Not Too Far

Near the Jeep Trail

Here I sit this cellar hole amidst,
Just stoic stones remaining without the flesh
Which long ago them set…nothing
Left now…no voices, no laughing,
No crying…no pain, no joy…
No births, no deaths…no nothing…
Just this lone moment long
After footsteps took their last
Step…long after the last
Crib was rocked, long after
Was whispered the final vesper
At someone’s death…
But yet despite, still the sun
Shines, and to the cellar
Hole addresses, “I know all that
You did…so please take my
Warmth, and let this light up’n
Your stones be visited.”

Ode to Old Homestead

E’en the trees have tried to
Take o’er your cellar’s soul…but they
Underestimate the strength of
Your carefully-fitted stones…
What chance have the trees – –
Their trunks are made of
Mere wood!? Your stones are
Much harder than that, and e’en
An ancient glacier into the
Sea could not them push…

Day’s Done

The day’s gift of
Precious life all done,
All sand castles
Built, all bare little
Feet now home to be
Bathed and by
Sleepy-time
Welcomed,
All done, with
Naught but the
Majesty of dusk
To be spread across
A quiet, low tide
At rest, and the last
Glimpse of light
To be felt like a
Goodnight’s kiss
Unexpected.

Home of Stone

A stone, or a
Collection of stones,
A wall, definitely
Something calling me
Home, reliable,
Trustworthy, making
Me melancholic
When in gloaming
I roam, built by
Flesh, by palms
Calloused by hard
Work honed, indeed,
A paean to duty
And everything
Holy like Gibraltar
Pointing its face
Into an Atlantic
Storm, yes, a wall,
A wall of stones
Against which
To lean, recline, and
Dream on a day in
Autumn warm,
A place which has
Withstood Time’s
Passage without
Pause or flinching, a
Monument to
Strength and what
Lies within, a bed
For me to safely sleep,
A womb in which
To rest, a place
For my hat to be
Finally set, and duty’s
Descriptive postcard
With no more to
Be said…except to
Daydream that bays in
The distance a
Long ago dog, and
Then a small child
Runs up to call
Me to supper, just
As sunset starts
To dip in a farewell’s
Beautiful yawn.

Silence in Stone

I try to claim each
Day in the name of silence,
If such a thing from
Noise is possible
In this world the
Garden of Eden has
Cast us into. Perhaps
This is why to
Stone walls I so
Gladly cleave.
They seem to
Be able to stand
Without having to do…
And just to be…
They are content in
Their timeless, tireless
Strength, and
Are happy to
Let the forest and
Its timbers beat
Their breasts before the
Moon, as if to
Achieve this could
E’er surpass the
Silence resonant in a
Stone’s beauty.

Noticing

…A heron,
Pensive, perfectly still,
Stoic on a dock,
Waiting for
What the boardwalk
Brings, be it
Lady or her
Glass
Slipper or
Simply the
Lingering scent of an
Unforgettable
October
Dream…