Whiteface Mountain
In your weary legs,
belong to her summit
without rejoicing, yet full.
Scurry about like a chipmunk
drunk on the oxygen of being.
Poetry
Poetry: At The Cabin
At the Cabin
Maybe a bitter frost
burned away the herbs
our mother planted
by the stone chimney
and cabin back door
in a former millennium
before she left us here
in this one tutored by
her own life’s example
to point out the way
our journey should take
to a like fulfillment
and model of service.
Poetry: Spreading Ashes in the Ausable
Spreading Ashes in the Ausable
more coveted than wine
from milk, the master
alchemists of China could
do no better than these clouds
churning into rivers,
the way cottongrass renews itself
or how a son returns in time to let go.
Poetry: Pro @ Crastination
Pro @ Crastination
Off-year for apples
on the shed-side tree
Pruners rust in cabin
Mind chants to heart:
“There’s always next year”
So I’ve ever hoped
Skinned right shin
stepping through brush
Woodlot darkness thickens
Which way mindfulness?
Poetry: Humpbacks of the Hudson
Humpbacks of the Hudson
Before the finned
dinosaurs of the icy
depths were
disappointed by
the steamships
of men, they cast
their ballads into
the velvet abyss,
waiting as mothers
do with untamed hearts,
big as school buses.
Poetry: In The Ravine
In the Ravine
Carpenters Creek
At the far edge
of the creek’s gurgle
sword ferns thrive in the shadows
up the bank in the cool
beneath cedar boughs.
In a piercing shaft of sunlight
a single strand of spider silk gleams,
while a white trillium flashes as shocking
as real love, so delicate and brilliant
in the dark forest gloom.
Poetry: Adirondack Blue
Adirondack Blue
Wind-spun cirrus clouds
Heaven’s cotton batting
Sky background that blue
we call “Adirondack blue”
St. Paul’s Ephesians letter
lays peace to a Quiet Mind
See how Black-eyed Susans
stare Autumn-ward now
Poetry: Photography
Photography
is the waterfall
carved by the
elements, a river
bed ticking away,
layer by layer, the
salty, smoked scent
of sycamore mist.
Poetry: Changes
Changes
Broken by brief rain
dull heat disappears
tail between its clouds
I recall late-August
mornings as a child
dressing by the fire
Oatmeal bubbled thick
in big blackened pot
Mountains unmoved
since we went to bed
Clouds now crest them
heavily like a toddler
riding your shoulders
Poetry: Getting Better
Getting Better
Stand by a small stream,
creek or rivulet and listen.
Listen how water
finds its way around the stones
or logs lying in shallows.
Though you do not know
the language let it flow
into your mind and soothe.
This in a world that seems
to be flying apart. At that
small stream and with
both feet planted and ears open,
arrive at where you are.
Then, as you move forward
mulling its murmured monologue,
take its blessing with you.