The Maple tree has gone,
the storm broke it,
then it was chopped to pieces.
For decades it stood
as a gold-leafed palace that graced
our commonplace cull-de-sac,
now it has been carried away
upon overladen truck-beds.
Late in this graying October
a few curling leaves linger
around its bosky stump.
A burnished copper, a tawny russet,
and a powdering of old gold
have leached out
from its deep-set roots.
A slow pyre of Fall colors
has emerged there
where no fire flickers.
yet it forms a last memorial
autumnal wreath.
Gradually, teacups of illumination
seep from a darkening horizon,
a sinking light now rakes only mist,
yet occasionally at sunset,
a maple palace for a moment shimmers,
a gold glittering
to greet our colorless eyes.
He speaks for the uprooted.
A man of sorts, a twiggy Buddha.
He who interprets
the conferences of frogs,
the unpublished works
of kestrels and voles.
He’s an advocate for the underbelly
of a microbial heaven, for every kind
of uncouth animalcule.
Ancient is he, yet as fresh as tomorrow,
in green ponds he fishes for sunlight.
He plumps grassy pillows,
quilts nests for the slumbering and slippery,
gardens all the dewy meadows.
He speaks for the bulldozed,
the displaced. The native and
the nomadic.
He sweeps the muddy tracks
of iron caterpillars.
Bears tell him
of how things are going
in the suburbs,
in swimming pools and trash cans,
There must be a treaty.
Kits and coyote love him,
whistle-Pigs trumpet his approach.
Ducks quack his many sermons,
may shotguns always misfire.
He is a preacher,
a teacher to tic and turtle,
a bosky fellow, not a straw man,
or a hollow but verdant,
a green man for me and thee
harken now to his leafy lingo
for tomorrow he may be only a scarecrow
in a long ravaged field.
Greening trees thatch back
a tattered sky.
The cock-a-hoop of Cardinals,
roosters and cawing crows
all kicking-up patches of sound,
ruddy periods in the catchy sonics,
canorous stops and starts.
all in a catawampus.
I am far from song yet.
my ears are bats hung from chilly temples,
but I do feel a coyote-itch
a hitch and twitch of subliminal nooky,
My springs are unwinding
in the imminent offing.
I do imagine bosky blooms
upon the hairy chops of whistle pigs,
and conjure getaway goslings
gandering, all within a fuzzy feathering
of a new-fluffed season.
I do.
Grateful Hearts
You awaken us in the morning, with the warmth of sun upon our face.
When twilight turns and gothic shadows fall,
You illuminate the night, with stars to guide us with your grace.
Lord we are grateful, for the beauty that surrounds us,
from bosky woods to meadows lush and sweet,
to spiraling mountains, fields of grain and waving heads of wheat.
You bless us with our daily bread which we are thankful for,
Our table never lacking, of hearty, healthy fare;
We gather together, and bow our heads and share.
Lord you are beside us, as we go about our day,
You protect us from the wrath of fear, struggle and strife,
We ask for your continued guidance, as we go through life.
You are our shield, our protector, when adversity comes our way,
We know you are listening, as we humbly pray~
With Grateful Hearts
You held my heart in your hands
And forced me to take it back
I wore your cross on my back
Crying let me love you, let me save you
My heart grew to heavy to hold
Your cross sprouted thorns
Light couldn’t shine on your bosky character
And I started glowing at night
The world slowed for a moment
Sound had no noise
Scent had no smell
Your noble spirit was gone
And you hand over your ring
I cry let me love you, let me save you
As your cross crashes down from my shoulders
And I drag my heart back in chains
through the ashes of your love
Through the bosky brush, straight lines stand
Lean and sinewy, yet with thickness, strong
Surrounding the curtilage which encases -
Elysium ensconced on a heavenly hill
Lines point upwards, then take many different paths
Each direction, somewhat crooked lines hold ornaments
Like a pendant that hangs on one's neck
Yet an arboreous arrangement for all to see
Thousands of jewels yet none alike
Each holds data, its own memory
Someone knows this; someone accomplished all this
I came out of my torpid daze
Looked out west from his dwelling place
Dozens of tall oak trees endure in majesty
Amazed am I at this creation; the Creator
The Wonder of it all
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