Stopping By…Frost

 

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

stopping 3

the Merrimack: Pauper Cemetery, Revisited

‘What a peculiar fascination,’ one would say.

Yet, looking at it with morning eyes,

I would have it no other way!

Each and everyone, designed to suffer.

And, once gone,

only pillared stories remain.

Tales of wanting to rule our world.

 

In proper, pauper, place, every name, one in the same.

The convicts that have come to maintain.

They too, have no name.

As I stroll the rails, to an obliged gate.

There is a sense to where laughter, remorse and bad tidings…

could have begun.

Almost an inkling is given, to stare, directly into the sun.

Thus a retort, my constant fascination, lies in the work…

Still needing to be done.

 

 

the Grain of Hard Labor

Set upon a lonesome hill

A macrame of buildings and self-will.

Adeptly placed into landscape from the vacant window sill.

Communities of back-breaking promises.

Handed down chores.

Much too often,

the stoking of fire from within.

And, chipped among  the frail lead paint

above and below, a rustic hearth

A lost world in the grain of hard labor.

Absent but ever-present…

shallow silo…

broken apple carts.

What a chorus to this…

heavenly, family farm.

Motions beset by synchronicity.

An untouchable charm.

Act of Valor by Tecumseh

So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.imageedit_68_7975298907
Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.
When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.
When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.

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http://www.dav.org

the Blade or the Brake

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Pristine and crisp…like a second chance to catch a breath.

Traveling to far-flung acres looking for the new growth of more.

Dank darkness combined with black coffee before propping open… of the barn door.

 

As a young farm hand, I had chance to renew the fields.

Scrubbing for sod.

Boasting with migrant workers during a noon time meal.

 

In the innocence, a lifetime discovery…

tractors run but they also roll.

Choices made were all in timing the blade or the brake.

How little to know…a dry season would be all the calamity it takes.