Tag Archives: The Balance

Garden Bench

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Golden ochre steeped in time,
aged by every season’s crime,
twined through burnished lacquer’s rust,
recalling each last sunray’s lust,
and every blue jay’s call…

Here it sits in still refrain
beneath the willow’s sweeping mane,
here imbibes in summer’s wine,
cast between these reaching vines,
that too, each year recall…

Among this life in moments stalled,
drifting cries of summer fall,
merge the glad of waiting dusk
with laughter from the day’s sweet musk,
and so record it all…

In grains of oak now tarnished brown,
in rusted bolts and furled crown,
in baked on mud upon its feet,
together aging perfumes sweet,
so sits here proudly small…
in whispers, beckons all…

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Photography, Poetry, Universal Soul, Willow Tree

Step and Repeat (Human History)

Cast and forged in nature’s fire,
setting sun, low, reaching long…
across the smithy’s face of soot
the glimmered rays contrast the gold
and hammered sparks of iron,
bent to will,
graced to twist,
blends in halo delicate,
beneath the hammer and the fist.

By might of nature, by strength of man,
these countries forged to bend the will,
die hard in heated steeps of anguish,
dig deep within, stand now to fill
a history’s tale of heroes gone,
epic lives, villain’s greed,
echoed o’er the tongues of young
standing in the shadowed seed
of what will surely rise to fall,
of what will fail in hateful calls,
of what will rise to mend the sum,
when heroes day courageous comes.

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry

March

March wind stalls,
too bold,
within a broken azure sky,
bends beneath the will of spring,
grey and white,
scents bluster by.
Crisply,
winter’s air regained,
season’s linens hanging fresh,
warming flesh in hopeful mirth,
chilled cheek and nose and breath.
Subtle hints in whispers low,
stir the thrushes,
simple song,
stretching daylight’s feathered wings,
moments gained,
hopes grown long.
Winter’s echoed calling,
softly coaxing soil to spring,
stretches length across the day,
life in suit,
draws taut the string.
Granted love within the soil,
life and death,
reform in birth,
burgeoned blessings build again,
the core of life,
this earth.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

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.

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Filed under Nature, Perspective, Photography, Poetry

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.

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

Of What Men Know

What stands before the path of man that to his conscious calls?
What errant spun devices cast a doubt where shadows fall?
What is the fleeting last regret that spins a temporal web of lies?
What casts a haunting second breath before the mournful cries?

Tis locked in deep regression, where only courage can transcend.
Tis in the danced illusion that wraps his mortal soul in sin.
Tis nothing less than innocence engaged in dreams beyond.
Tis only shied experience ‘till age can take it on.

For here upon the precipice of aging mortal waves,
is seen a lifetime’s counter call in triumphed moments saved.
Here recall the history that to these feet has blessed,
that what’s before in mystery has once or twice been second guessed.

To grey and tattered countenance upon the head and cheeks.
To moment’s hope impaled in hate forever left beneath white peaks.
To kindest wrinkles manifest by laughter stolen in a sleep.
To every living texture’s thread so stitched within the soul so deep.

Raise a glass to history! Call a toast to life!
Sing a song of mystery that courage grows from human strife!
Bless the living innocents that by their lacking wisdom go,
to fall and muster strength to rise and come to this of what men know.

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Filed under Growth, Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

The Crap They Serve

The moments hang between the stains of dusk and clinging dawn,
scratched in ageless epitaph across each verse of rhyme-less song.

The anger builds toward aging, denied the path where knowledge runs,
therein betrayed the honor owned, left to steep in fading sun.

Incredulous the false become when to their faltered minds they pray
a mount of sermons spewing, yet not a single word they say.

An age in bringing mind here, sacrifice for “working” gains,
now left behind as youthful hope, in sweat and blood, in honest stains.

So now I’ll leave the peddled path
where minds are bought for selfish lathe.
I’ll leave the future’s rotting yeast
to feed their soon encountered beast.

Into the woods and river’s berm
where hope, I pray, will fast return
to grant a peace so well deserved,
to cast to grey the crap they’ve served!

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul