Of all the colors
or incense of fragrance imbued
of lavender in fields, violet blue
or softer still the lilac florets all abloom
pale silk, sweet the honeysuckle dew
drips and drinks the yellow painted tanager
and flits afield the newly winged swallowtail
the thrum and dance of bees bright in floral symphonies
gathering, heavy laden in the bending breeze
of all the colors, this bird iridescently shimmering
blue into the disappearing trees
too soon another day to lose
of all the colors, a favorite
I can never choose.

0rrest  Head  a  majestic  hill.
Covered  with  a  regiment  of  trees.
Whispering  in  the  summer  breeze.
A  golden  retreat.

View  from  the  top,  breathtaking.
Lake  Windermere  lying  calm  and  serene.
Mountains  beyond  standing  tall.
Basking  in  sun  and  shade.
Quite  a  wonderful  place.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

In the beginning
crows were
as white as snow.
No.
Whiter than that.
Liquid silver.

But in these times
we see Crow as black,
though you will observe
Crow is silver in the sun
(which proves my point).

And there he is
at the very top of
that hemlock tree.

Surveys his rude world
and sees below
one whose ancestors
were here even before
tricks and tricksters.

Even before crows.

Coyote
Old Man
sly one
always ready with a joke
or a riddle

They say he spun the Milky Way
with his deceit
told the Earth's first lie

And as for riddles:
answer at your peril
or carry him
like a whispering sack
upon your back
until the end.

They cling to the earth
like lichens
in deep meditation

Lophophora williamsii.
Fallen warriors sprinkled
throughout the blackbrush and mesquite
there in the valley of the Rio Grande.

They whisper to you
as you roam that arid slab of ground
and spin like Van Gogh
in the night sky
while you sleep.

They call you this way
and that
lead you in directions
you did not intend.

In the dry washes
beware
rattlesnakes wait in every thin patch
of shade

and at night
lightning switches the lights on
and off
and on again.

Once the spirit
of this unassuming succulent
enters into you
accepts you
uplifts you
the sky opens
and reveals the pulsing heart of
God's creation
speaking softly in tongues
heard only at the beginning.

It is glory then.

---

i

blue grey clouds
of crushed
velvet

sunlight
tears
the
seams


ii

embers of
delicate peach
ignite flames
of fuchsia

the orb of
sun burns colors
away to ashes

blown into floes
of white
mare's
tails


iii

tiny bird
settles restless
on the
highest
branch

flits
away


iv

wind
through
the weathered stones
cries then whispers

luring
the children
who lie within our ribs
to break free
and sing
songs
of
play


v

mamalaria
cactus
wears her
wreath
of
pale
lavender
flowers

sings to
her babes
clustered
below

saguaro
listens



soulsurvivor
(C) 9/13/2015

What  a  strange  day.
This  morning  was  dark,
damp  and  foggy.
A  real  winter  morn.

This  afternoon  it's  cleared  up.
The  sun  has  come  out.
And  it's  quite  springlike.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

there was a
dream here
once,
it came in
        via the
rain,
fed crops,
     livestock, us,
but at dawn it
had gone,
    taken the
bus to
somewhere
it could belong,
somewhere
         made of
sturdier stuff.
I imagine
     it rolling itself
up into
             the dust,
         coating the
backs of tongues,
speaking a
        language so
different to my
own, I imagine
it finally feels
like home.

from the void
the mountain speaks
the beat goes on
in these desolate peaks

moss covered stacks
of sea floor and mantle
embrace and fold
in metamorphic tangle

stunted fir clings
graying roots exposed
a rocky, barren life
is all this sapling knows

snowcapped elderberry
scale the crevice
where bear and wind
make raucous passage

avalanche chutes
gracefully recline
in verdant shades
to the waterline

lie in the meadow
to calm the chatter
make still the noise
to blunt the clatter

upon the coming
of soft night
undress this silence
angel mine



*I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of 'thinking' and 'enjoying' what they call 'living,' I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.

-Jack Kerouac

It's  a  nice  crisp  frosty  morning.
All  is  still, no  wind.
Trees  and  bushes  motionless.
Birds  rushing  around  hunting  for  food.
Sky  clear  with  a  hint  of  sunshine.
We  must  make  the  most  of  it.
Rain  and  wind  is  waiting  in  the  wings.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

My breath like smoke
upon autumn's morn.

Into my boot chill water seeps,
the stream runs icy clear and deep.

He comes up swiftly, turns,
sees my fly and does reverse,
takes a pass and eyes the prize,
quickly I ****** back my line.

He is big and brown,
speckled and Steelhead sleek.
  
I cast again,
briefly let it float,
where he was
only a moment ago.

The silvers of his belly flash,
he rolls and rises
takes another look,
ever so sly and cautious,
or so he thinks.

Does this beauty not know,
I'm strictly Catch and Release?

Dappled rain drops of sunlight
Upon my open window shine.

While out across the valley hovers
A rainbow of neon majesty,
suspended in thunder cloud blackened sky,
An optical trick of rain and sun.

From within the dense dark clouds,
Lightning bolts flash and reach the ground.  
The air smells fresh and of ozone electricity.
The hair on my head stands on end.

In wonderment and reflection,
I am humbled and transfixed,
by all that Nature is,
In this one small moment in time.