Treading lightly the path to enlightenment.

Posts tagged ‘word poems’

June Piece

 

Wild Tiger Lilies

 

It seems as though we’ve just watched
The last of the snow fade.
Now we cut the growing grass
Blade by blade.

We keep watch for hummingbirds
And the peony’s blooms.
We can open our windows (at least in the day),
In our sunny summer rooms.

Summer Solstice brings promise,
Today the day is long.
We turn to see the rose’s bloom…
And June is gone.

 

Slainte,

Paz

Note By Note

Joy In Motion

 

Lessons learned
continue to echo, 
to circle back,
time and again.

Evolving, maturing,
multiplexing on a vector
with the present season.

Like practicing a song
you know by rote,
until you know it
by Heart.

 

Slainte,

 

Paz

Pardon Me

Barn at sunrise

 

 

I beg your pardon, and I mean just that.
I’m sorry we won’t have time to chat.
I haven’t a moment to spare, you see,
Just now Mother is calling me.

It’s not entirely my fault,
This unavoidable delay.
But you know the world is bigger than me
And overwhelms my day.

It’s not only me, it’s also the birds
‘Cause they’re Tweeting me with their tweeting bird words.
And the trees are waving to catch my eye,
Passing clouds call out “Hello and goodbye.”

Am I to blame for marveling
At this air that smells of snow?
It surrounds me and embraces me,
And follows everywhere I go.

You wouldn’t hold it against a guy
Whose eyes automatically rise to the sky,
For breathing deep and lingering long,
To sing along with Nature’s song.

So hasten, must I,
To truncate this rhyme.
You and I can visit
Some other time.

 

Mother Beckons

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Land Of The Free

 

 

Gunfire all around and

My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding.

 

 

He said “Forget about your law and order.

You left that at the American border.”

 

 

A silent boat to a floating plane.

One blacked-out treetop flight away.

One blacked-out treetop flight away…

 

 

Stars light the river as we trace its courses

Rolls-Royce putting out all its horses.

 

 

We climb above the deep, dark sea

Could it be?

Could it really be?

 

 

Thirty-eight hundred and we’re really flying.

Everyone on board is crying.

 

 

Bullets flying, windows breaking

Our little plane is shaking, shaking.

 

 

Shudder-bang. Prayers are spoken.

Hope lies broken, broken.

 

 

A subtle peace washes over me

As she augers down into the sea.

Finally free.

 

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Tonic Of Spring

Noni among the flowers

 

How I love the snow.

As Spring returns

As she is wont,

I’m sad to see it go.

 

Then “O! What’s this?”

Birds in red and yellow and blue!

And reaching up from Earth,

Crocuses in every hue!

 

And green!

For months the color only of pines,

Now returning to this yard of mine,

And in the trees it can be seen.

 

Tractors battle mud in fields

To carve the furrows

Rich and dark,

A sooner start for better yields.

 

Eagles nest. Osprey, too.

Foxes bare their kits in dens.

Skunks stretch from their winter’s sleep,

To join else other denizens.

 

In a month the sky will glow,

To warm and copper-tone my skin.

I will be chagrined to part

With this sweet Spring I’ve come to know.

 

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

 

 

In Depth of Winter

Frosted Wonder Woods

In these, our bitter days of winter,
As bare trees stand, their feet cold in the snow,
Above our heads icy north winds blow,
And from our eaves hang frozen crystal splinters,

Let us then retire to our rooms,
Where we’ll sip hot tea and clasp our hands,
And know the warmth of love still stands
As overhead the winter rage looms.

No embers of wood, nor burning coal,
As the fire radiates its heat,
Upon our faces, upon our feet,
Can, as the heart, warm the soul.

 

Stay warm,

 

Paz

Bone White Moon

 

Little stir has the air,

Yet a great noise it makes

as it rattles – like  bones –

The leaves on dry skeleton trees.

A veil of vapor rises

From a bog not far away,

Like a specter drifting skyward,

Aloft on nightly haunts.

Underfoot the leaves crunch,

Arid and bleached,

Like the dry, taut skin

of Rigor Mortis.

 

Alone in the sky flies a

Bone White Moon,

Peering out from behind

Passing shrouds.

Silent, and steadfast,

As The Reaper.

———————–

photo-supervisor

Photo Supervisor

Happy Halloween!

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Bone White Moon

Moonrise

Moonrise

Little stir has the air,

Yet a great noise it makes

as it rattles – like  bones –

The leaves on dry skeleton trees.

A veil of vapor rises

From a bog not far away,

Like a specter drifting skyward,

Aloft on nightly haunts.

Underfoot the leaves crunch,

Parched and bleached,

Like the arid, taut skin

of Rigor Mortis.

Alone in the sky flies a

Bone White Moon,

Peering out from behind

Passing shrouds.

Silent, and steadfast,

As The Reaper.

photo-supervisor

Photo Supervisor

Happy Halloween!

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Moments

September Sunrise

September Sunrise

It is a Sunday morning in July.

I look out the window through a gentle rain upon the green field.

A blackbird rummages about, bobbing its head.

 

This is what the bulk of our lives are made of.

Cherish every moment.

 

It is a Sunday morning in February.

I look out the window through snow falling silently upon fields of white.

A cardinal lights.

February Window

February Window

 

Seek peace,

 

Paz

Trip A

Winter Sun

Winter Sun

 

My car has an odometer you can reset. Actually it has two, Trip A and Trip B. How you can have two trips at the same time in the same car I’m not quite sure.

Trip A reminds me of my life. Not the past, but the whole span including the inevitable end. This is it.

There is no Trip B in life.

Whatever I’ve done is done, and can’t be changed, taken back or undone.

Whatever I am to do I have this one life, this one trip, my Trip A.

When I was young I thought it was important to be someone, be something. Make your mark.

Funny how many songs written by twenty-somethings address life-view topics, including aging.

“Will you still need me when I’m 64?” written by twenty-somethings McCartney & Lennon.

You won’t find lyrics or poetry written by mature and senior wordsmiths addressing the angst of “will you be mine forever” or “my heart is broken and will never heal”.

Old poets write of the long view. The view from near the finish line.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

As we grow nearer to that end gate, as we fulfill our promises made, we see our lives as a wondrous play that has had a record run. From our own silent mind, gazing out through eyes that have seen a fair share.
There is a certain comfort and confidence in our selfness.
I, alone in this island of body & mind, eternally isolated from all others, have a sense of being a part of something much larger.
There is no alone.
There are no guarantees that you will be mine forever or that I will be here for you when you are sixty-four.
In this we share. The rules are the same for you as they are for me.
My horse may think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near.
Between the woods and frozen lake.
The darkest evening of the year.
And Trip A just keeps moving forward. Mileage rising.
And I have miles to go…
Seek peace,
Paz
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