Photo and a Poem

When you are in the wind
And your hair is flying 
Before your face, eyes, total face
Faster than your heartbeat
So swift do the thoughts, the mind,
Go from
Diurnal to eternal
We are everlasting each
Minute we are alert in our lives.

Unshackled

morning breaks
scattering dreams
into crooks of memory
leaving only an ache in the heart
knowing some thing haunted the night

day’s hours drag on
like a shackled foot
hindered from running away
longing to escape impediments left by darkness
oh to dispel botheration and to press forward

mind and memory merge to embrace the heart
soothing abrasions unhealed
warm breeze dries tears puddled in a cowl
sun kisses lips quivered and cracked
fragments of joy take hands
the Master heals night’s attempt to ruin His plan

On Writing a Play for Me

As I told my gull,
 
I’m writing a play just for me.
I could pull my heart out just as easily.
Reach in through my chest and pull, pull, pull it free.
 
Oh would I be able to
                        Buy an App
                        Push a button
                        Hit a key
 
Then I’d have my life back.
 
Of course, this is my life!
Which is what’s bugging me.

At Herring Cove

After a week of storms, 
gulls gather to take advantage 
of bread I’ve saved for them. 

I don’t know where gulls 
shelter or feed in high winds
and heavy rain, but they’re here 

again, bringing their hunger 
forward, fanning the air with their wings, 
making their own singular music.

Resting

This direction has paid off...
            Turning to the moment fully, completely --
                        a hidden world,
                        we are overlooking.
            Richer, fuller, more coherent,
                        alive in the moment...
Instead, reaching for less,
            falsely promised as more,
            trying to get enough.
When more than can be grasped,
            more than can be touched all at once,
                        hinting infinite,
                        is there...
The endless oil deposits
            lie beneath our own little yard...

Winter Jacket

There’s a chill in the air
and a biting wind that will take one’s breath away

But the sunshine pulls at me
and I can’t resist
So I wrap myself in layers 
head to toe & out I go

Dreaming of shorts & flip flops
And the scent of ocean air 
Planning beach walks in my mind
Thinking about sunsets and bon fires

Imagining longs walks home under the stars with a warm breeze brushing my skin

Without one more thought of my winter jacket

First snow of the season
Bringing smiles to observers 
Such large flakes
Slowly passing downward
Lighting the dark Winter landscape 
When gathering together on a bough
They clump into sorbet forms
Tempting the Robins who peck into them
Winter becomes bright in the boughs
Defeating the dark of the day
Sorbet Snow, dessert for the eyes. 

Nine-Line Poem
Dedicated to Hilde Oleson

The sun is getting low
How fragile our life is so
We still do not know.

We were bumped aside for a while then.
We missed our first stop back when
But we’re on the rails again,

We have future fall-backs in tow.
And our destination below.
Even so.

How Fortunate

At times,
            each thing and task
            seems to have its place;
And is there
            with dignity and virtue.
How fortunate
            to happen upon this.
And what abundance there must be
            to provide for all of this.
Now who should we thank?
            Perhaps it's the space all around,
            made fresh every instant.

Thunder

Sure’s been around
here, lately loud.

Yesterday, yesterday
the thunder, blooming.

Then this morning
even more booming.

Is this the sound of natural nature?
Or the call of something larger looming?

Twilight

all my cares
cradled in
a crescent moon
a crafted charm
circling the neck
of the universe
crabbing the wind
cuddling among the stars
capturing my angst

I rock myself to sleep
tucked in curves
of twilight
cloaked in mist
of settling seconds
slipping into night
breathing the scents
of day done
calling promises of tomorrow.

Heron

The heron knows
soft and steady
long stride onto the beach
watching
staring
vigilant
eyes
unwavering
waiting
It’s her
slow
and steady
gaze and gait
and wait

her knowingness
calls
calm

My SELF

In the coming up of the sun today,
My self felt wrapped around by feelings of the good.
Whereas even moments before,
It never could.

Before that it had been thrown
down into that evil, snarly well,
Wherein my most violent
And vicious devils dwell.   

But now resides my reformed self   
High upon an elevated shelf
Relishing the green grass and the glassy glacier. 
Where my soul can again thrive.

On the Water

I would live on the water,
tuck my beak into my feathers to sleep,
allow my body to drift and sway while I dream of eating mollusks.

I'd find a handsome mallard with a head of green to take up the rear of our paddling, and swim
away from dangers,
taking refuge in the sun.

Provincetown

When the wind hits my face
And the sun warms my soul
And the salt air greets my lips 
I hold you close Provincetown 

No matter where my heart roams 
No matter where my feet land
No matter where my head rests

Anywhere the wind, the sun, and salt air have their way with me
I will always think of you 

Dharma

The red boat spills her color
onto the cobalt-azure bay.
Strands of teal weave twilight.

Empty and unburdened by wind-driven sails,
the boat tethers, non-resistant,
as birds call and double in the glass of low tide
cracking the rock-hard silence.

When the heron comes to rest,
her feathers like threads of seagrass,
the boat’s broad gunwales allow.
She stories the water with refuge
balancing the moon’s invisible bidding
as the tide’s ragged breathing
curls closer.

I wade into the delicate reflection
of a dusk-bound sky, the sea
cuffing its cool body around my legs.
The mellifluous ping of a bell from the pier
strengthens my resolve to focus
on this vessel, her reflection
absorbed by the hungry, fading light.

I am searching for a way forward in this world,
in the rising and the falling waters,
in the unknowable shift of sand,
and slowly, |
the red boat turns in the patient spiral
of an intricate shell
to tell me her name
is Dharma.         

At the Sea

Waves rise red on First Beach.
My daughters and I jump the crests, faces
seaweed-splotched; take breaks
to search for shells we hope will hold
the ocean’s hum. Two gulls
squabble like sisters over the sweet
leg of a crab. Each time the tide
swells to an unexpected height,
my older girl drags me deeper
while the younger grabs my other hand
and pulls toward shore.
The sun is finishing. Soon
the water’s chill will force us to the car
whose seats we’ll cover with damp sand.
Rushing for the shower, we’ll peel off
bathing suits and watch red seaweed
puddle on the hotel floor.
Now we deny our gooseflesh, dunk
under for warmth. Savor each wave
as sun’s final crimson turns the sky
into a mirror of the sea.

One Time

Through the careful lace of beech leaves
            stretched on close set trees
by the water’s edge,
the sinking sun reflected
over the full length of the pond.
First, a steady yellow white,
              slowly turned toward orange,
              then became an active flame
whose flicker seemed about
to ignite more than the reach
that danced from the sun’s flame.
The gradually deepening scene
                began to feel universal,
                representing many.
                But in the end further,
                no, this is just this one.

Dilemma

I do not understand this world at all.
I have lived here longer than most,
A quiet person mostly, watching,
Listening.
I have seen sunsets that set your heart on fire
Along with the sky, and days that ended with a whimper.
I have watched the cracking of an egg,
Broken from within by a tiny beak,
And felt the pressure of a human life bound in breath.
I see the beauty that surrounds us, the calmness
And the strength.
Today the water invites us in to swim
Tomorrow it will tear apart the shore.
The hand that bakes the bread also wields the whip.
Lips that frame the sweetest song can send a curse.
The smallest cloud can hide a blazing sun.
We all are so alike in laughter and in fear.
Our trembling legs and clapping hands come to us
Naturally.
Yet each of us believes we are unique.
No-one is quite like us. Like snowflakes we descend
Upon this world to make a momentary difference.
Sometimes we give a gift of beauty, sometimes trouble.
Yet we alone have been given the gift of words
To share.

Purring of the Cat

The purring of the cat
Is pleasing to our ears
It is why they have
Lived with us lo these many years
They walk upon the counter
With litter dusted feet
And sneak a taste of butter
As their purloined treat

We no longer let them
Outside of the house
For fear of death
By critters, cars and such
No longer do they
Bestow on us endowments
Of bunny, bird, or mouse
Voles and playful chipmunks
Cavort around the deck and chairs
Birds come to the feeders
And the nectar trough
Then go and chase
The sky for bugs
The purring cat will sit in front
Of the screen at the open door
Crouched low with twitching tail
Ready as were his ancestors
To fetch his evening meal

Morning Lesson

Perhaps we should all wake before the morning.
At least a time or two

To watch the morning come into our world.

It does not knock upon our door,
But silently, almost shyly,

Slides in behind the cover of beauty.

Clouds made of gossamer, fluffy white or dark
With threats of dropping our life-giving rain.

It lightens the sky gradually,

Spreading the light slowly.

It never forces us to notice,

But gives its mellow pleasure freely.

We can accept its bounty,

Rejoice in the light,

Or just live our little lives quietly

Not noticing its message.

Wind Over the Dunes

Howls cry from the bay,
lost souls, misplaced spirits,
screeching above the waters,
making the sea stand erect,
stretching to the heavens,
then bending
to beach the shoreline,
breach the dunes.

Wailing clouds
scranch brush and trees,
snapping branches,
reaching ghostly fingers,
fists pounding doors, scratching panes.
Yowling shrieks,
begging entrance,
aroused by harmony held within.

Cowering cottages brace,
enduring the siege,
half in fear, half with pity
for those caught in such eternal dilemma,
praying not to succumb to it all.

As quickly as the scourge is released,
the sea reclaims,
drawing, ingesting the cursed,
swallowing each ebullition,                
whisking all away,
receding one sandbar at a time.            
Cottage dwellers breathe,
grateful to be spared the anguish,
determined to begin a better day.  

A Mother

She lives among the very needy,
those less able, undeveloped,
immature with unlimited potential.
They are her charges, her purpose.
All she wants for them
is the best, the best there is.

Sometimes her best is all
she can promise or give.
Yet, she nurtures, ministers, aids,
teaches, wipes, cooks, worries within,
managing options, covering basics,
sacrifice, her constant companion.

She wants them to grow,
to be independent after her time,
to be safe finding their way,
to be happy and successful,
to endure, to overcome their troubles,
to celebrate all their days, not just some.

Her quest is their future,
a destination with no road map
with pitfalls, exacting challenges,
a constant search for the sunlight in each day
as they inch closer to the precipice of full life.
She doesn’t control their opportunities.

It is her daily duty to steer them
with a dependable, steady hand
preparing them, encouraging them
as they form, all her effort
an investment in their chances.
They are hers, she is theirs.

The Blessing

More than likely
I have a blessing every day.
But today I felt it.
As I walked to a tiny patch of wild green growth
I call my garden
I felt it come down upon me.
Softer than mist, gentler than a rainbow,
I felt it touch soft fingers to my hair.
I felt a breeze move a gossamer shawl
Around my shoulders.
Softly a delicate strand of hope, of love, of sweet desire
Wound itself around my head.
My brain protested for a moment, unbelieving
That life could be good, that people
Meant to be kind, that all is moving as it should
In this chaotic world.
But peace moves slowly, irresolutely
Until I felt a softening of resolve,
A gladness, waking up my senses.
A comfort for a wound long healed,
A strength to face a problem I had not addressed,
As I walked on, it all melded into me,
As I reached the garden plot
The beauty of the dew falling upon it
Baptised me with new knowledge, new hope,
New vigor. Each day presents another growth
And blessing, if we can only feel it,
Or so the garden said.

The Blessing

More than likely
I have a blessing every day.
But today I felt it.
As I walked to a tiny patch of wild green growth
I call my garden
I felt it come down upon me.
Softer than mist, gentler than a rainbow,
I felt it touch soft fingers to my hair.
I felt a breeze move a gossamer shawl
Around my shoulders.
Softly a delicate strand of hope, of love, of sweet desire
Wound itself around my head.
My brain protested for a moment, unbelieving
That life could be good, that people
Meant to be kind, that all is moving as it should
In this chaotic world.
But peace moves slowly, irresolutely
Until I felt a softening of resolve,
A gladness, waking up my senses.
A comfort for a wound long healed,
A strength to face a problem I had not addressed,
As I walked on, it all melded into me,
As I reached the garden plot
The beauty of the dew falling upon it
Baptised me with new knowledge, new hope,
New vigor. Each day presents another growth
And blessing, if we can only feel it,
Or so the garden said.

Loss

As Rainbows We are

Awesomely

Flickering

Against a Dark Sky

Tenuous

Vulnerable

Fragile

A Ravens Feather Cascades

To The Canyon Floor

Our Collective Heartbeat

Is Revealed

by

A Thunderous Crack of

Lightning

March Moon

I see your bright light on my shade early.
Arise, I open.
See you staring me down.
I give you my eye,
And ask, how different must I
be to be worthy of you?

Herring River Inlet

First the ice retreats on goliath feet,
then the ancient nursery lies naked,
hemlocks rise again, kettleponds and lakes,
bulrush cocks his ear to a benthic beat.

Out in the humpback, dolphin lairds besport
with fair courtesans, but the compass jams.
The beach beckons with primordial magick
and then they’re stranded with breath sucking short.

The sound haunts us, we owe you for your myth,
we ken of drowning sailors towed to land,
carrion is no option for human hands
so it’s proper that we respond forthwith.

Now! Hale the chanting be worthy to mate,
be thou whale-wander, atlantis awaits.

Salted Windows

winter etched on humming panes
frosting each with salted sand
blowing from the frozen sea
crusting cottage, ground and me

I sit wrapped in warming threads
sipping hot aromatic tea
writing sunny words of love
seek to keep and save my soul
from chilly winds and worries bold

days are long
my heart has throbbed
words I whisper
deemed silenced ache
kept within the walls
of my soul

I will keep inside the windows
scratch a heart on crusted salt
write the words
I need to share
not concerned if
heard or cared

it is the journey
to be myself
enjoy the world
and tend this soul
living by the sea

indeed the salted glass
remains my window to within
and my solace to without

Seas shall rise
Not to anyone’s surprise
Low lying lands 
Will be inundated
Where thar be land
There will be no place 
Left to stand
Boats will launch
To rescue those in need 
Of salvation

Storms will come
Despite preparations being done
With increasing
Strength and vigor
Frame and fabric of manmade 
Structures and institutions
Will be torn asunder 
Massive trees will topple
Landscapes will go dark
Increasing the worlds trepidation

Wildfires light our skies
Obscuring sunset and sunrise
Man and beast flee in terror
Fueled by drought dried tinder
Fanned by malevolent winds
Terraforming begins
Adjusting to several increased
Degrees of Celsius
Unlike the Phoenix
There will be no resurrection

Change
Constant

Mist sits on the water
wintering ducks glide
as if In a snow globe

Voices hidden in the air
originate from the trees,
soft steps over the pine needles
Or, is it the cold air mingled with imaginings in my mind
I hear?

Everything is gray

Chalky sky,
falls into the pond
unyielding cloud
that’s rolled in to
overtake the trees
capture the mountain

in
one
full
blink

Just like that
Everything before me, erased

Surrealistic Sleep

The body aches.
Neurons stretch, misfire -
a hundred hungry dragons
all teeth and fire -
all for transcendent illumination.

Under the ground,
in the deep passages
panting in the heat -
veins of volcanic plasma
throb, surround me heavily.

Ahead I see in seeping darkness
a wide opened mouth
of a cave shrouded
in scintillating blackness;
a passageway perhaps?

My sodden steps falter,
a vine encircles my heart
pulling tighter -
pulling me towards wakefulness.

I speak into the gloom giving
me a choice to proceed or not.
I’m not ready to go yet
and stop
letting the light creep back in.

The Year
What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

Fog
(Apologies to Carl Sandburg)

Fog come in on budget figures morning.
Unexpected, without warning.
The eye fights, but can’t tell numbers
That tear and strain to add
And if see, can’t remember.
Subtract doesn’t. 4.35-2.18 won’t,
To anything don’t.
6 read, an 8 a .
Vision precluded.
Right half of it clouded.
Sit back, remove glasses, try relax.
Try more stretching, anything, accept the facts..
Breathe deep look out window.
No storm outside.
Everything looks normal there, music as usual.
Only storm is in me.
Lie down, remove glasses, squeeze.
Relax, talk down.
Not losing your mind. Not losing your mind.
So you say.
Then your soul’s slight breezes.
Numbers start to smile again.
Hour of agony breezed away.
The sun has come for you and is all smiling.
Poems can rhyme again.
Words make sense.
Numbers can add easily.
You don’t have to doubt yourself anymore.

For now.

Nettle the Night

waiting    
wondering   
tossing    
restless
praying for that hypnagogic moment
bridging wakefulness to peaceful quiescence     
craving deep escape
into oblivion of imaginations
prodding pillows    
hoping to release the magic dust of dreams
     ─inhale
beg mind and body to succumb    
     ─immerse
willingly captured     
fall under the spell of slumber
once again   
     ─yet remains
tease of hauntings
by plethora of words    
visions dancing wildly    
     ─intruding   
nipping like pincers of the day
playing caustic game of hide and seek
with the veil of sleep
     ─still
     seeking
sensing crossing
a threshold of consciousness
challenging the creative mind

Mareotic Marsh

The northwest winds of November cut over the bay. Stays clink uneasy on metal, spars moan in a moonstruck chorus, ketches quiver and rock at their mooring.

Across the causeway, reeds raise skeletal stalks, tufted plumes set to sail. The long sleep approaches. Shall we rise again, supple in spring? What were our past lives? We strain to recall lovers strolling to rendez-vous, when Sagittarius loosed a hollow shaft through the heart. Or money changing hands over dubious powder, whispered alchemy secrets, a young widow aching over a photograph. We half-remember.

The first flakes of snow sting the cheek. The chimneys at the Red Inn whine as the gale gathers strength.

Rushes bend and flatten. Stubble anchors a thin wisp of hope.

Bombogenesis

From a seed to a sapling
To a tree tall, thin and proud
I stood with my neighbors
Giving shelter to the birds
Through storm after storm
With thunder and lightning
Wind force for sure
Fifty years later
Surviving Hurricane Bob
Countless nor’easters
Straight line wind summer storms
Recent drought conditions
Have tested my mettle
Last night with two large lows
Colliding, forming an unnamed storm
Abrupt drop in pressure
A bombogenesis event
I twisted and turned
Bent to the ground
As I had done for 5 decades or more
Suddenly
Violently
Contorted
A loud crack and snap
Over I went shattered and dead

What We See

Lying prone on warm sand,
Watching the sky move and change,
The clouds hover and shift, one tiny cloud
Moves swiftly as though borne by the wind,
Seems to fall, recovers, lifts again.
I watched enthralled, until I see that
It was my perception.
Actually, it is below the clouds and is a gull,
Riding a thermal joyously
No flapping wings, no effort given.
When I considered it a cloud
Was it more, a part of the sky?
Or was it less, a fallible thing of limited life?
Are we more valuable humans
When we are seen to be of value?
Is it the joy of nature that makes life such a happy place
Or is it all in the beholders eye?

Early Morning

There is a special peace in the early morning,
a solitude of quiet purpose after the wakening. The day breaks, flora, fauna and spirit refreshed, the air warming to the daylight
in the brilliant red paint sky of sun rise.
This time of day speaks to me in its calmness, its invitation to engage the natural order,
to resume the routine of the expected,
embrace the challenge of the unexpected,
even if a slight drizzle intervenes
or an overnight dew impedes.
It is the reason.

Dunes

You know how much sand gets shuffled around
on an average day in September?
Enough of the stuff to bury this town
and way more than god can remember.
Horrendous amounts in the rip offshore,
a steady slip-streaming cataract
that gouges ravines in the ocean floor,
artisans peaked hills, and then moves it back. 
Careful guardian autumn minds the shop.
Feminine breath overspreads the land
insinuating her body downslope
with rivulets of fine powder sand.
On Herring Cove it sorts itself out.
Waves laugh when they’re playing with pebbles,
the hem of her gown is always crowded,
gems on an average September day. 

Window

I have a window on the world. 
It is my front porch, 
On Commercial Street which is so aptly named
Where everyone must go to buy their goods.
As they walk by, 
The old man shuffling with shoulders bent, 
The boy that flies on winged feet, 
The laughing girls on bikes decorated
With flowers and horns and laughter.
The mothers, hardly more than girls themselves, 
Pushing bright carriages with smiling faces peering out. 
Then there are men pushing baby strollers from which
Other types of faces are staring out. 
There is the bull-dog who has lost mobility and sits 
In grumpy silence, bearing this indignity.
Then there is the pup who found the trip too long
And is relieved to hitch a ride. 
A blissful grey kitty-cat who does believe it is her due
And sits erect to preen as we observe. 
There is a mother dragging a screaming boy who was refused the chance
To buy one more un-needed toy. 
The baby crying for its food as though it’s little heart would break.
The boy sitting on his father’s sturdy shoulders, 
Feeling near the sky and laughing. 
A summer town where often it is only people passing by, 
We seldom get to know the stories. Did the baby get his bottle?
Is the old man safely home?
We trust that life goes on, that all rides end in safety. 
As night pulls near, the traffic changes.
Frivolity, romance, appear, and though it is now different
The window still provides a view of life. 
Each day ends, a new day dawns
Bringing new stories every day. 

Sand dunes

Rock teaches me nothing: it never cries in the rain, and light deflects off its face. It marshals bastions, pulpits and moats. Bridges reflect royalty; they open the road between warring shores and support the steady tramp of feet.

I have built a house on sand, by design, with no fixed address. This house will fall again and again. I will shed belongings with every disaster. Soon I will live in a yurt. My world revolves around Polaris, the one immutable point. Our conversation anchors me in the flowing dunes. 

I invite the scouring force of the wind. Petty baggage erodes away. My polished bones will someday receive the sun. My ribs will embrace its truth and await its final command.

Corn Hill Beach

We lay on our backs -
my brother and I -
on the cool ground of Grand Central
as he pointed out to me
Orion's belt, no trousers,
and the dippers
which I always confused
for ladles.

"And here is Ursa …",
until a cop came and told us
to get up and stop star gazing
and, jeez, didn't we know this is Grand Central
and you can't do that stuff
here.

These are not
those painted stars.
And there's no cop telling us
to move along.

Just the moonless night sky
flecked with light,
and you
in my arms
as we crane our necks against the dark
to behold
the dazzling ladles.

Moonlight

Last night the moon rose full
and yellow 
and smiling, 
over the bay. 
 
On the moon’s footprint,
the sea sparkled,
like tiny bits of broken sunshine, 
laughing along the water.
 
This is a poem, I thought

Outspoken Heart

But one thing is certain:
If we merge mercy with might,
and might with right
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children’s birthright
The Hill We Climb, Amanda Gorman

Looking back, I search for loves
I knew
I grew
I left, adieu
for clues
the glue that
pieced my heart together.

Out of my first love,
oedipal love,
inedible love
a broken heart grew this outspoken heart
which later found art
to kickstart
a different life from the family life
yes, there was strife, but somehow I midwifed a new life,
with my palette knife and canvas white,
despite the blues, I found the light
I’d be alright! and I was, and I am.

at fifteen unseen
I flee, I spree to
tambourine, the yellowsubmarine
searching in my youth
lurching toward my truth.
Who sees love, who seizes love who?

I, a black sheep, they tried to put to sleep but
my escape
brought me where:
the seascape fills my dreamscape
marks my heart-shape
shapes my life-ship
seeds my love from above
where my life-vest
is my gracenote
keeping my outspoken heart afloat

Sunset

A CAMPFIRE IN
THE CLOUDS

SUCH DRAMA
EACH SUNSET
NO TWO THE SAME
AS WE

Spring Flowers

Now I am old and have been
through many stages of life.
My body's movement is muffled,
with its actions curtailed,
not reaching many outcomes
that were common.
But each new insight
has the freshness of a young plant in spring
popping from the ground of an ever fertile present,
this very now,
the current moment,
forever unworn and undiminished in its relevance,
as if I were still young and new.

Sunday morning I kiss the cats and hug the dogs as I head out with my place holder, my time machine

In the garden where so many have come before me I am bewitched by my senses
The soft dance of piano keys accompanying me and a visual feast of green and flora dancing in the morning harbor wind
Every shade of the color palette represented in these last weeks of their show

A new season is approaching and I set my intentions
To go further than ever before
To ascend to the realm of the clouds, form and formless as they pass slowly to show us the beauty of change
With the stars true and forever
Time constant time changing
Steady as the stars, evolving like the clouds

To ascend to the place from where we came, of all knowing and love
The Greeks called it Katasterimoi
"The place where the God's put the stars"
True and mutable is the compass to get me there
My heart

Springing Again

Some of us live our lives when we are young.
Some of us just stand back and watch and listen.
Some of us hide in shadows,
While others stand out proudly, doing hand-stands
And tricks that demand someone notice.
Yet we all end up in the same place—
Alone until we fall in love.
Then we all find the miracle we waited for.
Love is the great equalizer.
At last we know that we all have equal desires,
As well as fears.
We know that someone cares,
That love can kiss and heal all wounds,
Make what was once a simple life
Into a miracle of joy.
The trees that stood barren and quiet thru the winter
Burst into bud and then a frenzy of blossoms
As our hearts as well pick up the pace
To join the renewal spring brings.

At the Harbor

Some days,
light passing 
its benevolent hands
over the water
and upended boats
is enough to break
your heart. Break it
open, I mean. And
what spills out
might surprise you,
like that sudden
laughing gull
rising into the air
and dropping
its shelled lunch
at your feet,
a gift.

The Sign(s) of the Fox

The sign(s) of the
Fox have always
Been here, less when
The signs and stigmata
Of the coyote are present
The telltales include
Scat on the trail
Pawprints in the sand
Small yellow urine target
In the snow, tracks
Around the bird feeder
Seen especially after a rain
Today out of my
Peripheral vision
A flash of reddish brown
And there she was
An adolescent by the
Stature and markings
Snuffling in the
Detritus below the feeder
Suddenly freezing and
Striking a pointers pose
A shake of her rump
Then a quick cat-like
Swish of her tail
Followed by a pouncy
Leap into the beach grass
The fox rises smiling
With a vole clenched
In its jaws
Jauntily it strode
Down the path
And into the scrub pine.

Together

Much of my memories are our memories,
            of many things we did,
            in so many places.
Much of my surroundings are our surroundings,
            that we formed and made together,
            side by side with thought and effort.
Many of my views are our views,
            that shaped over time,
            through mutual concern and discussion.
Much of my self is our self,
            that was born long ago,
            and grew with dynamics of one being.
 
                        I do not live alone...

In her final weeks she was given a book,
Signs of Spring
I thought what an odd title to give a
dying Woman
Then I thought the signs of spring must
equate to rebirth
She was headed to her season upon the
completion of the book
One by one till all chapters were done her
story came to its end
I have not thought of this book for
decades
Until this little bird
She reminded me of her, of them
Our cycles and our seasons, our signs of
spring

New Day

I saw the day begin.
Not such a great night
A lot of aches and pains made life a painful thing
But as I watched the clock
It turned from night to AM.
It told me --
Yes, I am.
So are you. And neither of us
Knows what that means.
What will today be?
A bearer of rare gifts--
Like smiles of happiness in the faces
Of those we love.
A ray of sunshine slipping into a dark day?
Will conquering that lingering fear be enough?
Or do we need to seek a deeper source?
The balance of our lives lies in the moves we make each day.
The day lies whole and innocent
Before us. A script that only we can write,
So with the morning sun
We have to light our own day
Spending these precious moments as we choose
To make the morning’s promises come true.

Life!
Nobody gives you a recipe
You have to cook it up for yourself
Choose the ingredients
Make sure they match
Avoid indigestion 
And fill your stomach
For energy-action
Love all good that’s before you
Avoid the negative
Don’t quit. Keep going
You will know you were right.

Herring Cove

Sun sets over the ocean at Herring Cove.
Coyotes calling, freedom
throughout the dunes
as the sky turns an orange purple laugh into a deep respect.

Tide, rolling in
Lapping / lulling
and the lands end beacon sends out its steady even blink,
Here
I
Am.

Night falls,
The pier with its fishing boats
still, as the black water of the night
takes hold
offering a new perspective.

January Sunset

Cold January day
Leaden clouds
Hanging low overhead
The ocean surface
Is calm, shrouded
In dull grey
As afternoon drew
To a close
On the western horizon
Clouds parted
And sunset blossomed
In a bright
Carnelian display.

Curious Considerations

Day breaks on a rain soaked day.
Wind begins to fluster treetops.
The fury of it all
remains at bay,
promising to consume
soon enough.

Mind and body
move in slow motion.
Gestures, conversations meander
reposeful and measured.
Thoughts seem trapped,
as collected in a dust rag
waiting to be shaken out
in the breeze.

As the outside roils,
inside falls into lazy descent.
One more project,
a few more words,
then,
sleep weighing on my eyelids,
will be rewarded
and I will allow
such remedy to soothe my spirit.

Character

Each pond, with its place in the woods,
holds distinct layout and character,
where especially in winter,
with no one visible,
a unique and singular serenity is expressed.