Tag Archives: mood

Autumn woods, a meditation

I took a hike up in the woods, to name the trees and plants.
The falling leaves, the autumn chill and golden sun entranced.
I traced a path, through brush and vine, along the mountain’s edge
The sumac and the maple trees cast red hues on the ledge.
Again, today, I’m ambling deep among the trees and stream.
The colors here are gentle soft, like memory of a dream.
I sit upon a fallen tree and taste the mossy scent,
And watch the light that dances on the golden leaves’ descent.
Every time I get a chance, I’ll do this walk again,
And share time with the breezy chorus of nature’s perfect Zen.
The feel of autumn’s cooling air, and earthy mists descending,
The scent of leaves and needles make a special magic, lending
A feeling of great comfort as the woods wind down with me.
They love enough to share my mood, in soft camaraderie.

An Ode to My Other Companion

You, bitter trinity, long I have wed.
Our courtship started early in my years.
Your whispers, claiming you are truth, have led
Me to make you the author of my tears.

Dear Darkness, Sadness, Worry, as one you carve
The mortise to my tenon, joining me
Into your lifelong, seamless structure, fast.
That we are joined, not one, is hard to see,
With subtle signs that only few observe.
The love around us, silently, you starve,
Ensuring my fidelity will last.

Cruel Darkness, you faithless, possessive love,
Abandoning your consort to the light,
Then, jealously, you count the cost thereof,
To take your ounce of flesh in bitter spite.

You, alone, can change the world. Your power,
To refine the greatest brightness into dross.
The shining hills, the taste of apricot,
The lilting song, the lace of morning frost,
The magic kiss of love, the dew crowned flower,
the Sun Itself of marvelous strength, all cower.
With murky veil, you dim the shining lot.

Cold Worry, how your countenance comes forth,
Appearing with the first shade of a doubt.
Your vap’rous chill, descended from the north,
Instills penetrating fear throughout.

The future, only mist, you make a ghost,
That haunts tomorrow’s doorway with a dread,
And tells me, “through this threshold is despair.”
You, thief of night who chains me to my bed,
Do tear the gentle respite from its host.
To sleep, I sign a contract made for Faust,
With this aching soul, the bargain seems quite fair.

Sadness, you strum the lyre inside my breast.
The pitch is harsh, with dissonant refrain.
The clamorous noise, an overstayed guest,
That sings to me my failures, losses, pain.

You steal the day, and take me to a place
Regret becomes the main fare of this blight,
Seasoned through with bitter herbs of grief.
Your artist’s hand sculpts darkest moments bright,
Mistakes and wrongs once just a feeble trace,
Now chiseled deep into my fragile grace.
I never can make those trespasses right.

And so, great Trinity, you part of me,
Our intimacy is my greatest shame.
Though I cannot imagine being free,
The emptiness in me Is not your blame.

As with others of your wretched kind,
You dance eccentric waltzes with my heart.
I lately tasted of your apogee,
With your retreat to cold and distant parts.
Days of warming hope, redefined,
Stitched with fragile threads into my mind.
But then, you bound me with your gravity.

The weathered tree

The weathered tree has seen the light of half a century’s Springs.
With warming breeze, or icy winds its wide canopy sings.

Summer brought a blessed growth of branch and leaf and core.
The trunk forged strong, the roots bore deep, the branches grew to soar.

And after many seasons, plain, the hopeful sylvan flowered.
And on the forest’s to needled bed the fragrant petals showered

Many thought the flowers brash, the fragrance overbloomed
Perhaps, it seemed, the tree had not been well and truly pruned.

The joy those days bequeathed to it, a height it had not known,
Was drawn into and scattered round with seed that it had sown.

But seasons change and Autumn’s cold reality intruded,
And every branch of its bright cloak, summarily denuded.

Then, with Winter’s sharp descent, the mirthless dark takes hold.
This taller mast, once bathed in light, is battered by the cold.

But even then, in bitter snow, when branches bend and hew,
The hope still holds a sacred place, that Summer springs anew.