Spring’s Veil of Early Night

2006 10 03_6548

Beneath a canopy of lofty tree,
among lush woodland earthly stall,
the mourning dove’s endless echoing call.
So much to gaze, gape and see;
yet invisible am I, so small,
as forest phantom comes.
Thick throaty bull frogs hum.
While twilight begins to fall,
past latticed of woody trunks,
golden sunfish giant leap
shadowy water’s surface broken.
Last of day has now shrunk,
bushy squirrels coyly creep
with countless words unspoken
beneath a canopy of lofty tree.

A little time in Wisconsin woodlands and twilight brings a whirlwind of nature activity to mind. Linking up at dVerse later today.

Still Waters


Still waters flow; they’re running down
from up above, flowing all around.
God’s healing love; is pure and clean.
Still waters flow, are flowing down.

This is the chorus to my recent lyrical writing. A few months ago I started a new blog site His Small Still Voice. A few times a week I post short conversations with God in attempts to encourage the reader. Life gets pretty complicated; stop by sometime.

Butterfly Wings


First of June,
a busy mosaic floor;
pass winter’s twilight
disguise, unseen muster
seed sleeping till warmth
of spring awakes it
and calls in quiet voice
we harbor talents unused
a patchwork undone.

So vibrant hectic earth…
a medley of brittle leaf
carefully intertwined in
hairs of new birthed grass.
A tortoise-shell butterfly
sipping sweet nectar
from powdery weed;
brilliant yellow bloom.
Beneath buried seeds
housed in shells
deep under the soil.

Pull past the debris,
carefully separate
each tender blade.
Listen to butterfly wings,
once an egg,
now vibrant with color
towers on high
with bird and plane
journeys to tropical
climates where seeds
do grow from rubble.

What seeds of
hope, faith, charity
lie dormant in a life.
What montage of
talents sleep beneath
spring’s warming earth:
an artist, a poet, or musician
waiting, as the mustard seed
or butterfly, to soar
then stretch and grow.


Today I’ll be helping out over at dVerse with the prompt Microworld Poetry; we’ll stop and look intently at something small nature has to offer us. Doors open at 3PM EST; check in on what’s happening around the world!


Garden Sweat


Today, sweat is upon my brow
cooled by cloudy breeze.
Russian olive trees, in full bloom.
wafts ancient scent in cords.
Cake-like dirt clings on my knees,
joints ache from digging.
While crows call, call, call…
and last of cricket frogs simply sing.
Their melody is of comfort
for they’ve found a mate;
as little wren sits on nest
built by man-made hands.
The garden is my cozy home;
where wild rose stretch and climb
wired peaks I cannot and amethyst
pansies wink then give a little grin.
The primrose fades, as does
lacy lilacs busy setting new buds.
What comes of the ‘marrow;
I know not… for its only now.
My garden planting, weeding,
tilling, as abundant drops do fall.
refreshing my brow, the earth,
and dance among gay blooms.
Today… garden sweat’s upon my brow.

Linking up at dVerse where we are looking at everyday things. The shower felt good!

Duck Pond


As spring comes
to warmer day,
the ducks stopover

for lunch and such.
They float and flit
atop weedy pond;

webbed feet about
paddling, wadding,
rinsing dirt and grime.

Oiled feathers dry;
flickering in marshy pond
a craze and rage is about…

Dizzy, darling ducks
dip your golden bill deep;
no quandary to solve.

Spring spins and swirls;
a frenzy, fury of such fun.
Look atop those logs…

“Please pass the frogs.”

Ahh… bird watching in days of spring. Sorry about the ending toads bloggers.

Imaginary Garden With Real Toads

Eagle Wings

Elderly day-sun
steps across my view
tensely obscures
my anxious joy.
Circling, circling high…
atop transparent sky,
opaque is my low stage,
solo flier in flight.
My steady pounding
heart beats, in tune,
with your massive
wings, small am I.
Soaring, soaring circles;
rings in empty sky
full of only your
white head, waltzing.
Lake flies swarm,
sociably seeking supper.
Unwavering, I study
solitary in my scrutiny.
I’ve had my evening
meal; what’s yours
keeper of the skies
wander, warden, watcher.
Eyes a flashlight
down dark tunnel;
with precision gives
a scoop and clutch.
My back twinges
from day’s activities
my dog gathering ticks
rolls on forest floor;
you high above.
Lowly I stretch,
spread my wings
to gaze, gawk, gape.
An elderly sun
settles beams behind
darken horizon;
you loop and vanish.


Island View_edited-1

Drip, drip, drip…
Tongue touching, tasting, telling
down my parched body;
dripping through my hair:
tawny, tangles, twisted,.
Wet with summer rain!
Waiting, waiting, waiting…
Dry, dusty days drawling by;
too hot, too hot!
Heat piercing living things;
pounding, pounding
to the very root of life
Splashing, splattering, spraying;
as dark clouds float by
missing my patch of earth
lusting, lingering, leaving:
weeping, weeping;
for a good summer rain.

Inspired by Goldie Grand a few years ago when we were experiencing drought in Wisconsin. She said, “I’d like to feel the rain on my tongue again, but I don’t know where my umbrella is!” Lord, please send the rain to those waiting for You to replenish the earth.


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