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And more. . .
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Sanity
Cool breezes
evaporate the salty droplets
running down the forehead.
Could the day be more perfect,
sun and light breezes,
for a ride along the bike trail?
All cares disappear
as one greets passersby
with friendly, “Hellos,” –
so privileged to find respite
from the chaotic tentacles,
which strive to ensnare and steal
one’s sanity.
Comments: In today's highly pressurized world, one needs to take time to "get away" if only for a few hours. Work can become all consuming, making one lose perspective on why we exist and what our mission is. For me, this escape comes on the bike trail or on the yoga mat or on the lake. Where do you go to find your sanity?
Moving On
Quiet, time to think, to listen.
Suddenly, the harsh intrusion of a chainsaw
off in the distance
terminates the life
of a once healthy tree.
Crash! One hundred years end.
The calls of the cicadas
and the sounds of geese
replace the disruptive whine
of the now silent saw.
A solitary ant meanders
along the path.
Where is it headed?
Where am I headed?
Answers yet to come.
Comments: Another poem written during a break along the bike trail. Obviously, it was written for me as I envision a new future. However, this dilemma faces all of us sometime in our lives.
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| Two enjoying ice cream in Annapolis, Maryland |
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| Enjoying the Kokosing Trail (Mt. Vernon, OH) |
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| My bike at rest |
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Quiet Moments
..........................1
Sipping the warm, astringent tea
......soothes while on its inward journey.
Thoughts drift and drift.
..........................2
One sits at a favorite booth
......awaiting breakfast.
Despite nearby discordant conversations,
......the mind ponders and ponders.
..........................3
The rhythmic humming tires
......and the popping seeds
......play an enchanting melody.
The cyclist dreams and dreams.
Quiet moments, so good, so good for the soul.
Comments: Strangely, I have found that quiet moments can happen in noisy places as mentioned in stanza 2. However, the most enjoyable tend to be in locations where the traditional definition of "quiet" occurs. Surprise contest (Obviously, this one is for the critical readers): The first five to send me a brief description of a favorite quiet moment will be the winner of a "secret" surprise. Be sure to include your mailing address and type "Contest" in the subject line. All entries will be included in a grand prize drawing. Deadline: January 30, 2009, at 11:59 P.M.
The Duality Within
Old man, you have slowed down.
I hear you huff and puff up the stairs.
Lifting a scant 50 pounds
......generates a moan.
Your bike rides are a trivial 10 miles
......rather than centuries.
What has happened to you?
Young man, you have not learned
......that time captures all.
Though you believe you are young,
......you are becoming old.
The frisky, tireless youth
......will dissipate.
You must face the inevitable.
The two embrace into one,
......comprehending their oneness
......within the same body.
Each brings meaning to the other–
......dreams and reality.
Comments: Duality poems consist of two, usually conflicting ideas, being discussed within one poem and culminating into a unifying thought. In this poem the younger self, more exactly, the person's youthful self-imagine, debates with the older self. Ultimately, the two agree that both entities are needed to make a healthy, dynamic whole.
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Early morning on the way to work
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Garden at rest
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Sculpture time
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The Rails of Youth
Today, planes in their streamlined bodies
...encase the young in narrow seats,
...whisking them to exotic locations.
But for those of five decades or more,
...the rails transported the young
...to adventure and sometimes war.
As a senior, not yet eighteen,
...with whistles resonating and steam hissing,
...Roger and I depart
...for the City on the Cuyahoga,
...taking our tentative steps into adulthood.
There, we meander along unfamiliar streets.
Then, we spot them, displayed in their glory–
...the three-story burleQ pictures
...above the Roxy Theater marquee.
Hormones flow.
At first timidly ogling and then mesmerized
...we are entranced before numbly moving on
...for a chaste night at the unpretentious YMCA.
A few years later, climbing aboard again–
...Philadelphia, the destination.
As a summer camp counselor
...I work with inner city children.
But time permits
...a long weekend at the shore
...and a hitchhiking visit to the World’s Fair.
A secret romance flowers but heartache wilts it,
...being no competition for the lifeguard.
In two more years, the modern diesel whistle blares–
...off to Norman and Oklahoma U.
The study of linguistics for the summer
...consumes my mind.
The sizzling heat and stifling rooms still blaze
...in my memory.
The learning was stimulating, but the state was not.
Only months later, the last rail trip of import,
...I return home from the Windy City,
...having said goodbye
...to the youthful “love of my life.”
The blessings of night travel hide the tears
...on a ride that seems interminable.
Trains and rails engraved indelible memories
...on this man’s journey.
Comments: The Knox County Art League, which is housed in a refurbished train station, held a February event honoring train travel. Members were asked to submit art relating to to that topic. This poem along with appropriate pictures was my contribution. For my two Oklahoma readers, please don't be offended by my one-line in stanza four. I was only twenty-one and not ready for the daily 100+ degree days, especially since I had daily dish washing duties for a hundred plus people. The area was not air conditioned either. (The City on the Cuyahoga River is Cleveland, at that time the largest and most cosmopolitan city in Ohio.)
Britches
...............................I
“Those are pretty sharp britches
...you have on today.”
She giggles, face flushed,
...and offers a snappy reply,
...obviously pleased with the remark
...from her male friend.
..............................II
The fog of tenseness in the boardroom
...is so thick that eyes cannot meet.
From a corner of the room comes a quip
...causing members to erupt in laughter.
Shoulders relax
...and the milky whiteness evaporates.
.............................III
The elder is racked with pain,
...timidly moving, one step at a time.
A momentary stumble and an exclamation,
...“Damn, if there was a string on the floor,
...I would trip over it!”
He chuckles.
The pain ceases, if only for moments.
Laughter, a gift from the gods.
Comments: This poem started in a favorite mom and pop restaurant as I was eating breakfast following a five-mile bike ride. A woman walked by one of the tables and a fellow, who obviously knew her, commented on her apparel. As the poem says, "she giggled," but it does not say what followed–she gave it right back to him. As I thought about this little interlude, I began to think about how laughter is a gift, breaking tension and even relieving pain.
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Feryerith's Exhilaration
The day starts in a rush.
My face is flushed and tense.
........“Oh, God, where is the bus?”
........“I can't afford to be late.”
Muscles tighten
...as frustration deepens.
........“Where is it!”
The high-pitched roar of a motorcyle arrives
... before the image of the unseen friend.
........ “Sure, I will accept the ride.”
........“It will be my little secret.”
My friend, and I on back, dart into traffic,
... the vibrations of the engine
... soon reverberate through my essence.
Exhilaration rises
... as the cacophony of cares and stress
... melt, dissipate into oblivion.
The wind, passing
... through the once combed
... silky black hair,
... tangles and toys,
... offering a careless sense of freedom.
Nary a bump or a honk
... disturbs the tranquility
...flooding my being.
Vibrant vistas pass before my eyes,
...as if in slow motion.
I become absorbed in the oneness
...of the universe
...and gratefully accept the gift
...bestowed upon me this day.
Comments: One of my favorite people emailed me one day about a motorcycle ride she had taken that morning, which went beyond a mere transportation convenience. She explained that there was a bus strike, and she was afraid of being late for work. Suddenly, a friend, whom she hadn't seen for awhile, came up on his motorcycle and offered her a lift. She found the ride quite exhilarating. Based upon her email, I created the above poem. Having ridden motorcycles as a young man, I could clearly identify with her experience, all except the hair part.
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A Slice of Oak
A small, gnarled piece of oak
....darkened with age
....rests on the stand.
A limb abundant with leaves
....once branched outward
....catching the Sun’s life-giving rays.
For over a century
....this stalwart sentry
....shaded the house
....on land once owned
....by a friend of the planter.
The passing of time took its toll.
This once living sentinel
....became firewood to warm the home
....during Massachusetts’s cold winters.
But this surviving, priceless piece
....conjures memories
....of the owner, Ralph Waldo Emerson,
....and the planter, Henry David Thoreau.
Comments: A number of years ago I stayed at the Hawthorne Inn in Concord, MA. The house, which eventually became the Inn, was built in 1870 on land once owned by Emerson. The tree was planted by Thoreau. Marilyn Mudry, one of the innkeepers, upon learning that I was a poet and writer, said she had a special gift for me. She sent her husband to the basement to collect the piece of oak that is described above and shown on the right. It rests by my writing chair in my meditation room. This thoughtful gift by Marilyn remains a cherished possession.
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| The writing area where both poems began to form. |
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| The chunk of oak by my chair along with my favorite pen |
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