Ageless in the Woods

Amid the inclement weather.

There is almost always…great sacrifice with pride.

A demeanor to life where the individual does not hide.

Infinity does not stop for raging rivers to quietly…set aside indifference.

Complacency matures too much, much, more than a scarred flaw.

Fatality awaits the tree that does not bend.

And, mysterious, mischievous, onlookers do not have a sympathetic ear to lend.

the Snow Storm – Emerson

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hill and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farmhouse at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delated, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind’s masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hiddden thorn;
Fills up the famer’s lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and at the gate
A tapering turret overtops the work.
And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

Connoisseur of Cold

With enough imagination and time.eclectic-5

With enough imagination and time.

I have become a connoisseur of the cold.

The repetition.

The constant need for destination.

Peculiar manners in which aged snow becomes youthful.

I feel lost in thought.

Amid the quiet hum of winter’s animal.

Both being satisfying and dismal.


Stopping By…Frost


Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening


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 God’s Dandruff


The god’s dandruff starts at the post office.

And, with the light shake of a woolly head.


city limits to ragged countryside,

it begins to spread.

p s 1

There are days when travel can be conducted with a vacant stare.

Nothing mechanical…handled with care.

Then there are sequestered disturbances that require…

a  northern style of patience.

Fender benders, just happenstance.

The herd and I,


four wheels that have endured a ridden hard, life.


there is truth to mother nature’s cosmic style and wit.

Peril in watching her shake, shimmy and not…

give two shudders of a coiled fist.

Weeks can pass without a winter rinse.

Dirty and clumsy are the pedestrian’s footfall.

The moon and stars,

hang higher in heaven’s hall.

Welcome mats,

receive no calls.

With a constant toll paid…

frosty flakes of boxed shut-in’s…state,

‘Smoke ’em if you got ’em.

Roll it…as you see fit.’

As the lumbering tale has it…

when the cabin has a fever.

Mother begins to pout.

And, these are the squalls when having a half wit is better than none at all.

Finding humor,

akin to Rob, Peter to pay, Paul.



##New Hampshire Humor:

Statements made when someone is too full!  To swallow one’s pride.