The Simple Word Poetry

Oh sweet Evangeline, for thy shall dearly miss your warm southern sun, but fear not, for I am nearer than the moon and stars that run.

Summer dawns and the days are filled with warm sunshine.  School's in recess, the kids delight while my weary head welcomes the additional sleep at dawn.  Yearly we conceive a new and unfamiliar adventure to undertake.  For this year new challenges beckon.  For the kids, a week by themselves with the in-laws.  For us, a week alone in a rustic Maine cabin. Along with our two, seven-year-old dogs, we cram our supplies into a four-door hatchback.  A large roof packing bag holds our essentials from clothes, the kid's toys, camp tools, water jugs, dog food and water bowls, and for entertainment, our Scrabble board game.  Preparation is certainly much easier than past excursions.  No tents, no sleeping bags, no outdoor cooking utensils and no concern of soaked belongings.  For this trip will take us back in time to an age before electricity, indoor plumbing and bathrooms.  My enthusiasm for this temporary lifestyle adjustment is genuine.  Love it, I will. I imagine a simple cabin, s

I hereby pronounce myself guilty. My hands, daily, partake in conveying the fruits of their destitute and unending sweaty toil. S qualid, subhuman even. The master enslaves his subjects, while he luxuriates in lavish dishes and silk sheets. His roof protects him from exterior storms, while his physical interior rots whole. My hands play an unwilling role, dancing in step to the devil's fiery tune. Avarice swells the corrupt  heart of the oppressor. My hands, complicit only by pecuniary necessity,  hear the anguish of the serfs who once extolled  much pride from this toil. Thy 10 fingers are but pieces of the whole that allow the master to remain swaddled in riches. It pains thy soul to partake in such malodorous escapades. I protest vehemently, internally. Alas, to no avail, I return daily and commit the guilty sin once again.

Out here the trees speak in disconsolate tongues The accompanying winds lend a gentle ear "I see them come, but they leave ruin" Tall, stoic and mature, they reach out to the heavens for help Their cries go unanswered Only the wind comprehends their mournful entreaties "Behold our plight, do not deny our voices" Who hears the befallen tree, once so graceful and free? Will you lend your hand and heart? Or just stand idly by as a witness to their tragedy?

It meanders through the dense forests of the southern New Jersey pinelands, this 50.6-mile-long river called the Mullica. We travel past the historic Batsto village where revolutionaries once fought over this treasured land. The native Americans were not given a say in the matter. We come to a bend where the pine trees open their arms, allowing us a peek at the liquid thoroughfare, while the sun's glistening rays reflect upon the mirrored surface. A stone carpet welcomes us, leading past a thicket of pine towards the beckoning waters ahead. A rickety wooden bridge takes us into a clearing dotted with picnic tables, barbeque grills and high-canopied pines. Peering over the bulkhead, we seek solace and solitude, but the roar of humanity drowns out the deafening quiet which we sought. Large yachts, mansions, motor boats, boom boxes, jet skis and bathers outnumber the fish it seems. Speeding cars and the revving of motorcycles pierce the air from the adjacent roadway. I w

The water shimmers in the blazing sun, it ripples silently like waves upon the ocean. The dragonflies dance merrily overhead, the birds dash above them like dive bombers in war time. I take a sip of cold beer. The trees are still, leaving only my imagination to determine whether they are alive. The grass and innumerable weeds need a good trim. The kids dart to and fro, occasionally peeking above the water, assuring me that two heads are still among us. A lonely hawk hovers overhead, circling effortlessly. I lose sight of him briefly before he reappears low on the horizon, farther away now, barely visible between the pine trees. He is my friend, carefully watching over me everywhere I go. I see him on the back roads, on my walks and in my dreams. I wonder if the dragonflies and birds interfere with his meditative flight. An inter-continental airplane flight passes over my head. Like the birds, it knows of no boundaries at that elevation. Admire it I do not, I'd rather be the hawk. A

I witness the baron plots of land, denuded of its leafy green canopy that naturally cool, shelter the birds and quiet our soul. On the ravaged surface, the dead trees lie strewn, in a prone state, stacked one upon the other like corpses. The sun bakes them overhead. The insects are full of bliss, chewing, burrowing, invading the bark like a burglar. Nearby a bulldozer digs a hole where a tree once stood. We've seen this far too often. Another building will soon call this land its home. Humans call this progress. I do not see the logic in that way of thinking. Why do we only equate progress by the number of structures we build? That department store adds to our economy, but at what cost? What has our natural world lost forever? We only think in terms of monetary value rather than environmental value. The trees and birds would undoubtedly agree. The hardened concrete and steel erect these rigid structures and solidifies man's close-mindedness towards the land. The earth is not ou

What is a church? Four walls, an arched ceiling, frescoes, statues, pews, hymnals, holy water, a priest and choir? Will I find God within these walls? Is God confined to these artificial structures of worship? I feel a peace within these walls, a respect for the church, but does it transcend my spirit and provide me with inner peace? May a church exist among the wall-less forests, unconfined skies and mountains that soar towards the heavens like a prominent church steeple? A church, in reality, is any place where the spirit of God penetrates your heart and soul. My church is found in the mountains, in the forests, in the valleys, in the rivers and streams. Who is God? What is God? Is God a man or a woman? Maybe neither. I have found that God is a spirit of goodness that resides within you. I may find this anywhere. Within or outside of the traditional walls of worship. The mountains rise high, they intimidate me, I feel inconsequential in their midst, like a parishioner before a pries

The front porch, evening, dark and the air close, storm clouds swirl above me. Myriad stars intermittently poke their heads out like a frightened child. I gaze left and right down the paved thoroughfare, I imagine thy neighbors houses bunched together like a freshly-cut loaf of bread. Can they hear my snores at night? I long for the trees and the nearby forests they inhabit, that infinite nothingness. It soothes thy soul and inspires thy mind. A distant light from across the bay. Is it calling to me? I tilt my head right a few degrees, it disappears. I readjust and it appears again.  A boat maybe.  I will have to find out. A stiff wind whips the indigenous grasses like long, flowing hair in front of the house across the road. It rests on the water’s edge, the bay front. The light pollution stunts my senses.  Nighttime was not intended so. What I would give for the tranquility of the woods. It’s dark there at this hour.  I long for the continuous sounds of crickets chirping and