Potpourri of Thoughts

Potpourri
of
Thoughts 2

If you have any reactions to these muses, please email me.

Only the Ways Have Changed

While reading of Thoreau and Emerson,

I am taken back by how differently death came.

Henry's beloved brother John–

Dead from the simple nick of a razor.

The five-year old son,

The Emerson heir,

Taken by the fever.

My thoughts return to today–

Only the ways have really changed.

Mother and daughter dead

Amid the mesh of steel.

The bent old man,

Lungs black as night,

Coughs his last breath.

Ah, the Reaper finds his ways

To continue his daily collections.

Comments: I was reading a bit of history about some of the famous poets and was shocked to learn how many of them experience tragedy including unusual "simple" causes of death. Then I thought about today and how the Reaper has developed a new venue including some of the old ones.

Enchanted Forest

The trail leads into
....the deep greens and shadows
....of the enchanted forest
....as feelings of magic
....flood my veins.
Sunlight pierces through the branches–
....rays dancing off the leaves.
Even Monet could not capture
....these hues and eddies of light.
My eyes stare
....without comprehension.
Surely, heaven could not
....display more beauty.

The wheels of my bike
....appear to levitate
....above the black,
....dampened asphalt,
....transporting me deeper
....into this mystical kingdom.

I am in awe.

Comments: I can't help it, but I love to write about the many sensory experiences I have on the bike trail. This one was particularly intense, different from any I have had before. Though I have ridden through this forested section of the trail over a hundred times, I have never been quite so affected. I wish the same for each of you as you experience creation.

The pictures in the below section are from an ice festival held at National Harbor, VA in 2009.

The Meditation Room –
...............Last Day of 2009

My first day in this place of refuge
....where the bubbling fountain and the purring heater
....erase intruding sounds
....and become rhythms that comfort me.

Sitting in a rocker,
....feeling the coarse texture of cloth against my neck,
....I read from a small handmade booklet of wisdom
....given to me
....by my yoga teacher a decade ago.

Joy floods my soul
....over the vibrant words
....leaping from the small delicate pages.
Hafiz, Dillard, Oliver, Cummings,
....writers present and past
....become immortalized in my mind.

Simple pleasures permeate my senses,
....hinting of days to come.

Comments: After our son Craig vacated his room and moved to the D.C. area three years ago, I decided to use it to create some private space, a "formalized" meditation room, to escape, write, read, and yes, meditate. The transition took almost three years and was completed, as promised to him, just before he and his wife returned for the recent holidays. December 31 was the first day I took some time to enjoy the quietness that the room allowed. The above poem came from that experience. Have you considered creating a sacred, quiet place in your home?