Poem: Frost Covers the Cornstalks

Frost Covers the Cornstalks

Frost covers the cornstalks

Shivers shocks to the ground;

Ice covers all the walks

Where all were wont to be bound.

Colored leaves of yellow

Begin patterning grass

In myriad winnows

That were in the trees last

Night and now rimed with ice

In the yard. How quickly

Summer fades to this nice

Transition that soon grimly

Brings the bitter snowy

Cold. Just yesterday I

Was playing, now suddenly

I’m old. But here awhile

I’ll linger ‘midst colors bold

To hold in frozen tableau

My memories of old.

I still can move a bit

And, careful on this ice,

The mem’ries with wit

Arranged on grass so nice

As if still suspended

In the trees.

October 2018

About This Poem

Weather is often an inspiration for my poetry and this is an example of that. Clearly autumn works as a symbol of aging and that's the case in this poem. I also just love the fall, so I have decided I need to embrace aging as well.

 

Poem: When Morning Breaks

When Morning Breaks

 

When morning breaks

It teeters on the

Edge of darkness

Waiting to

Fall to the blackness down

Here but holds onto light.

 

You won’t hear it

When it falls

Into miniscule shards

Refracting rays

Like a prism’s rainbow

 

But it resounds

To heaven

In the tinkling sounds of

Shattered glass’

Reverberating crash

 

When everything

Begins new

Like blank parchment here

Scattered with

Blackened birds feet scratches.

 

And that’s the morn

You have seen

Crashing into sunlight

As it fell

Whole into broken spheres.

 

August 2022

About This Poem                                                                                                                                        This is a poem that I was inspired to write based on some wordplay with the break of morning.  It is a five four poem that has a specific pattern of syllables and lines, but taking license as a poet, I changed it up sometimes. The photo is Kootenay Lake in British Columbia, Canada.

Poem: The Hills Are Always There

The Hills Are Always There

  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth. ̴̴̴̴̴ Psalm 121

The air can be oppressive, thick with smoke

Forcing us to swelter inside. Others,

Though, are forced from their homes. We are still home.

Just because we can’t see the hills doesn’t

Mean they aren’t there and smoke will blow over.

 

At other times it’s the oppressing air,

A thick blanket of fog blinds us again

But still we know the hills are always there.

At these times we have to stoke the fire’s flames,

Not pray for rain to clear the air of smoke.

 

Others might dwell in the clouds or the smoke

Oblivious to the hills, green or brown

But always there, hidden beneath a cloak.

We might live with smoke and clouds but we know

By faith, the hills are always there.

 

August 2015

About This Poem

I wrote this under the inspiration of the Psalm during a time of intense wildfire smoke. You couldn't see Moscow Mountain from our house (which you almost always can because it's so close). It felt important to remember to look to the hills even when they can't be seen and to remember where your strength comes from.
 

Poem: My Sunset

 

My Sunset

 It’s kind of crazy to think of myself

Running out in the woods here at twilight.

I don’t often come up on the deer here.

They typically cross my path, their white tails

Waving danger. In winter I wouldn’t

Run because of the snow. One time I was

Running on Veteran’s Day and fell and

Broke my hand. I was so embarrassed

That I popped right back up not knowing that

I was even injured. I ran a half mile

Before I even noticed the throbbing.

Now it’s summertime and I go traipsing

About through the woods frolicking with deer

Not even seeing that they are there and

Certainly not thinking that I can fall

And injure myself here when it’s almost

Dark. Then I smell the syringa heavy

On the air. I take a deep breath, look out

On the field, the last glimmer of sunlight

Changes the clouds and I think about all

The disease and my age and that I might not

Have much more time to run at twilight

In the woods. What if I fall and get hurt?

I shake that thought with just a tinge of red

And run on into what is my sunset.

 July 2020

About This Poem

I realize that I still act like I'm a kid sometimes when I'm out roaming the woods. One time I was out running and started thinking about my age and how I have hurt myself while thinking I'm younger than I am. This poems is what came of that thought.

Poem: Glossolalia

Glossolalia

 A sounding brass, a tinkling cymbal,

The tongues of men and of angels,

Un-understandable language

Sounding out its emptiness

To the Universe.

 

But it is a gift, this babel

Every bit as intelligible to

The Father as baby talk is

To the doting parents

Of the Universe.

 

We cry out, “Abba, Father!”

In a senseless reverie

Of intense meaninglessness

Glossing the emptiness

Of the Universe.

 

In hopes that He will

Hear our cry in all the

Emptiness of our existence

Building towers destroyed

By the Universe.

 

So that all we have left

Is this empty cry to

A father we hope will hear

Our meaninglessness

In the Universe.

 

A sounding brass, a tinkling cymbal,

The tongues of men and of angels

Interpreted by the I Am

Our very present help

In the Universe.

 

February 2022

 About This Poem

There is always controversy about religious practices and speaking in tongues (Glossolalia) is no different. It is not part of my religious tradition, but it is something that happens in Christian circles. This poem is my attempt to explain how it isn't necessarily that different from any other mutterings we do as humans, so do we really need to pretend people who speak in tongues are a little crazy (because if you've ever been to a service where it occurs you might feel a little uneasy...).