As Autumn turns it’s leaves loose
Winds speak colder upon my brow,
Footsteps crackle amidst ripened grass
And needles lay their pointed lips
Upon a hungry slugs slime.
But look, just there!
A toadstool sticks its neck out
Searching the air for sticky sweet moisture
To sporulate, propagate.
How richness exudes from dampened bark!
How heavy air cools thy heavy breath.
And maple leaves, the biggest leaves,
Lay down, carpeting the meadow safe.
Tag: meadow
Shack in the Mountains (day 1723)
Left my heart up in the mountains
I’ll need a shovel to get it back
One too many lonely days
Without a warm gunnysack.
Had a song bird on my deck
Whistling a tune I’d never heard
Sent for a fine six string guitar
Came back with an ol’ banjo.
Went off in the meadow with my lover
She had on a little backpack
Got stuck in a swamp with little booties on
Came out with her bare feet black.
Oh, troubles around every corner
Whether you’re looking back or not
Creek still runs, dog still laps
And I’ve gone back to my lonely shack.
The Song I’ve Never Sung (day 1701)
This is the song I’ve never sung,
A lonely tree in the meadow
My faith watching it snow.
Because something isn’t clearing my fog,
And I’ve done up my boots too tight,
And the bridge is falling to it’s knees,
And some will cry as I’m walking on by.
But count out blessings in a well worn palm
With two bluejays resting a while,
Strange mountains silence is broken
And darkness slowly lifts as awareness shifts
Back into what I’ve never left.
The Sapling and I (day 919)
Windy meadows that long ago
Were stripped of all their life:
Elegant firs, long needled pine
And birch that peels around.
They’ve all been reaped
Into a heap;
Grinding and turning
Paving and spreading
Strip malls and sidewalks.
All in the name of progress.
In belief of and for
Settlers heading west.
But where was I at these round tables
Where was my voice of reason?
Was I asked for my steady thoughts
To protect our mother’s children?
For now I am to blame.
Here to suffer
To pull at breath and
Leave my anguish at the door;
Kick off my factory shoes,
Step into my factory warmth,
And yawn my factory toil.
I am not anymore the savior sun;
A strong branch upon a tree
Deep within the forest.
But I am a sapling reaching up
Into the sky above.
A sign of life, natures life:
An orb of sweet Gaia
Ol’ Ginter’s Ruins (day 737)
There’s a lady I walk by-the-by
She drags her feet like
With hair out wide
She’s got an old black lab
That huffs and puffs
Up ol’ Ginter’s Hill
She ain’t much of a hill
But the ruins at the top
Make a nice place to stop
For a break and a view
Let my mind sit and stew
Upon the brick walls that remain
In front of ol’ Ginter’s ruins
Lays a meadow and a copse
Brooding in green
With a gurgling stream
Which I roam up and down
Day in and day out
Some days I go up
Above ol’ Ginter’s ruins
There’s a well up there
At the end of the trail
Along the gurgling stream
Where I listen to the wild
There are two paths
From ol’ Ginter’s hill
To the house where I stay
One weaves through the woods
The other: a wide rocky path
I always go through the woods
A Calm Exhale (day 725)
A peaceful song pulls at my thoughts
Sweeping my soul through a meadow
Filled with low hanging weeping willows
And a gurgling brook
With tufts of grass flanking that stream
Fuzzy colours all around
Like a post-impressionist dream
Filtered through the eyes of societies insanity
The only thing trampling the mood
Is the outside world blaring from a tube
Shucking the calm that flows within
Into a frustration so pitted it groans
A casual breath turns towards forced
Focusing on zen, the art of happiness
Resisting the urge to call out and reform
With one simple application of a minor force
Sounds die out, echoing in the walls
Crafting witty remarks amongst the plants
That reflect the incandescent glow
A warm glow of a settling mood
Relaxing within the peaceful song
Sweeping my pressured edges towards their sheaths
And collapsing my insanity into a calm exhale
Where the Wild Buttercups Grow (day 723)
Have you ever been where the wild buttercup grows?
Up past the fence where the cattle don’t go
There’s an oak tree there sheltering a patch
Of clovers so thick, of ground so cool
I don’t go back there often since I’ve moved away
The house has changed now, green house is blue
But when I do go up to where the buttercups grow
An overgrown path where the big old oak stays
I remember in ’24 Mary-Lou and I walked
Up to the meadow where the buttercups grow
We sat on the sunny side of the old oak tree
Upon the checkered blanket we brought with the wine
But lovers they come and some of them go
And the buttercups always continue to grow
Up in the meadow where the wild oak grows
Past the old fence where the cows don’t go
The Seasons (day 605)
And fantasy breaks over the ice like award winning actors
Carefully floating its sadness into the cracks of the frost
Sculpting majestic kingdoms for antique traveling
Who walks away with the prize when all soldiers cry?
Dim spots of light fill the sadness over the meadow
While blood nourishes the fresh roots finding the new morning
For then, after one evening of bonfires and dancing
The heavens broke open and spilled out eternity
Laughing out loud as if pricked by cupid himself
As dances all came to a finale and bow
The feelings rustled down in orange and red leaves
With freshly cut pine keeping warmth in the fire