With all these weeks of rain, the grass is
lushly green, well over a foot high,
still wet, smelling absolutely marvelous.
I am on a hunt, a small harvest of sorts,
for the most succulent of viridescent,
tender blades of grass.

Oh, not for me you see, but for my big lazy
rotund, inside only cat, as his diet is bland
canned, or dry foods only, he turns up his
feline nose at chicken, or bits of beef from
the table, and so once a week I faithfully
venture out to collect a big handful of
chlorophyll rich lawn grass that he dearly
loves, with big eyes of intense expectation,
he watches my every move from his perch
upon the windowsill of my living room,
knowing as he does exactly what I'm doing.

When I return inside with his prize in hand he
excitedly reaches up his front paws and dances
about, vocally meowing for his anticipated fresh
salad, which he always devours right down to
the very last grass green blade. Oh, for such
a simple cat existence and pleasures.

How I wish I could get even half that excited
about anything, anymore. But those days are
long past. Well on second thought, maybe at
this point just waking up every morning, is
good enough.

I climbed this mountain to once again
look upon your face.

You always loved sunsets, called them
mystical, said that if we looked deeply
with purposeful conviction that we
could see the face of those that we had
loved and lost.

As with most things, in this also you
were right. I climbed this mountain to
once again see your face, and I see you
in its warm sunset glow and deepening
bright star light, if there is such a place
I know you are up there my mother dear.

It's getting on to 4, the sun has not shown itself
all day, the snow is melting, some bare spots of
grass appearing here and there, it's 34 degrees.
The little piles of bird seed I put out at noon on
the walkways have all but disappeared, gangs
of birds have mostly consumed it all, pretty little
ground feeders, of one kind or another. My inside
fat cat has had his nose pressed to the window all
day observing them with wide eyed interest and
quivering jaw, maybe licking his predatory lips.
Even though he has never eaten anything that did
not come out of a bag or can.

I too have enjoyed watching them busily hopping
around feasting, I always wonder where they go
when they disappear. Maybe just passing through
headed south for warmer pastures? Or are they year
round locals? Do they have any idea who put out
the feast, and how does the word get spread, do
they have scouts or lookouts, or some kind of aerial
bird only telegraph system.

At least the freezing weather kept our Barn Cats all
snugged up and off the street, at one point I quick
counted between 40 to 50 winged visiting diners
out there. The cats never even knew they were here.

Watching them feed was almost as much of a treat
for me as it was for them. It made me feel useful,
and that does not happen very often these days.
When we get old it is these little things that matter
and sustain us.

The yellow morning sun rises out of an Easterly gray
sky bringing the promise of a bright blue, cloudless
new day.

A dozen songbirds are hard at work upon the feeders,
the barn cats lurk in the flower bushes, hunting waiting.
A hawk perches upon the barn roof, preening his feathers
in the warming lemony new light. Our red rooster crows
his morning song from the safety of the covered chicken pen.

I stretch, yawn and scratch my itchy bits, standing peering
out the window at the spring dewy grass scene that reminds
me to check and gas up the riding mower.

My hungry hedonistic house cat meows and rubs against
my bare legs, and hem of my old bathrobe, the aroma of
fresh perking coffee brings all morning ritual attentions
back inside, and just like the outside creatures, I also begin
yet another fine new day, content that for this emerging
brief moment in time all is right in my world. For as long
as I leave off the Television.

It's raining in New Zealand
The Summer dry far gone
The rivulets are pouring
And gutters sing their song.
Cisterns gurgle noisily
Farm tanks overflow
Waterfalls are roaring
And streams to torrents, grow.
The harriers and pigeons
No more in heavens fly
Now closeted in green recluse
To keep their feathers dry.
Old man on the farm bike
Clad in boots and cowl
Clears the drains with shovel
As a grin succeeds his scowl.
For pastures drink the aqua
Its magic quickly seen,
As turf as brown as buggary
Fast turns a brilliant green.
The Heavens open up their heart
As teeming rain pelts down,
The children dance in puddles
splashing passing folk, who frown.
But the world's in celebration
As the big wet from the sky
Lubricates the laughter
Of joyous you and I.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

I was strolling the sidewalks of my small
nearest to me town, a farm and vineyard
village, an unhurried and laid-back place
home to perhaps 15,000 souls. Tree lined
streets with singing birds aplenty, spring
sun shining, not a cloud in the azure sky,
another good day to be alive.

I was whistling some made up tune,
a thing I, almost never do, but feeling
so good just compelled me to expel.

My old legs signaled a needed rest stop
and an inviting bench lay dead ahead.
I took a seat and caught my breath.

Had not noticed the other old guy
sitting upon the end of the long bench.
I waived an index finger in passive greeting
which he acknowledged with a friendly
grin and slight nodding of his chin, a
weathered Fedora jauntily resting upon his
head. He wore old jeans with red suspenders,
green plaid shirt and well-worn work boots.
An old farmer come to town, not so different
than me.

We set in silence for a few minutes, just
relaxing and taking in the scene around us.
Caught up in that pleasant moment I began
to hum a 1960s or 70s tune, after a time my
bench mate began to hum the same tune,
in perfect unison and pitch, better than mine.
We turned to one another and both smiled.

We finished our shared melody and silence
returned, all but for the singing of birds in
the trees. I stood up from the bench and as
I passed the still seated friendly gent we
performed a convivial fist bump of shared
fellowship, and never a word was needed
or spoken between us.

We are called to walk in the Spirit,
yet a nameless grip keeps steering our feet astray.
That’s when we go searching for willpower
for dominion over the sights before our eyes
and the thoughts we let rise in our minds.

We may think we’re always right
but if that were true,
every person would claim the bench of Chief Justice,
or worse, the throne of Chief Lawless.

Casting my yarns of many colors in turns,
Hoping my yearning earns what I thirst for.
The fire took advantage—
Burnt fiercely, feeding on my resentment like hay.
Painful hatred made me its subject,
Letting fear delay the beat of my heart.

Through the flame, I saw only bloodshot reflections—
A version of me I barely recognized.
My nose flared, carrying anger down the walkway,
While deception dressed as truth passed by.

Why does the light shine on my shadowed scars?
Why does my retina reflect a bloodied knife?
Why can’t I sleep with my eyes closed
When even the sun can rest?

Am I healing, or dying?
Even if it’s only an echo
That dares to beat a drum and whisper healing—
Let it speak.
Maybe then, the vengeful color in my pupils
Will soften into something human again.

I just need one voice to reach deep,
To say:
“Your scars are proof you healed.”