Ugly Symmetry

With damage done…

A sparse oak will cling for life.

Past peak leafs will stay beyond the changing of a summer’s guard.

Beauty, evermore present… while seasons wane and become…increasingly hard.

Eclectic vibrancy fills the air with sighs of…relief.

Balancing the acts of outside forces…

Again and, again, flowers from the weeds.

When Great Trees Fall

When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.

When great trees fall
in forests,
small things recoil into silence,
their senses
eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
see with
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
examines,
gnaws on kind words
unsaid,
promised walks
never taken.

Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
Our souls,
dependent upon their
nurture,
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
radiance,
fall away.
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
caves.

And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.

Maya Angelou

Freckles in the Wind

freckles-1

As the shade ebbs and flows.

Tinkers and wanes.

There is a playful game.

Herein lies the difference between the ground below.

And, the time that flies above.

So careful in its place…maple leaf on a breezy chase.

The punctured weeds…not a trace of milky embrace.

Cat O’ 9, growing tired from the punishment.

Resting wearily with the sun at its back.

Before the winds came there had been a pact.

Be small, be torn, but take heed of the facts.

There are no wars to be won…

surrounded by tinted glass.

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Reticent Rubble

the grove 2

The War and the Peace…wash over me.

Remote and distant…I am not what I appear to be.
Sages and Mages and Philosophers and such…
have come here.
Their guile has spoken to the river’s run wild.
Yet, alone, one by one, they perch…
And, I am not in their final shrewd search.
Granite solid, wet and understated and an overgrown child.
Civilizations have gone astray inspite of my style.
War and Peace have come to my shore.
Searching for an easy door.
Missing the reticent rubble…looking for the golden ore.

How a Tree Bends

how a tree bends 2.jpg

Papered the stall with all.

All that is witty and wise.

Left the lid up to all the nonsense bought while watching fame rise.

Crutch and cane,

inches from a disabled reach.

These are the actions of a sightless woman willing to see.

Full knowing with glasses on…she is ill equipped to preach.

Supposing she mistook a tempered stone for gold.

Supposing in an enchanted forest,

there had been castaway quests to understand.

Suppose in the dark, she shall never share her travel plans.

SUPPORT

Hold on to what is good,
Even if it’s a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe,
Even if it’s a tree that stands by itself.