Memories of Sutton

A hundred year oak…now with faded auburn leaves.

Centuries of stone fences with homes long since gone.

The dogs unencumbered, free to explore a land unknown.

But still a muddied swimming hole is where they decided to roam.

We dodge dropping acorns from dismayed animals up above.

Deep in a forest untraveled,

I am reminded of that strawberry blonde child, sunfish and September early morning, in the plump sun.

Ghost House by Robert Frost

I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.

Minding Mushrooms

The fight remains in the hand tossed rubble and rubbish.

Hope…in the ache that wakes.

Not paradise up close and focus tight.

But by innate tapestry under the sun’s light.

No treading a path beyond fine.

The superfluous for the mind.

Signs of the Father

My Father used to say, peace be with you…

But it never was.

Holding a stark bare cross above the bedroom door…

I had been taught ‘this is love.’

Father would shake my hand until life caught hold

Eventually, in obsession, he became less bold.

My Father had sent me to deviant schools.

I had been taught of prejudice, good books, how to look for fools.