In Retrospect

Beneath a haloed moon
soft shadows ruffle a field
untouched by fence or post.

Ambushed by Autumn’s
falling leaves,
a calm claims my soul

as I pray that tomorrow
might resemble today
in this field

awash in moonlight
and the innocence
of its peace.
 

 

Praying for all whose peace has been shattered
by tragedy and grief.

Psalm 147:3
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”

Advertisements

Poet Pick Up Your Pen

When hungry for a meeting
with the Muse,
did you ever think
of hacking down a reed,
and dipping it in ochre
mixed with soot, scratching it
on parchment skins of goat?
Poet, Pick up your pen!

Do you think your words
would then
be more profound,
if created with the tools
from hallowed ground?
Do you know the power
that flows within?
Poet, Pick up your pen!

Lead others on a path
they have not seen before,
What more could be the dream
of frozen child, of poet, and of sage,
What battles rage within
that turn you
from your destiny?
Poet, pick up your pen!

What treasure do you hold
in greater measure
than the gift bestowed,
apparently at birth,
What other use of time
could ever amplify
your final worth?

Poet, Pick up your pen!
The words will flow
with new found freedom,
The soul will soar,
the mind transcend.
Poet, Pick up your pen!

My Favorite Book Store

tom1

tom2a

The proprietor has bookshelves built into the outside brick wall (on the ‘porch’, under roof).  He keeps the shelves well stocked. In addition, locals bring their old books and put them  on the shelves. If they see something they haven’t read, they take it.  When they are  through reading, they generally return it, but they can keep it if they choose. There is a  box with a slot, donations are accepted; books may be paid for but if anyone wants to read and doesn’t have money, they can take what they want.

Every square inch of the inside of the store is stacked high with books, the shelves are
neat and orderly but crammed. Every niche and corner has stacks of very old books.
Here and there are seats of various descriptions.   He has been there for  more than forty years.

Next door, on the same side of the street, is The Cat’s Paw Art Supply store. They sell the work of local artists as well as new and ‘gently used’ art supplies.  It is linked in
my blog roll (left side-panel) right above the calendar.  Across the street is Coleman’s Fish
Market…the best fish sandwiches in my whole wide world. You can eat them there or take them home.  You can buy fresh seafood of all descriptions, as well as alligator stew,
and a glorious assortment of delectables.

The whole area is known as the Centre Market.  It is loaded with antique shops, craft shops, food stalls, wonderful Amish vittles of all sorts as well as cheeses and meats
hanging here and yon over head.  The Towngate Theatre is just around the corner.

twngt

(above photo copied from the Towngate webpage)

 

 

Earth Tones

Nothing seems tormented in September,
Even the dying vines look satisfied
as the pumpkins in their fat orange splendor
grow expectantly.

It’s not just the promised rest that entices;
more like a great contentment
as the buds and blooms of April
expand to share their bounty.

“It is good,” we say with sun still on our faces
and the breeze sighs, signifies its agreement.
Contented is the shade of harvest season,
Earth’s breast is pinned

with chrysanthemums and delphiniums.
Maple leaves splash flame amongst the rust,
Wild geese honk a great anticipation.
It’s autumn;

the senses rise to claim the sky
with wind beneath our wings.

Almost

A rainbow over the river,
It doesn’t need much sun;
oil slicked ripples
are dancing.
This is home.

Home to eagle and crow,
to black bear and deer
and lately the lowly coyote.
There’s plenty of wild
on the roam.

It’s home to cabbages and kings,
to ordinary men, to those
who know hope
when hope could be
a stranger.

Home of dreams, some fading,
some flourishing in cabins and castles,
Imps and angels, both have mountains
to climb in quest of stars. This home…
it’s almost heaven.

 

Why Do Sparrows Fly?

The sparrow’s flight,  miraculous working
of hollow bone and feathered wing,

untethered by the need
to claim more than a spot to land

and when it lights,
sustenance for day, a nest for night.

Because we dwell in things that are,
it is often difficult to soar,

Sometimes the truth is other than it seems,
Could be the sparrow flies so man might dream.