Tag Archives: edge

My Little Ropes

Today is a rainy day,
but I had to take a walk.

So I have my favorite little umbrella
made by a company called Leighton.
It’s very steady, very well-made.
It’s double around the rim and opens very nicely.
Though slightly small it is just right for little walks.
I like it.

The woods were noisy with rainfall
but it was all rain that was caught in the leaves.
As I walked out of the woods it was quiet again.
My first stop was the little shed next to the pond.
While in the shed it poured down raining.
It was delightful.
I like sitting in that shed when it rains.

The rain eventually stopped and I moved on toward the vale.
I stopped at my first special place to sit on a rock on the near side.
I sat studying the underside of my umbrella.
What a cool design.
And then – I noticed the rope.
I think it once held up a pump down in a well.
Then it got used for other things.
But I found this 18 inch piece laying in the field
and I tied it around this tree that’s here next to where I like to sit.
I don’t know where the ropes were used last.
I’ve tied three ropes here, actually two ropes and one twine.
The twine was bailing twine. All of it is plastic.
The heavier blue and white rope that once held a well-water pump
is about a quarter inch in diameter.
The other twine is only an eighth of an inch or less.
I tied the bailing twine around a tree where I like to enter or leave the vale.
No one may ever notice it.
As a matter of fact, I don’t expect anyone to notice any of it.

Now I’m walking to the other side of the vale.
First I walked down the west bank to the vale bottom.
It’s not a steep climb down or anything.
It’s a small vale. It’s only maybe 100 feet across at the bottom.
Now I’m climbing up the east side.
I just passed the groundhog hole at the bottom of the tree.
Now I’m approaching my other favorite spot to sit.

You may ask, “Where do you sit without getting your ass wet when it’s been raining?”
I bring a plastic trash bag with me.
I unfold and set it down where I want to sit.

And now here I sit on the tree
which leans over at such an acute angle
there’s room for 4 or 5 people to sit on this tree.
It’s only 8 to 10 inches in diameter.
There is a little branch arising next to me
where there’s another blue-and-white rope tied.
I can see the other tree where the first rope is tied
but I can’t see the rope.
And I can’t see the rope at the wood line
where I will emerge when I leave for home.

It’s beautiful and green here.
There are lots of trees of different sizes.
It’s fairly rocky here too.
Some of the rocks are sharp and some are rather smooth.
That tells me something.
The sharp ones have been revealed sharp by more recent breaking pressures.
They’ve been cracked with sharp edges exposed.
The smooth ones have been weathered down by many years of rain.
It becomes obvious that water once flowed down this vale.
But it’s been a long time.

I expect glaciers left a lot of the soil here.
And trees left a lot of soil here.
Trees don’t grow very large here when there’s very little soil.
But they fall and become soil.
Then subsequent trees grow larger.
Then there’s the dust that falls to earth every day
that must add an inch every few hundred years.
The old old trees are gone entirely with no signs of the trunks
where they broke off or fell over.
There are a few trunks left from trees that have fallen over more recently.
And there are some that have been cut.
So there’s always an increase of soil.
Some of the trees seem to be growing right out of the tops of rocks.
Some trees are growing in soil that probably has good depth.
When the trees mature that have this deep soil my ropes may still be here.

My little ropes.

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Raccoon Days

Yesterday was raccoon day.
So is today.
Yesterday a raccoon cross my path as I was about to open the gate to the farm.
Today there was a dead raccoon in the road.
It wasn’t the same raccoon. It wasn’t big enough.
But that’s two raccoons and two days in a row.

I learned today that the butchers son killed himself driving an ATV.
He was a young fella still in his teens.
He had served me numerous times in the butcher shop.
He had a slow but genuine smile.
It was always welcome.

Both he and the raccoon died on the road.
Both under circumstances that were easily avoided.
These fractal bodies of ours are easily lost.
Both of these bodies were young with no children.
Their friends and families know the impact of their lives.

I know little.

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Stresses

I remember considering stresses –

Seeing the troubles of
too little
and too much.

We too often fail to regard
how stresses form us.

Too much stress in our youth
    leads many to avoid any.
To little attracts the wrong kinds later.

It is good to attract formative and positive stresses.
They become a healthy delight.
They make it easy to avoid useless, negative stresses.

Consider your stresses,
both self-generated
and from life situations.
They are your gift,
able to transform and develop you
into a positive and uniquely formed person.

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Laughing Woods

The woods are full of laughter.
I’m where the limbs are fallen.
Many are around me
fallen gracefully
as is often our privilege.

Some are flat on the ground.
Some are leaning on the living.
Some are standing tall, dead, bark-less.
The variety is beautiful!

Some still alive have fallen on dead ones
which had fallen on the living
which hold up all of them, yet.

The laughter resounds!
The peaceful decay at all angles,
breathtaking !leaners

Down Dead

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Serendipity

A fugue of feathers
A tight of twine
A river stone
and totem shine

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Contraction Timing

You were born yesterday,
and again this morning,
and again we hope tomorrow.

Why, I asked,
are babies born so naked,
with their water flowing to ground, and
their fire flowing to sky
so perfectly — so automatically?

It creates currents that form
the multi-vortical human mindscape
where every spin the now-ist sees
as yesterday’s pre-reality.

You can’t take the same sacred snapshot twice:
no matter how terminally indignant
the weekly pattern-monger’s habit,
Love remains the fulcrum and
always moves above a still.

It’s a fragile eternity that yields
an allergy to urgency,
no appetite for the Bantu fractal or
the circumdancing flower of homo-spiritus,
or the growing rampant glory of identity
taming the local lizard.

But we can see the buds on gravid branches
all watching in their special ways
to be the stone, the bird, the tree,
the proactive jazz blossoms,
the spin-bombs of living Logos
bringing on more contractions…

First published at vox poetica.

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Art

Yes, to genius capture
the instant precious
open flowing contours of
the image righteous
in mirrored words protected
from the lefteous flood
descending – the sparkle moment
that changes things
where only blind ones
glimpse the subtle path
where birds have flown above.

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Near Miss

Perpetual near miss,
Histories of near mysteries,
Inner treaties where needies
Share fleeting notions of the ocean
And the waves that nearly missed them.

Sudden dust devils
Struggle down streets
To meet new particles,
New glue:
Breezy memes that seem
Too hungry for more –
Too hungry for me.

You walk up streets
Through some devils.
They unravel,
Fall apart into precious souls
Re-awaking on the ground,
Again.

The feared dark chaos,
Is the sweet white noise
Of fresh canvas,
A tabula rasa
A clean start
You thought you had
Nearly missed.

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Beings Talk

Beings talk o’er tea in my backyard,
(An axe-free zone, you know.)
Without a care we can share our heart
In the yard where beanstalks grow.

Rest assured there was a row
When I first did the deed:
Trading up our holy cow
For the ugliest of seed.

But I would not exchange my lot
For a herd of fat bovine,
While communing in my yard, I got,
And is what I hold divine.

In here
We defy the demons
Of the strangled world
Out there.
We trade in cryptic currencies
And give time a little air.

The calculus of becoming
Is how we count our blessings
And inspirations aren’t exhaled,
But shout, “Credendo Vides!”

Beings talk o’er tea in my backyard,
(It’s an axe-free zone, you know.)
Without fear, here we share our heart
In the yard where the beanstalks grow.

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Faith in Becoming

The songs we sing crawling
are not our walking songs,
which are not our swimming songs,
which are not our flying songs.

Crawling songs will stand up,
the walking songs will dive in,
and swimming songs will take wing
and sing
the songs of being
and the joy of crawling
until walking
until swimming
until flying,

and sing
the love that flies
at eye level
to any crawler, walker, swimmer, flier,
and that dances to all the songs
while imparting the faith in becoming.

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