Monthly Archives: December 2015

Oh Christmas Tree


In deeper woods, I’d rarely been,
where northern slope, in winter’s grin,
gathers every fir to stand knee deep in softened snow.

In verdant green amidst the cold,
sweet azure peeked with rays of gold
that coaxed the drifts to rise, dancing light in season’s show.

They stood quite close, in counsel there,
limbs locked on limbs, defenses shared,
confounding sense which path to tread.

Yet I with bow and axe in hand,
begged a prayer’s peaceful stand,
that for this Christmas deep in wood, one tree might bless my stead.

Snow above form boughs did bless
upon my head, or soft redress,
opened yet a path and clearing toward sun and open light.

There before my steps I’d see,
upon a ridge stretched long and free,
a single fir in perfect pose that beckoned hope of Christmas night.

Yet as I neared its lonely perch,
in drifted snow I’d sought to search,
a sacred hush stayed my heart and anxious soul to pause.

There as I stood, my senses real,
I seemed in church, I felt to kneel
there before the snowy pulpit, beg forgiveness of my cause.

At that moment, the day grew dim,
snow began, enclosed me in
with whispers of each flake’s descent and I in hallowed light.

Knowing that this one lone pine
had drawn my spirit out in kind,
I said a prayer of thanks and drew my return alone that night.

Each day that passed grew sweet with love,
though it snowed and stormed above,
something special was brewing mine.

Till Christmas eve, across the dell,
beneath the north faced forest’s vail,
a brilliant light was seen to rise from a sacred lonely pine.

‘Twas then I knew, was graced to see,
the blessing of a single tree,
the blessing of a simple proof
that grants the hope of Christmas truth.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry

Before This Hearth and Fire

Silent slice of evening,
drawn thick in in season’s sweetest air,
sustained before the hearth and fire,
paused, a moment mounted rare.

Quiet Christmas carols ring
within the town, across the vale,
till gently whispered through these woods,
faintly caught, unbroken, frail.

A longed for calm reclaims each thread
sewn true in life’s recanting,
softly sets the embers golden,
warms with grace and peace, enchanting.

Dreaming growls escape the hearth
where near my aging hound lies sleeping,
fields of fox and rabbit chase
within the warm fire’s keeping.

In silence, wine and pipe sustain
this moment’s sweet attire,
draws a Christmas hope for peace
before this hearth and fire.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry

Broken Dawn

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Painted thin beneath the dawn, a steel grey world rejoices morn,
tho nothing in this moment’s play gives rise to thought that hope is born.

Slow breezes bite and fiercely gnaw at stalks of summer’s grasses, downed.
Cattails’ chorus, stiff and brash, mourning in a whispered sound.
Tattered, torn, hollow reeds of spring’s seductive blushing,
crushed beneath the ice and snow, tossed in panic’s rushing.

Horizon holds the key. No hint of warmth is brought from thee.

Blackened poplar drives a nail of hopelessness in slivers,
renouncing dawning light’s quick glimpse. The distance holds a shiver.
Ice in flows from aged snows pins here and there to earth,
beneath a solid mastic flood where none escape its scattered girth.

Bitter. Uncontained. Eternal death and grey’s disdain.

Yet notice how the dawning light paints rivulets of frosted time.
Feel the sharp awareness build a frozen poise, sublime.
How perfectly the pain’s displayed
in grass and reed whose cattails fray.
How true the starving tree defies
the threat of death, the naked cries
of hungry ice in winter’s hand
tossed by driven wind’s demand.
How every frozen rivulet sustained in waves upon the ground,
stretches sensual, luxurious, across the patchy earth it drowns.

In supplication, mourning songs drift through the meadow’s air,
holding vigil, holding patience, while whispering a prayer.
The ghosts of summer haunt here, captured and betrayed,
to paint this lea horrifically, requited here in death, displayed.

Oh! Sorrow in this languid sight
that draws the bitter morn from night,
for winter’s step has just begun,
much more of what is here will come.

Spring, the hope and harbinger of dreams in softened virile soil,
yet only clings in beauty’s mask within this season’s toil.
Yet hope remains in hopelessness, when death and sleeping cast their play,
for time is what will take them past the frozen grace that runs this day.


Filed under Nature, Perspective, Photography, Poetry

A Poet’s Lantern

In moments hence the haunting bends and dances in return, one breath to take between the panes of glass that holds its wicked burn.

Insatiate flickered spectre seldom stains a friendly gest, more apt to burn a grimaced sneer upon the walls of plaster’s mess. Solemn sheen in stroked repose, a black bird’s gaunt and rivulet eye, driven red by blackened hell in silhouette of the candle’s cry.

Enough! It wails to empty rooms that hold no hope or promise, so bathes despair in lapping light ‘cross ceiling’s naked beams and cornice. Its ghostly echoed beat is cast in vacant space there stretched and lost before the loft where passions stale and light is neither seen nor lost.

As the evening tarries on its sadness sorrows till its told, then bursts in lapping length of flame to blacken what remains in hold of prison glass wherein its held, a lantern’s captive, a jealous cell that can’t sustain the light of day, nor grant the loft a luscious play of softened shadows’ sensuous fall to lovers locked, or lonesome call. So lingers midst the tallowed fats to light the path to crumbs for rats, to bring the raven stuffed, to life, or simply fill this poet’s room with source for fear, with threat of gloom.

Good candle in your prison kept, ‘tis in fear’s pheromones that you’ve wept, now drowning in your sorrow’s blood, pooled upon your flame in flood, grieve not your life’s been spent in vain, for every shadow cast in flame between the glass that holds you in is granted life by poet’s pen.

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Crystal Breath

Paused before the frozen lea,
in subtle murmured rhythm,
a hidden rill in whisper sings
a quiet song of heaven.

Alpine giants upon their knees,
stretch low to earth to listen,
their sacred prayer hushed in woods
whose sun kissed boughs of emerald glisten.

No single soul disturbs the peace
within this supplication,
gently blessing winter’s love
across the drifting white’s elation.

In witness stands a wolf in grey,
transfixed upon a slope and seam,
lone with head in reverent bow,
eyes closed in silent dream.

His crystal breath moves round him,
in echo to the rill’s sweet song,
drawn in single dawning ray
suspended ‘cross the meadow long.

Upon the morning field of white
a sea of diamonds stretch in fire,
blending blue and gold to bathe
this single prayer’s pyre.

Hidden at the forest’s edge
my heart and soul hold hallowed praise,
in awe of God’s sweet secret here,
enrapt by dawning’s brilliant rays.

What gentle hands that grant such peace,
what blessed soul entreats us,
what love blends balance in this day
with life and hope to keep us.


Filed under Grey Wolf, Mountains, Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul