Tag Archives: The Balance

Good Summer

Softly drifts the summer’s hush
that dearly holds the moments still,
while willow leaves, in rhythm captured,
relent to memory’s greater will.

Bathed in scents of summer green,
as waning light gives way to dusk,
through garden’s verdant flush is twilled,
delivered sweet as warm day’s musk,

till here, in rest, retires…

Fresh cut summer grass,
ripened sweet tomato vine,
lavender in burgeoned bloom
adrift the dreams I call as mine.

Upon this season’s moment caught
I poll my histories’ waking,
recall these scents and breezes blushed
amidst the points of my own making…

Now sit…

Imbibe such sweet elixir,
grant my swim into the fold,
here moments passed form truth and treasure
to all the love and life I hold.

Good summer…

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Grace

Simple tho’ the waves retain their calling of the shore,
they bath in love’s inflection, reflected through the wanting more,
in constant gentle lapping, in soft seduction’s kiss,
they fold, unfold, recede to rise with purpose toward a dreaming bliss.

Coyly how the wind implies its gentle hush between the trees,
whose leaves reply in simple chime, quaking in the rhythm’s breeze,
yet holding fast exhilaration torn between the mounting gusts
that bear the point of rushing love, that blend the balm of forest’s must.

Lonely how the night awakes when to a full moon’s rise it bends
horizon’s light to welcome home that love the night will bright transcend,
and yet again as daybreak threatens night’s sweet secrets held,
it shades the sky in lover’s red and hints of lonely love now quelled.

Sorely how this nature’s want reaches through each passing phase
of light and wind and sea’s emotion surmounting all the lonely plays
that ride on every moment, that hold each flashing point in light,
that dream a dream of exultation, granted by their living right
to love, to want, to feel embrace
and through their own sweet blessing grant this living planet grace.

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Gossamer Thread

Spun in silence, a silver rhyme
stretched across a pedal’s pose,
captured small in non-assuming
glimpses of a summer’s rose,
whose fragrant folds in burgundy
entreat the kindest living heart,
who gently pulls a threaded line
that there upon sweet life takes part…
in morning’s captured dewdrop,
in midday’s buzzing busy bee,
in evening’s calm and respite…
no grander world or scale will see
or care to ponder longer,
or dream beyond with longing eye,
for by a gossamer thread and rose,
all life transcends us by and by.

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Above the Alpine Rill

High amid the summer fir,
engaged to overlook the rill
of winding valley’s rising mist,
one moment captured, standing still.

From the shadowed night behind,
swept a feathered rush of wings
just beyond the tall pine’s reach,
aloft this breath of morning, king!

Stoic eagle, timeless brother,
perched on valley’s rising din,
purveyor of this latitude,
great servant to the truth within.

There, by grace of silence
midst summer’s green of sweetened pine,
beheld the hushing heart of nature
in whispered words spoke true and kind…

“Here my sweet beloved
have you come to rest your soul,
where through this moment’s treasure
find the truth that bathes you whole.
Yet for you, in thankfulness,
return the kindness that you share,
in hidden whispered thoughts of God,
aloft this summer’s morning air.”

Not a single breath, took I,
entranced through every stretching beat,
as grace and time converged to still
this captured silence sweet.

… till I …

… till I …

… till I …

Embraced in mountain’s love and home,
adrift in summer’s thermal thrill,
returned His gentle whispered thoughts
suspended ‘bove the alpine rill.

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The Reed’s Lament

Bow to time in passing tide,
as reed beneath the strong spring’s flow,
in desperate stance against the current,
fingers white not letting go.

Last summer’s ancient memory calls
of standing tall midst songs of thrush,
whistling in the breezes there
that call their tunes in quiet rush.

Autumn faded fast to winter’s
standing cold near bank and glade,
christened stiff in season’s charge,
a soldier of the browning blade.

Yet hope held fast for fervent spring
when last all dues were done,
that here amidst the daffodils
would sweetly hear the spring creek run,
that here the hard earned penance paid
would grant reward near burgeoned spring,
to rejoice “at last I’ve made it!”
while chickadees and warblers sing.

How cruel this unexpected life
that drowns him in the current now,
bound by winter’s run-off,
must to its raging currents bow.

Spring will let to mending roots
of hope now torn from place,
drawn from sun’s sweet giving life
to patch the straining tears that face
the distant threat of winter
while standing midst a summer’s seam
with only hope to focus toward
the healing of his hopes and dream.

Cruel the tide of season’s mix
upon this changing earth,
granting life and death through chance
twixt distant temporal poles of birth.

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Blushing Dawn

In gentle rose of dawning light
this alpine meadow sings,
beckoned from her blushing right
to call to day, all things.

From quiet start to fluttered hurry,
all call from one to one to one,
till caught in flustered din and flurry
break the dawning peace in sum.

The forest floor reborn a-wild,
with subtle hints to work yet done,
casts the sun a dimpled smile
and to her burgeoned beauty come.

‘Tis simple best
this sweetly dressed
expression herein lain,
that she embrace
each living face
and with their souls remain.

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Grandfather Clock

Silence drones the space between
the ticking of the clock,
grants eternal patience
swept in pendulum’s play to mock.

The tension of the winding spring
stands the air to crème,
as hopeful hesitation calms
the pensive chimes to dream.

Built to serve a purpose.
Left to witness life.
Counting every breaking hour
twixt sweeps of joy and strife.

Dusted here in tender care
by shaking grey and lucid hands,
in hopes to hear its chimes once more
and toll this hall’s passing, grand,
for yet another hour.

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Atlantic Dawn

Dawn is drawn upon the rocks
where breakers still recede,
yet cling in dewy ocean mists
that soon to day concede.

Dappled greys of morning haze
deny the dawning light,
yet twist in trickster mistress’ hands,
seduced to blue on white.

Rolling cape exposed at nape
of neck in blushing sun,
bathes in morning’s warming glory
in cheeks of rose where love’s blood runs.

Kindly sigh the seagulls’ cries
that welcome home the crisp new day,
rise to exult heaven found,
kissed in dawning’s warming play.

Set in peace this sweet release
adrift in sacred sound,
where sun and shore embrace me,
as in their love I fully drown.

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Frozen Lea

Balanced o’er the snow white glade
a crescent moon defines the shade
where shadow’s silhouetted stretch
is cast from naked woods that fetch
the sharpest contrast on the white
in shades of blue by winter’s night,
so holds a truth in frost full air
as I in nipped nosed wonder stare
from edge of frozen rill and lea.

How oddly large this moons descends
as slightest arc of gold, transcends
the bitter bite of frost and cold,
denies the naked edge that holds
every living thing in pause
with steely frozen grip, so cause
to take a body back to home,
back to hearth and fire alone,
or back to nest in loving’s keep
where calm to peace and drift to sleep,
but in this slivered warmth I find
no want to leave this scene behind
so on the bank I stay to see.

Such stillness holds the wood in quiet,
that lowly heard, in subtle riot,
the speaking stream below my feet
decries its dreams in babbling sweet,
yet muffled ‘neath the winter’s ice,
still finds the heart to whisper twice
when ask again to please explain,
she hushes out the quiet same
and leaves me dreaming of the spring
where free to jump the banks and sing
beneath the warming sun,
yet frozen here her dreams do run
and here I’ve captured mine.

This lea, this meadow, this honest seam
stretched out across this night’s sweet dream
of frozen rill and diamond dust
of snowflake’s secret love, and trust
to give to crescent moon its spark
in pledge to color bright this dark
and frozen edge of winter’s night,
where from my perch I hold in sight
the elms in shadowed contrast still
that slow the moments by their will,
so stretch the night in lover’s swoon
retreating with the golden moon
behind horizon’s line.

This moment captured, this heart instilled
and with this winter night so filled
with every moment granted true
by silver moon and snow so blue.

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Christmas Truce of 1914

One hundred years ago this day, men at war found the courage to rise above, reach for peace, and strive to embody the reality of the meaning of Christmas.

The following found on the “History” web-site.   http://www.history.com/topics/christmas-truce-of-1914

Christmas Truce of 1914

During World War I, on and around Christmas Day 1914, the sounds of rifles firing and shells exploding faded in a number of places along the Western Front in favor of holiday celebrations in the trenches and gestures of goodwill between enemies.

On Christmas Eve, many German and British troops sang Christmas carols to each other across the lines, and at certain points the Allied soldiers even heard brass bands joining the Germans in their joyous singing.

At the first light of dawn on Christmas Day, some German soldiers emerged from their trenches and approached the Allied lines across no-man’s-land, calling out “Merry Christmas” in their enemies’ native tongues. At first, the Allied soldiers feared it was a trick, but seeing the Germans unarmed they climbed out of their trenches and shook hands with the enemy soldiers. The men exchanged presents of cigarettes and plum puddings and sang carols and songs. There was even a documented case of soldiers from opposing sides playing a good-natured game of soccer.

Some soldiers used this short-lived ceasefire for a more somber task: the retrieval of the bodies of fellow combatants who had fallen within the no-man’s land between the lines.

The so-called Christmas Truce of 1914 came only five months after the outbreak of war in Europe and was one of the last examples of the outdated notion of chivalry between enemies in warfare. It was never repeated—future attempts at holiday ceasefires were quashed by officers’ threats of disciplinary action—but it served as heartening proof, however brief, that beneath the brutal clash of weapons, the soldiers’ essential humanity endured.

During World War I, the soldiers on the Western Front did not expect to celebrate on the battlefield, but even a world war could not destroy the Christmas spirit

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