The sun- drenched down,
Across the valley,
An array of wildflowers,
Created a sea of yellow and blue,
A gentle breeze,
Shimmered through the trees,
Providing a bigger spectacle,
To this amazing view,
Birds are plentiful,
And visible to the eye,
In and out of the sky,
Over in the grass,
Which was rich yet shallow in places?
Stood some Fallow Deer,
With the most beautiful faces,
On the ground,
There are Finches foraging away,
Hovering above is a Kestrel,
Searching for prey,
A joyous place,
Unspoilt throughout time,
Just to sit and relax,
And gently unwind.
Why can't life be this?
I asked my wife as
we sat underneath our
white polyester blanket,
snowflakes gently striking
the pavement and our
gray-blue mailbox outside.
Why can't every day be Saturday
when you and I awake to
each other's smiles?
We would hold each other
and be thankful that we
have nowhere to be
this quiet afternoon.
We would find purpose
in cleaning the laundry,
in washing the floors,
and we wouldn't need to worry
about any bills or those
leftover to-do lists waiting
at work from the week before.
I'd like to imagine this
is what Heaven is like,
no worries, or cares, or toil;
just relaxing each day
with a chestnut and clove candle
warming our senses
as we sit in silent contentment.
My garden's a mess
never at it's best
although things grow
they grow oh so slow.
I've mended the soil
and put in my toil
there are bees all around
and I've watered the ground.
I've rousted the insect
slugs, earwigs and miscreants
I planted in June
and prayed to the moon.
Morning glories abound
they twine all around
the squash and the shovel
that leans on my hovel.
I lounge in my chair
drink beer and stare
at the bees in their feats
Spearmint their treat.
Maybe next year, I dream
it will all be serene
right now no blue ribbon
I'd only be fibbin'.
The harvest no boast
but will raise a toast
to the bees and glories
in this garden story.
I like this pub.
Not too loud so you can't think.
Not too quiet so that you can't
help but think.
An old Cambridge pub called
the Portland Arms.
I've recently taken to drinking
whiskey straight, enjoying the burn.
The music is mediocre but
the people seem genuine enough.
Not that that matters anyway
when you're drinking alone.
Soft and sensitive is the heart
It loves happiness and joy
And wonderful things
But it's fragile
And easily broken apart
So sometimes it hurts with lots of stings
Sometimes the heart needs to cry
And wash away the pain
The heart is natural and full of emotions
It uses tears to clean out stains
Keeps the heart beautiful and warm
And make it taste sweet for those who love it
Healthy hearts are soft and mushy
Strong but gentle
And full of compassion and love
And healthy hearts have lots of friends
To cry with them over life's dead ends
Vibrant and blooming,
explosions of color blasting in my face,
glaring lights shining.
The world is buzzing with life in this place.
A rainbow is glowing in the sky,
as sunlight sparkles through the clouds up high.
Every raindrop falling through the air
Glistens and twinkles before they land in my hair.
Imagine the weight of the water in the sky,
that all once came from the great blue basin of life.
Trapped as a mist it gently floats by,
Until it patters down peacefuly in rain cold as ice.
It takes only one moment,
a second or maybe three,
to observe all the wonders about a tree.
Here is an instant on my rainy day.
I wrote this short poem,
and all my worries washed away.
I see it in the clear stary night sky.
Billions of twinkling lights shining down on me.
Ornaments hang in the heavens as far as the eye can see.
Endless possibilities lie in this infinite universe.
Dark silhouettes of trees block my peripheral vision.
I feel it in the muddy, damp, grass beneath my bare feet.
It itches and tickles when it gets between my toes.
Yet it feels soft and nice and comforts me.
The slimy wet grass helps me relax.
I feel the sticky mud on my feet in every step i take.
I hear it in the woods.
The crickets chirp and the frogs croak.
Wind is howling through the trees.
Some sounds are unsettling and mysterious, their makers are hidden in the shadows.
But i know that i am safe with all my friends.
I taste the cool crisp air.
It is fresh and sweet and full of energy.
It flows down my throat and fills up my lungs.
My tongue is chilled when i breath in but nice and warm when i breath out.
I wet my lips with water because the fresh natural air has made them chapped.
I smell it in the trees that stand around me.
The sweet aroma of pine brings back sentimental feelings.
I think of christmasses spent with my family and relaxing summer camping trips.
I've smelled this smell hundreds of times and it always smells the same.
My wife and son chase butterflies
in the mornings of summer days.
Beneath the South Florida skies,
I watch as my family plays.
In the mornings of summer days,
my worries glide off with the breeze.
I watch as my family plays,
while I relax beneath shade trees.
My worries glide off with the breeze.
They drift to join the building storm,
while I relax beneath shade trees,
on days when morning seems so warm.
They drift to join the building storm,
those pressures rattling their cage,
on days when morning seems so warm,
I wait for the thundering rage.
Those pressures rattling their cage,
where sea breeze meets the heat of day;
I wait for the thundering rage,
while all my cares just float away.
Where sea breeze meets the heat of day,
beneath the South Florida skies;
while all my cares just float away,
my wife and son chase butterflies.
endlessly lies the possibilities
of what could be done and why,
and i look up to them in quiet awe.
nothingness envelops me,
sadness creeping up from the dark spots,
but there is a bright side even yet,
i am young, they say,
and i smile politely and remind them,
that age does make wisdom,
however, adversity does is just as well.
lay with me, but breathe gently.
easily disturbed is the balance of it all,
it took too many years to equal out,
please, rest softly,
question meanings, and sleep.
stillness is not the evil in this world.
there lies no shame in it,
but the shame rests in the expectancy
of only productivity.
think of nothingness, and do so daringly,
and find calm in your being.