Sunday, March 11, 2007

Empty Benches

Empty Benches

There is a lonely bench
For most of the year it sits in the Secret Garden
Waiting for a lone squirrel, chipmunk or Cardinal to rest on it's wood

It waits patiently for the time of year
When colours emerge from the soils
That surround it's empty nest

Greens and purples, blues, whites and oranges
Suddenly leap forth
And life on the bench springs forward

It longs to feel its worth is noted
It yearns for the weight of heavy souls
And reaches out to capture the toll

This bench is my home
On those long, sweltering days of summer
And gives me the rest I cherish and desire

Thursday, March 01, 2007



Sometimes the mirror offers images

Of things you don't want to see

You take the reflections of light

And mold them into shapes of lives that did not come to

You think of yourself as the man of dreams

Of passions and emotions that should not occur

But yet you continue to dream

And it was only a dream

What could you have changed?

What could you have done?

What did you seek?

What did you do?

Your questions surround you....

Your questions push you down......

And you scream from the depths.......

The depths of hopelessness

And then you realize....that all is not lost

Your reflections shed an image in the background

From behind the mirror shines.......

The next generation............

Of you............

Dried Puddles on Bidez Drive

Dried Puddles on Bidez Drive

Long after the rains cease to fall
And July draws in her reins of hell
The parched, dirt road of Bidez
Beckons the senses with art

As I walk down the ol' dirt road
Alone with myself
And whatever happens to join with my mind
I wonder if anyone knows of my paradise

Casual and alone, and taking in the views
That only I will see this day
Am I really alone on this Saturday
Or are there others around that sense what I sense

The old Blue Jay hops down the gulley of the passage
Seeking the buffet of the country road

A lone chipmunk gathers the new nuts of the season
And swiftly runs with her treasure to the homestead

A brown lizard, with tattered scales
Scurries across the hot, dusty pebbles
And finds the shade
Of an ancient Kudzu vine

I reach behind me, in my tattered jeans pocket
And pull out my own treasure of words
"Walden's Pond" calls me to listen
And under the old Chestnut Tree, I rest

I am lost in the drama
Of a New England forest
But I am forever burdened
With a Southern Exposure.............