Pull up a log
and sit still long
enough to hear
the endless clicking
of the millions of
fallen and browning
leaves that lay strewn
upon the wooded
forest floor.
Tell me from
where it comes.
If you might.
Is it the crunching
of tiny bugs
looking for food?
Or the rise and
fall of each on
each in the
gentle wind.
As for me
it is nature’s
simple lure
to draw us in.
Stay. Only stay
until it no
longer matters.
Stay.
Did he feel the
anguished twisting
lo those many years
of angst and wind;
torment and despair.
If he had been a
person, we’d have
never heard an end.
Yet, the change was
daily and long, tedious
and unending. His life
silently never the same.
Hide your infinite
heart out among the
blueberries; so,
when my soul is
flagging and weak
I might go there and
wander - tasting the air
for you and closing my
eyes in a fondness
of your rich aroma.
Lure me in on the
whispers you planted
in the dirt. The ones
watered into leaf and
branch; giving full
bloom and sensual
exposure to the dewy
fronds of your sacred
and passionate love.
For, I am easily given
over to your wiles; and
haunted by the thrum
of your soul in my own.
So, hide your infinite
heart out among the
blueberries, ever so and
always. Please.
The darkness given off
by the shadows on the hills
calls the heart into a collusion
with wonder and suspicion.
Do they portend something
more than the beauty they
cast across the surface of the
earth and precincts of the eyes.
When do we read more into
what we behold; and, when
is that the way to go. For now
I’ll stop at grandeur not at omen.
And the river flows on by,
unaware of any hint of dilemma.
Grandeur, not omen.
Scattered beyond
the range of my
broadcasting throw,
the seeds of silence
took their root in
the spaces between
the rocks of the
walkway to the well.
And, the sprouts
and seedlings in
the cracks of the walk
sing their silences
aloud as we wend
our way nearer
the well. The well
of stillness and of
deep listening.
What could a word hold
if you gave it a chance.
Could it contain a string
of memories and meanings,
like a bag of candy on
Halloween. This one is from
the Smiths at the end of the
street who have a son name
Joey who plays army with me
on the weekends and lets me
sleep over. That one is from
Nana next door who lets me
stay at her house everyday
after school - milk and cookies
and a big swing set out back.
Might colors and music be
hidden deep inside, escaping
with a burst like a calliope or a
fireworks display. First a cymbal
crash and a pipe organ. Next
a fountain of endless blues and
silver.
Or do they already harbor
those associations within, just
beyond reach if we do not
listen, ruminate, and pause. Giving
ample space for their dimensions
to unfurl. Like the flags of countless
nations fallen limp until the great
gusts of wind grab them and
twirl them into dances.
It takes great sweeps of time to
press the juice out of a word.
Little by endless little; pressing,
always for more. Until. Until
the cup is full, the hint exposed,
the meaning grasped firmly and
that inner self sated and content.
Place all your intent in every word,
and pause - always for an instant or
more if you may - to soak up what
hides in the corner of every letter.
What could a word hold
if you gave it a chance.
Fair banks and hills about us lay, they rise along the river-side;
where sun and color soon retire,
and fade from view all light of day.
I’ll steal some red from cardinal crest,
and pillage blue from bluebird nape;
palm iridescent hues and shades,
and throw them in a bowl awhile.
To stir, and knead, and soon return,
the vivid touches of the day.
Lest as the darkness cover all,
my heart would miss this river so.
