Loping, lunging lupine paws,
Shake the ground outside my door.
I hear the growl of foul wind, rumbling,
Howling in apocalyptic tones.
All Hallows’ Tale
(“Quoth the Raven”…Boo!)
Hark, lights sift through shifting windows,
To moss-grown, sleeping sepulchers, creaking,
Whose tombs then quake, raising spirits that caper,
As candlelight proceeds to taper,
Phantasms fly from moldy beds,
Faces frozen in rictus dread…
Chilled breezes, like icy satin, awaken me from the vagaries,
That muddle one’s thoughts as sleep approaches.
Pungent aroma of smoky air drifting across sills, startles.
Eye of the Loon
From the Miocene, thirty seven million years of primal memory
Tell me, that I am survival.
Convergent from strong gulls, hesperornithes, grebes,…
Black, white and gray, I am. Red-eyed Gavia, I am.
Densely-boned Great Northern diver, I am.
Meandering in my mind, musing…
Sibilance of waves wash gently, peacefully,
Realizing I need no more than this,
I count the wonders and blessings before me…
Wake To It
Quicksilver lives, like glistening waves,
Unrelentingly forming, cresting, diminishing, receding,
Like notes on an ever-moving scale,
On ever-turning pages, speeding faster than light,
Billowing above the beckoning forest canopy,
To the lacrimal sounds of searching loons.
To find a pure place, an oasis in life,
Limited neither by earthly boundaries nor spiritual ones,
Nor time, worry, want or discord…is to find paradise.
Such a place of all-encompassing beauty,
Will light every mortal sense afire in birth of inspiration,
Of new sight, of loftier goals, and in ultimate understanding
Of mysteries that were heretofore inscrutable.
All points coalesce in this place.
Eyes that have seen much,
Reflect pure sunlight on dazzling water.
Along with Spring,
And things alive,
There comes something,
That can survive.
Hope there may be,
In shoots of green,
In every tree,
And verdant scene.
When ill winds blow,
Hope them away,
With loving hearts,
They cannot stay.
For better times,
And promise true,
This little rhyme,
Is sent to you.
Bleached by sun, arms touching,
Commiserate, await, relief for parched planks.
Trees sway, dip and bend in ancient dance,
Nature’s Code Talkers, communicating warning
To all who listen and see.
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