in the mist wood morning,
he rises
on his slender branch~
a small furry silhouette
against descending gold.
the leaves know him,
rustling his name
in quiet spirals;
the fog parts
just enough
to crown his tail
with pale light.
he is keeper
of the in-between places~
where amber meets shadow,
where breath becomes breeze,
where time pauses
long enough
for magic
to remember itself.
his eyes, bright as dew,
read the woodland’s secrets:
which tree dreams of summer,
which root hums with old stories,
which path is safe
for wandering hearts.
one twitch of whisker,
one soft lift of paw,
and the forest listens~
every branch,
every drifting leaf,
every creature
waiting for his signal
to begin the day.
he is small,
yes~
but the mist knows
power isn’t measured
in size,
only in presence.
and in this suspended autumn,
he stands
as guardian of the golden quiet,
the one who keeps watch
over forest dreams.
A tower carved from heavy stone,
It braves the raging, timeless sea,
Where ancient wooden ships were blown,
By winds that whistled wild and free.
The keeper climbs the spiral stairs,
To trim the wick and light the flame,
Through bitter frost and salty air,
To guide the ships without a name.
With whale-oil fire and iron gears,
It pierced the heavy, choking fog,
A savior through the passing years,
Recorded in the Captain's log.
Through naval wars and trading booms,
The lens revolved with steady grace,
To rescue crews from watery tombs,
And mark this rugged, lonely place.
Though modern beams now take the lead,
The weathered structure stands sublime,
A monument to human need,
Defying all the rust of time.
As he stands with his head high, his heart sighs,
His heavy heart weighs down his soul,
Tears fall silently, the fallen drag his weary eyes red,
A helmet worn to hide a man’s burdens,
A man stands there, but not a man at all.
Among the crowd, a woman catches his eye,
Her skin pure white, her gaze better than the stars,
His eyes meet hers, but words he dares not speak,
For she is royalty, and he, a servant meek.
Yet his eyes began to shine, forbidden light within,
He stands in shadows, sword ready to begin,
The blade thirsts, ever parched for its fight,
For his duty is clear: to guard through day and night.
I want to die in your bed
With bittersweet memories,
And a drunken head.
Never want to be alone,
Not for a single moment.
I am scared, scared of the ghost -
That lonely soul in the white garment.
Funny, nowadays I'm feeling lonely too
Maybe that ghost is a mirage of mine,
BOO!
Now, why are you going away,
Leaving me, creating this wound?
Don't you know I can't run after you,
I'm an ancient tree -
A lonely sentinel, deeply soil-bound!
Okay then, let's accept it as my fate
Watching alone this never-ending night,
Dying alone, no resurrection -
This realisation and the sudden fright.
I am a lone tree,
An ancient sentinel rooted deep
Whispering songs of the past on the breeze.
I am a stick of dynamite, a fuse burning low
An explosion of feelings, just waiting to blow.
I am a bearer of bad news,
Hive mind of demons.
Thought they would fade in the rearview, the demons
But they still cling to me, pale and askew.
I swore I knew myself,
But I didn't know the mirror could lie.
I wrote a hundred pages but burned them all,
I saw them ignite and die.
I thought all my problems- they would stay behind
As I became a meteor;
A streak in the night,
A terrifying sight.
Clouds rushing to embrace; my body dissolving,
Leaving no trace.
As you wish, always.
The petulant midday sun
Raging, blazing, vindictive orbit at its zenith
It's blinding glare, a white hot disc
Scorching and oppressive
Over the earth and living ones
A merciless sentinel in the cerulean sky
Wrapping us in its stifling embrace
A shimmering mirage dancing in the air.
________________________________________
Life Changing
In these quiet woods, as shadows spread,
Timorous leaves whisper my secrets to the breeze.
A sentinel of time I am among the malus trees.
My roots run deep in my seed’s homestead.
--
I stir under the warm sun anew.
My blossoms blooming bouquets of pink petals fair,
I stand in beauty, unaware.
Unbidden but welcome, Spring has made its debut.
--
My branches grow branches, my leaves bear blades.
The bees buzzing come, a swarming tinnitus hum,
My stigma swipes their pollen, my honey glands reward their plumb.
Such is the dance of life, out of sight, in the shade.
----
Sated with Spring and Summer, exhaustion nears,
Pink petals pass. Unadorned leaves leave their color green for brown
And softly, gently, resignedly, flutter down,
Dumb in their final moments in the breeze’s tears.
----
Myself, in those moments, stark and bare, I ponder life.
Its fleeting fare seems awkwardly unfair to the fruit I bore, the leaves I shed,
My issue are now numbered among the dead.
But my roots still run deep, insulated from the strife.
---
A sentinel of stone I am among the malus trees.
In a great, entangled forest, stands a metal monster—
An impossibility of nature, made by man. Alone;
Broken—it looms over all things natural
And asserts its right over the creatures that belong.
They do not look to him (this fake, metal being) —
It cannot even breathe or make noise!
Apart from the gears whirring in its machine form.
It is hated and unwanted. Even by its creators,
It has been abandoned. Now, it will never be found,
And it will be left for time to deal with; until it is
Creaking and groaning and falling apart with rust.
One day, soon, the grass will grow so thick and wild
That it will wrap its spindly fingers around the beast's leg
And grip it tight. The weeds will never let go—
The metal monster will never move again.
The whole of the forest soon will envelop the machine
Until there is nothing left to be seen of it. Until it is
Destroyed, like it was never there. Gone:
Prey to the unknown and the forces of nature.
snowy owl's feathers,
soft and white as winter snow,
silent sentinel…
In a timeless time
In an unmeasured space
It observed and regulated
From Its appointed place.
There were twenty seven universe
To which It held the key,
Twenty seven parallels where
It was obliged to be.
And It moved from plane to plane
Instantly changing form
Automatically choosing
The current plane norm,
Carrying out adjustments
Making the odd repair
Adjusting ecosystems
As required here and there.
In some planes It was suspected,
Hailed as a prophet or a god.
Worshipped and revered
But thought this nothing odd,
Just carried out Its duties
As Its programme said
For in all Its form It had
No thoughts in any head.
A mechanic of the intellect
Passing from plane door to door
Conscious only of Its tasks and need
To recharge to perform once more.
It felt no heat,
And It felt no cold,
And in measureless time,
It was immeasurably old.
!
wind wisps dark locks
from her brow
green eyes gaze
across
saguaro spiked slopes
over
sticks and stucco
where once was a river
and corn grew tall
her mama's native blood
her dad's rugged heart
she belongs to this land
pushed her baby
up this mountain
where two centuries ago
sentinels kept guard
now come here to see
sticks and stucco grow
and watch her generation
manage water
(Meade was full last
the year she was born)
see her nurse her dream
graduation
career launch
marriage
money
pay too much for
sticks and stucco
raise above average kids
walk them all
up this mountain
on Thanksgiving
while today
her baby's stroller
chases grandpa
down the hill
so full of giggles
tomorrow grandbaby
stands on this peak
on the brink of her
sticks and stucco
and I pray
grandpa’s here
too
"Same ol', same ol'!",
Cries the Sentinel.
"He pits the parties
To perfect His will
In His heavens,
And on His Earth!"
"I trust Him to do the right thing
More than I trust my own judgment."
"Same ol', same ol'!",
Cries the Sentinel.
"Their moral high-rank
Is only a Mirage,
Tricking a thirsty soul
That its way is safe!"
"I trust Him to guide my footsteps
More than I trust my own eyesight."
"Same ol', same ol'!",
Cries the Sentinel.
"His powerful help-
Irrelevant crutches
In their blind pursuit
Of deceitful wages!"
"I trust Him to keep on winning
More than I trust my own profit."
"Same ol', same ol'!",
Cries the Sentinel.
"The Savior loves you-
But there's no such thing
As acceptable sin,
Because it ruins!"
"I will trust Him and His choices
More than I trust my own reason."
"He comes, He comes!",
Cries the Sentinel.
"With Heaven's Armies
And all His holy ones
To keep His promises
For those who trust Him!"
"I trust Him to keep His Word
More than I trust the Meritocracy."
One is inhibited
when to grasp for her
without care without pity,
a stark reminder
for those with intent
for behold a portrait of nature
when to gaze upon
the blushing Rose at home
amongst her guardian thorns
a rural delight
nurtured in the city
in grounds of remembrance
for there she sparkles,
as she fabricates the scented air
basks in the sunrise
shimmers in dawn’s breaking dew.
© Harry J Horsman 2021
Tides,
die
on the beach...
Birds
tweet
caged or
at liberty...
Poets
blow
minds...
I pray
for
the balance
of
cosmos... !
On edge of time known
Standing strong against the storm
Sentinel of stone
Watcher of the sea
Foreboder of the danger
Shallow reef unseen
You can never sleep
When blows a raging tempest
The vigil you keep
Beacon in the night
Savior of many a soul
Brought home by your light
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