FROM WHENCE WE CAME


Out beyond the forest
in the dry grass and the shadows,
out beyond the fertile fields
where nothing ever grows.
Minutes seem like hours,
and days never seem to end,
at the edge of the universe
where farm lanes do wend.
In hushed tones of silence
the world saunters past,
oblivious to this hidden place
and its nameless, faceless cast.
For it was from the edge of nowhere,
just beyond this place I stand,
that we spent our childhoods
in this withered, vacant land.
It was from this other world
that we sprang up full grown,
and it was from these fields
we grew what we had sown.

MY USED TO BES

I know I just posted saying that I didn’t have time for anything other than the photo seen below. And I really meant it. But as I was getting ready to leave for work this thought came into my head, and don’t ask me why. Anyway, I had to pound it out on the keyboard and I wanted to share it while I still thought it was worth sharing. Later in the day I might not care for it enough to post. Anyway, here it is for what it is, or isn’t, worth.

My used to be never was,
I didn’t reach my expectation,
but no one ever does,
and that’s the consternation.
Those days are gone so long,
living only in my head
where I recall them all wrong,
the things I did and said.
If I could go back again,
live the life I never did,
would it be different then,
of those ghosts would I be rid?
Would I then smile more,
knowing what I now know,
and would my spirit soar,
or would it be brought low?
Would I frolic in the sun,
or stay in the cooling shade?
When my life is finally done,
would I know what I had made?
To look back and to wonder,
yes, even to wish for more,
and to admit each blunder,
helps me to close each door.
For I know that I would not,
I know it for a fact,
I also know I could not,
change one single act.
And I think in that admission
I transcend all of my doubts,
for I have stopped wishin’
for what I’ve lived without.

Latte


I only have time this morning to post a photo. I’m sure anyone who follows, or stumbles across, the blog will be thrilled that I didn’t bore them with more poetry or rambling commentary. Anyway, this is a photo I took on Sunday of Latte, the oldest of our two ferrets. She’s two and a half and as sweet and satisfying as the coffee-based concoction for which she is named.

Cacophony of Silence

A cacophony of silence covers me
but I am left untouched by it.
A thousand times I’ve done the same thing
but I never really did try it.
I am blinded by total darkness
yet I can see perfectly well.
The promise of heaven bores me
and I don’t believe in hell.
If a road goes straight ’round the world
it’ll come back to where you start.
There’s so much pain in numbness,
but to feel will break your heart.

Frozen Mist


Photo taken two days ago at the overflow for the mill dam near our home. The water was rushing through so rapidly that it was creating a mist which was freezing to the weeds adjacent to the stream. It doesn’t capture the beauty of the moment the way I hoped it would, but maybe I’m being to critical of the way the shot came out.

WORDS AND MELODY

From the depths of darkness
the faintest light does glow.
When we feel most uninformed
is when we first begin to know.
In that hour of deepest despair
we find one second of hope.
As we lose our grip on life
we find the resilience to cope.
For darkness cannot last forever,
despair cannot rule for long.
Life itself is but the melody,
we each are the words of the song.
The tune has always been there,
the lyrics we each supply,
words written to the score
that make us laugh and cry.

Small Town Diner, ’56

The naugahyde covered stools squeak
at the diner counter as people speak.
Steam rises from heavy mugs,
orange juice poured from gallon jugs.
Smell of hash browns, bacon burning,
scrambled eggs and pancakes turning.
Waitress calls out to the kitchen, aft,
“Cup a joe, Adam and Eve on a raft.”
Forks clinking plates in staccato time,
bottomless cups of mud, just one dime.
Camels lit up from Zippo wicks,
it’s a small town diner in ’56.
Nobody knew a stranger then,
“Thanks for stopping, come again.”
Simple food for simple ways,
diner breakfast, good old days.
Tile floor of black and white,
neon sign that burned so bright.
Laughs and smiles all around,
happy times and happy sounds.
Heaped up plates of steaming fare,
no one left hungry when eating there.
Those days are gone, I do fear,
in the past, many’s the year.
Breakfast now is a number two,
golden arches have to do.
Small town diners disappear,
neighbors are strangers, I do fear.
We no longer share that place,
or the smile upon our face.
Everything now is formulaic,
we’re catatonic, not awake.
I’d love to go back to those days,
live again those simpler ways,
when diner counters were in fashion,
when people still had some passion,
and they would meet over steaming plates
and discuss their common fates.