Write to Wander

write to wander 4

It is a time to time

One of a kind..

ZEN.

Echoed places joined by lost traces.

Occasional small town places

filled with

postcards, wildlife…

kind native faces.

Here and there.

All in one plots of…

not so fallen graces.

write to wander 4I am the trapped stone beneath the

fallen tree trunk and her roots.

Peacefully

unaware

of things

left to do.

‘Had a nightmare last night…about having nothing to write about. No more, needs, wants, take or give. No love or hate! This morning I began to think about the squirrels nesting in our trees. How they are throwing acorns down at me…taunting me in protest of their lack of food. As typical, my mind wandered to such things as; what is the gestation period of a squirrel? Why are they so loud when they are giving birth? Which sex, male or female…goes out and brings the ‘acorn’ home? And, which sex gets to play stay at home parent? And, suddenly, the nightmare went away. And, the writer’s world became…okay!’

-Robert Frost-

Franconia Notch NH

To Earthward

Robert Frost Farm Franconia NH the Earthward
Robert Frost Farm
Franconia NH
to Earthward

Tree at my Window – R. Frost

Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

Moo

The Cow in Apple Time by Robert Frost

Something inspires the only cow of late
To make no more of a wall than an open gate,
And think no more of wall-builders than fools.
Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools
A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,
She scorns a pasture withering to the root.
She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten.
The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.
She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.
She bellows on a knoll against the sky.
Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.  

Frost and Flannel

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The clapping hollow and harrowed noise of hiking boot on a hardwood floor

The mystery surrounding a Dixie cup of corn liquor.

The lanky old man

The slamming of the improperly fit…screen door.

After all hadn’t it been her way to travel down paths unknown

Granite faces

Fallen ways of cobblestone.

So what to make of a diminished thing

Long after the spring.

So what to make of a young writer’s dilemma.

My handler submerged in her own poetic plight.

Filled with daydreams

A self-imposed creator’s right.

Year after year

I have gone to what I know to be best.

Frost farms

a meandering Raven’s charm.

Indeed my only play had been what I found.

Chasing critiques that made little sound

Bending the white off the birch

Reflecting the dog’s menace to the earth.

Those days I ran on the ray’s of innocence

as though, sunlight glow no more.

A purposeful forgotten promise

fireside with my father at the cabin door.

So, again the basking of clove and lavender has begun

Will the ache ever be done.

Yes, I took a road less traveled

And, I shall not forget all I have chance to marvel.

the Oven Bird by Robert Frost

There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.