Plum foolish

Apparently I lied yesterday: 

The deer DO like my plums.

 I was sitting at my computer 

Drafting up tomorrow’s news 

When I noticed that the plum tree 

 That stands outside my window 

Was shaking: yup, a deer, 

 Reaching for a plum, 

Then climbing down and munching 

Contentedly. I guess they must be ripe…

Eve of destruction

Having devoured the ruffled flowers 

Off the tops of my fennel plants, 

She’s now staring at my neighbor’s yard 

As if anticipating threat, 

Though possibly just wondering 

If their plums are ripe yet 

(Ours aren’t: though they’re turning redder 

And have been falling off the trees, 

They’re still quite sour; 

Judging from the times I catch the deer 

With apples in their mouths, 

Our unripe apples are far sweeter 

Than the cherries and the plums). 

Just another evening in a yard 

Where everything seems to be 

a target for destruction.

Why lighthouses?

My first thought this morning, 

On seeing this lighthouse, 

Was to mourn the days 

When we built things like this 

To protect one another; 

To make the stranger’s journey safer. 

But upon further reflection I wondered

If lighthouses were simply designed 

To protect investments. 

But my inner optimist won, and decided 

They were built out of the perception (Now lost?) 

That what benefits one benefits us all; 

Out of empathy for both 

 The sailor and the merchant and their families; 

The absolute conviction 

That what hurts one leaves all of us

Aching for their loss.

On the lake’s edge

Peace comes in many guises, 

But this is one I rarely see: 

The stillness of a lake, 

The reflection of the lilies 

In the sky-blued water, 

A dead tree casting its final sentence 

Across the page of green… 

And so I stop, and sit, and stare, 

And listen to the bird songs coloring the air, 

And dream.

Assumptions about intelligence

Sometimes, having learned more 

About the intelligence of the octopus, 

I wonder about all the other creatures 

 We are so quick to ignore or slot into categories. 

Is it possible, for example, that a flower,

Like a child, might be curious, and attempt 

To explore a knothole, 

Or reach out to open a door?

Distractions

When we’re all awash in emotion,

 Important events and decisions 

May pass us by, unseen. 

We need to learn to look more carefully 

Past the stresses of the moment 

To the truth evolving 

Just beyond our tears…

Reflections

Just as reflections are clearer 

When the water is still and unobstructed, 

Our ability to understand 

The truth of what we’re seeing 

Will prove more accurate when the mind 

Is calm and uncluttered 

 By to-do lists and preconceptions.

Taking a break from the news

There’s nothing like the charm 

Of a waterfront town in summer 

 Bustling with tourists seeking 

Ice cream shops and souvenirs; 

With troubadours performing 

 On the docks and in courtyards 

 And children making castles in the sand — 

A brief, enchanting antidote 

To our underlying awareness 

Of a troubled world; heartbreaking truth 

Of famine, war, and homelessness: 

All issues we feel helpless to repair.

Confusing choices

I’m sure there must have been a reason 

Why someone built what looks to be a cabin,

 Perched precariously atop this railroad bridge, 

But it isn’t clear to me, nor can I imagine

 The courage it takes to climb there.

 But there are lots of other decisions made 

That I have trouble understanding; 

Lots of other paths people walk 

That I find challenging to comprehend — 

All opportunities to practice, I suppose, 

A willful suspension of disbelief,

 But still I find it hard to explain 

Choices that lack empathy.

Simple pleasures

Like the farmers who are watering their crops, 

I go out into the yard after heating up my coffee 

And turn on the sprinkler: 

My garden may not be weeded,

 But at least it’s watered; 

Plus the sprinkler fills the birdbath, 

Where the deer family that greets me 

As I head back into the house 

Will refresh themselves throughout the day.

 Like me, they’re getting older: 

 The buck’s face is thickening 

And growing freckled, 

And the doe, who knows us now, 

Is looking thin, and there are patches in her hide:

 I wonder if perhaps this fawn will be her last. 

The sky, I see now, returning to my chair; 

The sky that was golden when I rose, 

Is turning blue now: The day has begun.

Striped fields: a memory

Driving through the rural countryside, 

We pass the dry, shaved fields, 

Striped like the rug my mother used to vacuum: 

Up one side and down the other, 

Dragging her old gray Electrolux behind her 

And singing, her clear alto voice 

A bell, resounding, swinging 

In the temple of her throat 

To the dance tunes of the forties she so loved…

Take flight!

 

May your creativity soar today!

In gratitude

As we rise and greet 

The new day that has begun 

Let us give thanks for the beauty 

 Of all that lies before us.

Fishing for poets

Like the fisherman below my window, 

Casting his lures into the sunset-reddened sea, 

The poet tosses words onto a page, 

Hoping to attract a robust result; 

To capture, however briefly, 

That which flows beneath 

 The ever surging river of thought;

 Some coalescence that might feed 

The hunger for expression or connection, 

Or possibly reel in a smile 

Of humor, recognition, 

 Shared experience, or concern.

Stories in the clouds

The child in me sees Roadrunner, 

Streaking across the sky, 

With Coyote in hot pursuit 

Somewhere beyond the frame: 

Even the colors hint of the Southwest. 

Each night’s a different gift, 

A different story to be read 

Among the clouds.

Sources of division

Remember back when we could see 

Exactly how a car used to work? 

When, looking at a photograph, 

We could trust that what we saw was real, and true? 

When everything we read 

Was written or typed by human hands 

And colored by uniquely human thoughts? 

How much of the division we now face 

Has been triggered by the fact 

That we can no longer trust or comprehend 

 The origins or truth of what we see 

Or what we’re told?

Hung out to dry

Something about this photo 

Just makes my heart ache: 

I’m not sure I have the words to express it. 

Is it that the values our flag once represented 

Now seem so out of reach? 

Or that those values only apply 

To the high and mighty? 

Or is it just the sadness 

Of seeing everything it stood for 

Hung out to dry;

Turned on its side and hanging 

Limp and inaccessible, 

As if we’ve no hope 

Of ever achieving those lofty goals 

Of Liberty and justice for all?

Brushstrokes

Each night the Artist dances 

Before the canvas of the sky,

 Fantastic brushstrokes of color 

Which slowly fade to night. 

We watch, and snap,

 Hoping to capture Beauty in a box, 

Then put our cameras away,

 Turn focus inward, 

Rest, 

And begin to dream.

Welcome to Sunday

Welcome to Sunday! 

I hope you find some time 

To rest and dream today…

Smoke in the Valley

There’s smoke in the valley, again, 

And no matter how far down I slide 

The little icon that tells my camera 

How much light to take in, 

It still can’t capture the rosiness of the sun; 

How red it is, as it hangs there in the sky, 

Blushing at the thought of all those fires, 

All with their curious names: 

Bear Gulch, and Hamma Hamma;

 Hiawatha, and Discovery; 

Stud Horse, Pomas, and Striped Peak, 

All burning in the summer heat…

Blessings

May whatever path you walk today 

Prove as pleasant and inviting 

As this one.