This next poem is based on the theme of religion vs. nature; the man made world vs. the natural world. This debate is as old as recorded history. Still, it is a theme that appears often in my poetry. I have a love/hate relationship with religion. I … — This next poem is based on the theme of religion vs. nature; the man made world vs. the natural world. This debate is as old as recorded history. Still, it is a theme that appears often in my poetry. I have a love/hate relationship with religion. I acknowledge the beauty inherent in the stories, the code of ethics that form its foundation, and the power of faith. I abhor its divisiveness and its cult like suppression of free thought and scientific inquiry. On the one hand there is the natural world with its laws which are knowable through the application of reason and empirical study. On the other, there is religious dogma with its blind acceptance of the unknowable and its suppression of reason. Are the two ever compatible? I took a photograph of a church steeple in front of which was a large tree. The contrast struck me immediately. Religion symbolized by the steeple sharing time and place with a tree; a symbol of the natural world. Thus, the inspiration for this villanelle!

The Steeple and the Tree

James Molloy March 31, 2018

The steeple and the tree compete for the light.

Both lifting and turning by an unseen hand.

A communion of souls in the wilderness night.

We pray for redemption to make our lives right,

Kneeling before the altar by HIS command.

The steeple and the tree compete for the light.

Wise men in the pulpit preach second sight.

Right angles of the cross so hard to withstand.

A communion of souls in the wilderness night.

Leaves of the faithful turn, no longer bright.

Crimson and gold in the shadows once grand.

The steeple and the tree compete for the light.

As for me, random curves of a tree excite.

Nature without crosses, redemption at hand.

A communion of souls in the wilderness night.

Tiny angels in the branches sing songs of delight,

Under an altar of stars so carefully planned.

The steeple and the tree compete for the light.

A communion of souls in the wilderness night.

Dunker Church - Antietam National Battlefield - I have had a fascination with the American Civil War since I was a young boy. I have been to Gettysburg more times than I can remember. My bookshelves at home are stacked with Civil War history. I have… — Dunker Church - Antietam National Battlefield - I have had a fascination with the American Civil War since I was a young boy. I have been to Gettysburg more times than I can remember. My bookshelves at home are stacked with Civil War history. I have been on bus tours, attended seminars and created and taught a high school course on the war. The poem you are about to read pertains to my second favorite battlefield site; Antietam. I am proud to say that I have donated money to the Civil War Preservation Trust (of which I am a member) to help save a portion of this sacred ground from development. My oldest son began his professional career here as a member of the National Park Service. So, like Gettysburg, I have walked this battlefield on many occasions. I believe that Antietam, not Gettysburg, was the turning point of the Civil War. Above all tactical and strategic considerations, the battle changed the meaning of the war. After all, Antietam gave us the Emancipation Proclamation. The battle unfolded in three distinct phases; morning, mid-day and afternoon. Each phase centered around a landmark you can still visit today. The Dunker Church (above) for the morning phase, a sunken lane for the mid-day phase, and finally closing around a bridge that became known to history as Burnside’s Bridge. Lincoln did visit the battlefield shortly after its conclusion. So did Mathew Brady, whose photographs of the unburied dead shocked the nation. The poem Antietam Creek follows the course of the battle including Lincoln’s and Brady’s visit.

Antietam Creek

James Molloy March 23, 2018

Oh listen all foes who glory in war,

September day ripe with patriot gore.

Through South Mountain Pass from dawn to dusk,

Late summer sun the color of rust.

Rows of men rising up from the fields,

Banners of glory refusing to yield.

Sun ripened corn, white church in the morning,

This harvest of men serves as a warning.

Bearded generals in boots order ENGAGE!

Black powdered faces filled with rage.

The rebel yell now a dying refrain,

But the boys in blue cannot sustain.

A farmer's lane sunken with use,

Roar of a thousand muskets let loose.

Over rolling hills they slowly advance,

Eternity in an instant in this tragic war dance.

Cauldron of death compressed by stone,

A bridge to oblivion and thoughts of home.

Pushed to the limit like a long speeding train,

The water moves swiftly with the blood of the slain.

Tall man in black hallowed by war,

Asks in the stillness, what is it for?

His "terrible swift sword" will set men free,

The shadows now cast under the dying tree.

Black and white images convey the color of death,

For those who here breathed their last final breath.

The valley now rests with somber mystique,

For those who come visit Antietam Creek.

The Battle of Antietam, September 19, 1862, remains the single bloodiest day in United States history.

After the Storm

James Molloy March 20, 2018

Broken limbs scattered

White marrow of a tree

Wood and stone shattered

Bird nests in the debris.

Clumps of homes distended

Our fragile interiors exposed

Sudden silence descended

Moist windless calm imposed.

Ethereal green glow lingers

No songbirds sing with delight

Branches hang like dead men

Alone in the somber light.

In the sorrow of the moment

Our broken spirits mourn

My reflection in a puddle

Future burdens to be borne.

With quiet determination

Lifting one brick at a time

Buried beneath the rubble

The living and dead still lie.

Alone in Five Parts

James Molloy March 15, 2018

Solitary

He stands in the field like a solitary oak;

his identity revealed for all to see

the confusion and fear as if he just woke.

He reaches for the sky invisible to me.

Shadows

He looks in my eyes and sees all of his fears;

a life in the shadows so hard to define.

He turns away sadly to hide the tears;

compassion and understanding for one of mine.

Silence

Their pre-conceived notions mingle with fear;

challenged by parents who don't understand.

His solitary road so hard to make clear;

Their wall of silence so hard to withstand.

Listen

Like the tall tree in the field,

all alone in the mist,

he stands out in the crowd,

waiting for someone to listen.

Compassion

Identity lost in the soft morning haze;

is this my true self or just another phase?

Climb the fence and reach out to me;

compassion the new fashion for all to see!

To all the fathers of sons:

Remember always that he is not you, and to try and make him so will only serve to lessen those very bonds you wish to instill. Let him be who he is - and he will never disappoint you.

The Willow

James Molloy March 14, 2018

The Willow weeps beside the lake.

I stand beside her boughs,

Wondering where my future goes.

So long in sleep,

the green tendrils seep,

down to the waterline.

With each passing year

we lean just a little more.

The roots grow weak.

The sun runs its course.

I have always been fascinated by dreams. Where do they come from? How do they develop? What meaning, if any, do they contain? Not long ago, I took a photograph of the Rip van Winkle bridge disappearing into a fog bank. It occurred to me that a dream… — I have always been fascinated by dreams. Where do they come from? How do they develop? What meaning, if any, do they contain? Not long ago, I took a photograph of the Rip van Winkle bridge disappearing into a fog bank. It occurred to me that a dream is like that; the mind disappears in the mist and shapes and forms get distorted. A dream is a mirror image of reality on some level. My dreams are populated with people I know and on rare occasions, by creatures from the darkest depths of my id. Sometimes I remember them in great detail. More often only an uneasy feeling remains. I don't know how to interpret my dreams and I'm not sure I really want to learn. There are instances when I can connect a dream to some final thought as I drifted off to sleep. But it is the element of surprise that is more intriguing to me! Where did that come from? As disconcerting as they can sometimes be, I know one thing for sure; if I'm still dreaming I'm still alive, and that's a good thing! Here is my Bridge in Fog in 4 parts:

Bridge in Fog

James Molloy March 11, 2018

I. Each night we step out on the bridge of our mind.

Our steps are heavy from the weight of the day.

Vignettes of images and sounds;

of things we said or did,

or wished we had or had not.

We drop them like markers as we journey to the other side.

Waking moments as hard as steel.

They propel us to the other side,

and will guide us upon our return.

The bridge is shrouded in fog

and I wonder what awaits me.

II. The bridge spans the waters of my mind.

As I slip away with each step,

one reality ends and another begins.

The fog swirls and lifts and forms are revealed,

both strange and familiar.

What do I see?

What is? What will be?

What is me?

Where the hard truths come to light!

III. On the bridge I'm an observer of me

in a new dimension of self.

I can see and I can feel!

I can fly and sometimes fall!

I search but never find!

I am chased but never caught!

I experience joy and I know terror!

And it all seems so real except...

I never get to the end.

The forms shake me and wake me.

And that makes me sad and sometimes glad.

The bridge, so long in crossing,

where my demons hide,

where my desires thirst,

is recrossed in an instant.

And I am awake in the night.

IV. I live on both sides of the bridge in fog.

And which is more real?

Each time I cross I leave something behind,

where my soul is revealed,

where my mind wanders free.

I am somehow different if ever so slightly.

As I spend my day preparing to cross again.

It is so sad to see a once vibrant and vital building fall into slow decay. I suppose the same could be said of all of us. Like the things we build, time runs short on us all. The historic waterfront of a nearby village is a testament to the limited… — It is so sad to see a once vibrant and vital building fall into slow decay. I suppose the same could be said of all of us. Like the things we build, time runs short on us all. The historic waterfront of a nearby village is a testament to the limited life spans of all things made of wood and bone. But as the song suggests, what once was dead can live again, just as the twilight of every late Sunday afternoon is followed by a new week.

Late Sunday Afternoon

James Molloy March 10, 2018

Shadows cross the street, late Sunday afternoon.

The color of youth fades from us all too soon.

Purposeful life with thoughts he could feel,

now empty rooms paint starting to peel.

Kid in the street, now an old man in despair.

We turn away as if he's not there.

Sun sets on an old building in need of repair.

Lock the place down, take our business elsewhere.

Cracks in the brick, weeds climb up the wall.

Crowds in the street now hard to recall.

Echoes of silence in the afternoon sun.

An overwhelming sadness for what he once was.

Just bittersweet memories from a life now retired.

Tears of loneliness once the laughter expired.

Living for the moment, now living in the past.

Late Sunday afternoon of his life at long last.

Could there be life after death for this building of yore?

A timeless beauty without age no youth could ignore.

A restoration for which no coat of paint can supply.

Look to the forgotten past for a future blue sky.

Wisdom and knowledge this weathered frame does conceal.

Compassion with interest will soon serve to reveal.

Listen to the old man play his signature tune.

Come back to what was on a late Sunday afternoon.

Be Like A Tree

James Molloy March 10, 2018

Be like a tree, she said to me

and keep me always in your shade.

Spread your roots wide beneath us

and hold me firm to the home we have made.

Sow your seeds to the moist morning weeds

and bear fruit for us both to savor.

Offer sun and rain as the saplings soon feed

and shower them with leaves of your favor.

Reach for the sky as your branches grow high

and experience all that life has to offer.

Lend support as we climb and try to decide

on the bounty of nature you will proffer.

Protect us from the storm as we rise and take form,

through each passing season we grow.

Soon spring will reprieve what autumn must leave,

your life's legacy we are sure to know.

It was Thanksgiving 2014. An early season snow storm covered the landscape during the night. Despite the fact that we were entertaining friends and family that day, I woke early, grabbed my camera and headed out into the cool dawn. The world was sil… — It was Thanksgiving 2014. An early season snow storm covered the landscape during the night. Despite the fact that we were entertaining friends and family that day, I woke early, grabbed my camera and headed out into the cool dawn. The world was silent and beautiful!

Winter's Dawn

James Molloy March 10, 2018

Giving thanks on this day,

in the still purple light.

A cold November dawn,

early blanket of snow.

Young tree before me,

once green with new life.

Early morning light,

now covered in ice.

I find in the view,

a season now past.

So quiet the snow,

in ice covered life.

From the moment it clicks,

a new day is dawning.

The seasons are changing,

a reason to give thanks.

Photographed on Thanksgiving Day

Night Train Coming

James Molloy March 7, 2018

The dark sky is bright as I approach the midnight,

the distant light just a shimmer.

I wrestle vivid dreams only to choke back silent screams,

the rail of my past grows ever dimmer.

Parallel lies on the twin tracks of our lives,

the silver rails still shine.

Far round the bend waits the future we portend,

the distant engines whine.

Night train coming, I hit the ground running;

all my planning has brought me here.

Too terrible to contemplate, I can only anticipate

what the blinding light will make clear.

Long before it's seen the gleaming engine screams;

never quite what you expected.

The approach ever slow as the trees begin to glow;

my scarlet hopes soon deflected.

It's suddenly here the hard steel breathing fear;

the dim cast now blinding bright.

No longer concealed my track now revealed,

I step off into the light.

The Steeple and the Tree

Antietam Creek

After the Storm

Alone in Five Parts

The Willow

Bridge in Fog

Late Sunday Afternoon

Be Like A Tree

Winter's Dawn

Night Train Coming

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