Autumn in the woods. I looked
around, up yonder to Cemetery
Ridge. Tried to count the leaves,
so many fallen, Nature’s colorful sighing.
Thought of uniforms, brothers in gray and
blue; blood fresh...and then various stages
of drying. Did we learn our Mother, so much
like her leaf on tree -- rooted in dirt, dying
to be set free?
On Saturday afternoons long ago, when cartoons faded from the TV’s glow
A teenager earned a modest pittance, to finish the week with his remittance
From coins for cans and chores to do, the basement became the work place too
A weekly ritual dust and sweep, and memories were polished for us to keep
Years rolled on yet still there lies, a wooden shelf with the writing of “pizza flies”
A phrase half-lost, a family thread, echoing something once misread
From allowance paid to words unclear, the past returns as I sit here
In chores, in jokes, we had a good time, it’s these small moments of which I write
My heart roams this wild landscape
in search of a vanished childhood.
I had last seen her walking along this
sandy loam path that cuts between
two pines. There she walked farther
up to the clearing now overgrown
with poison oak. Thistle had not
snagged her gauzy skirt in those
days of childhood wonder. Deer
tracks were recognizable, and scrub
jay feathers were to be found and
tucked into skirt pockets. But now,
even as smoke clouds the horizon,
I find only the rust of pine cones,
a half-eaten bird, and a snake that
choked and died on another
snake's head.
fall forest deer path
I follow heart-shaped deer tracks
still seeking her soul
The Normal sat with hands in lap,
A folded map, a steady pulse,
The world a grid, a factual trap,
Where truth is plain and never false.
"The world," it said, "is stone and lime,
A clockwork heart that keeps the time."
The Abnormal paced the jagged edge,
With eyes like broken stained-glass panes,
A crow upon a crumbling ledge,
With lightning dancing in its veins.
"The world," it hissed, "is silk and smoke,
A cosmic, cruel, and gorgeous joke."
Note: The boundary between the "sane" and the "unbalanced" is often just a matter of which way the telescope is pointed. In this poem, the two sides of the psyche sit on a ridge, debating the physics and the phantoms of a distant solar system.
When the Fire Horse rises, it climbs the empty ridge;
clouds step aside, mountains dare not breathe, seasons lose their order,
shadow runs ahead of time, men dare not speak—
the omen enters the record, and Heaven sounds the bell.
The Horse walks between, yet all paths begin
where the endless river flows eastward
toward the Mountain where Heaven begins again.
SHOOTER HAS A NAME
NOW THE POLITICAL GAME
ARE OUT TO DEFAME
CANADA SMALL TOWN
SO MANY DEAD ALL SHOT DOWN
IN SORROW WE DROWN
When did your heart and soul soar,
And bring you happiness galore,
When did you see your way ahead clear,
Was it amazing and awesome,
So encompassing and wholesome,
What delighted you most,
Was it your help at the charity store,
Which satisfied you to your core,
Or was it that old man
You helped cross the road,
Or the little boy you helped
Find and catch his big toad,
Or maybe it was that freezing night,
That you brought warmth and light,
To the poor under the bridge,
When you got a mighty hug from Midge.
Or perhaps it was that
Heartwarming day,
On the 1st May,
When you gave chocolate eggs,
To all the children in need,
Wearing rags,
With no shoes on their feet.
Do you remember that multiple accident,
On the highway,
Where a number of people did pay,
With their life,
There was many a child,
Some a husband, others a wife,
Died at this horrific scene,
And you wept, for what you could not do.
All were good folk, and came to me.
This, I want you to know,
That from today,
I have saved you
A place dear Anne,
For I am a big fan,
Of people like you,
Of which sadly exist, so few,
For you will help everyone,
And risk your all for anyone.
Not lost, but merely seek,
knowledge and understanding.
Both of the natural world and
my mind’s space and time.
What insignificant thoughts will
push worries away,
occupying that space,
and consuming the time?
On these cloudy rainy days
the melancholy thoughts,
come playing peacefully, like
raindrops slowly falling.
The deer appear often at the edge
of the woods, testing things.
Full knowledge of watching eyes,
understanding no threat here.
The damp and green of summer
showers seem endless.
The hard rain satisfying the thirst
of both foliage and beast.
The young black bear scurries
across the road and into the lush,
vanishing into August’s green
and vast wet forest.
As the rain continues to fall,
the wipers moving back n forth,
out the window,
the birds bath and squirrels play.
The radio sings softly,
music from many years past,
no bad news of politics or wars,
rather lyrics for days like these.
From this rainy mountain top
peering down at the
Shenandoah valley below,
the world seems at peace.
This road of life, so similar to
this winding mountain parkway,
which today I travel,
content yet longing.
In these mountains, where I’m from, peace amazes,
With nostalgic beauty, its gentle praises.
Silence whispers to souls, believers know love,
Breathless inklings linger, a calm from above.
Love this alive and perfect surely blazes.
In these mountains, where the sun reflects, dazes,
Harmonizing with shadows, carefree phases
Beyond the oaks and pines, I found my truelove…
In these mountains…
As the stars climb higher on twilight’s gazes,
Beyond the moonlit night, twinkling wish raises,
Gentle faith abides, reminding there’s Godlove,
Secreted beneath wonders of the sweet dove,
Within the heart and spirit, His love raises,
In these mountains…
The dark blue mountain
ridge like a statue in sky
Clouds with freedom passing by
Secure and stable
mountain ridge with tint of gray
A home for clouds to return
Heidi Sands
4/15/22
Above the heat the sky is flecked with ice,
high country has its own climate.
The sun is no longer burning,
it’s a ghost lamp swept by the rags
of a coat-tailing wind.
I'm on a high ledge watching.
There it is - arriving out of a far place,
a living cliché, a Bald Eagle
It must have caught a thermal,
I wonder does it see my significance
or insignificance
here alone with vastness above
and below?
The eagle veers away
turning deeper into the ice-blue.
We are both vanishing.
Above the Blue Ridge hills
flights of stealth owl
glide in from the moon.
Strange how a jungle is never quiet
but these Tennessee woods
sleepwalk along moccasin paths
watched over by the velvet foliage
of dreaming tree.
Owls are the true eagles here,
they hunt the thriving flesh
and distain all that no longer trembles.
They do not scavenge
but scatter prey before them
hunting the huntable on sonic waves.
Sometimes on a summer night I leave a cabin
to walk among the owls and nightjars.
To sit silently listening to the rustle and scurry
of a timid pulse and the silent wings
of its pursuer.
Occasionally a deer is startled
by an incautious movement
sending it crashing through the dark brush.
I do not carry a gun here, but if I did
I would never break the silence of these woods
for the voices of the dead and the living
sing in the air as softly as stars do
when reflected in the eyes of hunting owls.
This jade river roils
into the heartbeat of your weather beaten canyon
wetting the wonderment of a restless rebel
searching for a lost song
yet to be sung,
an ancient wisdom winds through
the young temperature
of your rain forged temple
perfume of broken sandstone
stirs secrets unstolen by Time
while a graveyard of unbroken yet dormant trees
yields an invisible fruit of forgotten fates
a knowledge quiet on the edge of eternity,
yes, there are bones here,
bones that speak of the stars...
J.A.B. 2021
Making their way from nothing
Opening their hearts for others
Using what they have on hand
Nature seems to draw them in
Time keeps them always alert
Amazing grace is a part of church
Inner peace comes from hope
Never giving up on a Holy God
Precious people in their souls
Every one knows everyone
Over the hill they send love
Presented by caring and kindess
Love that adores with serene joy
Everyone here loves the mountains
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