The Lonely Falling Tree
Does the lonely falling tree
when no one’s there to hear
make no sound but silently
hush against the ground?
Do forgotten fallen brave
when war has come and gone
cease to cry and silently
lie still where they died?
Does the young and helpless one
whom some cruel fate now slays
have no choice since silently
she cries without a voice?
All the lonely falling trees
in heaven do make sound.
… Pausing now, so silently,
I hear them hit the ground.
My Tree
How sad that in the world there are
trees which children never see;
but sadder still by very far
are kids who never climb a tree:
Who trapped in walls of cities are
all buckled up in hurried cars
watching passing trees through glass
like a zoo trip with a class.
While in a backyard far away
I sense a tree does pine to play:
hoping wind will blow today
a flock of strapping kids his way.
I know that in the world there are
many many many trees.
And still, of these, the best by far
is this one simply called my tree.
His leaf can make a nation glad –
it’s painted red on Canada’s flag!
He’s called “Maple” in Grown-upese,
but has a name among the trees –
in his tongue with colored sounds,
his name means “Nests are Found.”
Lifting robins from the ground,
guards them so they’re safe and sound. His
bark scares foes, his branches sing
the melody of youthful springs;
his roots are toes, his seeds are wings
that pinch your nose without a sting.
Muscles for branches, arms so tough,
so swing, swing as long as you please!
He bends limbs down just low enough
that you can catch them with great ease.
His leaves provide a canopy,
a tent of heaven’s sweet supply
where you can play day after day
or sometimes go there just to cry.
But best of all, up in my tree
a kid can be a thousand things:
a princess in the land of dreams,
the maker of five magic rings,
a captain of a ship at sea,
a starling that can sweetly sing,
the hero who sets captives free,
… whatever imaginings bring.
So if you’re stuck in city homes
unable to climb up a tree,
hold tight the branches of this poem
and come and climb my tree with me.
Under the Poet Tree
Has it really been …
Can it actually be …
Might I be mistaken?
Nearly a year,
a course of the sun,
since this pen has met
the leaves of the poet tree.
A year till spring?
Why so long?
Has this year
dried the ink?
It still flows,
but how?
Has it any color?
Can it make a line?
Might I be dry?
Only the pages that
follow
can say.
The Treasure
There’s a treasure that’s worth more than gold.
that’s prized by young as well as by old.
Some call it silver, some call it flair –
it’s the ability to put words in the air,
and with them connect with others and God
and rise above rivers and mountains and sod.
Pennsylvania Heading East
Cross farm and hill and creek,
past woods at rest ’til spring,
the land gives way gently
as the Susquehanna spreads her crystal gown.
She begins the roll of mountains which
transport onward ’til the Delaware
waters cut a gap,
transforming the scape to cliffs and crags
with pines to sweep the snow.
The snow up north lies deeper still
and covers frozen ponds that
bring completion to barns
once red but now transfigured
into an ornament for the house a doctor bought
trying to return to a time that has passed.
The Seed
Sometimes a seed is so large that it goes unnoticed.
It is thought of as a merely an object to milk or eat.
But stepping back, we can see
that the seed – the coconut – offers a secret promise:
“I am the seed of a tree of life that grows in mild and desperate climes:
From Brazil and the Philippines to the Maldives and the Middle East.”
Let’s see how the promise grows.
After the Fight
The soft words of this pen
cannot prevent the fight.
So I fold them within
the lines of this page
to emerge upon first light.
Eternity in Autumn’s Birch
The Birch, unmoved, has been right there
throughout the fleeting summer.
Tis only now I notice her
as she’s the first to color.
She marks the border of the wood
that veils the yon horizon;
but in her bark I see details
beyond what one lays eyes on.
The white peals back, the black bursts forth —
eternity’s now naked.
My eyes can see right through the dark
beyond the land that’s jaded
and see the heart of hearts that hopes
that we will pause and ponder
just why a human tear duct pumps
inside of its creator.
The eye-shaped slit on yonder Birch
now winks and sheds some tears;
her leaves, now rustled by the wind,
speak words I strain to hear …
“The secret silence of the one
who planted all the Birches
stay a mystery except for him
who through her branches searches.”
Spring
The winter’s sharp hold on body and soul
makes even youth’s limbs feel weak and old.
But green buds of April push up through May
and increase the warmth with the lengthening days.
What seemed impossible now is a lawn
of actions and dreams awaiting each dawn.
Words
Words, words, so many words!
They fly about like silly birds.
But with some rhythm and some rhyme
all those words will soon be mine
to dance upon the stage of life
to bring some peace where there is strife.
Yes, those lovely words!
The Grandest Fortune
For my diamonds you said thank you,
for my silver you just smiled;
in my castle you took over
and took back that one lone smile.
In the tarnish of the silver
a diamond scratches these words:
“In this castle you’re a stranger —
your home is now the world.”
Now the moon’s become my silver,
and my diamonds are the stars;
and my castle’s the horizon
as I search both near and far
for the grandest of all fortunes
— the smile of a pure heart —
a sign that highest heaven,
on earth, has made a start.
The Bones of Hope
Of the three things that are said to abide,
the greatest is said to be love.
But I am partial to the middle one
that also comes from above.
Indeed, love is what increases its strength
while faith is its precursor.
But hope is what makes each day new
and fills my bones with fervor.
The Hawk and the Mouse
I have yet to see the mouse prevail
against the talons of the hawk
except by stealth and quick retreat
into a hole or tuft of grass.
Imagine the scene as mouse rebels
against the rule of nature herself
and shakes a paw up in the sky
and spits into the hawks sharp eye!
The scene is bloody – but not the hawk’s –
as nature once more has her way,
and one more mouse does feed the life
of one with power to rule the sky.
While passersby reflectively say,
“The hawk is noble; the mouse, a pest.”
And nature smiles as all is right —
the mouse comes out to rule the night.
A 50 Gallon Drum
The sound of the drum increases its strength
as what was inside becomes vacant space;
while drums that are full make quieter sounds
and are not inclined to erupt in your face.
A Needle in a Haystack
A needle in a haystack – such a silly notion!
A needle in a haystack – why all the commotion?
The doctor’s here to find it, but Fanny won’t stop crying.
She says that she has found it, though she wasn’t even trying.
She sat at noon to rest her legs; at once she started crying.
The needle sank into her rear; she feels as if she’s dying!
Her derriere does need repair, but she won’t let the doctor
check her there (she doesn’t care if she offends the doctor).
So, next time someone says to you to find a needle in a haystack
is hard to do, here’s what to do to get that needle back:
just take a load off your tired legs and sit down without worry.
You’ll find that needle, sure as Flynn, and find it in a hurry.
A needle in a haystack – such a silly notion!
As you can see, finding it merely takes devotion.
But, be prepared to show a bit of Fanny’s raw emotion.
And, yes, remember first to buy a lot of first aid lotion.
Pumpkin Jack
Little Bumpkin was a pumpkin in a pumpkin patch;
he had a fear with Halloween near of ladies who might snatch
… snatch him from the pumpkin patch and turn him to a pie,
so, he changed his name and lit a flame and poked out his two eyes!
He poked his nose and poked his teeth to make a scary face,
and when those brazen bakers came they stopped their forward pace.
Instead of Bumpkin they saw Jack, a lantern like a ghost.
They forswore thoughts of pumpkin pie . . . “Instead, let’s just make toast!”
Yes, a toast. Why not!
Next time at a banquet meal you lift your glasses high,
remember Jack-o’-lantern’s flame, whose wits kept him alive! Cheers!
Nighty Night, Sleep Tight
Little darling, sleep tonight.
You are in an angel’s sight;
he’s above you like a dove,
his pure heart does beat with love.
Little darling, sleep tonight –
Nighty night, nighty night!
Bluebirds, robins, sparrows, doves,
whirling, swooping high above,
sing their songs and build their nests,
just as you do before you rest.
Pillows round you form a ring –
it’s a nest from which we sing
of many happy pleasant things.
Little darling, sleep tonight.
You are in an angel’s sight;
he’s above you like a dove,
his pure heart does beat with love.
Little darling, sleep tonight –
Nighty night, nighty night!
The Status Quo is Fine
I know in the world there’s a kindred soul
who’d once been a part of the chosen fold,
who’s wandering far from the safety net
without a home as the cold sun sets.
I call to the sun and make a plea
that he’ll pause an hour to help me see
if on the horizon I can find that soul
and somehow return him into the fold.
I search the rim of the earth and sky
and, with one minute left, I deftly spy
my kindred soul, and I rush to him;
but even before I can speak or begin
to tell my friend of the danger he’s in,
he cautions me of the dire problem
that took him out beyond the safe fold
into the realm where all fire burns cold.
“The problem,” he said, “is a hidden flaw
within earth physics that’s missed by all.
The problem, simply put, is that what we can see
is the inverse side of reality —
“What’s touted as strong is really quite weak
and that which is bright too often is bleak,
and some in the fold don’t really belong,
and what seems so right might be utterly wrong.”
I look in the face of this radical soul
and now understand why he’s not in the fold.
The sun now is set and I go back home,
Concluding it’s best that this radical roams.
From the Book of Lore
Fear not the darkness nor bane of the fight,
fear but the failure of that which is right.
Fear not the cunning nor lies of a cheat,
fear but the strain of valor’s retreat.
Belay false logic suggesting that pain
is only redeemed through guaranteed gain.
High sacred honor demands that a soul
fear not the darkness, no matter the toll.
Fear not the darkness nor bane of the fight,
fear but the failure of that which is right.
Rising From the Dead
(June 10, 2013)
A passer-by overheard the uproar
over a strange occurrence the other day.
She said the commotion was due to the healing
of a young lad who is now at play.
The unexplainable, sudden occurrence
the passer-by said was out of the blue:
“The laddy was unwell and sickly,
and his restful death was overdue.”
But the tears of those who wanted him with them
appeared to reverse the grip of night
and trigger a miracle beyond mere physics
and move death’s darkness back into light.
The passer-by passed on by but holds these things
within her memory and smiles each day
she see the laddie who once was gone
forever and ever at play that day.
Tiger Boy
Crying child, in the wild, who left thee alone?
Have no fear, angels near will search for thee a home.
Crying child … There! Be mild … the Tiger in the tree
who lost her cub has some love to nurse and cuddle thee.
“Tiger” boy, full of joy, lived a long, long life;
Tiger mom did her job—she found for him a wife.
Another child in the wild was born to Tiger boy;
but this child could be mild … he was his parents’ joy.
These things are seen
(May 2013)
If cars were balloons … our road’s the sky!
If houses were ships … our home’s the sea!
If problems were birds … they’d fly away!
When courage is known, these things are seen!