impersonating summer squalls
sunlight scented skin
shut open shut open shut
in a passing breeze
suspended in time
between stillness and movement
warmth and cool nights
morning and forever
open shut open shut open shut
life’s pages flap open shut
hints of fall
one more lonely pass around the sun
vanish for another year
deep distant rumbling
shuddering moments of loss
the sun shines still
quiet and still
warms this sun-kissed
one more day
Ode to Miss Charlotte M. Mason
Charlotte. May I call you Charlotte?
Is it appropriate to be so familiar
with someone so profound?
You are not my friend.
You are my hero.
You voice continues, even now, to speak
for the children’s sake
for Heaven’s sake
for the sake of all that’s holy.
What would you have done or said
in the face of assaults on nature
of melting ice caps
You were ahead of your time
would you raise up a cry
as the natural world crumbled?
How can children walk
beneath trees and sky
when the trees are gone
clearcut for profits
and bottom lines?
Yesterday, I found this in a notebook I kept about a year ago. Don’t even remember writing it. Must have been half asleep at the time? Such a nightmare vision that, unfortunately, has the potential to become reality in the not-so-distant future.
I don’t want to live in a world
of survivalists sitting on their
porches with guns across their laps
ready to shoot starving refugees
escaping from urban horrors as the
forests and ice caps die.
I felt saddened by being the end
of the genetic line of my ancestral
forefathers and foremothers knowing
the line stops here with my children
and their choices not to reproduce
which at first felt overwhelming, bleak.
But now, I wouldn’t want any future
descendants living in the world we
have been actively creating for the
future, a world without diversity, and
without balance, and possibly, eventually
without even life.
I have a growing sense that it’s time
for the human race to put our affairs
in order and prepare for a desolate
future without us, a future that belongs
to only whatever survives the coming
I am glad my descendants won’t be here
to see the end.
dark arch of sky
millions of stars
mysteries of the cosmos
blazed in darkness
of rose or crystal hue
a clear night
without a moon
alone with the stars
patterns of constellations
bright and clear
the Milky Way
drink in the beauty
a blazing planet
low on the horizon
look up at the sky
the night skies are alive
Cento (collage poem)
Source Text: The Sense of Wonder by Rachel Carson
the game is to listen
becoming receptive to what lies around you
sound that is felt almost more than heard
the fairy chiming comes
tiny wisps of sound
so ethereal, so delicate, so otherworldly
in the dawn chorus one hears the throb of life itself
the voices of living things
rhythmic and insistent
so fresh and alive
the sound of the insect orchestra
the wild medley of voices
the repeated refrains of nature
a monotonous night chant
swells and throbs night after night
from darkness to darkness
the chorus picks up volume
listen to the wind
the song of the wind
the insistent wind
it blows with majestic voice
a many-voiced chorus
the majestic sound of thunder, the winds,
the sound of surf or flowing streams
the vast roaring ocean
a fierce rhythm
recognition of something
beyond the boundaries of human existence
where great and elemental things prevailed
Source Text: The Outdoor Life of Children
O, student of Society and History,
we were all meant to be naturalists,
each in his degree.
It is inexcusable to live in a world
so full of marvels,
of plant and animal life,
and to care for none of these.
Consider the lilies of the field
the fowls of the air.
Things worth observing —
to be watched from day to day:
— the departure and return of the birds with the season
— the portly form and spotted breast of the thrush
— a jay flying across a field
— the graceful flight of the swallow
— the yellow bill of the blackbird
— the gush of song which the skylark pours from above
while perching in a tree.
Make the acquaintance of a wild flower —
every common miracle
in all its fairy beauty.
Observe the wood and pith in the hazel twig
— the downy catkins of the willow
— the flower comes, each shut up in the dainty casket we call a bud
— the little ruby-eyed pistil late-flowers of the hazel
— leaves, branches, bark, trunk of trees.
Every plant bears fruit,
fruit and seed after his kind.
the Divine thought
the mystery of beauty