I was invited to an Art show that was painted
long before I was born—
Seven decades ago.
Its beauty was impressive.
Yet— I kept walking along
Smiling at each ornate frame, checking my watch,
flirting with my chaperone— waiting to go home.
History with all its beauty and faults
cannot survive without sharing its thoughts
—as they did on my evening’s drive home.
Drowsy with perception’s wine,
its indigestible sandwiches
sprinkled with beauty and awe
unable to personally imagine or to be explained.
I will see her again.
People, who have a lot of things
use them, and have a lot of things still left over.
People, who, have a few things,
use them, and have no left over’s.
People, who have no things, who seek many things,
end up using only a few things, and, have nothing left over.
All, who have things,
become one thing.
My things, became empty from use,
They were dug from the earth, and made in a factory
through creation, imagination and mistakes.
Useless now, worn, exchanged, or sat on a flea market table where even gypsies refused to take
are now ready to be disposed of—
on this pleasant day, at the New Hampton dump,
at 12:15 P M. on a bright and sunny Saturday.
I looked out my window this morning slowly moving towards the door… smiling, I saw the first snowfall lightly covering the back yard and exposing at its edge, new white paths into an open woods.
(It was usual autumn foliage, sensuous in its finale. Out doing summers delightful green crescendo. Very colorful introductory and passing of those two seasons can never negate spring’s promising return with greater lovers that give them birth and death. They still, however, tease her about her promiscuity).
I was delighted to see, winter keeping his engagement.
Kitchen is brewing, filling the room with the aroma of bold roast coffee. I can hear the kicking off of boots… the stocking pitter-patter of feet, of the artist, above me; carrying wood from the woodshed’s wheelbarrow, and scratching and scraping, stoking the cooling wood stove.
Our winter season has begun.
Between sun and snow falling
The line is lovely
In late autumn, in-between the mountains, a sinking sun
glows bright orange. Silhouetted on ridges above the valleys —
pines, leafless maples, stark bare oak trees.
I notice a single leaf wobbling
on a low birch branch near me.
I presumed, waiting on the winter wind
for her invitation to an early frost
and a late autumn’s— evening’s fling—
encircling wooden posts with rusting wire fences
for a dance floor, dancing my first winter waltz
with the chill wind, red cheeks blushing warm—
–Snow glistening across the meadow
Pushed through the White Mountains—
Enjoying delightful winter flakes on my tongue.
Kicking snow into white clouds announcing
my next boot’s intention
— lest’ I slip.
Twirling in traditional steps of solid granite stature.
Dipping, stomping, sliding, gabbing a handful of snow
kissed, licked, and eaten cold.
we would play and dance to a robust measure of silent music;
then, with symphonic pause –time for another last thought—
I would be pushed home
whistled in snowflake crescendo,
pulling up my collar,
and tightening my wool hat
towards drifting wood stove smoke
and supper on the kitchen table
with a cup of hot chocolate that was perfectly warm.
Thoughts – as I watched,
late autumn sun setting on
my New Hampshire home.
I went inside with an arm full of wood.
Smiling at the leaf’s anticipation
For her first fling— a s mine was
in a late autumn childhood.
Sweet writers! exclaimed! Or, un-exclaimed!
Let your dreams float without utterance
Or sound— above the waterfall’s rainbow of your brain
And it’s frothy, delightful misty vocabulary—
words waiting, hovering beyond intelligence,
to be spelled.
Soul’s wind, embraces them , often to dispel
them Into wispy clouds—
As they carry the words only you can share,
in treasured remembrance
In sleep, recognizing crashing waters
Seeing a person in a barrel who dared to land there,
at the bottom
splintered and torn
For only a dime
Will cost me to be awakened—
I awakened, and paid the price—
with lead pencil in hand
To scribbled away; “I’m OK! Yup! I am OK.
There will always be a place to start.
Beginnings, never end”.
And so, remembering,
Why we start—
And why, we will never finish.
In the reflection of sunrise light,
Tipping blades of grass with tiny crystal prisms,
Glitter all the colors of life—
I catch my shadow in stride, until each is one.
Both! (My shadow and I) Each, both in transition
Until we find the secret peace of the forest—
I am an early morning guest
Waking, yawning, knowing
How I will be received;
With scent of pines and wild blueberry dreams—
I will see you soon, my old friend.
“In order to get in you have to get out; in order to get out, you have to get in”,
chanted the chorus of fireflies swooping through a darkening sky
dressed as ceremonial monks, seeking each other by light.
I am moss grown on the North side of this Oak,
leaning with invitation, towards that sound and sight.
Released from the shadow into the glow of life
we both shall rise.
So as this tree, so as will I.
Introduced into yellow candle light, visible in the glow,
Embracing the heat, they skip through the orange of a burning wick.
Flickering light in rhythm with the flame, making shadows that mirror each other
In the magical reflection of make-believe and melting lollies.
The bride and groom burned the floor they danced on.
Softening the wax into a glistening pool of history;
Consuming each other into a golden ring.
Darkness fell in the clearing.
The bride and groom completely embraced,
Each struck a match
Having gone beyond chance and cinders,
In the glow of their “now-forever” dance.
Early spring rain drifting, shifting,
Collecting before sunrise,
Melts winter on a window’s darkened pane.
Gray clouds, low to the ground,
Shrouds a New Hampshire’s wood stove smoke,
Exhaling its last chord in crackling sound.
Approaching southern winds
And warm fireside thoughts embrace the Governor of Lake Land
And the Duchess of Wales.
Cradling a magical elf in a blanket of down,
A waking new-born with smiling eyes
Is gently moved from arms to arms.
They relight the candle;
Invite the monks (the fireflies),
And the moss, earlier described.