Spring’s Second Day at the Zoo

26 03 2017

Spring’s Second Day at the Zoo

The real story

Is the robins.

They strut, and fight, and

Explore their urban world anew

In the softer air this second

Day. All the birds seem to know it,

That true frost is behind us –

That there is safety

In boldness.

 

The giraffe, always curious

About the humans who raised him

Stretches to greet me,

Another one passing by.

I like to think

He remembers when

I met him on my second day

Working at the zoo.

 

The siamangs huddle casually,

Still a bit sleepy and cold

But glad of the growing sunshine.

On my way back through

They are basking on a higher branch;

The sun has won them over, but

They are not yet hooting for joy.

That will come, they know;

The animals,

All of them

Adapted to a new life

Still possess the deep ways

Of season,

Of death, and therefore

Of truly living.

 





Small Things

1 09 2016

Waking up when you didn’t remember it was Saturday

The tea at just the right temperature

The first sip of coffee on a cold, tired morning

When you are alone for the first time in some time, and the room is silent

Coming home, sitting down, removing your shoes and petting the cat

Entering a house from the cold outside when a fire is in the hearth

A bee on a flower, oblivious

A butterfly wafting where you cannot

When the rain starts and the heat is broken

When the rain ends and all is new

Eating the first cherry tomato, warm from the vine

The first flower peeking through the cold ground

The cat lying in the shaft of light; a book on your lap

Taking out the finished pie

A chocolate chip cookie, still warm and melted

The first cookie of Christmas, eaten while leaning against the counter in the warm kitchen

Happening upon a brook in the forest

When you arrive at the beach and hurry out to stand before the waves

A bird landing on a low branch, inspecting you

Wildlife in the garden, unaware you are watching

Walking out of the office on the day before vacation

Christmas Eve at midnight

Christmas Day, before the house has risen

Easter morning sunlight through the church windows





Poem: The Black Mug

13 08 2016

I have adopted it as my own

– The black mug

Without design,

A simple shape

And graceful lip.

It rests in the office cabinet

Unfavored by those

With noisier tastes.

 

To me it is

Absence

Of complications ever-present,

A void

A cave

Where secret thoughts escape

The burning sun of conscription.

 

I broadcast no slogan,

No sardonic flag.

You cannot own

A pithy image,

Your co-worker in five words

Or even less.

 

I sip the black mug-

A moment of nondescription

Among tidy boxes.

I enter the void gladly

 

I escape.





Pay Attention to the Sea

30 07 2011

Today I borrow from a soulful blog, From the House of Edward,  to bring you this thought. I hope it can enrich your day, whether you find yourself facing the sea in person or in your mind.

Slow down.
Notice.
Remember.
When the breeze blows in from off the sea and finds you, stop for a moment to think about the way it feels as it brushes your cheek. Remember the salty fragrance of nature’s perfume. Let your eyes gaze out over and into the blue of the water till you can see that colour behind closed eyes in your sleep.
After all, none of us can remember what we don’t notice in the first place.
*~*




What does Peace sound like?

27 02 2011

(Peace sounds like)

07-Mar-05

The silence of simply stopping awhile;

Electric comfort from a daring smile.

The second warm sip from a heavy mug;

The small crunch of clothes in a hearty hug.

The joyous announce of a landing loon;

Cricket hymns for the lonely moon.

White clouds passing politely above;

Soft sighing waves of fearless love.





. . . And we’re back

23 01 2011

I decided that I want to continue the blog, but on more casual terms. For instance, I will post when the mood strikes and let myself write on more wide-ranging topics. I’ll be interested to hear your thoughts, as always. And now, a poem about winter on the Maryland shore, by me.

The Inlet in Winter

The inlet in winter

Whispers stoic peace;

Waves slip

Into secrets

And retreat,

Telling no one, as the secrets

Mean nothing

Under subtle skies.

Nearby,

the maritime woods

snuggle together, protecting

their summertime scent.

We are mere visitors,

Temporary distractions

From the weighty work

Of winter

In their bones.

*~*








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