Glimpse of Morning

the morning favors silence and a respite from sleep

cold and oh so nonchalant as it begins...

it harbors nor memories of the day before

or the day before that nor any tomorrows that it

has not the right to imagine or foresee...

yet, it always begins nonetheless and it always

seems to know when awakening is the best.

6 November 2020

Northeast of Knoxville

 

       

The morning was in full bloom by the time I retrieved myself from the comforts of our warm feather bed; 

into the great room I stumbled carefully and chanced upon a package with a green ribbon tied tightly; 

the ribbon was not as curious an event as were the contents inside -- a leather bound book of Frost's Collection

was glimpsed at solidly and when extracted felt good upon my hands;

it was no Sandburg, Dickens or Poe but of late was not one that had been eyed by me; 

I sat about reading it of course and soon discovered it was prose poetry of a sort, 

the likes of which I had never seen until this chance encounter brought us together. 

The warmth of the Valley sun brought me back to a state of sleep perchance for me to dream, 

I know not why but upon being startled I looked straight at a boy of ten walking 

with one of Sandberg's goats on a leash made of unstained hemp; 

the leash bothered me not as much as did the age of its handler and because of its peculiarities,

when the boy had passed, it was as if some unseen voiced compelled me to follow.



No more than twenty paces behind was I marking my time as the boy

and the goat strolled down the dirt path without the benefit of any signs;

when the sun was full upon my head, the boy stood quietly with the goat

by his side at a fork with two gnomes guarding like Roman sentinels protecting Golgotha;


I stopped and hid behind a Tennessee Pine and apparently just in the nick of time.


The boy still holding onto the was the first to speak, "which way should I go," he asked?


"That quite depends on which way you want to go," he replied laughing.


"Never mind," said the boy, "I'll ask your friend."


"He always lies," the first gnome offered quite innocently.


"And I suppose you always tell the truth," he asked sarcastically?


"Exactly so… but you know it could just be the opposite, still,

you have but one question to ascertain which one since you have been so contrite."



As I watched the confrontation from behind the concealment of my tree, 

I could only speculate as to what that boy might be thinking;

it was no paradox for him and gently spoke as turned away,

"I knew this riddle once before but will ask it not because I cannot remember," 

and with that the boy turned with his goat, "I shall return to whence I came."



As the young boy and goat passed by my location behind the Tennessee

Pine, he offered up a curious look and nodded as if to suggest that I

accompany the pair and while I reluctantly agreed by following the

pace that was much faster than my own and soon they had disappeared from my view.



It was purely by chance that I happened upon him once again, sitting

under an apple tree learning against its trunk with the Toggenburg’s head in his lap and a most curious look on his face.


I stood in silence for longer than I could imagined and ‘twas like a bolt

of something other than lightening, it came to out-of-the-blue…

the young boy was waiting for an apple to drop…



From inside the house, the smell of cooking onions and garlic broke

me free from my reverie and a lapse of memory reminded me of

Frost's Collection now laying in my lap like my Siamese cat always used to do.

Raccoon Valley Road

It was the first Monday in May as I recall

or perhaps April as I did not remember well,

when I strolled not so leisurely through

the heavily wooded area beside our home,

it was a place visited often by my friends and me

to dwell among and within the level of nature

where as innocent lads we spent much of our time

when not learning something in public school

the nature of which although I was bound to forget;

we frolicked and played most of the day and

dug out caves in the ground over top of which

we built our fortresses of imagination and fortitude

that one day we would do battle with a foe

remembering well out times on Raccoon Valley Road

sitting around campfires, cooking fried eggs

drinking water from home out of aluminum canteens

fighting off outlaws with cap guns rifles that

were Christmas gifts a few months before...

wondering how did they know what we'd be playing

in those wooded areas beside our homes; and...

journey back into these woods this day

I have no doubt what I will find unless some other lads

decided to tear down what we had built and

construct their own fortresses of solitude...

hiding squirrels and rabbits I easily see as

stoically silent they hesitate their movements until I pass

with all my crunching sounds stepping on fallen wood,

the sounds of birds chirping in the distance attract my ears

and I halt myself wondering where they be in

relationship to where I am most currently not where

I've been or might have been had I taken another path;

and the memories that are confronting me

do not come pouring in like flood waters over a dam

but curiously silent they have abandoned me as if

this wooded valley held no memories of mine at all

but rather than wondering why, I journey on

in the hopes that glory will this day finally be found

in this heavily wooded area of Raccoon Valley Road.

3 November 2020

Our Bluebird Friends

around and around the bluebirds fly like vultures

squawking at the tiny wrens occupying their house,

mistress and I on the porch swing sit witnessing the spectacle

she with her listening device                                                      

I with a pad and pen recording the event

not doing justice to what we see

writing my interpretation of the battle

of which none of our neighbors seem to care;

it was only yesterday it seems when in one of my spurts of energy

I set about fixing the decaying rails of our deck

and after a week when I was sweaty and tired

noticed if the board were turned over and sanded would have 

appeared as good as new or close enough not to matter,

and so, as any good conservative would do

I conjured up a plan to use an old board or two

and when the sun had left its toll on the day,

realized that I had build a very fine home for bluebirds,

so down with the old I did the next day and hung up the new one

just in time for a couple to fly our way;

over the next few days, I watched these winged stranger

work hour after hour to build a nest and once completed

I had always assumed they had become our guests,

but it was not until today that I realized maybe it was another couple

who had decided to occupy a newly build home

leaving the bluebirds without a home of their own...

and so I watched with great delight when I finally realized

my bluebirds friends had won their fight and that those tiny wrens

had decided to sojourn to another valley glen.

3 November 2020

Mood Whispers

my mood whispers its intent over coffee

as down the path of memories I walk

reflecting over decisions made and those

that were left behind for another day;

my mood relaxes its intent with each cup

as the day whither and pass like fall leaves

that fall to the ground after serving purpose

and are raked up by those needing exercise;

my mood tumbles and turns, rolling this

way and that way to avoid discussions,

knowing that the time will come where

it will confront its previous moods;

my mood has no retaliatory defense as

rules my subconscious memories and

dredges up those with which it is most

conflicted and in need of replacement;

my mood generates my attitudes and

attitudes inflate my personalities and

my personalities impacts my actions 

that so often cause me mental anguish;

my mood abandons its resolve and I

am left with foster ideas and fancies

that attract my conscious attention and

I react as I had had no coffee at all.

3 November 2020

A Morning Sojourn

down the road a mile or two I walked without a cane

feeling the sun and wind at my back pushing me on,

turning right onto a dirt road as birds mocked my presence

and a deer or two quickly jumped out-of-my-sight;

further down the dirt road I walked looking left and right

seeing nothing of interest on either side yet continued...

an old dead tree laid down its life in front of me

and a slithering snake slide inside its wooden coffin;

Oak, Birch, and Maple leaves stuck to the ground

and a nearby sassafras trees rose under a Dogwood

not trying to hide its noticeable leaves from me;

a shelter stood in a clearing off to the left and

furrowed ground off to the right...

its peaks frosted by the morning dew not melted away,

and with a sigh of relief I ventured forward as if

Marco Polo had been my father and taught me everything

except how to keep warm in a chilly morning breeze...

and as I ventured forward and further into the day

I came across a silver lake all smooth and forlorn

and there were no duck strolling on the pond

as I was lead to believe and not cranes either

as the old lady at the grocery store had warned

after giving me all my direction and a candy bar;

it was a pleasant walk and not too far it seemed

although I could have walked it quicker if I had a mind to

but it was just a walk to get me away from all the

clamor and glamour of moving to a new neighborhood.

November 2, 2020

Mill Pond Glen

How fast and furious is the wind that

blows down through the valley glen

Where bushes linger by a moonlit pond

Where bass with open mouths swim by and

Farm boys too small to ride a bike sit on

 the water's edge with bamboo fishing poles

And as the darkest night turns into day

birds leave their nests and into the wind they fly

Past the boy and his fishing pole

Past the pond no longer lit by the moon

Past the unaware large mouth bass nearby

And into the windy sky they fly

Upwards and upwards they soar

As if they had been shot from a catapult

That may have laid siege to a city during the war

But there is no war in this valley glen

Since the civilian war of the 1860's when

Brother fought brother and sisters did the healing

And yet, we all still grieve for our losses

As if nature had played a silly trick on us

Leaving us all with no more reason to hate.

November 2, 2020

Hobbies

 Golf...

           I never wanted

                 to learn how to play

                        always thought it was silly;

Skiing...

         I never had the

                had the coordination

                       to keep me from getting hurt;

Writing...

               is what I do

                              AND

               it matters not

                       if I am good or bad

                                        BECAUSE

                       it is what I do;

Reading...

                certain topics entertains me, like:

                     theoretical physics

                          quantum mechanics

                               cosmic consciousness

Hobbies...

                we all have them, I suppose...                        

Windy Days

a world of wind blows strongly through

my screened-in porch of observations,

announcing an end to this year's summer;

we prepare reluctantly for the winter

months that we know are ahead of us,

dreading each cold day with trepidation;

clouds of hope no longer pass our way

overhead on their journey south and the

warmth of the sun's new heavenly angle;

birds hide in newly build houses made

from the wood of a rotten deck on top

of which their old home once stood;

flowers whither and die and dead leaves

fall from the ancient trees that once

upon a time were mere seedlings planted;

roads of doubt stream through my

consciousness as I connect with the

cosmic world just above my head;

thoughts of the previous are filtered

through my open mind as I connect with

those who were once here and about;

in dreams they appear out of the ordinary

and are formulated around the ideology

on previous windy days were encountered.

31 October 2020

Cold Blues

the cold penetrates

the wind chills

the liquid warms

and I sit outside on

the porch of many dollars

that only keeps out the flies;

a fat cat scurries across

the room spurred on by

lowered temperatures

stopping briefly to

look at singing birds

sitting on the deck;

bushes stand rigid

trees wear solemn frowns

losing their leaves as

one loses their hair

living out one's time;

clouds form in the sky

observing the storm

that has yet to arrive

preventing the sun from

doing its duty until

the springtime comes;

fall is an amusing time

before the winter steps

off the bus for vacation

and we adjust our lives

accordingly not wanting

to sit outside without

sweatshirt and toboggan.

30 October 2020