Gingko Tree

The Gingko Tree

traverses the path 

that verses

can never converse -

Autumn's Undressing

Sun light filtered hues

Fall in array of colors-

Autumn’s undressing.

Autumn Dresses

 

There is no beauty 

more desirable than Autumn

in her fall dresses...

Auguries of Door County

A sense calls forth a callant truth

to seek old gallantry; 

searching through destiny’s windows.

All things must pass this way;

The racing timeframes are merely in-passing…

Rewinding the heart - playing out songs of the inner soul

that measure movements but measure not - the stillness; 

for destination does not know lines in any maps found.

Perceptions of barriers and walls must be cleansed  

as do the questions of the wedding of heaven and hell.

Poets and songs may sing of death and rebirth

but they need not have answers young men seek.

  

Does that stoic gothic church hold time?

Or is it the Clock-Tower of Armageddon warning of time

turning backwards; 

like a magical kaleidoscope of wonder

changing colors and forms;

so very pretty - however, going nowhere.

    

Widowed blue frame house where shamans,

with a third eye, seek perceptions 

while the hunters tilt at Cervantesque windmills!

That say to the world left standing:

What vision do you have? - you knights of the night;

And day dreamers searching the way from the portal’s view.

What have the allegiances brought you?

A constant star perhaps?

Stop to reflect upon the mirrors of thine eyes;

A profound reflection on a reflecting glass of a small window

upon a glass frame and yet, no one is really noted there,

on that insular road to where the door of perception waits

for the many travelers at the county’s last ferry run.

Unquenched thirst and unrequited desires belie the big fear

where waters lap at the stern and vision laps at the doors –

How deep must it be before one must drown?

Bring along your toys of travel

carry them away to the island of many essences.

Take us there together, Robert Noble, with your ship of fools and tackle hooks;  

There are always stranger things than strangers being - strange

or local birds waiting at water’s edge while driving gales rage –

that is strange indeed - that the Lake sends her squalls for calmness to begin!

Let us think; let us see; let us feel that all are a bit strange –

And, let it be.

The bathhouse is empty of all swimmers except for one who is estranged

and standing at the portal’s window – looking with hands wide open.

Trek the way to the woods where someone is always at play

where the children of old stay-

Climb up the stairs;

Climb past the stares;

Climb to the stars!

For they too, keep their own perception of the blue door and the blue house.

Keep the line boys;

keep in line men;

keep the line of gods -  aware;

ask the questions for those lost souls

who must dance upon such hallowed grounds:

Whom are they?

Who are we?

Where are we?

Why are we?

 

What is the point found at Weborg Point near a sister’s bay;

at the water’s edge; at the point one asks the lake for her secrets

and she answers in silence to open all doors

and invite all perceptions of earth; of water; and of sky.

Now we know-

Now we must move on –

We must travel to the woods where the ancients live

along the beach between and across the bridge to the red house of light

where a door opens to the beam’s eye

and an old-wooden door floats away to be captured in the sands of time.

Take careful note men - the water brims beyond and over the edge of all its containments. 

Burn a fire Boys!

Remember when; 

remember where;

remember why

the nocturnal creatures, the devils and the angels, dance at the fire’s tips –

a rite of passage.

The light of the fire and the light of the house saved us all - from us.

“If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to a man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.”   William Blake.

Caution Hot

I knew to hide-

For why

Must walls shy

From a path's lie;

As held in a cup's abide?

Falling Spaces

Autumn's configurations 

    Fall; settling delineations 

Between relative surfaces

    And the edges of sentiment.

The Old Man

I live and I will not

I grow and I spread

I extend and I break

I give and I take

I connect and I fall

I know and I learn

I branch and I reach

I exist while I die

I am ancient and I am new

I live and I decay

I am ground and I am sky.

I live and I will not.

Photo courtesy of Cori Bush

Mass

 

Mass

A small mass of urgency perches upon the shore

The sea’s closeness seems a polite respite

To the darkening pink of the rugged verdure

That holds before the forest’s stygian lore.

A hinted sense of wariness whispers: Hear-

My gentility! A danger tinder’s for mass in prayer.

A call from below the ledge sounds,

“What see thee; what damn is here?”

Came one – came another and soon a cast

Gathered, one by one, to gather many stones

To climb up the granite wall’s face to the ledge

Each ascender building steps – a rising mast!

And the saviors spread across the width and length of the rise

Gaining, gaining - each anchor forms another step

Higher and higher toward the glowing radiance above

Where peril’s entreaties agonize.

And still the masses flow; rank and file to address the defile.

The desecration of fawn and fauna by lapping tongues

That intend absolution by conflagration;

Isle of Innocence consumed in radiant fires; a mass trial.

And what of the forest; the granite wall, the humanity?

Shall there be unreadable devastation; all lore decimated,

Rendered into the flame’s hues of autumnal brilliance.

Amass the scapes; Amass the souls to find reason for infinity.

For there is no umbrage found in the summon of eternity.