I Often Think of the Color Black

I often think of the color black,

an unnatural shade that takes me back

to those dark days before the dawn

when my soul withered beneath her scorn.

Where else in nature does it appear,

hidden deep within the heart of fear

or those dark silent moonless nights

where nothing grows in the absence of light?

Is it even a color at all,

to show autumn’s dance every Fall

or catch the spark in a child’s eye

or the shades of blue in the morning sky?

I think not, in the end,

to think of black as colors blend.

It only exists with our passive consent

to color the world with my discontent.

Light in the Trees

We stand firm against the sun

Leaving our muted dust behind.

A smile for all eternity,

The bedrock lover’s rhyme.

And all there is in life to do,

We search among the shadows fall.

Living not for our dying day

But breathe instead the lighted way.

The Fine Art of Weeding

Down on bended knee,

the evidence of sad neglect

lies before me.

Tufts of green clumps sprout

among the rocks.

Paper, cloth and memories

piled high or boxed away

in dark closets

and the dark recesses of my mind.

Resigned to the task at last,

I begin the work of peeling away

the vast clutter of my life:

All the unread books,

All the unrealized dreams,

All the too tight jeans,

All the sad regrets,

All the friends who

are friends no more,

And the damn weeds!

With a subtle twist of the wrist

and a sharp yank at the roots

(remember to get the roots or

the weeds will return

in numbers larger than before)

…the battle begins.

Once lifted from the soil,

I lay the casualties aside,

turning a blind eye to

what I have done.

I feel both liberated and sad,

but somehow more in control of

my newly fashioned life.

A cleansing of the soul

can only begin with

A cleansing of your space,

inside and out.

Down by the River

Down by the river the boats quickly flee

The old man by the tree is staring at me

Self conscious eyes burn into mine

Two distant souls in need of a sign

To the panorama of the river I turn

As the wind whistles its lamenting concern

Faint music from across the river drifts by

The pulsing sun is warm in the sky

People fishing by the dock talking loud

My thoughts lost in some ephemeral cloud

A young mother sits on a bench in the shade

The currents of my sad regret soon fade

Down by the river in this small river town

The old man by the tree, I realize is me!

Through the Open Window

Through the open window

and down the spotlight path,

far beyond the darkened tower

and the shrouded sentry’s wrath.

I float above the humming wires

to the copse of trees beyond,

where the air is damp and fresh

with my soul I will abscond.

For so long I’ve contemplated

this final moment of release,

to taste the dew of freedom

from the horrors that never cease.

To rejoin the living world

and leave all fear behind,

with the promise of tomorrow

we will repair our lives in time.

So come at last sweet sanctuary

I reach out and touch your face,

just as the iron doors clang

and they rip me from your grace.

Jesus on the Bridge

In the far away places of my memory

we saw misty mountains from the ridge.

The cathedral looms above the square

like Jesus on the Bridge.

Dark stone towers mark the crossing

as we work our way through the crowds.

The faceless vendors hype their wares

in the shadows of the clouds.

The homeless man kneels before me

outstretched arms extended wide.

With palms turned up in supplication

a sleeping dog by his side.

A few coins for absolution

and we hurry along our way,

to the next tour attraction

fighting back feelings of dismay.

All this splendor amidst the poor,

the palace shines upon the ridge.

As we look down upon the lost

like Jesus on the Bridge.

Late Summer by the River

Late summer by the river,

I watch the shadows fall.

The kids have left the nest!

Wondering,

Where will they turn up next?

Alone or together,

We are heading for the Fall.

Dispersed,

The seeds to the wind,

The birds in the air,

Continents away but

We are still here.

Where will life take them?

Can the journey be safe?

We are born to fly and born to die,

Forever contemplating why.

We just do and rarely see.

Let the sun rise over the trees

As the clouds drift on by.

Sitting alone in this chair

My hand moves across the page,

Liberating my thoughts from

The haze of a silent dream.

Empty nest, so they say,

Is the start of a brand new day.

The dog and me and Mary too!

Together we will watch the shadows fall

And the breeze ripple across the water.

As the squirrels gather their nuts

And the brown leaves slowly curl,

As the nights grow softly cool,

The endless summer comes to an end.

The birds have flown,

The flowers wilted,

The fruit is ripe on the vine.

Sad to know

They were all once mine!

As my summer comes to a close,

I think of summers gone by.

Summer is for kids

Who are kids no more.

Autumn is for us.

The twilight of the year.

The days grow short

As the years disappear.

But the young birds return

For many summers to come,

And see new flowers grow,

And know where they are from.

Reaching for the Light - A Meditation on New Life

I. On the birth of my grandson!

Oh, what joy you inspire with

your timorous baby's cry.

Yours is a world of form and shadow;

of sounds distant but yet familiar.

Breathe in the soothing sharp air so light.

An innocence as pure and white, like

blossoms of Queen Anne's Lace swayed

in the warm summer breeze tonight.

Reaching and turning to our delight;

eyes still closed but always looking up.

You never stop reaching for the light!

ll. Though you could not see the smiles as

you kicked and jabbed with all your might,

you instinctively knew you were loved.

All swathed in cotton and lace,

you were passed from one to another.

A gift so precious and unique

in all the world, there can be found no other.

Helpless though you may be, you are perfection;

the latest edition of a glorious form.

Always reaching for the light!

lll. Circumstances of birth as provided by providence

and secured without question by all who love you.

My world is not your own; endeavor to make it better.

The time and tide of fate will light your path.

Reach out to your destiny with each passing year.

Always reaching for the light!

lV. Rocking in the sun, delicate as Queen Anne's Lace,

I wonder, as I gaze upon your gentle features,

where we both shall be sixty years hence, and I

pray with all my might, we are both in a better place.

You, in a world far more forgiving, among those you love,

and me among the memories.

Our time together will be brief, but you will know

my story as surely as you write your own.

Soon you will smile and walk and speak,

and see clearly what truths form in the light.

Never stop reaching for the light!

The Wall

Wall of graffiti, writ large with despair.

Troubled soul in need of repair.

A moment in life, the moment is now.

Now and then.

Now and then.

To contemplate dreams and see it all fail.

To throw away life in an emotional gale.

And who will judge in the end?

Right or Wrong?

Right or Wrong?

It should admit of first choice,

If you want to choose.

Take the next step, just one life to lose.

Life or Death?

Life or Death?

But contemplate this before you decide:

The wall is not thick, it crumbles inside.

Look beyond now, another day waits.

A life worth living,

I can see!

I can see!

Dancing with Balloons

White summer dress in

the soft morning light.    

Bold vibrant colors

anxious cries of delight.

She spins through shadows

dancing with balloons.

A transcendent spirit

her faith subsumed.

A cloudless blue sky

and the rush of hot air.

Earthly tethers release

at the county fair.

They slowly ascend in

the waterless sea.

These shiny bright orbs

are finally free.

The cameras click as

the ritual unfolds.

Crowding the sky

with translucent souls.

And the woman in white

feels redemption at hand.

As the risen fade from view

dancing to a new land.

Come Sit for Awhile

The mournful train whistle so near,

like contrails in the sky mark time,

remind me of why I am here.

The clock and the calendar chime,

as they count each breath I will take,

I drift through the years of my prime.

So I come to sit by the lake,

in the cool late afternoon shade,

and bathe my senses in its wake.

Golden silence as the sun fades,

soft hollow whisper of the trees,

sinful glow on dancing leaf blades.

Feel the pulse of the wind tease

dark water into dappled light,

hurried along by an unseen breeze.

See the setting sun through eyes shut tight,

whisper to your soul with style,

hear the song birds sing with delight.

So I say, come sit for awhile!

No thoughts to intrude,

No task left unfinished,

No guilt to assume,

No regrets to conceal,

No words to cause pain.

When the geese call,

leave with a smile.

So I say, come sit for awhile.

Moon Glow

Stars that dip beneath the trees,

cast a light so I can see,

beyond the shadows near,

but far from my reality.

Moon glow round the trace,

summer breeze upon my face.

Only loneliness do I fear,

I stand alone for the human race.

Then a sliver of pulsing white,

hung in the dark trees so bright,

no glorious fanfare did I hear,

just beauty in a form so slight.

As if God himself heard my call,

with only hope against the fall,

a truth to which I can adhere.

I need to know, once and for all.

Inspired by Robert Frost's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

Running the Payette

Running the Payette

     on an afternoon in June.

Confined within our raft,

     helmets and vests secure.

Water foaming white

     above the shoals.

Working together

     and sometimes not!

We struggle through the rapids

     and glide along the pools.

A guide to help us steer

     between the breaks.

Always on the lookout

     for the strainers and the rocks.

We paddle hard

     to maintain our course.

We hardly notice

     the shores on either side.

Or the beauty all around us!

Moving much too fast,

     trading risks for thrills.

For it is not the destination

     that counts.

We all get there 

     by and by:

To the flatwater!

It is the ride we make,

     the obstacles we avoid,

The danger we dared,

     and the teamwork.

The shared sense

     of experience,

And the relief when

     it is all over.

Life is like running the Payette

     on an afternoon in June.

The Homeless Man and the Passerby

I stop and stare and wonder why!

What brought you to this time and place?

Music from his soul whispers a sigh,

Shelter of stone in this homeless space.

I snap the shutter with silent regret,

An image framed in sad neglect.

His inner light a distant star,

A silent prayer echoes from afar.

The homeless man and the passerby,

There but for the grace of God go I.

And who am I to judge this poor man?

His soul knows more sorrow than others can.

Time's Arrow - A Meditation

Time is a beach,

only water and sand,

nothing else in between

the wet fingers of my hand.

One ends and the other begins.

The future forever becoming the past,

and the present just an illusion,

to make me think time can last.

I wade into the wake

if just for a short while,

so I can catch a glimpse

of your sweet fading smile.

But the light from your eye

like the light from a star

is light from the past

no matter how far.

Time indeed marches on.

We slip in and out of its wave,

building our sandcastles,

looking for something to save.

The passage of time is no ally.

From minutes to hours the years go by.

From long decades to years,

 only hours and minutes lie.

I watch the sun arc across the sky.

I count the lines on my face.

I listen to the clock mark the seconds fly.

And my arrow, its arc almost complete

moves ever closer to the sea,

upon which someday

its tarnished tip will be.

Alida

She came on a ship

from across the sea.

A chance meeting in church,

Alida and me.

A gaelic ginger

as fair as can be.

A soft freckled face,

I can still see.

So soon after marriage

we moved by the sea.

A cottage on a hill,

where we could be free.

Young love in a hurry

our souls became three.

We had a child,

Alida and me.

A mother's death after birth

Oh, how cruel fate can be.

We now meet in the churchyard,

Alida and me.

And as Poe might have written

in his kingdom by the sea;

I live for our daughter,

My Annabell Lee.

A March Wind Blows

A March wind blows

and the shadows fall.

In the hard sunlight

singing branches call.

Last of the winter snow,

dirt brown upon the ground,

looks somehow out of place,

exposed to long days now found.

Birds in the trees seek shelter,

not beating to an unseen tide,

or soar high above the gusts

with feathered sails spread wide.

And I behind my window,

reflected in a pane of glass,

bask in the warm bright rays

and listen to the wind's echo pass.

The Steeple and the Tree

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.

Antietam Creek

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

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.