Pandemic I

A clean,

dry, and well

lighted place

carves out enough

space for me

to take up words again.

So cheap -  words 

seem to have

become - 

with chatter in

pandemic-speak all

the day long.

It took this long

for me to let a

niche be made

for sorting out of 

all things not only

un-related to the

pandemic, but not

related as well.

And so,

I sit in a shack

on the corner of

our 5 acre woods

in the Pocono 

Mountains, tracing

pencil lines onto

fresh pages of a 

fresh, new composition

book.

Knowing that I

would uncover things

that did not need

a pandemic to 

find ample worth.

Little Pieces of Paper

I would like
to write my poems
on little
pieces of paper and
hand them out
all around the world
to end violence, hatred,
and global warming.

I would like to
tend my gardens,

harvesting food and
flower to feed the hungry
and open the eyes
of the poor.

I would like to
sing songs that would
make people
cock their heads to
one side and wonder deeply
if "awe" was in
their blood.

A fox
leaves its path
silently in the drifting
snow
on a deserted hill

and only I have
been
a witness to its
straightness through
the powdered loam
and frozen air

before it is
covered by the night
wind.

In the moonlight
it all
just glistens.

from: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Full_moon.jpeg

I Know

I know what is
written on the underside
of the rocks.

The rocks that sit
on the bottom of the lakes,
that lay scattered
throughout the creekbeds
on all the earth.

It is stillness.
It is love.

Quietly clinging
to the surface of
the stones
stillness and love
call out to us

asking us to
take them in
make them a home
shelter them.

Can I find the
space in my ladened
heart to hold two
more things -

two things that will
set me free.

I reach into the
pool of life's
waters and I
gaze on the gifts
of the deep.

Today they are
mine.

_____

Peace,

Tom +

image from Sturgis Creekbeds