Tag Archives: nature

The Meeting of the Poet Lola

My church is the woods

she said

her words barely audible

among the chit chat garble of other conversations

and the hum and cling of restaurant noises

feta and grilled fish in olive oil wafted from the open kitchen

She sat at the head of the long table

before us amateurish professional poets

imposters?

All our admiration gazes resting on her

silver hair curved neatly below her chin

eyes lingering on my face for a beat longer than comfortable

And while she spoke of all the things I nodded to

I imagined her frolicking among trees

in the woods of her church

whispering divine words onto the leaves

that would become another collection

resting diagonally upon the others

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet, Yep I'm Becoming My Mother

June, in Bloom

All is well

in Daventry Square

All is fine

in heart of thine

Along the hilltop

the cozy abode

A quiet place to lie

the heavy load

A scattering of brown

Anole lizard tail

A screech from Mockingbird

gusty gale

Blanket flower in full

pink-golden bloom

Overcast skies

of mid-morning June

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

Take off your busted and your worn

For a moment

take off your busted flip flops

your worn shoes

Slip off your boots, wiggle your toes

Inhale that purity of freedom on your tired feet

Let go of all that wore down those soles

those straps, those laces

No need to forget all learned from it

but okay to set it aside for a moment

Shed the skin and soak in the nakedness

of just being.

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

A Crow’s Call

Interesting are the crows

Their nasal squawks permeate Sunday’s silence

from the mouths of dormant chimneys

There is a purpose to their short, fevered flight patterns

a reason for their dominating calls

But I cannot entirely gather why

as surely it would mean hours upon days to do so

And here in my backyard moments

only a glimpse of their day

The Tufted Titmouse and Chickadee’s chime

barely audible against theirs

Two mourning doves ruffle feathers along the fence’s ridge

and brown squirrels await fallen seed

at the floor of the feeder I have put there

Our human ears distaste that loud caw from above

muffling pleasant birdsong

and perching proudly on our rooftops

But we are in their home.

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

Dusk, in Suburbia

On a hill just beyond the view of the Gulf

a seaside town with freshly repaired sidewalks

and paved, perpendicular streets

welcomes a walk at dusk.

The tops of the palms and oak gather darkness

as the backdrop of sunfall illuminates the cirrus clouds

and horizon of slated rooftops.

There is no hurry to run, but rather an urge for a strong-gaited walk

for energetic muscle and new shoes.

A whiff of cigarette smoke permeates from an open garage,

a front door is slowly opened,

potted plants, white gravel, and vine-encased trees

rest on manicured and unruly lawns.

Sprinklers of reclaimed water spray on some dewy earth;

other patches are dry as decayed bone.

The quiet of Sunday plays peacefully

with absence from blaring sirens and piercing landscape machines.

I bury my face in the descending sun as I wander the footpath at dusk,

in suburbia.

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

The Sail and the Anchor

On a beach walk I saw a sailboat in the distance on the gulf of Mexico. From the shore it loomed nearer, although not in a morose way. It was big and sturdy and coasted easily on the calm, December water. Its sail was brown like dry earth, with writing I could not make out. All alone out there, no other boats crowding it as they usually do on a sunny, Saturday afternoon.

The boat made me think about people in my life. How some are just a long view away. Some are gliding along the shore, some so far away you can barely feel their presence. Others are lapping at the shoreline, either in happy rest or wanton attention. Some do not cast their nets. Some are long gone, or shipwrecked at the bottom of the sea.

There are the boats I try to hail and bring to me, to sit and take comfort in. Those I do not want to sail away. But sometimes they do, or will. And this brings a terror in me I cannot cultivate. It will end the peaceful stature I’ve tried so hard to bring forth and maintain.

Living in the present moment and letting things be as they may is not always simple. The past tries to spin me into its tormenting monsoon. Sometimes I want to moor the hailed boat on my shore and anchor it there forever. But the more I try, the more the boat wants to cast away to sail other blue waters.

If I let it go, will it come back?

If so, will it be solo or bring along a fleet of its own?

. . . . .

A sailboat glided along the distant shoreline

its stately stature coasting on blue December waters

The sail the color of dry earth with writing I could not make out

It appeared as so many people have

Some as that sailboat, just a long view away

Others so far away, their presence barely felt

And more, lapping at the shore line

In happy rest

Or wanton attention

Some do not cast their nets

Others are long gone

or shipwrecked at the bottom of the sea

I hail those which envelope comfort

and pray they stay

But some boats sail away

as they are meant to do

And I try not to think of this as a torrent of

sadness and regret

or fight to anchor them forever

For the more I struggle, the farther they sail

along other blue waters.

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Filed under Observations, Sunday Night Sonnet

The Intricacies of Mangroves

Splayed out like veins from wrist to hand

like neurons transmitting in the body

or spacetime in the cosmos

An elaborate (sinuous) network, arrangement

from dampened sodden earth

to root to trunk to canopy

The muted sky shines white

through the bored holes in the leaves

they dance ever so slightly

to the rythm of July

And the mangroves below intertwine

like so many fingers

in a connection

nature respite

so divine

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

Under a Traveller’s Palm

I sat under a Traveller’s palm
watching church
and taking photographs of birds
a fresh warm March morning as it were
The Red-bellied Woodpecker and Northern Mockingbird
flitted from branch to rooftop
in search of seed and worm
Was that also a Cardinal I saw?
Or was it a Summer Tanager?
Its deep red body hiding behind oak leaves
then flying away with the breeze
And the sermon of the day
crested on my shoulder
let it be and go as it may.

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

All the Flowers of my Childhood

In a dream I saw them
as clear as light
All the flowers of my childhood
The greens and golds
I walked past at midnight
Wispy dandelion seeds swept along cedar
by youthful breath
Clover necklaces
with knots in their stems
Distinct as the flowers of my adulthood
White and exotic and some
bearing fruit
Others only peeking long after
sun gone to slumber
Reds and yellows and umber
Some I cannot name
yet some the same
As those in the garden of
spirit’s infancy.

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet

The Wild Spring Breeze and All It Brings

My eyes cannot view the sea from here
but its brackish scent wafts through
with the course of spring wind

It reminds me of times spent in its warm, emerald waters
and the passage of time

So fleeting time, in its uncharted path
ever shifting like the wild spring currents

If I could go back again
however I cannot

Here I sit in calmness
breathe what the breeze brings
And know we will again
someday.

Spring Breeze

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Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet