"The Author-Preneur with Something To Say That You'll Love To Read."

Sweetness

The sweetness of
life is best
savored as its
tantalizing richness
is in our mouth;

its sumptuous aroma
is in our nose;

its complex vision
is in our eyes.  If
we cannot find
it then, how
will we inform
our desire and
long for it in
the days ahead.

Taste it, smell
it, see it before it
is gone that you
may weave elegant
tales of its absence
and how you
are broken
without it.

Taste first the
sweetness and
then weep;

not the other
way around.



This Oxbow Lake

This oxbow lake
of midlife is cut
off from
the full meander of
my days across this
earth-place.

Nutrients remain.
Gathered
from the countless
sloughing-offs of
their origins
far and away
in the collected-ness of
who I have been.

A childhood
memory of learning
to write my name
on the back of a
double blue card
from Candyland
having seeped into
the rock over which the
streaming of my pieces
have flowed.  An amble
along the cornfield
in the mid-winter
morning of my high school
days of trapping
is drawn up into the
tree trunk that sits
just at the water's edge.

But the whole of the water
is left to less than
it has been
by the rushing flood
of constant change
calling me away
from the well worn
bed of my days.

There is a circuitousness
to the love between geology
and our souls.  A way
we come full round to seeing
what and where we have been
and how we have become.

What moves beyond
and what remains
has been a question
that is given up
over and over throughout
the lives of humankind.

A flood pushes through
a sidewinding branch,
carving new routines
into the foundation of
our bedrock.  A handful
of things are left here,
but most are gone.

Who is the who
that is left behind?
A leaf floats across
the surface of the
river and is lodged
along the red clay
silt packed together
as a berm on the edges
of this water-course.
Tomorrow it shall
become dirt, too.

Who is the who
that determines meaning
as we shift and change
and idle in our banks
of the water of our days?

This oxbow lake
of midlife is cut
off from
the full meander of
my days across this
earth-place.

Nutrients remain.
Gathered
from the countless
sloughing-offs of
their origins
far and away
in the collected-ness of
who I have been.


This Oxbow Lake - The BEGINNING of a POEM

This oxbow lake
of midlife is cut
off from
the full meander of
my days across this
earth-place.

Left to less than
it has been
by the rushing flood
of constant change
calling me away
from the well worn
bed of my days.

There is a circuitousness
to the love between geology
and our souls.  A way
we come full round to seeing
what and where we have been
and how we have become.

A flood pushes through
a sidewinding branch,
carving new routines
into the foundation of
our bedrock.


Formation of a meader and ox-bow lake
    copied from: 

Lingering

You could tell
it was the fading
of the milkweed
blossoms

- those
fair and tender
blooms of the roadsides
and the fields.

Their scent
a lingering of
phlox and lilac;

hints of verbena
in the cool.

Their aroma mingles
strongly

and hangs
heavy

in both
the morning
and the evening
air.

How is it we cannot
describe a thing without
the using of another thing;

in a short or long chain of
descriptive words and
similes.

How might we say a life
without other lives to
spread the meaning out
before us in landscapes of
like and as.

Shades of purpling
pink and dusty roads
are vibrant in the softly
closing time and
hues of their
hiatus.

As they stand
there

on their stalks,

in the mingled earth
of all that has
come before

they are nothing
without the nutrients
of the past
soaking into them -

history matters.
Our lives and
theirs are nothing
more than

a giving over of
an aroma that is

part ours and part from
our people - from all
that have come before

It passes on

- through us -

like their scent

in this
cool breeze.

It lands upon
the lives of
all around

giving pause

a chance to smile
and to feel the special
inkling

that can only come
in a realization.

I love that smell.
I love that sight.
What can we not
gain from

their simple being.

We are this,

pieces of all that
have come before

given over to us
for this moment

and then,

then we are

theirs.  Carried
away

gently on the
tendrils
and tiny feet
of those

who have
sought to

gain from us -

one cool
draught;

an aroma
of majestic
sweetness

but only so
an hour.






A Fading Full Moon

It is a morning
for Chicory flowers,
Queen Anne's Lace,
and a silent, waning
full-moon.

They were all
just right there,
at my side
and straight ahead.

Honest ignorance
about something said
but not known.

That is all my
words can be when
I bring up the
beauty I see.

For I have not
written
these things into being;

I have only written
their written-ness
into verse.  Very
different.

The handiwork
that is written into all
creation comes from
a far more gifted hand;

a more robust tongue
crafts and gilds those
words.  Mine is the

pleasure to simply
point to them and say,

"ah, such glory."




I Look to the Hills

There is never any
doubt where my eyes
will look in this
idyllic landscape
of our home.

To the hills,
always to the hills
do I lift up my eyes;

I look to the hills.

Most times it is
an autonomic response
to my panning
across the horizon,

watchful and attentive
as a wonder-seeker,

an awe-junkie.
Trees call me to their
leaves or hollow absence
of the same;

pointing up

across the treetops
our hungry vision
is lured up, always up
toward the places in which
the landscape is pushed
heavenward by unseen
and colossal tectonic machinations.

Mountains, hills,
bluffs and ridges
pull our sight up them in
a backward alluviation of
fallen debris.

I look to the hills
and am lost in a
whirring noise
that is the backdrop
of all space and time.

Radical amazement has
come into me from what
these eyes have seen.

I behold glory in a
pile of earth, I feel
mystery in the tremendum
of these mountains,
I smell humility in the
dirt of these hills.

I look to the hills

and let the stillness in.


Some Days

Awaken.

Awaken if you

can from your own

self made drama of

things you have seen to

be the most important

things in

the world.

And,



look around you at

all of those who are

dying too young;

leaving before

they have tasted

the white peach in summer,

the avocado just ripened

this moment, the

day lily bulb sauted

in butter and sea salt.



There is one here

that just became a father,

and one there that

has just born a child.



This small baby has

just learned to breathe

without a machine,

and that child there

has finally laid down to

sleep - starving - in

a field of dead crops.



Is the rancor that you

have allowed to swallow you

so undoable that you

cannot smell the milkweed

blossoms as they invade

the machinations of your

soul that is trapped on

the treadmill you have

built yourself.

Awaken, myself.

Awaken.



Some days the

flash of truth can

light up my mind

and I can see



for a moment



everything as it is,

lightening revealing

the true lay of

the land.



Awaken myself.

Awaken.