The Simple Word Poetry

Our long journey has taken us thousands of miles  across the changing landscape. We drive and traverse this winding ribbon of concrete, passing lush, green grasses of the plains as majestic  mountains loom ever present in the distance. We crest and fall, twist and turn when it suddenly appears, a single, solitary tree, so full of life, limbs and leaves standing by the side of the road, alone in the middle of nowhere surrounded by miles of grain and perched high awaiting tired wings. This lonely tree is a survivor out here far from its companions that once stood stoically by its side. Do its roots continue to reach out for these fallen brethren? I've read where trees communicate with other trees, giving life to them by sharing vital nutrients. A sort of silent communal society. I snap a picture just in time before we pass it by. Justice, the picture fails to provide. Its branches reaching far and wide. I don't recall where I exactly stumbled upon this marvelous

The trees are swaying Birds sometimes singing loudly The sun is so warm

Reading peacefully Hope that the pages don't rip With words big and small

Winds blow off the bay Leaves move briskly to music Nature's melody

I find that train rides provide our minds with a cornucopia of glimpses, each passing us by in brief subliminal spurts. While glancing out of the window I notice the grandeur of lavish homes, squalid inner cities, beautifully-manicured lawns and trash-filled vacant lots. The loud and obscene commotion aboard makes me long for earplugs, to drown out the obnoxious conversation and myriad vulgarities. Their stop on this line cannot come soon enough. Mind the gap please as you exit and bridge your rudeness with a remedy of kindness.  Surely my $25 could have been better spent. I arrive at my destination, step off of the train and I immediately find myself surrounded by towering edifices of corporate financial avarice and might. The nine-to-five'rs, clad in their overpriced coats, suits and shoes, strut past in confident stride while the poor and destitute reach out desperately for a helping hand. Have pity for a dime or a dollar please. The frigid winter night's air draws many home

I have taken a vow. I have taken a vow to learn all that I can. To turn myself into a better and learned man. The days spent aimlessly wandering, amiss, A passage through time full of frivolity, unwieldy. Six long years wasted on a love that did not exist. Hours spent glued, entranced, full of tension and screaming. Where did it get me? Wishing for new meaning. My parts are greater than the sum that you see. A teacher, a preacher, a writer, that is me. I have swam alone and weathered the jagged edges of her rocky shores, conquered the storm that  once left me  weakened and longing for more. The songs of a summer, confidence, a boost, the beauty desired by all the men, yes she became mine, yet if only for a month, my heart was goosed. The saying goes that as we grow older our parents grow wiser. I know of one for whom that is true, while the other will forever remain anonymous, a loser. Mistakes, yes it's those that we learn by. Study the history before giving it a try. Before I go

I am an aged man, the gray of my hair protrudes from under my dirty hat and sullies my beard. My knees betray me. War will do that to a man. Damn Vietnam. Damn it all to hell. I am a Vietnam vet.  The streets are my home now. I traded one war for another.  The daily struggle that America ignores. The street corner is my rice field and mud-soaked trench. I have no quarrel with the passersby on the street, just like I had no quarrel with them Vietcong.  Each car that passes by, I know they see me standing there, sign in hand, but do they really "see" me? I know they do not "see" me for who I am, a desperate human being, a hungry and homeless human being, but do not hold that against me. For I could be you one day. To them, I am a nuisance, a stain on civilization. Yet, I fought for your civilization. Do not admonish me when I say "good day." Do not curse me under your breath. I am all that you are, maybe more, even if you are unable to "see" this f

A mid-afternoon walk, I follow the bending road. I stop to reflect at the water's edge. My folded arms rest on the bulkhead as I gaze off into the distance. The seagulls chirp and sing merrily, playing games to keep themselves amused while sitting on a wooden post, basking in the sun's warmth. With its greenish countenance,  the choppy bay waters sparkle beneath the sun's intense rays. Cool breezes bring relief to my baking arms. The inconvenient noise of construction vehicles temporarily  interrupts  the creative voices in my head. I imagine that the trees standing tall across the bay are the lucky ones,  for they live in relative silence while making use of their vast canopy to drown out such disruptions. I continue to walk farther on down the road. I find much peace in meandering without purpose. My day's nothingness means everything to me, fulfills me. At this moment I am calm, content and at peace.

I write this today many years later a confessional of sorts It is my version of facing the parish priest in front of the curtained screen At nineteen you were the last person whom I wished to see Day-in and day-out and utterly unremarkable The lectures, the notes, the early mornings so sluggish The homework, the questions on topics of such rubbish At twenty-three I said adios to your textbooks, chalkboards and pencils For a better world full of work, paychecks and professional credentials Oh the years passed by without a thought of your countenance Why do I need that piece of paper to prove my life’s importance? At forty-six  the years have made me wiser my mind seeks knowledge so I returned to your classroom more mature, apologetic and with courage I now relish your discussions to follow your discretions my years to come will be fuller as I submit to life's boundless limitations So toss my way a ten thousand word paper and watch me astound you.

Spring's wind whips ferociously off of the bay's chilled waters, reminding us that winter's bite still must be reckoned with. Yellow, white and blue daisies struggle to retain their composure amid the stiff breezes. Seagulls attempt to fly overhead, teetering left then right, up then down. Rigid tree limbs ache, bending in uncomfortable contortions. Behind me the dark storm clouds push ever closer. The young girls on the softball field are bundled up from head to toe, resembling yellow-tinged icicles. Two small birds whiz by with abnormal velocity. A group of large pine trees sway frantically, screaming for my attention. I imagine I would be quite dizzy hanging from their branches. The spotty grey clouds over the ocean exhibit a tinge of orange from the setting western sun. I lost my courage to stand outside in these conditions years ago. The warmth of my car comforts me, keeps my fingers from going numb. The sagging daisies surrender, bowing their heads toward the grass a

I walked along your clear forest path and the pristine waters of the South River called out to me. I hope they do not mind me borrowing their wooden canoe.

The snow, falling in fits, arrives dressed in indistinguishable attire,  cold to the touch. Myriad flakes resemble one another from my window. A hot fire burns in my wood stove, warming my emotions. I think of her again, recall her smile and grace, which  resembles snow flakes dancing in mid-air. My hound stretches himself out on the couch, he twitches spasmodically as dreams prance through his head. I often wonder what it is that dogs dream about. Playing catch in the yard? A tasty rawhide bone? Or the cute bitch next door? Like a passing train, the tea kettle whistles its tune. I sip my hot tea, lounge back into my recliner and glance at  the snow falling outside. When it warms they will become a distant memory, forgotten, melted away like the dreams  of her. My hound yawns and I drift away like a passing ship at sea.

I nearly died once. Youth and innocence prohibits dwelling over such traumatic ordeals. Questioning my own mortality permits me now to ponder the near misses. It's summertime, school is out and the backyard pool is my refuge from the hot, sunny day. I don't swim well and diving boards scare me. I keep to the shallow end, for the deep end swallows the timid. To stimulate my childish exuberance I take to jumping and spinning into the refreshing chlorine-soaked waters. There are two other people with me, a young girl and her mother. My mom never allowed me into the pool without adult supervision. I knew better than to break that rule. Like a dolphin jumping in and out of the ocean with playful ease, I soar as high as I possibly can and twist in mid-air like a water spout off Florida Bay before descending. As the strong waves violently crash on shore against the jagged rocks, my head strikes the unforgiving cement. My world goes black, time ceases to exist until waking a far distan

   When I was younger and had hair on my head I would curse the wind. A wispy annoyance disheveling my delicately-arranged coiffure. Today, though, with my scalp as baron as a clear cut Amazon forest, I worry not of such trivialities. Now, I lucidly hear the wind's call in my older years. Are the God's of nature still trying to tell me a story? Should I have listened to them long ago? Even so, I feel her angry voice breathing in strong gales off of the bay at night. Her tender touch dimples my bare arms. When the leaves blow I now take notice. An animal's keen intuition is not always required. We should not be taken by surprise when nature gets pissed at us for sullying her home. She has warned us for generations, we just need to listen, hair or no hair.

Walking into the cold, dark room the candle light dances in uncoordinated fits, emitting irregular shadows. The day-weary man steps cautiously across  the creaky wooden floor, hoping not to  disturb the sleeping masses. The bed sheets on his side ripple and crest like the growling ocean in a storm. The four-legged monster beneath wishes  not to be bothered. The man, like a stubborn sea captain, attempts  to tame the rough seas and lays down amidst the tattered sheets. There is only so much room for all of us  in this ocean. The weary-man capitulates to the grumpy beast beneath  on this night. Alas, another passage is sought, though another voyage will be attempted tomorrow, for this captain shall not be defeated.

There are moments in life that bring new meaning to our existence. A sort of wake up call during the tired slumber of a winter's evening. We were seemingly nowhere, surrounded by the vast and frigid openness, the stars prancing on our foreheads while pins of light moved indiscriminately overhead. We are not alone in this infinite universe.  I light the flashlight  intermittently, just in case,  for I've heard stories of mountain lions  surprising unsuspecting travelers in the wild. Even in the dead of winter the weary feel famished and I wish not to be this evening's tasty hors d'oeuvres. All around, the mountains tower over me, render my life and I small and insignificant. This happens to a man amidst the enormity of nature and  it is I that owe it my gratitude. I am no longer the man I was before, forever altered by nature's seductive wind-swept kiss. 

The cosmos erupted billions of years ago into a fiery ball of gases, shattered stars, rocky fragments and debris. Confine the stars barriers did not. The corporeal matter co-mingled, congealed and became one. Earth was born from this devastatingly-beautiful galactic tragedy. This nascent floating orb, with its virgin soil and dust-choked air, did not regale in exclusion, for foreign organic ingredients were vital towards assuring its growth. Early on, animals roamed free across the continents and soon man would join them. Those four-legged and winged creatures understood the limitless terrains and skies. For them, borders and walls were unconscionable. The timid and afraid say that the walls that man has erected keep us safe from foreign adversaries. These obstructions are immoral and serve no socially-redeeming value. They only barricade us from those whom we do not know, stifle our intellectual capacity to learn what we know not, and turn would-be friends and neighbors into must-be

A simple life, few words a circling hawk conveys Muted, the mountains soar and repel our foggy haze The God within - she knows who I am Small and minute, the spirit regales in obscurity The woman weeps and then I show her The simple life's purity.

On this night, dinner at our customary table, set towards the back of the room. Often, year after year, have we come hither; The walls, the lights, the food and the wine do not change, but we do. I see your beauty through the half-empty glass; I remain enamoured with you. It's everlasting appeal will remain the rest of our days. We need not know much else, for we produce this poem together. Our time here is short, I despair at the thought, but delight in its truth.

The burn marks and scars speak to the cancer’s severity. I feel his tired resignation of the inevitable. At 19, I curse this insidious scourge, what temerity it exhibits. To die at home is a comfort, it is life’s unceremonious contradiction. I will miss his presence and oddities, then one last gaze into his dying eyes. The tears and sobs engulf the room, the newly-born spirit rejoices at his reunion.

With youth comes impatience, the quest to be older than our years. Family is taken for granted like good teeth and health. Now, in my mid-40's, it is those who have come and gone, the moments had and memories created that I long for again. I miss the many family members who had a profound impact on my early years. I miss my grandmother's peacefulness, great cooking and warmth. I miss my uncle Frank's quirkiness, goofy phrases and Christmas tree farm. I miss not having the chance to get to know my grandfather better, for I was only 19 when he passed. I miss holiday dinners with extended family, fruit salad and togetherness. I miss The Plant, the huge doberman pincher and the little metal bridge over the river-like drainage basin. I miss endless bike rides, watching model airplanes fly overhead and effortlessly land on the small grass runway back in the woods off the remote dirt road. I miss hearing the paperboy crashing the morning's newspaper against our metal screen do