thomas-kaye
Born in Montrose Ca. My father, a sculptor who loved and understood me, once said I was a round peg trying to fit into a square hole. But I already knew that. I spent the rest of my life trying to understand who and what I am. Instinctively I followed my creative side and pursued landscape architecture. Fortunate that I have found a career that I do well and enjoy immensely, as I'm oriented toward nature and art. Still, I see myself as just a round something or other. You'll never find me at a sports bar. My wife appreciates my differences. And so do I.
The late afternoon sun shines amber rays upon a silent grasshopper.
A profound event is under way.
In the woodland's soft loam, mama grasshopper has planted her eggs, the ****** of a brief, worthwhile life. Having evaded field mice, mantids, lizards, snakes, and birds, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED - almost.
In this little patch of sunlight, it is her time to "donate" to Mother Ecosystem. It's an honor she shares with the butterflies, bees, squirrels, gnats, toads, termites, foxes, deer, hawks, robins, ants - and let us not leave out microbes and fungi.
Now sugar ants have discovered her and are dismantling, tugging, dragging her away in parts, reminiscent of an automobile salvage.
Wayward workers stumble into ant lions' pits and become meals themselves.
The old, hollow white oak log, once mighty King of the Forest, is prostrate and bare. Yet, with its last molecule, it continues giving. Within its hollow, a disparate multitude is moving about, hiding, hunting, chewing, defecating, sleeping, reproducing and dying.
In decomposition, the oak's material essence melds back into the earth as nature's great Round River,* an incomprehensibly slow, invisible tide.
It is late spring and waves of woodland sounds are pulsing through the community. Cicadas shrill chorus fills the air. Distant flocks of song sparrows and warblers combine in a cloud of chirps. Above it all is the sharp tapping of a woodpecker.
A charred fence post has become prime real estate: a coveted,grand perch for phoebes and jays, and for a fence lizard, an elite high rise station for sunbathing and attracting a mate. Mating azure damselflies dance in the air above the lizard. They alight for a moment - snatched! Above, a circling red-tail hawk eyes the lizard.
Across a draw stands an abandoned farm, tragic end result of disrespect for the land. Goodbye sweet, precious loam, created over millennia. You are being carried away with each rain. Where, on where are you going?
To brooks, rivers and the sea.
On a bleak ridge, a few oak tree survivors huddle together as they endure relentless grazing. This parcel of land has nothing to offer anymore. If you were to listen to the wind, you might hear its whispers of dispair.
But here, in this vibrant, buzzing woodland community where the land breathes life, there is home, food and an ideal place for all.
* Words coined by Aldo Leopold, pioneer American ecologist, conservationist, and educator
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
Ah! Stunning mauve orchid flower
a little yellow butterfly dancing above it
an orchid slightly different from others I've seen
a Phalenopsis, I believe
so succulent, so delicate
The mantis strikes!
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 12:14 AM UTC
When I was ten, I ate my twin
then hid him away for another day.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
My father, who loved and understood me
once said I was a round peg
trying to fit into a square hole.
I have spent the rest of my life
trying to understand who what I am.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
Come on over and love me up.
I so admire your big gold eyes and long black whiskers.
He loves the kisses
Rolling and soft murmurs as we watch TV
How relaxing this is.
Every day when I go away,
my attentions he misses
But count on it: He won't be still
Perching out on the window sill
calling out with all his will
singing his heart out to neighborhood misses
And when at last I'm home again
he lets me know
It's been too long wherever I've been
Slipping off my shoes, I softly whisper,
"My, such big gold eyes and long black whiskers."
He's not pleased when men come calling
He gasps on smoke and the stench of beer
They're much too loud, and three's a crowd
But he flaunts his charms when ladies are here
With a kingly stride he proclaims his entrance
Endeared are they, he knows in a glance
"Oh, see those luminescent golden eyes and long black whiskers."
It's hypnotic, peering into eyes never blinking
Those wondrous, golden, moon-like eyes
mysteriously veil all he's thinking
There come times when I'm low and sinking,
glow of life dimming, shrinking
No, not again, down I'm slipping
familiar dark whirlpool firmly gripping
down
down
down
down
ever down
Ebbing low, it's of white zin' I'm thinking
Fond echoes of goblet and carafe crisply clinking
But my friend and savior lifts my mood
and my down spiral he does preclude
After all, it's much better I partake of food.
I reflect that an undesired gift,
a "rescue" of best intentions made
whose denial would have caused a rift
in a friendship nurtured over a decade
This rescue gift, truly more than a gift
A travesty to call it ownership
A blessing, tho' one so grand,
it is only I who understand.
It's a splendid treasure of joy and companionship
Life has its troubles, but it could be worse
I don't exist with the loneliness curse.
T.F.Kaye
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC