The Pinery

 

This sand and pebble shoreline in time was designed
By the lake’s incessant waves —  wild and unconfined.
Among the rocks and driftwood strewn along the strand
Footprints trail off from the beach to more verdant land.

Through coastal dunes, a boardwalk marks the wending way,
While junipers and beach grass add to the display.
Under shagbark hickory, dirt paths carry on
To a forest of red pines, silent and withdrawn.

Trees of an oak savanna nearby persevere,
Screening a sun-steeped meadow and the white-tailed deer.
Above, some turkey vultures idly soar along,
And a scarlet tanager chirps its “chick-burr” song.

The old Ausable river teems with buzzing life
Yet placid is the water, cool and free from strife.
This is the place I go to when I lose control;
Oh, how these waves and woodlands soothe my weary soul.

Ode to a Burger and Fries

The challenge from www.poetryexpress.org/: Write a poem of 4 to 9 lines containing the words "mustard," "piano," "elastic," "moat," "notorious."

With a moat of mustard surrounding pickles,
the ubiquitous burger lies
there next to its notorious companion;
the oil saturated french fries.

In the ritual lunch, my pearly white teeth
like ivory piano keys stand
ready to bite into heaven, but alas —
texture and taste — elastic band.

Worcester to Woonsocket

When travelling from Worcester to Woonsocket,
you don't need to ride a great moon rocket.
You need only wheels. More precisely,
a car or a truck would do nicely.

To tour the sublime Blackstone Valley,
you don't need to join a road rally.
A single car; that's what I'm thinkin’
will get you from Mendon to Lincoln.

A journey to Glocester from Leicester —
by jet plane? — Oh, surely you jest, sir.
You need not be wise or omniscient,
to see that a car is sufficient.

Would you steer a speed boat down river
from Uxbridge, intent to deliver
yourself to the town of Pawtucket?
I say go by car, or else truck it.

A Rural Christmas Scene

In the valley down below

stands a farmhouse in the snow.
Rolling hills of evergreen

gently frame the tranquil scene.

O’er a stream that cuts the ridge,

sits an oak-plank covered bridge.
And a Sunday-meetin’ church,

high above the bank does perch.

Lamps that glow from windows warm,

smile at clouds that threaten storm.
Soft gleam in the twilight makes

tiny stars of falling flakes.

Bridge and buildings charm the nights

with their strings of Christmas lights.

 How those decorations shine

in these scene-rapt eyes of mine.

Images of joy and cheer

may not last, but never fear:
Memories won't likely fade

of the Season so displayed.

Zug Island and Zug Island Revisited

Zug Island

Take me there, please, where men cough and wheeze,
Where emissions and smoke swirl and dance on a breeze,
Where girders and stacks and pipes are the trees;
An oasis of these is Zug Island.

Spellbound, I gaze ‘cross the strait where I stand,
To a factory island — no beaches, no sand;
Instead a fine film of rust soot coats the land.
Life would be grand on Zug Island.

The warm orange glow of a flame paints the sky,
Cargo ships laden with steel pass me by,
A blast furnace calls; I can hear its faint cry.
My fantasies lie on Zug Island.

Gas, stench, and steam are its gifts to the air.
The River Rouge issues a toxic flow there.
As to the land; there's still some to spare.
Everything's fair on Zug Island.



Zug Island Revisited

No beauty I see in these nightmarish scenes,
Of smoke-blackened buildings and monstrous machines;
Hills of scrap metal, and rusty ravines.
No ends, only means on Zug Island.

I now shed a tear when I think of the cost;
The resources, trees, and land we exhaust,
The water and air, polluted and lost.
What bridge have we crossed to Zug Island?

On a Scotch Pine

Hanging there is a dangling cat
With a knitted scarf and a matching hat,

Silent bells, and a pewter boat,
A ceramic girl in a red felt coat.

Someone sits on a frosty sleigh
Above tiny wreaths and a small bouquet.

Angels fly near a rocking horse
And on top there sits a bright star, of course.

Furthermore many branches hold
Pretty twinkling lights and a garland gold.

All these baubles and trinkets bloom
On a tall Scotch Pine in my living room.

Ah, Seasons!

Ah, Spring! — hearts sweetened by flowers;
chill ousted by warmth
and more daylight hours.

Ah, Summer! — the weekend of seasons;
vacation with sun
and fun without reasons.

Ah, Autumn! — comes harvest and crisp air;
landscapes of color,
and ducks in the mist there.

Ah, Winter! — where snow brightens dark skies.
A new year of life
will spring from what now dies.

Where Duality Flies

Seeker of Truth — Enlightenment Sleuth;
to what ultimate goal do you climb?

Is it not here on this Earthly sphere?
Is it not in this instant of time?

Concepts and thought spin dreams and we’re caught
in the merry-go-round of the mind.

Try as we may, we can’t find a way
to leave image and ego behind.

Where do we look — through words in a book?
Oh, the answer seems so well concealed.

Secret it’s not — we simply forgot:
in this moment the answer's revealed.

Left on its own, the silent Unknown
brings to light what it once seemed to hide.

Where duality flies — so say the wise —
goes the myself and True Self divide.

Behold the Planet

Behold the rocket; look at it soar,
blazing on high with a deafening roar.
Millions of dollars – don’t ask me what for–
recklessly shot into space.

Behold the dozer; look at the ways
verdure and nature are treated these days.
Millions of acres of trees we do raze;
carelessly wiped from Earth’s face.

Behold the soldier; armed to the teeth,
with missiles above and land mines beneath.
Millions are dead. Oh, please take the sheath
and put your sword back in its place.

Behold the planet; we must be astute,
and realize it is the tree — we're the fruit.
And if it's not treated as such, our pursuit
to conquer will be our disgrace.

Nunc Est Bibendum

Fill the glass and raise your drink
and give each one that ritual clink;
then celebrate the spiritual link
that binds more than we think.

For you will find upon this Earth,
nothing lacking nor any dearth
of bounteous beauty, wealth, and worth
from One who gives all birth.


Nunc Est Addendum

So drink up now, and do not stray
from this moment or else you may
find to your sorrow and dismay,
you’ve missed this precious day.

The Carefree Road

Why do I have a fever
When my decision was for health?

Why are the markets falling
When my decision was for wealth?

Why do my decisions fail me?
God cares not if His aims agree.

Then you decide, O Choiceless One,
Leave the carefree road for me.

Thoughts on Questions and Theories

Questions, conjecture, and theories abound;
Some of them groundless, some of them sound.

Born of desire, the mind feels compelled,
To reach out and grasp what cannot be held.

The past and the future are offsprings of thought;
I must attend to the present if I am to be taught.

Questions, thoughts, theories — best placed on a shelf,
When attempting to know the Unknowable Self.

Wake Me

Wake me, please

With a soft voice,
or a gentle touch,
or naturally and easily at the end of a pleasant dream.

These I prefer

To a jackhammer,
or a sledgehammer,
or a nightmare about hammerhead sharks that do teem.

Remains a Tranquil Garden

Resting in an untouched place,
devoid of time, devoid of space;
there remains a Tranquil Garden
tended to with loving care.

Filled with flowers that bloom as one,
caressed by inner glowing sun,
is the Eden of Creation —
a presence that is always there.

Lives appearing in the mist
of the fruitful earth are kissed
by the constancy of Heaven
and the tender touch of grace.

Life’s busy stream does freely flow,
containing fears and cares although
still remains a Tranquil Garden,
holding us in Its embrace.

Chopin's Art

So fervently one yearns
to hear those sweet Nocturnes

A Waltz of charming grace
smooths frowns upon my face

I’m blissfully imbued
with notes from his Prelude

His Fantasy makes whole
the fragmentary soul

.

How pianists improve
when clever Études move

The Polonaise I hear
brings grandeur to my ear

Stars heavenly shine through
his dazzling Impromptu

Thus filled with Chopin’s Art
a joyous and rapt heart

One, Two, Haiku !

Haiku: Leaves
Lying on the lawn;
rich mix of rustling colors
resting in decay.

Haiku: Buds
Sprouting from the tree;
Life’s bursting celebration!
Death can never stay.

Snow Squall Land

No thoughts of lacy snowflake kisses;
That chance of flurries never misses.
I don’t mind shovelling much but this is
More than I can stand.

I hoped it’d wane, and so I waited,
Instead it waxes unabated;
It seems the Snow Gods must have hated
All that I had planned.

I don’t know why I bothered waking;
My limbs are tired, my back is aching,
And yet more snow the clouds are making.
“Stop it!” I demand.

Oh, how it snowed last year. Remember?
Four months and more from mid-December.
But Heaven’s sake, it’s just November
Here in Snow Squall Land!

Play On!

Some may feel that my verse is quite flimsy,
But mostly, my words are intended as whimsy.

A dubious poet and writer am I,
But I play where my thoughts and ideas do lie.

And when thoughts of past and future take flight,
I find that my being is ticklish and light.

So, Play on! I say to my frolicsome mind,
And leave all my worries and guilt far behind.

Gifted

I cannot grow an ambrosial garden,
But I take time to smell the fragrant flower.

I could not master a musical instrument,
But divine sounds I hear each day, every hour.

I tried and failed at becoming a healer,
But I so fully feel all that I touch.

I never learned to be a gourmet chef,
But I savor food and fine wine oh, so much.

And I could never paint or draw worth a damn.
See the art God has sculpted!

How gifted I am.

Musical Alms

Harmonious strains through my ears fill my heart;
Oh, the euphoric lift from that euphonic art.

Mellifluous melody, a sweet dulcet measure;
My being absorbed in such musical pleasure.

So soothingly, pent up emotions unlock
with Beethoven, Schubert, Hayden, or Bach.

I would give to the poor, needy soul precious alms
of Mozart, Handel, Chopin, and Brahms.

Capturing the Hunter

From Earth to the Moon,
I’m soaring and soon
I’ve said my goodbye to Mars.

Round Saturn then past
blue Neptune at last
I’m wandering through the stars.

So swiftly I race
‘cross these jewels of space;
a familiar form fills my sight.

It’s Orion I see
– giant Hunter is he –
light years in his width and height.

From Rigel to sword,
from his belt then toward
great Betelgeuse I do fly.

From humble Earth he’s
been captured with ease
by just a glance from my eye.

Sleep Restfully

Sleep restfully,
Dream peacefully,
Rhythmic breathing, rising, falling, in and out, and then you

Wake easily,
Smile happily,
Turning, stirring, stretching, yawning, in the dawn and then you

Stand steadily,
Go quietly,
To a window shining light, you lift your face and then you

See the rising sun.
Oh, the gentle sun—
Feel the warming sun.

Mirror in the Evening

Once again I’m taken
To the mirror in my room.
And gaze upon the image there;
The self that I assume.

The countenance is strange to me;
This reflection I behold.
Signs of age are posted there;
Once young, it now looks old.

Is it “my” face in the mirror?
Is my being captured there?
Or is it an illusion,
Born of One that is aware?

These thoughts and doubts do blind me
Even though my eyes are clear;
Lost in an optic echo,
Far away from now and here.

Mirror in the Morning

Mirror in the morning,
What face do you reflect?
A keen enquiring visage,
That does study and inspect.

As I stare and wonder,
At the likeness in your shine,
I’m fraught with thoughts confusing;
Which eyes are really mine?

Flashing form and figure,
From a surface smooth and thin,
What would your picture be without
My experience within?

So when at last I leave you,
What fills your glossy plane?
With no one to peer and ponder,
What does that glass contain?