Climbing Trees

April 30, 2016

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Up, up

Paddle with hands
Pass the scratchy bark skin
to see from the top
the whole world

Always falling
in the back of your mind
so you don’t have to
for real

Pause and breathe
count the steps
and look all ’round
greedy, impatient

Then
Up, up

A spider climbing
to pop out at the top
and see
the whole world

The trail back home
the hills and wheat
all the things
you’ve already seen

Oh well. It was fun.


Dedicated to my Bunky Monkey who climbs better than the best.

I love you, Bunk. Happy Birthday.

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Waterborne

April 28, 2016

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Up, up past the ridge of vision
The line of sight at the bronze edge of the world
Little moments, little words I find to savor

Fountain in this secret grotto
where I come to whisper
Where songs find beginning
in little words and dreams

Waterborne Ivy making these walls so sweet smelling and alive
O the seed that was such tiny hope
worked into the cracks, holding so much together
Alive and green and everywhere so fine

Stream, breathing noise that never ends
the life grown up and around over all these years
Rain that ends all days in soft darkness
wrapped in peace

Bring little moments to my senses
speak of paradise amidst the dust and burn
my little kingdom of dunes and crags,
of sun and wind-swept emptiness.

The Long Chalks

April 24, 2016

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geology_of_EnglandI got lost
in the mists
on the long chalks
their rolling hills
like the ranges
of endless waggons
travelling endless
with their rolling wheels

Those were days
of endless treks
bundled against the cold
afternoon walks that begged
for reason

o why do I brave the cold
and the mists
that soak into the bones

so when the wind
blows across the moors
their empty cassocks of grass
and stone waving

waving indecisively
to and fro
I cannot but lose my way
but whispering to myself
there is nothing but to plod

and I love the shifting
breaking horizon
that meanders while I wander
down dew-soaked
misty, foggy paths

I love the endless fenceline
the grass and the willows
both waving, distantly gesturing
as if to an old, old friend
who’s been gone too long
to call by name