POETS

Speaking rhythmically, musically
Of common things.
Things we'd never have thought to say
In such a peculiar way.

You speak most eloquently when alone.
'Tis alone that your thoughts come bubbling forth
And if paper and quill are near
You record the thoughts you choose to hold dear.

You'll weep over a flower's birth
Point out the passings of this Earth.
We often laugh at your naive expression
Of some complicated first impression.

You define and describe things we'd overlook.
But in short form, an article, never a book.
Yet books we often form from your random thought,
And upon purchasing wonder what we've bought.

Words! Words! More words you give
Trying to describe the moments we live.
The words you write persist because they touch us so.
We read the words you write and our minds caress their silky flow.

Poet!

Continue your vain attempt to express Life.
And, then, hold yourself above contempt.
Write your words!

****

MY WALKING STICK

‘Tis a lightly colored brown
Tinted with silver and grey
I happened upon it while walking one day.

It’s nearly three feet long
With a crook at one end
Just a slight turn
Where the branch chose to bend.

It has a thin split
Along half its length
Yet despite the weathering
It’s retained its strength.

Scattered here and there
Are spots where branches sprouted
Now worn and smoothed by time
Yet in spots rough and grouted.

At the bottom is a blunted end
Worn and smoothed

By sand and gravel
Smooth yet pitted by miles of travel.

At the top the tiny crook
Is smooth and polished
And fits my hand.

Just below the top
Is a darker spot
Where my sweat’s absorbed
By the stick’s drier top.

It takes my essence
And absorbs it there
As the miles we’ve walked
Soon absorbed my care.

Those miles we’ve walked together
Formed a bond
T’ween stick and man.

And here we sit
Midst cold winters days
Thinking, both stick and I
Of warm summer’s haze.

We’ve walked the fields
This stick and I
We’ve smelled the flowers
As we each passed by.

We saw the birds
As they took wing
We heard the raspy voices
As crickets sing.

So I’ve sat by the fire
With my stick many nights
Dreaming of summer’s
Myriad colorful sights.

Soon we’ll walk together
As we’ve walked before
And see new sights
Which our memories store.

When I’ve gone
Long after I die
I hope this stick
Will continue to fly.

That some good friend
Will lay it to rest
But amongst the trees
Not across my breast.


Let some other soul
Come walking by
And pick up this cane
And together we’ll fly.

‘Cross woods and fields
Seeing each spirit and sprite
And bring to mind
Words we’d have chosen to write.

For my spirit’s
Sure to be
Partly stored within this stick
A small but special part of me.

Let this branch
Guide them there
To that special world
Leaving all care
Far behind
As we walk afield
The cane, my spirit, blended as one,
Walking along under the summers sun.
****

THE WOODS AFTER DARK

I’m walking through the woods,
Alone, after dark,
When a casual glance upward
Ends my lark.

A manlike cloud flies across the sky
It hides the Moon
As it passes by.

A wispy beard, flecked with gray
Is outlined in silver
As he turns away.

Long, stringy hair trails behind
Visions of Evil
Squirm through my mind.

His nose is thin and has a pointed end.
What is his mission
As he rides the wind?

Surely nothing can hide from his gaze
up there,
As he searches for prey
Riding currents of air.

A bat flies by fluttering through the night
My skin starts to crawl
I shiver in fright.

For an instant the creature opens an eye
A moonbeam shines through
And lights half the sky.

A feeling of dread, a shiver of fear
I’m more certain than ever
That Evil is near.

I try to hide hoping he’ll fly past
But his gaze stops on me
He’s found his prey at last.

The cloud changes shape as it draws near
It flaps its wings
I run in fear.

The cloud comes to Earth and takes a nightmare’s form
A Beast thirsting for blood
Frothy and warm.

I hear a howl and gnashing teeth
Clawed feet crunching bushes
That pass underneath.

I now see lights through the trees ahead.
Will I reach my safe home
And my warm bed?

Or will tonight end this life
Still my voice
End all strife?

I feel hot breath, fetid and sour
My legs move faster
To prolong life’s last hour.

The Beast stops short at the edge of the wood
I’m safe in the lights
Of my neighborhood.

I turn and look, gasping for breath
Wondering what’s caused
This brush with death.

Two yellow eyes gleam through the night
The Beast moans its anguish
Its prey safe in the light.

I’ll tell no one ‘cause they’ll never believe
What lights can’t show
And their minds can’t conceive.

But I know that just beyond the edge of sight
Lies a realm of darkness
Void of all light.

Spooks and ghouls fly through its air
All manner of Evil
Makes a home out there.

But now as I tuck myself in bed
I hope that nice dreams
Will fill my head.

Should you ever walk the dark woods,
Full of mirth,
Laughing at my tale
Certain that Man rules this Earth,

And you hear a branch creak or the wind’s soft moan
Don’t be so sure
You might not be alone.
****

A PASSING

I’d offered it water only a hour before.
But the time we were given together
Was much shorter than I’d suspected,
And I wished for one hour more.

It gradually lowered its head
Upon its silken paws, as its life slipped away.
The sun was still high, yet it lay in shadow,
On this, its last, its dying day.

Moments before it seemed so full of life,
Its veins of red pumping vibrance
Under its pink and fragile skin.

I watched as it slumped lower,
Wishing it could hold on,
And taste one last sweet drop
Of Nature’s healing dew.

T’was the blossom from a fragile pink flower,
A petunia on my porch.
And I’d just witnessed its dying hour.

After it was gone
I reluctantly removed it from its stem
And fed it to a passing breeze.

And, as it floated away,
to fall to Earth, I thought,
Why does life so lovely live for so short a day?
****

NIGHT RIDERS

I felt a little touch

And thought it was a hair.
Brushed away that tiny touch

Carried by the vagrant air.

The Moon was shining brightly

As I sat upon my deck,
And cast enough light for me to see

What was there.

Often, I could see a tiny little glint,
Floating on the current,

smaller than a speck of lint.

I watched it sink, then soar,

In sight, then not at all.
Trailing a tiny filament,

Was it really there at all?

T’was a tiny spider,

No bigger than a speck.
Compared to a snowflake,

T’was scarcely a fleck.

The light reflected from it,

As it floated without care,
And from the trailing silk

That carried it through the air.

How could something so tiny,

Something I couldn’t see,
Produce such a trail,

That I so obviously could see?

So I started thinking,

Comparing it to me.
And I started wondering

About what I might yet be.

Think I’ll keep on trying

To be all that I can be,
Hoping others will see my trail,

But not the struggling me.

That they won’t see my weakness

And all of my travail,
Yet seeing the tracks I’ve left,

Still deem to follow my trail.
****

NATURE’S SENTINEL

I stopped hiking and chose to rest on a stump.
I sat a little in awe of this reminder
of the ongoing conflict
Between Man and Nature.

The stump is four feet wide,

Old and blackened,
Its bark still in place
Like an ancient leathery hide.

I counted its rings
To determine its age.
Two hundred and sixty years to gain this size
From the seedling’s birth to its final demise.

A hundred thousand days
This behemoth managed to survive.
Through all of Nature’s hazards
It remained alive.

After Summer’s soft suns
And cold Winter’s nights
It encountered Mankind
And lost its final fight.

The stump’s been here for quite awhile
The old logging roads are now
Overgrown and abused.
A century has passed since they’ve been used.

What stories could this old stump tell?
If it could only relate,
And talk as well,

What truths would it state?

Its home is a saddle
Between two Nevada peaks,
Surrounded by a meadow
Filled with summer wild flowers.

It’s rained of late
And all the flowers bloom.
Purple and orange,
Wherever there’s room.

How many wet summers
Had this tree seen?
How many dry years,
Dusty and lean?

Examining the rings
I find a few that are wide,
Formed in years full of rain
Without drought’s thirsty pain.

Years of easy living
No hardship or strife
Soft Summer’s sun
An ideal life.

Then came the years
That must have seemed without end,
searing summer drought
Harsh winter’s wind.

These rings were thin
And numbered so many more
Sketching out a century
When this tree’s life was poor.

I guess it’s life
Was like that of man.
So why did it have to end
At his callous hand?

With never a thought
The woodsman’s axe bit deep
The tree shuddered and fell
Into Infinity’s sleep.

It rode down a flume
To splash into the lake
Then off to a mill
Its thirst for timbers to slake.

Carried across the desert
To support a silver mine’s roof,
Of man’s reign over nature
This tree offered proof.

Man dug out the metal
Long buried there.
He raped and he pillaged
With hardly a care.

Finally Nature tired of this game
Giving an outcome always the same.
Even though the timbers held true
Tons of water came crashing through.

The miners’ screams were brief
And muffled by the river’s roar.
No one heard their final shout
As Nature won this final bout.

A hundred years later
The timbers are still there
Protected by water
From the harsh desert air.

And does the rain
And Winter snow
Erode this stump
Into that under ground river’s flow?

Or does the stump
Sit here today
Awaiting Nature’s return
To carry it away?

To some Heaven somewhere
Where only trees may go
Some things I think
Man will never know.

This stump may sit at Heaven’s gate
Yet I’m not allowed enough years to wait
So I do walk away
Full of thoughts about life
Which only trees might state.
****

JACK FROST IN APRIL

Walked out upon my balcony,
And suddenly I saw there
A thousand diamonds dancing,
Floating as on air.

Suspended as they were
Just above my rail,
Painted there, icy white,
Left by Jack Frost, this very night.

I’d thought he only came to call,
Painting and dancing, in the Fall,
Creating Autumnal artistry,
Splashing here and there,

A silvery, sparkling pattern,
Left upon the wood.
I’d be such an artist
If only I could.
****

THE ESKIMO FROG

It was the first warm day of Spring,
An awkward time of the year,
The ground still covered with snow,
Yet days full of hope
That warm weather was finally here.

Impatiently I sat inside,
Watching the outside,
Observing the warming day,
And decided to walk to a nearby meadow,
To see if its icy cover
Had finally melted away.

I walked through the trees,
Dodging patches of ice,
And slowly began to know,
That Winter’s firm grip was softening
Into slushy and melting snow.

Walking over a little hill
it finally came into view.
A special little meadow,
Covered with liquid puddles
Of freshly melted snow.

T’was then I heard a sound
I’d never heard there before.
T’was the "ribbit, ribbit, ribbit"
Of what must have been an Eskimo Frog.

It sat on a shriveled tuft
Of last Summer’s dried brown grass.
Yet its feet rested in an icy pool
And I stopped rather than walk past.

If a normal frog had sat there
In that icy yet liquid snow
It surely would have worn a pair
Of warm and wooly underwear.

A normal frog would’ve worn socks
And Froggy galoshes, too,
Made of foam insulated rubber
To keep its feet from turning blue.

A normal frog would’ve worn a pair
Of bun warmers from its waist to its knees,
To make absolutely sure
That its tiny toosh didn’t freeze.

But since ice rims edged its pond,
This was no ordinary frog,
And it seemed to chuckle and chirp
As the springtime sun
Burned away that morning’s fog.

It must be far from its Eskimo home
Could it be visiting here?
Did it come here just to view this spot?
Did it hop through the snow or not?

At no other time was there water near
Normally t’was bone dry.
And it had to hop miles to get here,
Unless it knew how to fly.

Not a summer home for a local frog
So it must have come with the snow.
And now that the snow was leaving
I felt it would soon go.

I listened to it chirp and sing
And it made that meadow ring.
But then as the sun sank out of view
I knew it was time for me to leave, too.

I said "Goodbye" to the Eskimo Frog
And walked back home to my fire.
And though its singing soon faded behind,
That little frog stayed in my mind.

Later that night while warming my feet
I was thinking about the frog.
I wondered if it had enough to eat
As I banked my fire with a log.

Looking out my window
My porch light aglow,
Something caught my eye
And I began to know.

It was twenty degrees in the night outside
And I couldn’t believe my eyes.
T’was a little moth flying there,
Fluttering along without a care.

I realized then that’s not so strange
"Cause frogs eat moths.
Our Eskimo Frog was probably awake,
Hoping to dine on a fuzzy moth steak.

Eskimo frogs chasing Eskimo moths
Throughout the night in the snow,
As all night long we sit by our fire
Thinking their world’s asleep
under its blanket of snow.
****

THE ASPEN’S TINY CYMBALS

Tiny cymbals
Clinking, clinking
Ten thousand or more
Filling with a tiny roar
Space, where only moments before,
Silence reigned.

I heard the sound late today
While it was still far away.
It floated up the tiny draw
First the clinking, then I saw

The Aspens’ quaking
Leaves a shaking
As the breeze
Lent them fresh life.

Each tiny leaf
Stood in sharp relief
Against the Autumn sky.
The leaves colored red and yellow,
For each had begun to die.

I watched them shake
And breathed a sigh
Ans as the breeze passed near
Each spoke a word for only me to hear.

I watched the breeze pass
And I waved to the brown Autumn grass
Which surrounded the soon to be sleeping trees,
As each stem waved
"Round their unbending knees.

These trees will be here
When Spring brings forth
New leaves, fresh thoughts
For some passing soul to hear.

But for now even I can see
This land is soon to be
Under a blanket of softest snow.
Trees dreamin’ dreams which Man can never know.

No more cymbals
Clinking, clinking
As the trees stand sleeping
Dreaming, dreaming.

Dreaming of Spring’s mellow breath
Escaping in sleep,
Their thoughts too deep
For mortal man to be aware
Or much less express a mortal care,

For leaves and grass, and normal things
Which stand and watch
As we each pass.

As we each ripple and wave
To the rhythm of Infinity’s breeze
As it gently ripples
"Cross Mankind’s leaves.
****

VAMPIRES

Vampires, I fear,
Are scarce these days.
And hardly ever seen
Except on old T.V. plays.

They used to fly
After the Sun went down.
They haunted the sky
O’er each country town.

They flapped and flittered,
Dipped and twittered,
And finally flew through a window pane,
Searching for a warm red jugular vein.

Bu then came that
Which caused their end,
Screens and storm windows
Which they couldn’t bend.

People live longer now
But still give their blood.
Letting it flow
In a rich red flood.

But they do it by day,
no longer by night.
They do it by needle
No longer by bite.

Who gains most by this new flow?
If you can’t guess you’re really slow.
This red, white and blue corpuscular sauce,
Goes to the American

Red Cross!
****

MARSHMALLOWS

Strange, how you sometimes forget
Some of the best things of your childhood.
The other day the kids and I went to Roan Mountain.
We cooked hamburgers over a wood fire.

Mrs Holtzclaw brought some marshmallows
And cut us each a stick from a cherry tree.
I’d forgotten how marshmallows react to a fire!

First they begin to turn brown and swell.
Then they quickly ignite and flame.
How can something burnt so black and crispy

Taste so good?

At first I thought
I’ll cook just one for the kids.
Then I ate it.
Next thing I knew I was burning another one,
Eating it, then another and another.

How soon we forget the sounds
Of crickets at night,
Of a fire crackling and popping,
Of wind sighing in the trees.

The laughter of children teasing one another.
And the taste of marshmallows
Crispy,
Yet sticky,
And black.
****

FIRST SNOW

The first snow of Winter pelts my home.
The walls shudder with each frigid blast.
I sit inside, cold and chilled,
Wondering how long this storm will last.

The storm’s decreased to flurries and gusts
And already the worst is past.
The temperature has slowed its drop
And the snow threatens to stop.

But the trees continue to moan.
They literally screech and groan
In the airs turbulent flow
Just outside my window.

The green leaves marking Summers soft days
Have passed their separate ways.
Frosted red and yellow, brown and rust,
Unwilling victims of the violent gusts.

They’re tossed and tumbled,
Mixed and jumbled,
Finally coming to rest,
Perhaps to warm some Creature's nest.

But by the Spring their fate will be the same,
Crumbled and returned to Earth,
Where they’re picked up once more,
And given new life, in Spring's new birth.

But watching the trees
As they shudder and shake,
It’s hard to think
Of the Sun's warm glow.

And I wonder
How much more they’ll take
Of the forceful wind
And the icy snow.

The trees have learned to bend
In the Wintry blasts,
Though they must wonder
If each sway is their last.

But if they can think
As we surely can,
They know that the Creator watches them
As He does each Man.

Endure Life’s Winters
yet know that they’ll end,
And Spring's warm Sun
Will cause each wound to mend.

Life has its cycles
For us as for the trees,
And we won’t see the Good
Unless bent to our knees.

Don’t waste your time
In self pity and Hate.
Your scowls might chase off
A change of Fate.

Bend as the trees,
Yet realize your self worth.
You might gain new Life
In your Spirit's rebirth!
****

THE THORNS AND THE FLOWERS

I’ve taken to walking to work this Summer.
And today decided to take a short cut through the woods.
Halfway through there was a small clearing
Where all sorts of plants had started to grow.

At first, from a distance,
the little field appeared to be
an impenetrable tangle.
Designed, I was sure, just to snag my slacks
And to leave then picked and torn
And covered with brambles and burrs.

But, I decided to venture closer.
I could see just a little space to walk in,
But couldn’t see how I’d get all the way across.
I took a couple of steps into the field,
And then, I could see my way clear
To take a couple more.

Pretty soon I was in the middle
Amidst all sorts of brambles, thorns,
And cockle burr plants.
Looking ahead I could see my way clear
For a couple of more steps.
Looking back I could see my way clear
For only a couple of steps.
I had no idea how I’d made it across this far.

Shortly, I was all the way across.
I looked back again, and,
The field appeared to be impenetrable.
I glanced down at my clothes and saw
Not one tear, nor burr, nor thorn.

I took another glance back, and,
All across the field, I could see flowers
Thrusting up among the thorns and brambles.
Why hadn’t I noticed them when I was walking across?

As I completed my walk
I began to think of the problems
I’d face that day at work.
Taken together they formed an impenetrable tangle.
I didn’t see how I could make my way through

And solve them all.

But, you know, I did.
I took them one problem at a time,
One step at a time,
And solved them all.

And, as the day wore on,
I started to look around,
And sure enough,
There were flowers all around,
Quietly working at their desks,
Unnoticed above the uproar
Of another busy day.
****

ONE DAY MORE

I hear the wind a blowing
The surf roars on the beach
In the rainy realm of Oregon
Life seems just out of reach.

Yet I see the sea birds flying
I hear the Ocean’s roar
I see life just before me
And cry out, "Just one day more!"

I see the pines before me
That have tumbled into the sea.
I see the green ones growin’
But know they’ll soon be just like me.

A bendin’ and a jostlin’
Leaning o’er a cliff
And I hear the sea winds singing
"Life's passing is, oh, so swift."

The sand and foam blow toward me
A creepin’ toward the rocks
The cliffs above decendin’
Always towards the rocks.

The rocks are always scrapin’
Turning into sand,
Always makin’ room for the footprints
Of some other man
As he wanders through this gloom.

I wonder if we’ll ever know
Where we’re going,
Where we’ve been,
Or even in the paths of life
If we’ll pass this way again.

I’ll have no more of ever afters
No more of used to be’s

It seems old Earth
There’s just the heres,
The nows

Just the present
Just the you’s
The me’s.

Because of all life’s
Rains and floods
It seems there’ll never be
Enough of all the sunshines and the joys.

To release the you’s and me’s,
Each from our separate roles
As small Celestial toys.
****

PERSEVERANCE

How can a person strive so hard
And yet still fail?

Live so long
Yet fail to learn?

Fall so often
And still climb back?

Persisting,
Trying harder, harder still.
****

NOTHING

I know I’m nothing
Not even a speck of dust
In this ageless scheme of time.

But why do I have to be
Such a lonely nothing.
****

ALONE WITHOUT HER

Without her here
This house is alone.
It’s no longer a home.

It’s horribly,
Abysmally,
Bottomlessly,
Desolately,
Terribly
Alone.

It’s a dark cave
With red beady eyes
Glistening at its end.

Moanings
And groanings
Whisper on its wind.

This house,
This world,
Is cloudy and dark.

I awake in the night
Tossing
And
Perspiring,
Realizing I lie here alone.

Where before I would awaken to
Her breathing in the night,
There is now only silence
And I listen in fright.

There’s a darkness
And a coldness,
Where only yesterday
Light,
And warmth,
And happiness
Lay.

Before, I could reach out
And touch the warmness there.
Now I reach out
And am poignantly aware,

Of the night
And the coldness,
And the dark, painful reality
That she is no longer there.
****

MY SECRET FEAR

Flying from Reno to Portland
For a confrontation up there.
I was told of this meeting
With scarcely a minute to spare.

I run to my seat, the takeoff is tough.
The air around Reno is bouncy and rough.
Lord, help me out just one more time.
I hate to fly as expressed in this rhyme.

I’d rather drive a car
Over each of these miles.
For me these flights are void of all smiles.
For the rest of the flight little more need be said.

My knuckles are white as I think of the clouds ahead.

The jet drops bouncing
And begins its descent.
As we enter the clouds
All my courage is spent.

Bouncing around in the rain laden clouds
I’m afraid a crash is the only way down.
Where are the mountains?
My face is a frown.

We dodge the Three Sisters,
Mt Hood’s to our right!
Will I ever survive
This anguish and fright?

I think of the Board
I’ll conquer up there.
Maybe after this meeting
They’ll stay out of my hair.

They’ll quarrel and complain
Grumble and gripe.
Reciting dollar pain
And life’s trivial tripe.

Sitting here now
As I float through the air,
I’m obsessed with survival,
Their needs my last care.

But finally we land,
The other passengers cheer.
I straighten my tie
As the terminal draws near.

I feel better
And offer a prayer.
Thank you dear Lord
Not one rip or tear.

When I file off this jet
I’ll be the hero at last.
A leader with courage
All my fears now all past.

In the meeting tonight
I’ll conquer them all.
But when I fly back
I’ll be humble and small.

My fears will resurface
Despite each new win.
Oh, why must I ever
Have to fly again?
****

CHUCK

Flying through the sky and what do I see?
Seems there’s a gunfighter staring at me.
His name is Chuck and he’s two years old.
Sittin’ beside Mom he’s very bold.

He has a cowboy hat and a water gun.
His eyes shout out, "Draw or run!"
I maintain my nerve because my coat is near.
I fiercely stare back and show no fear.

Suddenly, he raises his pistol to sight,
I jerk up my coat with all my might.
The water squirts just over my head.
The blonde beside me is squirted dead.

My finger shoots back from behind my coat.
Bahlams and pows escape my throat!
The water still shoots just over the coat.
His mom grabs his gun, the blonde grabs my throat.

Her fingers dig in; she tells me to stop!
She thinks she’s some kind of water gun cop?
I’m forty years old, yet I still want to play,
But Chuck and I sadly put our guns away.

Hoping for a rematch on a future day!
****

A DREAM OF PERFECT SNOW

On the slopes ahead the powder’s deep
For a seasoned skier they’re not too steep.
Nearby now a cornice hangs
With powder sifting and blowing down.

Feathery powder light and soft.
My edges bite as I take off.
Then I come to easier stuff.
The powder’s fresh, pure feathery fluff.

Cracks and crevices go whizzing by.
The lodge draws near, I shush and fly.
The lights from the lodge ahead
Are bright and strong so I turn my head.

As I look away colors appear.
Snow refracted light,
Rainbows,

As I draw near.

Then I’m awakened from my reverie
By a stewardess offering drinks,
Chilled and free.

I decline turning back to my dream
Never explaining that I’m already high
As we both soar through a late evening sky.

But the lodge is gone

And I see the Sun,
The cloud deck passes,

I’ve finished my run.

The sides of the clouds were the slopes I’d run.
The lights of the lodge, the setting Sun.
Soon there’ll be real snow, and then!
Down a Sierra face I’ll go!
****