Category Archives: Poetry

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
unfathomable,
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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Purpose?

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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