In the hushed woods, solitude cradles me,
As the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee
Infuses my hands with gentle warmth,
And memories of Joy drift like soft petals
In her cherished spot where bluebells bask in a dreamlike haze.

Beneath the delicate veil of morning mist,
The trees bow in silent adoration,
Whispering secrets of distant yesterdays
In the rustle of tender leaves and the murmur of the breeze.
Light and shadow engage in a quiet ballet, echoing forgotten smiles.

I wander along winding trails where memories lie hidden
Among tangled roots and freshly sprung shoots.
Each soft footfall on the familiar earth
Revives whispers of past laughter
And stirs a tender dialogue between what was and what is.

In the gentle glow of the unfolding day,
Echoes of Joy linger like faint footprints
Across the heart of the forest; a delicate imprint
That speaks of love and quiet resilience,
As nature’s eternal hymn offers solace in every sigh.

So I surrender to this living reverie,
Where absence and presence entwine in quiet harmony,
And every moment, like a petal adrift in a stream,
Carries the bittersweet cadence of life;
A promise that even in solitude, hope blooms anew.

When a mountain
   I dare not climb
the ropes and tackles  
  are in abundance

In great shape
  my body and mind
Not a weak link
  in the expedition

But when a mountain
  I dare to climb
the ropes and tackles
  are often misplaced

Out of shape
  my body and mind
Weakness as a
  spell does bind

Hopes and dreams
  of tireless youth can
be all but forgotten
  in the spiritually aged

Strength   the glittering
  cloak of youth can
fade in weakening
  jaded resolve

But in me common
  traits dissolve
The bucking steed
  will never be tamed

Pigeon-holed the
  misfortune of other
souls   has not been
  allowed by my resolve

But this determination
  is not without cost
The foothills of youth
  are far removed

by erosion caused by
  unstable belief systems
washed away into
  the Sea of Ambiguity

A distant mountain
  I often see
(distance   the deceiver
  of proportion)

Challenged at the foot
  of the formidable sight
halfway climbing
  only to slip and fall

Does this mountain
  need to be climbed
Do youthful dreams
  need to be fulfilled

When these dreams
  are all you ever had
you wake up falling
  or climbing higher

Driven by dreams
  and gifts and talents
that rage like a river
  in the driest desert

calling home what
  must come home
holding on to what
  must be fulfilled

Obstacles that have
  become landmarks
seem to fade
   into obscurity

like threats that
  always remain empty
laughing at what
  used to bring tears

I remain standing
  through all these trials
not unscathed
  and a bit weather beaten

halfway up another
  formidable mountain
making up for lost time
  from a major fall.

A palette of paint to paint his face,
Clothes full of colours bright,
A round red nose that bobs like a ball,
He is ready with a smile.

Comic antics that delight folks,
He rides, slides, cartwheels and falls,
Slips on banana peels, juggles fruit,
Tickled faces all.

When night comes, off comes the paint,
The nose, the wig, the clothes bright,
In dwindling darkness he rests himself,
Now his face he hides.

A jester, he jested, he cheered —
A camouflage in art,
But to himself, alone and quiet,
He rests his aching heart.

An act extraordinaire —
Oh how he does beguile,
But to himself, now alone,
Who’ll make the jester smile?

The endless night between stars.
I pass through on a voyage to nowhere.
Ethereal nebulas painted by galactic empyreans.
Beautiful mystic serenity.

I love these travels.
The ones to nowhere.
You just leave in all directions.
No maps or legends.  

You really never find where it takes you.
Its endless and eternal.
Beginnings with no ends.
Forgotten Gods remembered.

a time of rest
- dappled light

trees are budding
- nests built

I can see for miles
- across the blue sea

eternity just the otherside
- of one last heartbeat.

Time traveling is possible, a river said.

Traces of lives left behind in multitudes,
Bones and jewels beneath the mud,
Bent and buried blades, buttons, cufflinks,
Pipes, and dress pins upon dress pins.

The backdrop of so much history
As the Thames flows on through the
Land and hearts of Londoners.
A witness to thousands of years.

Each tide reveals historic artifacts
On the changing foreshore.
An unwritten record of discovery.
It is the city's longest archeological site.

Modern mudlarks find the clues to its use
Across the city, across the ages of time,
As a transport artery, a connection to the gods,
A source of sustenance, or a place for dumping.

Mudlarks of the mid-19th century were
“Compelled from utter destitution to seek
For the means of appeasing their hunger
In the mud of the river.”

Today mudlarking is a hobby, relaxing, fun,
But generations of the young to the old sought
Lumps of coal, rope, bones, iron, or copper
– anything that could be sold.

Time, the river, and its people are survivors.

My mother just told me
I’m constantly ‘a slave’ of my own words.
And I have to agree with her.
I can’t seem to ‘own my silences’—
as she so smartly puts it.
I know, I know.
I should ponder on
such valuable insight— yup.
Yet to me…
that was just short for:
 ‘You should shut up’

A wheel falls off a wagon,
Perhaps an *** has stubbed its toe.
For one reason and another
The band begins to slow,
Then stop.
Horses trot upon the spot.
They neigh,
Dismayed,
Shaking snow from off their mane.
While this driver softly curses,
Nurses a bottle to **** the pain.