October 6 Eight

Eight

the meadow beside the house with the marsh
banked by the 401 ramp holds many
flowers and bugs and birds. he wakes up with
dawn and avian racket through the open widow.
he once would get mad and shout out shut up
birds, but these days he pulls on his clothes and
goes downstairs where no one is stirring and
into the porch where he steps into his boots, gets
his rod and outside, his worms in a jar
from under the boat where he put them last night
and off he marches past the school where he'll go
everyday in the fall and he likes that though
other kids don't and through the big schoolyard
with the dewy wet grass and the sun
is just lifting the sky. the trees of the forest are
still black and in shadow when he smells the
fresh pines like they just woke up, and bubbles
and ripples of water that bounce on the air.
he readies his rod with a worm on a hook
and walks the bank dropping the line into
slower dark pools with no luck until he
gets to the trestle and pulls himself up
big granite squares to walk through the tunnel
with the green moss and the bright other side.
he sidles an awkward path and its steep incline.
he gets to the tree that stumps into blackness
catching swirls of debris in submersible current
and he drops his hooked worm into that motion.
one two slick backed mudcat with spines in their
fins that sting like a bee, skin and not scales,
handled with care, wide mouths and mustaches.
tossed in with the tackle
and then he decides to drop one more line,
and the silvered skin of the angry
trout bursts from its hiding slapping the water.
shoots in a spray as he calms his nerves,
his excitement so shaking his hands as he
exerts great care reeling it in his first
caught rainbow, fingers under each gill,
a sandpaper feeling the small mouth
breathing in vain. he imagines showing
his dad, receiving the proud beaming smile.
but what if the fish is too small,
will he be mocked for not throwing it back?
but at last he decides, makes up his mind.
it will be a good lunch!

Me and the Gaffer

October 5

Morning light

Woke up early to go down to write.
Four a.m. and the house still and dark,
quiet for the soft hours before action
stirs the embers of electricity, lights
and laundry, coffeemaker and TV.

I pad down the stairs so gently
but, the three year old refugee
who lives in this house has
heard and I hear the covers toss
and the quick scampering feet
and a gruff little voice that
calls, softly enough not to wake
Oma; Grumpa, Grumpa, wait!

October 4

Where Rules and Inspiration Meet

On a horse learning to allow
the big moving frame to be
fluid in motion, using the bridle
to cycle the energy up and through.
It takes a balanced seat and a nice
quiet leg and a hand that can
coax the mare to listen.

With a pen, trying to release
your souls intention through a mind
with an ego wanting attention;
to submerge with your fears
into a sea of self doubt
and emerge with no self at all.

In a life where the rights all
turned into wrongs.
Where what you had hoped for
gets torn and discarded,
all the work that went in
with best intentions and prayers
is like shit in the paddock
from last year,
that makes the best compost.

October 3rd Jesus Said

Jesus Said

Jesus said, I feel connected
when I suffer a child
to sit on my lap
for the kingdom of God belongs
to him who becomes
as one of these.

And he just might of added,
to let yourself be
careless and free
and in love with this life
for this is the secret
of the kingdom you seek.

It may take a long time
for all this to sink in,
but a slow knowledge grows
as your pace slows
and if you get this you'll see
that your soul at fifty
is one and the same
as that three year old boy
who sits on your knee.

October 2

Can I Let Go

When my teeth grit with rage,
the thoughts splitting like lightening,
Can I let go?

When my friend becomes an opponent
and my good intentions are thwarted,
Can I let go?

When people despise what is good,
and spit in the eyes that care,
Can I let go?

When my best intentions are
interpreted as slander,
Can I let go?

When an impostor is promoted
in my place,
When the years of loyalty are
met with disgrace,
Can I let go?

October 1st


Silas Marner

When I begin to love
I cannot stop
From keeping that seed
Nourished and alive
In spite of myself
For I am fickle
And desperately unworthy
But still
The kernel bursts within me
And my affections change
You are to blame
For a tenderness like shame
That curdles my face
Into smiles and laughter