Field-space

While driving about

I put my mind

in the cornfield, 

whether the corn 

is high or stubbed.

And I know my 

heart will follow.

Connecting the land

between the pieces 

of my me.  Mingled

among the brown or

green it does not take

long for me to dive 

full on into the dirt;

head, heart, and all.

Along the line of sight 

and feeling, the self 

sets out to play. The 

hands tend to follow the  

movement of the eyes.

The heart, the movement

of the mind.  It’s not long

before the whole of my

me is getting into the act.

Imagine my amazement

when the murmuration of

starlings first lit their curve

across the tree-line along

the edge of the road.  My 

eyes dragged my mind 

to their edges, first up 

and then down; first right 

and then left. Almost 

instantaneously I forgot 

my center as if I had lunged 

pell-mell into this echolocation 

of their movement through 

space. It takes an instant 

to be transformed, if we let

loose the reins of the soul.

Freedom is just that close.

On The Way

On the way 

to on the trail,

a perpetual lean 

toward moving ahead.

Burgundy and gold

sassafras under foot

and in the trees tickle

my eyes and soul into

recognizing we are

back in the thin time

again.  The time when

meaning is mingled and

multiplied by the dampening

aroma of leaves beginning to

become undone, by the wind in

the trees caressing and rattling,

and by piles of apples laden with 

the bodies and carcasses of 

yellow jackets consuming their

fill.  The orange lancets of the

sumac point us in every direction - 

to wander and wonder ourselves

into being undone for a season;

undone with the purpose of simmering 

in the strong and occasional 

warming sun of day.  Because.

Just because.  The becauses of Autumn

hold me close and tight; close and tight

to my being and my reason for

breath.  Because.  Because.  Because.

All of my becauses are hidden;

hidden in the beauty of the Fall.

Listen for Me

 

Listen for me just below the surface of 

the ground, below the face of the dirt.

Listen for me among the dry and almost barren trees of autumn as they let go.

I will be softly singing among the mycelia, and all around their fungi and their spores.

I will be the blow and rattle between the browning parched oak trees’ falling leaves.

I won’t be very far away, my fondness for the beauty of nature will keep me close.

I’ll be under every new greening piece of life, pushing itself up out of the soil.

I’ll be on the back of every piece of lice between the feathers of the croaking raven.

On molds, and newts.  In springs, and sand.  Aloft in zephyrs and tornadoes all.

Every quark and quasar will whisper my hope; each star and nebula my poems.

I will not escape beyond the beyond that has riveted my soul with wonder and awe.

I will have nowhere else to go, but everywhere.  Listen for me and look.

Poems and Air-Fried Taters

I’ve come to the place this morning, 

the place we’re feeling is vitally important 

in meaning. The place just before where 

one thing gets converted into another. 

Like a word between languages.  The place 

just before where “feasgar math” becomes 

“good evening”.  The place where the notion 

to offer up the salutation is a feeling - a feeling 

of wishing to connect and bond.  Not the 

action itself of moving toward a one-ing of 

people.  The heavy place where there exists 

gossamer wisps of fragrant dreaming; and 

they are indistinguishably mingled among 

early morning sunrise and crusty eyelids 

being formed.  In that place, there be magic, 

and endless possibility.  Poems, and 

formulations live there. Waiting. That’s the 

place I’ve come to, and dammit, there I long to 

stay.  But alas, I’ve put the potatoes on to fry, 

and will have to settle for writing it out instead.

EVER ON AGAIN

 
I was wanting a stretch a land 

for settling down on, not for

forever, but just for a spell.

A generous space to spread

out some of my favorite ideas,

and words, images and sounds.

When prices grew too high, I 

looked beyond the usual fare.

To nooks and hidden hollers.

And then I found it.  Right here and 

right now inside my morning. A place 

so familiar; one I had overlooked.

I had needed to stop searching and

instead to start making.  The things I

longed for became things I now shaped.

Stillness.  Ample openness.  A touch of

fondness for what is.  A listening sense

of inquisitiveness.  A deep satisfaction.

There’s no regret for the time spent on

questing and exploration.  It is that hard

effort that multiplied my contentment.

The river of loving friendships and 

relations runs swiftly by the hills and 

knolls of tender kindnesses unearthed.

The dazzling awe and wonder of an

expansive vista are made more clear

in the presence of a simple silence.

The map for uncharted awareness and

unspoken exhilaration were on the back

of my impressions of this new day.

Here.  Here I will linger, until the gentle

breeze of clarity says it is time to go.

To go there, and there hope for a new clue.

Ever on.  Ever on.  Ever on, again.

Learning to Invite

The concentration of 

a poem is focused upon 

each word.  Its each and 

every place.  Here. Now.  

Listening for which words 

should come before and 

which should come after. 

Learning to invite some to 

stay and others to leave.

Poem is mine, ai generated poster.

Chambers of Stillness

 And what is it

you will hear today

in the chamber of

your stillness?

What distant echo 

from the silence?

The warbler will

return atop the tree

just outside meeting.

The purple of the

bruised memory of

your fathers death on 

the road will arise.

The creak and the

pop of the drying 

of the church bench

will fill your ears. 

What is it you will

hear today in the

chamber of your

stillness?  Or, will you

choose not to sit and

away yourself within?