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.

to Listen…Again

It is so quiet on the hill.

You can hear the crickets yawn and the grasshoppers stretch.

The ravens above echo, silence, such a simple thing.

It is so quiet on the hill.

You can hear the squirrels chew and the chipmunks sigh.

It is in these moments, I learn to listen…again.

to Tinker and Wane

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.

Fife Farm, Franklin NH

When Worlds Collide

the Beatles

Tell me true,

what is it that you feel?

Does a passerby…shower hurt your sense and sensibility?

Do the clouds above pad your nobility?

What a different world…when walking into someone else’s words.

Some spend a natural lifetime looking for answers.

Lifting every immobile boulder.

Each knowing in the precious present…what we get is older.

In the heart and the head.

In the lily and the pond.

In the here and beyond.

Mother and Her Nature and Beauty

What beauty can be…

a lone mushroom

a barren tree

or some ragged weeds.

Mother and her nature do not judge my scars…

skinned lines that carried me so far.

Nor am I aware of discretions while I scamper towards her majesty.

….

I can stammer my words of poetry

often erratic

often loose like a noose.

Yet, Mother and her nature…decide my needs.