Oh West, there my heart lies bare,
At rest between hills and hallowed mountains fair.
The lands I roam are bleak, so westward still I seek,
For no black earth nor blue sky rivals paradise so sweet.
Rocky Mountains rise, stalwart and timeless,
Their timbered slopes alive in green since the dawn of man.
The rolling plains, the winsome lands,
Made richer still by care and strong, enduring hands.
Oh, Thoreau spoke true: “Westward I go free,”
And those words resound in hearts like mine.
We cross long miles, old lives left swiftly behind,
For what lies eastward but death, Abaddon entwined?
For there rise steel spires, pressed by the hands of men,
Tall things that crowd the breath and dim the soul.
The weight of countless wills, their evils drawn to one place,
Settled deep into that forsaken soil.
You shall not turn me toward those ways again.
No force nor claim shall drive me to return through those lands and fen.
I may take rest, yet ever shall my eyes be drawn
To the lands of my heart,
To the West for which I long.
Rooftops stitched with snow
Lean against a sky of cobalt and ash
Alleys fold into themselves
Cobblestones polished by countless steps
Windows shuttered holding stories like quiet breath
Smoke drifts from chimneys
And lingers in the crisp mountain air
Curling around timbered walls
That lean close protective patient
Gingerbread scents rise from small cafés
Mixing with the scent of pine and frost
Mountains cradle the town
Their shadowed shoulders pressing close
Time stretching around rooftops and river bends
Slow crooked and still alive
Beneath the amber dawn and autumn hues,
a cabin hides where forest touches shore;
its chimney breathes a puff of whitish blue
a sign of warmth behind its worn wood door.
The lake reflects the calm of autumn’s sphere,
as early morning mist hangs in the air;
and ripples, echoing the fading year,
sedately disappear as if not there.
Within the timbered walls a peace resides,
a place to gather thoughts as seasons wane;
I reminisce the dreams my mind confides
and pen the moments of my life’s refrain.
So let me dwell where autumn’s breath is slow
and write the rhymes no summer song could know.
October 21, 2025
Between the reaching shades of tall trees
copper-leafed hillocks’ catch fire,
ghost flames
burnish the slow stealth of evening.
A translucent straw-light
seen only through the thumb hole
of a painter’s pallet,
or in that late sunlit wash, that blooms
so openly that eyes miss it.
Redolent are the long shadows
dipped as they are in rich earthy scents.
The flaxen hay is layered between
timbered silhouettes,
where gossamer ribbons of vapor
hazes-over honeyed acers.
Softly a lambent buoyancy of evening
blends amber and russet wisps
with hues of sorrel and orange.
A mellowing sky drapes over the fields
a chiffon fan of muted rays.
The tawny straws turn slowly,
all unclear to daylight eyes,
but by this eventide
we will view this ebbing day
through a golden glass.
Some old wooden houses are deep,
they have porticos, piazza, loggia,
gables, and cupola.
There rooms are arboreal
they knot,
curl
and jut.
A memory rocks me gently
in its timbered embrace.
I also have an interior
that has been crafted
by every branch
of an endless forest.
It is this depth of a life
constructed upon the growing
of one root.
My house, my portico,
piazza, loggia,
gables, and cupola
all reaching
inward
to where this whole earthy planet
is but a single seed.
Where frosty flurries flourish
Sailing silver clouds stop,
Driving drips do nourish
Where would-be rains drop
Above a timbered tundra land
Laden lumber under showy snow,
Pretty piles of icy inches expand
Wild winter winds bellow below
A bathing beauty became the birch
And diamond bubbles graced her lap,
Sparkling clean, crested a new perch
Was on her head a shower cap
The pungent pine no longer evergreen
With cones of vanilla like ice cream,
Veiled in volumes of a scene serene
Frosty flurries flourish a January dream.
Some old wooden houses are deep,
they have columns and porticos,
piazza, loggia, gables, and cupola.
There rooms are arboreal
they knot. curl and jut outward
as the limbs of a still treeing houses.
Once in a house like this,
I recalled the broadleaf woods of my childhood,
a memory that rocked me gently
in its timbered embrace.
I came to know that depth of my life,
its internal architecture
one room grown from another -
the many mansions.
The woods have been gathering here
for long generations,
they have their own arboreal language,
a nocturnal patois
ground out by layers of ligneous skins.
The language is arcane,
it arrives from deep ancestral roots
incantations that turn slowly
into the kernels of long seeded words.
Deep into the night I listen,
then listen yet more
to the garrulous gossiping
of a creaky wooden bed
chatting to a talky timbered floor.
A living forest,
Where chirping birds chorale and
Butterflies whispers,
Beyond my styled wood door, and
Timbered home of nailed panels.
2019 September 18
A living forest,
Where chirping birds chorale and
Butterflies whispers,
Beyond my styled wood door, and
Timbered home of nailed panels.
Date: 04/28/2019
That Dark Day, Our Childhood Castle Was Felled
Deed was dark, day of its felling
deafening that mighty crash!
Tragic this tale of the telling
thoughtless men, acting so rash.
Where rests now, its flying hordes,
winged weary and storm attacked?
Hammer and nails will pierce its boards
another forest gem ransacked!
Horror struck, sight of destruction
young lad, heart was thus impaled;
needed wisdom, life's instruction
on why sincere prayer had failed!
Mighty oak, child's treasured friend
taken, slain as if not alive,
yes, said - all things come to this end
greed is gold, for its luster strive.
When death invades, innocence lost
will such deep scars ever heal?
Can gold thus gained, justify cost
when a child finds heart break real?
R.J. Lindley,
May 25th, 1977
Note- (Poem was inspired by the (1968) cutting down of our childhood castle, swing and climbing kingdom of childhood fantasy). My younger brothers and sisters cried..
Forest behind our home was being timbered out for its dollar value in its old,mighty and majestic oak trees.
Although land was owned by others, children see such gems when so loved as their own..
A Leafy Land
To the North and East, green sloped Downs above
The Weald* of Kent. Beneath, the Pilgrim’s Way
Where Monk, traveller and Penitent walked
And Chaucer wrote of the Canturbury Tales.
A land of ancient paths; Chestnut and Oak,
Where Kings and Princes held castle towers.
Oast Houses; beacons to ancient crafts,
Red brick, half timbered dwellings, pan tiled roofs.**
Meadows of buttercup and columbine.
A historic land of hops and fruit.
A leafy land where Jute and Saxon came.
To the South, the bleak and lonely Marshes,
A land of sheep and one time smuggler’s haunts.
Then to the West, high chalk Downs and Sussex.
Beyond, the sea surging on shingled shores
Where the Saxon yielded to Norman Sword.
* Weald – Saxon – A forested or uncultivated tract of land. Probably related to ‘wild’.
**Pan tiles - A type of pan baked clay tile used in the Eastern counties of Scotland and England, rarely in other parts of the Country. First imported from Holland in the early 17th Century.
06/11/17
hobbyhorse dreams
by odin roark
rocking
just a few minutes more
almost there
remember our primitive forest
kitchen chairs
chrome trunks
yellow and green tree tops
nesting places for the vultures
always present
always ready to prey
rocking
kitchen cabinet canyons
scarred timbered walls
smooth worn knobs
magic openings
caves for hiding
once again
passing through familiar terrain
approaching tiered rise
the climb we've never finished
Pinto and me
up into air
just for us
rocking
so much ground covered
why does Nurse Vera
always eye me
touch my shoulder
she knows
we're almost there
almost ready to climb
off old pinto
once we're to the top
but
not today
not enough time
group time
pill time
heal time
that's what they call it
healing time
why do they want to heal our dreams Pinto?
I blame it on the light
pretending. Auburn bright and Autumn
too.
Fainted dim of our December
imparts the solemn fall of all to
view.
Crass comes the stilted body, amalgam
in the slanted rain. The April rains a timbered
soak.
The rings. O time! O time remains.
Far above a timbered valley --
High up on a mountain peak --
The beauty of the day surrounds me
As I listen to the breezes speak.
Serenity caresses my soul --
Gentle winds tune each leaf they touch --
Until a symphony is heard
By senses not attuned to such.
I question the source of this artistry.
And, as resonant chords the winds pursue,
Lyric breezes sing their songs
And flood my mind with thoughts of you.
So, I listen for a voice in the wind --
As I wait for your spirit to pass by.
When I reach for a hand meant for me
The spell is broken by a sigh.
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