,
twixt cannon roar and lightening strike,
between the muddy toes of sows
who gently whisper verse to cows,
are where his thoughts do stray.

Yet most of where his writing drops
takes vantage from these mountaintops,
where two feet on the ground are sure
that heaven’s head-high, and breathing pure
when larger than the prairie stands
just meager page and ink in hand
that no framing mind can catch –
or play the point against a verse,
just smear and scratch,
blow smoke and curse –
cast nets in words and lay…

Be cast of moment’s tempest flare,
when conscious thoughts engage with care,
that every dewdrop known,
every piney needle sewn,
elixir quaffed within, without,
in stillness, poet’s heart cast out
in gentle calling of thoughts to sum,
of alpine breeze and ridges run,
so garner back what’s his.

Midst objects be, in field of view,
his colored ether returning,
to define the tint of moments grasped,
focus hue and shading fast
the dream he calls his own…

… between his words
his soul be shown…
… the poet’s life is this…

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Welcome Home

“Welcome home”, they sing to me
through summer breeze and sun’s delight.
Hushed, “We missed you” through the trees,
and solemn quiet to serve it right.

Thunder heads so growing,
stir white contrast blue
near alpine giants standing true,
set the scape unimaginable…

This is my heart, this is my home,
regardless of the lengths I roam,
and here my soul returns to rest,
refuel with love of nature, blessed.

Wild roses adorn the lea
where water creeps ‘neath aspen tree,
rocky slopes so conjure streams
so adding to the meadow’s dream
to quench the thirst of valleys floor,
green the pasture and aid the store
of blossoms purple, yellow, white,
and bring columbine to grace this sight.

Selfless motions through this day,
I witness all, this life in play.
I count this alpine garden home,
and always here my soul will roam…

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Life, the term, so disconnected
yet so connected – unreal –
hung in abstract arrangement,
time and blood or so surreal –
Beyond these moments of flesh and bone,
beyond the here and now perceived,
life is rent of living souls
and how the spiritual journey’s conceived.

Six billion plus so fast en masse
that only a boundaries’ few can count
the days by which their journey’s stood
in nature’s balanced mount.
Few there are to turn the tide,
few to bring enlightened minds,
few touch few and so it grows,
but by populations fall behind
and there the number dwindles
of those set out to teach
a proof of “spiritual life in living,
of God we’re one in fabric” truth –

And so the lessons whisper
behind a din of cackling lives
whose egos shout above the souls and spirit’s
lessons of what is God and what is life.

There’s something here for me to say,
few words to press by pen and lay
that in some instant real and heard
will make a difference, show a way
and therein hush the clamored din,
so all may pause and look within,
so few who know the path to soul
can link them all to spirit’s role
till nature’s whisper’s heard,
and so in change the fate of “life”
to abide by truth and God’s sweet word…

Some role is mine to play –
Where will the motivation come,
how will the pen to paper stay
the points so needed to raise the eyes,
the moment flux to realize,
how will the word be spread,
how will the truth engage those heads?

I pray, but do not know,
my open mind and open heart
must be steadfast to what must flow
and free my soul to fly –
there not impede it’s path, must I,
but read the cairns so purposefully placed,
take each step in conscious grace,
in present thought and truth’s decision
allow the future, grant the vision
and do my part as deemed,
for this is what my soul feels
and what my purpose seems –

but I am what I am –
I hope that it’s enough!

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The Poet’s Desk

Fragrant setting, this dewy dusk,
wherein the shadow hides the lust
of mournful followers, pitied and damned,
whispering repentance ‘tween souls therein crammed,
yet reproaching, gentle and kind…

Life, threaded time,
by which the notes of strength do climb
to peak the mix of clatter droned,
there perched upon one tone, enthroned,
so beheld as something fine…

In ether ribbon’d twixt and round
the fabric of our souls, be found
in wafting death or life, such furls
setting waves to change, or fate there curled
in snaps of cracking wind and whip.
Tether bending, so in dips
a curve by which our souls find truth,
yet only glancing proof.
Still therein, our haunts denied…

What is this space, from desk to chair,
brimmed with dancing smoke and stare?
What silence drawn, this ragged space
where man spills out in dreams displaced?
Musky corner in burgundy touts
rich mental prisoners, objects, that route
the mind away…

Here good purpose resides
in what imagination hides
and chooses to bring forth –
stories new, yet told before,
of love, and war,
and kisses stolen,
innocence, laughs and jests once spoken…
eddy currents in ether and shadow,
fertile fragrance, one note stretched hollow
befriends the quiet’s patience in turn,
so to this space, this memory burned…

    …herein, my life resides…


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