THE YEAR’S HIGH TIDE

The sun is bright–
+++++ the weather warm. . .
Day long,
+++++ short night
Trees fruit,
+++++ wide rivers
++++++++++ settle into currents,
++++++++++ upon which boats, and people flow
++++++++++ on water fed, perhaps, with melt of winter’s plenteous snow,†††

+++++ and throw dares
+++++ come down from sky
++++++++++ back to our eyes
+++++ to see if we will stay afloat
+++++ in face of glares bloomed fiercely bright,

But each minute,
here in our earth’s north half
ticks us toward the solstice high,
which soon will steer us ’round the other way,

as the star-savvy people know,
to move toward the mode
where our earth’s south-half neighbors
live right now,

slinking toward the dead of winter,
having left behind
the sting of bee, the flit of butterfly
the prancing ants,
the acts of aid to child or self,
to pull out insult got by wood
at play or work,
the summer’s “Ouch!”-producing splinter.

Globe’s bottom half,
in not too long, will know
what we’ve but fairly newly left–

the world of rain and wet,
of biting ice and wind and cold,
of dark, short days,
and long deep nights,

so fit for spirit, thought,
respite, pause to be with
self,

and others,
gathered,
young and old,

and learn in profound still and quiet,
what joys and sorrows
lurk in us,
and the world, indoors and out–

around our fires,
or
beneath dark, bright-starlit skies,

or waking, eager,
to the day
to be the first
to make the puddles splash,
stem any flood,
or sink the edge of shovel’s blade
or our boot’s sole
to cut a path
and leave our mark
right in the snow.

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BEYOND SUNSHINE AND FRESH AIR

Sunshine,
fresh air–
all fine,

but lacks a little something there.

Be free
and strong,

but woven, winding,
grounded, hugging,
intertwined.

Though it may,
for now, elude,
the right terroir,
if not right here,
cannot be very far
or difficult to find.

A well-took breath,
or well-drawn flowing water slake,
a whiff and grounding of the earth
a song,
a tale,
a laugh
toward the task
may be enough
to stretch a broken-hearted body
and bend and quite electrify
a deeply rutted mind.

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EVERYTHING NEEDING DONE IN ONE SWIFT MOMENT

Every single little thing
and big thing
looming, pounding, festering
needing done
in one swift moment. . .

this life, this breath
each is a gift
that, in itself,
needs no bettering. . .

so, be still,
or move,
however you can find the love,
the joy, the fun–

and take it all
down off the shelf
and broad afield. . .

And–here’s the deal–
some good will come,
as you forge on–

no matter how the petty voices
might respond,
or how dissuading
their under-understanding comment.

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MY BUDDY THE BUCKEYE TREE

Oh, broadly spreading buckeye tree,

you are my friend!

You lay a cozy place for me,

where I can lean or climb or sit,

and modulate the bright sunshine,

breathe,

and slowly become one with you,

as I linger here a bit,

and let my mind

relax and roam,

as thoughts stream through

upon my life and on the world,

until I’ve deeply settled in,

and made some better sense of it.



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THE POWER PUSH OF SPRINGTIME

The springtime rises, ever green–
gentle, blooming, beautiful

incomparably powerful
a world that lay in dormant rest
shoots up again
to muddy-lush,
to make it seem as if all life
would ever move this strong and up
and flowerful. . .

And life that’s been hidden,
and pummeled by the wind and cold and rain
may not all want or know
the way to reemerge,

but moves instead
to dry and shrink,
then float or soar
away from here–

Momentous,
even while
also henceforth
to our fleshy, watery mortal eyes
entirely invisible.

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THE POWER PUSH OF SPRINGTIME

The springtime rises, ever green
gentle, blooming, beautiful, , ,

incomparably powerful. . .

a world that lay in dormant rest
shoots up again
to muddy-lush,
to make it seem as if all life
would ever move this strong and up
and flowerful. . .

And life that’s been
quite still and hidden,
but pummeled by the chilling rain and wind
may not all want

or even know
the way to reemerge,

And those that don’t
may move instead
to dry and shrink,
then float or soar
away from here–

Momentous,
even while
also henceforth
to our fleshy, watery, mortal eyes
entirely invisible

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A PIECE OF POETRY

A mood. . .
a need . . .
a purpose felt,
thoughts and emotions
let to flow–
some out may bleed.

A pen that scratches,
rolls,
or drags upon the toothy paper
a squishy colored squeak,

a jotted word,
a note,
a pithy sound bite anecdote,
a much loved tale,
a fresh pressed novel,
a lofty tome, that, in the reading,
takes a week.

A blend of breath
and fervent wild
or silent, mild
stretch of heartbeat,
silver dreams
and dry gray thought,
a script writ down
in quite few words,
which, for its size,
says quite a lot,

and which travels deftly
and apace
on sun’s bright beams
on snow’s cold flakes
or rain’s bulging noisy-falling drops
or curly, swirly puffs of wind
that corkscrew kites,
or tickle or threaten
toes or fingers,
and/or nearly all the rest
of everything,
you’ve got. . .

a thing,
that, while it might
in the end, seem
flighty, short,
perks up your ears,
raises skin bumps,
with neighboring translucent hairs,

and makes you listen past its end,
having made you feel
you’ve heard one great big. whole wide world
somehow condensed and danced
onto a spot
upon the head
of one small pin.

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