Simplicity, quiet and unscheduled time in nature has become as important as vitamins. It is a healing quietude that calms the nerves and restores the spirit. Enjoy the poem and find such a place.



That quiet place
where you can get to
that quiet place inside you.
The place away,
away from worry and to-dos.
That place where the leaves rustle
and the birds sing with your heart.
That place where you fill up again,
where you let go off all ropes and tethers,
and drift,
and breathe.
That place where you are you
just you
no titles or roles or expectations
except to be
to be in this moment,
in this place,
in this soul.

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Chimney Smoke

My friend Sophia on pilgrimage in India told me that smoke enhances meditation and cleans the aura. While I am not a traditional mediator, I have begun to pay more attention to the feel of wood smoke falling over me. It showed up in this poem on a rainy, cool day. Enjoy the poem and a calming fire (where there is no danger of forest fires).

Chinmey Smoke

Chimney Smoke

Chimney smoke
lingers in the ash leaves
over the woodshed
suspended like white mist
blessing the trees from whence it came.
Woodsmoke that distinctive incense,
smell of released energy
expanded into heat
pushing the last vestiges
of dampening summer
out of the cabin.
Sitting among the blessed trees
living on them like winter fat
we too are calm and fat
our auras blessed
by back-draft
every time a log is added
to the cast iron belly.

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Acorn Shadows

What a great time of year to find little nature treasures like green acorns. There is so much potential in that little nut. Soak in nature my dears. Enjoy the poem.

Acorn Shadows

Acorn Shadows

Green acorns
beret-ed Frenchman
casting elongated faces
in the pre-rain light
soft and gray
like woolen socks
time for a warming fire
when the acorns fall.
Fall acorns raining
designed to lose their caps
waiting bare-headed
through winter
to send their probes
into spring welled soil
luck of the drop
to fall on soil and sun enough
to birth a great oak.

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By Lantern Light

I love the days getting short because we get post dusk time to linger and relax before bedtime. And what better light to linger by than lantern light. Well maybe candlelight is better but lantern light does have its charm and nostalgia. Enjoy the poem.

Latern Light

By Lantern Light

Hushed sound of the past
Hiss of camping
Light of wilderness life,
of dusk at the cottage.

Lantern light casting shadows
My hand dark over the page

A peacefulness
as darkness like frost
          grows from ground up
          to dimming sky above the trees

The lantern feels safe
Feels comforting
Extends useful day

Time for peanuts in the shell
Time for cards
and beer and friends
Time for owl howls
and frog complaints
For quaking leaves to quiet
as they tuck into night

Lantern light reminds me of Dad
and childhood
and love of nature
          remote nature.

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Hear the Buzz

Second poem inspired by the abundance of Goldenrod and the bees that love it. Despite being stung at one point in my life, bees are some how calming and nurturing. Knowing which are the friendly bee and which ones to not annoy is helpful too. Enjoy the poem.

Hear the Buzz

Hear the Buzz

in the quiet of wilderness
hear the buzz
not the flies
they are gone now
with the summer waning
and fall tipping his hat.

Hear the buzz
of the great body of bees
the pollen collectors
supping at the ample goldenrod
those yellow drooping feathers
atop Autumn’s hat.

Hear the buzz
of the great body of bees
yellow jackets
small Vespula
and paper wasps
scritching bits of wood
for their flaky pie crust nests.

Bees in all directions fly about their busy business
A Doppler effect buzz
like the mini trains they are
knowing they can
and will
propagate to continue the buzz
the buzz that lights up the quiet
that settles the soul
that blooms the earth.

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Goldenrod – Busting the Myth

Turns out Goldenrod isn’t the cause of hay-fever and fall allergies. We can enjoy its beauty and healing properties. This year is a bumper crop of goldenrod. It makes a great addition to wild flower bouquets and the bees come visit. Enjoy the poem and look for another one shortly.

Goldenrod busting the myth

Goldenrod – Busting the Myth

Old wives believe goldenrod an allergen
framed by the true culprit – Ragweed.
Goldenrod needs bees not breeze
to spread its pollen,
pollen more potent than honey.
Flowers and leaves
eaten on salad,
made a bitter tea,
or steeped in vinegar.
A boost to kidneys and immunity
Goldenrod abundant and cheery
in fields, ditches, and edge
that sunny edge.
Goldenrod of sunny yellow
lost medicinal forage,
lost in myth,
lost in plain sight.

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Moon is Om

By the frequency of Moon poems, you can tell I have been connecting more deeply with nature and my spiritual self. Last night during the full moon, I sat outside and treated myself to a guided relaxation by moonlight (and then wrote this poem).

One of the most spiritual people I have the fortune to call friend is Sophia LaFleur. This poem is dedicated to Sophia who is on pilgrimage in India. Help me help her to continue her journey through her trust: GardensofSophia.
Enjoy the poem and spend time with yourself and the moon.

Moon is OmMoon is Om

light of all lights
sound of all sounds
waves pushed up over head
spilling down my body
seeping into the fluid
of my spine
pooling at my sacrum
that sacred, creative
space of sprouting
gently circling
round and every so tiny round
a vortex
to universe
universe in me
in moon
is Om

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Everyone Should Have an Art Studio

Creating is so healing. An “art studio” can be a little place where you can house your tools and materials, pull them out and make what you will. My studios are this rack of goodies and a small antique table. At our cottage, I have an antique school desk. Lift the desk top and find art materials. “Art” in what ever form is good for the brain and spirit. Enjoy the poem and play in your studios.

Everyone Should Have an Art Studio

Everyone Should Have an Art Studio

A spot to create
to make a mess
and leave it out.
Any medium that
pulls at the free flow
bird-bone inside you
running through your chakras
challenging, making swoops, colors
need to knit and mold and make beautiful
make substance from substances
then step back
seeing your guts made real
made into meaning
visual, tactile
displayed on the wall
shared or not
but expressed
standing satisfied
until the need of breeze
blowing through that hollow bone
calls again
like wind in the aspens.

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Paper Moon

Moon and I have been hanging out the last two weeks as I have kept our light blocking shades open at night. A moon poems book is on my long list of books to be. Enjoy the poem!

Paper moon

Paper Moon

Paper moon
made by celestial wasps
collecting debris of extinguished stars
mixing it with their saliva,
layer upon growing layer,
then placing it in the trusting hands
of Earth orbit.

Paper moon
a looking glass to view the tempered sun,
a historian,
nursemaid to the hearts of humankind.

Paper moon our journal
marking marching time,
languishing time.

Paper moon
more eternal than humanness,
more fleeting than kindness.

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Unruly Garden

A great gardener I will never be, because I don’t insist on order and don’t like being in the sun. Luckily gardens have a will of their own and are driven to do what they do – produce. Enjoy the poem and fresh organic produce.

unruly garden 2020
Unruly Garden

I am Squash taming.
Like toddlers who have found their legs
squash needs redirecting
as they wander and climb
onto pepper plants
and invade the dumbstruck rhubarb.
Cabbage can hold their own
flapping whale-tail leaves
to ward off the naughty roamers.

Tomatoes and potatoes
have outgrown their play pens
all hands and long leafy arms
that reach for my knees
as I tip-toe through
their log jam of foliage.
A spray of grasshoppers
flutter and click at my disturbance
of their lace-making.

Cucumbers like free-range chickens
lay their gherkins in the woven vines
and all places they should not be,
under the beans, in the kale.
They’ve bowled over the carrots
whose greens form a cresting wave
rolling toward sunlight.
They’ve been insufficiently thinned
because it’s hard to waste a good carrot green.
They make good pesto after all.

The asparagus fronds in their circle
wave and sway to get my attention.
They invited in all the neighboring weeds
until the house party is out of control.
Weeds like beer cans littered everywhere.

There are darlings in the garden
who behave and
keep their hands to themselves.
Peas on their monkey bars
climb and coo and overlook
the playground.
The borage in an edge spot
no one else wants,
happily grows large
and generously feeds
bees and hummingbirds.

Armed with my hoe
to ferret out the snakes
and prod the morass,
I venture in.
Gently, slowly I look
for hidden treasures.
Little by little my bowl fills
with surprise zucchini,
(four of them),
a handful of beans with chipmunk nibbles,
curled bananas peppers,
pea pods, squash blossoms,
and young and old rhubarb spears
that will fill out my black current pie.

All in all
the unruly crowd has done its job,
has squeezed out buckets of plumb fruit.

Now, what to do with all the broccoli?

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