Tell me what you see In the place you've gone Is it what you thought it would be? Are there hills and rivers For you to roam And the only thing that's missing there Is me. Standing on a road That has two ends One takes away and one receives. Waiting for my ride to begin, I'll never catch the ones who leave. Changes Our new lives begin With changes When what we've known comes to an end Like it or not, Then we're free. Morning cup of coffee and a cigarette Raindrops falling from the trees Though some time has passed I won't forget What life was like when you were here with me. Changes Our new lives begin With changes When what we've known comes to an end Like it or not, Then we're free.

We awake as the birds awake to join into the everlasting song and with the pale blue of morning's light we see the verdant canopy above us: a green blanket against the morning chill. I fire up the hand held camping stove for coffee. Raindrops, one, two, wet drop on my hand, on my nose, then it opens up. Water from the heavens, drops finding their home, falling through the canopy above, filtering into the humus soil below, each creature of the forest, including me and my girl, taking what we need as each drop passes, ever downward on a journey through flora, and fauna, soils, and rock, moved by the intelligence of gravity, raindrops fingering their way through each crevice, ever lower into the Earth. A long journey through darkness, till one day it will once again emerge into the light of the beauty of Life.

Black pebbled beaches are where the dead hang out. Grey ghosts on black rocks under dolomite columns reaching for heaven that won’t be found as the rusting carriage of death decays, streaming red into the rocks and is carried away more and more each day across the screeching, grinding rocks; as the waves reach cold arms to take away and bury forever what they have destroyed a timeless exhibition for those who will listen and a similar fate avoid the soul goes seaward free of the mast free of hunger, sweat, and snares but no way to go home sailing alone across waves and moonlight airs

Drab winter hillsides under grey skies, rain dripping into the fallow fields of clumped earth and fungal corn stalks. The leaning barn collapsed under the weight of age, the house slipping off the rock to sink into the earth as rain on the tin roof records the tick tock rhythm of the passage of time. And all is dead, dead or sleeping. Waiting, waiting… And then the first warm air blows across the hills on a wafting breeze as cathedral rays of sunshine break through the blanket of winter’s clouds. Daffodils in the snow and the mud and manure of pasture land around the old homeplace. The glory of the bearded iris dutifully keeping April’s promise by the old stone wall, an offering of beauty to generations of my forebears as they went about the business of growing a life from the soil. The soft green of new leaves, the symbol of a new season of growth. And then, on the backside of heavy winds, there is a warm rain: soaking, saturating, nourishing young plants, row crops and woodland wildflowers alike. And, with the parting of the clouds, comes the warmth of the sun, burning light. The dripping earth exhales in wet humidity and it is summer. Season of vegetables, green onions and cooling cucumbers, a welcome addition to lunch meat and pork and beans enjoyed under a shade tree; and later, tomatoes, the essence of flavor and form, cracked and striped, dark green fading to red, the Cherokee Purple and Black Krim; Better Boy and Bradley. Sticky, dank leaves of an odor like no other, green, the smell of summer, stained on reaching hands. The riot continues up the kudzu hillside where arching dead elms host woodpeckers and trailing vines, hummingbirds on a trumpet creeper. A green mat across the earth, growing fast enough to watch with the patient eye. Cold-water creeks fed by permanent springs offer respite from the heat, tender bare feet on the smooth stones of their gravel bottoms where fossils and arrowheads abound. The latter reminding the young child that he is not the first to enjoy the green bounty of these hills and hollows, the sun on his face introducing him to the collective experience of a humanity that can be held in your hand, breathed into your lungs, and enjoyed in the juicy flesh of a ripe tomato, [plucked from his proverbial postage stamp of earth, a speck of green hills under the vaulting sky that encompasses all the world, mountain and plain, desert and ocean - the myriad locations where we can feel whole, one, with a humanity we learned in our own speck of dirt.] That feeling of wonder in the world when all experience is new and our heart and hands, eyes and minds are young. That certain blue of the sky and the remembering, fragrant wind on which floats the songs of summer birds. An intangible feeling that never leaves us but becomes more and more fleeting, slipping through our fingers the tighter we try to grasp it, as we grow into adulthood; that unexplained smile that interrupts the hectic days of our productive years, and the happy nostalgia of a memory lost, but almost remembered, that comforts us through the dotage of old age.

When the red rays of sun drenched morning light come in through the window, And the wood floors creak beneath my first waking steps; As the first sip of coffee burns bitter but welcome against my lips, Ideas already begin their run through the Pamplona streets of my mind. Woody notes plucked from my old guitar, Turning memories to music, To share with those who will listen. The morning song that will last for years, And stay with me into the dark night of my life

Moonbeams Quiet reflections On a restless night You become the shadow And the sky Becomes the light Whatever's been troubling you by day The moonbeams' light will take away In that quiet blue light moonbeam kind of way Moonbeams Quiet reflections On a restless night When the sky is lit By a dreamer's light In that blue light moonbeam way And what you love about your life ....Will stay When the blue of moonlight on your skin Matches what's within Moonbeams Are a special, quiet friend. Moonbeams Quiet reflections On a restless Night

Fall from the sky Fall from the sky Like a bird coming down from on high Roll with the flow As only you can go Approaching the evening tide Merge as you will As the rivers you fill, From many becoming one Memory’s rainbow Born in your light As you kiss the face of the sun Fall from the sky Fall from the sky Rain drop I sing this hymn for you A teardrop from heaven A prayer from on high Wash the world clean as you fall from the sky Seeking the ocean at your journey’s end.

Winding road to green mountain river Footsteps - water crossing Bypass broken bridge - And she smiles at my slippery feet falldown backpack plunge While my dog fishes in circles around my unstable steps Later swim gliding over river boulders Rocks of time Adding our own memories and energies to the slow-moving past of uplifted and crumbling earth. Standing to dry - climbing to dry - Soaking in the sun on big house rock Unbroken mountain core while other stones washed away With hemlocks and poplars hide watching eyes of animal companions at our back Later wine cork opens up more pleasure Cantaloupe and prosciutto Salty sweet Fire gazing Then goodnight kiss Of the stars Morning mist rising foggy from the river Coffee crystals brought to life by the rocket swoosh of Butane burner Explore, stretch seek Swim in sun Blue sky of shapely clouds Lying naked on rocks Part of the scene Fitting in Weaving our own serotonin sap rising harmony with the well-being of a perfect nature

Summer sunshine on your hair Fades as September slips away turning leaves blow wild and free on a crisp autumnal breeze Packing away sandals and swimming trunks The clothes we took off for summer's heat As boots and flannel come back once more I see the tan lines on your feet Lavish lines on your breasts and thighs Where your swimsuit and your skin did meet The last of summer's brown skinned tan Fades away in the glow of gold and crimson leaves. Bitter hot instant coffee Sipped under redwoods: Tall writers of the clouds Pine-scented oracles with a story to tell Short poems aren't long enough to lose yourself in on the beach or sitting inside reading on a rainy day. Short poems are good for the long haul of forever, because they get stuck in that place in the brain just past learning: the place where recurring inspiration dwells, or comfort, or solace, or peace. Our lives are epic poems with short passages worth remembering: she was a girl whose name I whisper she was a dog whose memory is forever in my heart she was a steep mountain where my mind was clear she was a river where I learned to love Nature. And if you only take one thought from this poem of the passage of my life and what I think is important, then let it be this: I reach out my hand to pluck the golden orb of the ripe peach. But my fingers are only long enough to scrape the refreshing dew on its lustrous skin. So I smell the sweetly nectarized air and hold the fruit only in my mind, where it is surly sweeter than any peach ever tasted.

Crickets chirping in the night Tree growing in the dark my dog scratches and licks Such sounds below while the jets fly overhead Going somewhere I may have been, but not in a long time. The stars journey thru the sky, halfway between sunset and sunrise Nightshift for cricket song and dogs keeping watch in the shadows. The candle flickers and burns: citronella hell to mosquitoes. Revving car engines Saturday night cruising But I'm on my porch listening to crickets: heartbeat force of summer nights running like oil through gasoline engines. The grass needs to grow I need to mow I mowed it yesterday and the forecast is for rain tonight Green grass grows to the edge of the fire pit The fire pit sets cold, but once it burned. Motorcycle night of a young man with somewhere to go Live fast with motorcycle dreams A little light on the mic flashes in my eye, telling me to speak While a barking dog tells me to shut up A spider weaves her web blessing my home Ephemeral mandala of Grace. Heat lightening across the sky Fast cars can't go as fast as the light. Heat lightening jumping from cloud to cloud Cars with thundering engines can't match the power of Heaven and Earth. The light flashes the candle burns But tomorrow the cars will be out of gas. Heaven and earth endure long beyond us Despite our best efforts to be remembered.

The sun sets golden across the green ridge. Hold on to golden sunsets. They will last for years, Letting you know that dark clouds will pass