O these coolnesses!
Blown off a water.
Re-encountered, regaled again
Each face in summer.
With noon's energy
Nightfall's toned down is
Shake a bluff, maidenhair bank
Hurtled off; sat. bliss!
the word barren means rocky land
a perfect name for a vast limestone area
in the The Barrens of Ireland
it is a desolate place with few trees
except for the Hawthorne tree that grows
but is
twisted and stunted
yet, wildflowers thrive in an array of colors
growing out of crevices in limestone slabs
of dried up lakes
during the summer months
from the crevices you will find . . . lovely purple gems
red Cranesbill, pink Rock Roses, and yellow Mountain Avens
and many, many more
maidenhair fern and moss love the damp crevice's
and in stony pastures of The barren
the wildflowers grow and thrive
creating a beautiful landscape ...
On moss covered log I sit to rest; a yellow robin shows no fear,
there's continual rippling water, a ground thrush feeding near.
Maidenhair droops down the weathered bank; a currawong mournfully cries …
for this one afternoon I feel - I'm lost in paradise.
A walking track through the forest,
shrouded by giants, providing shade,
with broken boughs, leaf litter and life,
and a cool mountain stream in a glade.
This stranger can only see beauty,
where many see nothing at all,
it may be complex of a flower,
or a trivial meaningless call.
But I’m not a casual observer.
The big picture is far from my mind.
I don’t need a grandiose view,
just the reach of close-by unrefined.
It’s magnificent scenery,
gaudy colours with the greenery,
sustaining birds and the native bee,
among the trees and the shrubbery.
Maidenhair, copperhead, yellow-ochre.
Ornithorhynchus and xanthorrhoea.
Antechinus, phasmid, orb weaver,
scenery hidden out of the way.
And so as my journey progresses,
my mind and my eyes grow so keen
for sight of one more hidden treasure,
or the privilege of knowing one’s been.
It’s wonderful knowing,
knowledge of the forest keeps growing,
whether it’s floral or an echo ping,
my scenery is a wonderful thing.
It’s magnificent scenery,
gaudy colours with the greenery,
sustaining birds and the native bee,
among the trees and the shrubbery.
So azure the early September's sky,
mirrors outshined, away sapphires shy.
Up to thin air melts dog days' trace,
down to soil sinks continual cicadas' squeal.
randomly dozens of dragonflies dart apace;
Snug and slothful, bask teams of pond teal.
Lotuses leaves fold and hide
to round off summer tide.
Welcoming golden autumn everywhence cruises brisk whiff,
vaporized is my neighbor matron's miff,
vivacious yonder maidens' gamboling spree.
Nodding in elation whether chartreuse foliage shakes off the maidenhair tree.
When I would no longer fathom the fall
Nor listen to the veery's soulful call,
When I would not see blossoms spread their fare
Alongside grass lichens and maidenhair;
When in lasting peace and bliss I shall lie
Sedately watching this world plying by,
That I couldn't in the maddened race of life
I would from the portals of death enjoy.
***********
Grandma was German raised to value beauty,
her art found in nature the flowers and the trees.
Grandpa, a Wentworth, from an English family
whose Great Grand sailed the Mayflower, across the sea.
In the time of William Morris, when craft was art,
Great Granddad was a shipwright that's how we got our start.
So, we valued craft and beauty and adventure charted.
Through tough times, poverty, still wisdom was imparted.
Born in a place of splendor miles from the bay,
Mom was raised on the poetry of Edna Millay.
I was born there to and in the woods I played
amongst maidenhair ferns and violets unafraid.
In art born, with brush and pen, often did I write,
raised on Lord Tennyson to great my delight.
And, I adored the architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright
how he blended craftsmanship into each homesite.
Schooled in modern art Warhol and Mies Van De Rhoe,
my mind opened blooming to many new tableaus.
All my contemporaries were part of art neuvau.
Each masterly artisan's work helped me to grow
I would love to swim to the 'Guilamine' in the skin
Or dance on a carpet of sheer pleasure
I might like an ice-cream cone on the way
Topped with pink and golden treasure.
I would enjoy a drink made of sparkles
That might light up with yellow-red magic
My dreary grey-blue life – and then
I would anticipate with joy an umbrella
Made of silk and maidenhair fern
To be silly with –
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