Posts
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Recollection
Our lives: a collection of moments we cannot forget.
Or the storms - would be - for nothing.
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The Dead of Night
One voice whispers.
Gathers, threading a symphony on the wind.
They blanket our world in a mist of magic.
The howling peaks.
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A Dream
The ocean pulls forward and back in a rhythmic motion, lying beneath a spectacular sunset. We marvel at the sight of the setting sun, leaving traces of pink and gold along the clouds, tracing its paint-brushed fingers along the sky.
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The Poem Not Meant to Be a Poem
Where do all the ideas go; where do they come from? I wonder, staring at a blank, bland document. A great tree of life, sparkling above, forever tucked away, just out of reach? And then the leaves rain down. There!
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Crumbling
Falling leaves
Tickle and tease
As we finish Night together.
We speak in turns – or when the other cannot.
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If I remember you
I can't. But if I were to, I'd think of that old snowy hill beyond the library, the one where paths were cut into its snow by our sled. That one hill-- you know? The one bare and eerie this winter, with no sleds to pierce it. . .
Loves
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Vermont's World Tree
I’ve seen a million sunsets and sunrises, yet each day still dawns with new surprises. As the sun peaks its golden rays over the green mountains, Vermont’s future stretches out with new horizons.
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Summer stars
may,
nearly beginning of summerto celebrate, I wear fishnet tights with stars and moons,
a NASA t-shirt,
and a moon necklacenew season of summer, fast approaching
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To Be a Poet
To be a poet is not to write poems.
No.
Most anyone can do that.
Most anyone has done that,
for school, maybe.
To be a poet is to see a tree
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Forever Untamed
I see a Soul behind your eyes.
Soulful, and
Wholly Loving.
You sometimes lash out, but
It is not your fault.
You are new to this, and I will
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Mother Earth
In the cradle of the galaxy’s abyss, we float
Born and aged through evolutions, revolutions
The Earth has been here, and we are passengers on a never ending journey in our orbit round the sun
