Nature Grandfather Poems

In sacred gardens,
your heirloom roses ascend,
the chipped-paint trellis—
in yesterday’s reflections,
where petals fell long ago...

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As a child, 
I loved to watch Grandpa build. 
His basement workshop, 
was filled with tools. 
Tools hanging on every wall, 
wood neatly stacked in...

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I like the smell of rain 
That permeates my nose 
a little time before  miraculously fat drops 
start falling on my head .
They bring...

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I remember when Grandpa used me everyday,                  ...

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I was walking down the neighbourhood,
reminiscing how it all
used to be where we made believe
that we were nymphs in a wood,
except the once moist earth...

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While on the topic 
of blood kith and kin,
I relate another 
fabricated poem about 
blimey bloke of a fisherman. 

Trawl tale of a fictitious seaman...

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“Son”...”say goodnight to grandpa”

Spurred by mother dearest 
as well as other politesse
drummed into her second born
fobbing blandishments as incentive
tumbled off fingers of prodigal son
tripped wordsmith...

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My grandfather
seemed wise with years
walking his rural spiritual path
in a relentlessly white
Christian dualistic church
dividing sinful nature
from sacred spirit.

He counseled:
Do not mix
religion and politics.

I wonder
how he...

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saguaros 
guardians of the sonora
a battalion wafting 
in one hundred degree heat 
standing sentry on granite slopes
vertical green etches
in carmel cliffs
literally--litter the foothills

rising up the...

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I
Fifty years ago - I was about ten -
My grandfather wept for a tree:
Blue Spruce, one in the township ...
I empathized, but didn't understand

II
This morning,...

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When I question you,*                     ...

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Looking back, one thing comes clean-glass clear
you were always there for me subduing every fear.

I tried to do my duty, be a husband strong and...

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Road Trip

The country, people, and the village,
All equal, as if, for the first time, 
All of that gave a fresher image,
Nay, 'tis but a relative...

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The country, people, and the village,
All equal, as if, for the first time, 
All of that gave a fresher image,
Nay, 'tis but a relative vantage.
Save...

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...Bill passed on back in sixty-nine,
and I buried him on that same hill,
next to his friend Timlin Rivers,
beneath northern lights and the night’s chill.

And I...

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