The walk in the woods post/modern

We are always bewitched by Spring. Even now that we have all this technology to keep the horrors of nature at bay. I still can sit in my somewhat manicured garden and watch the anxious parental birds put together nests and new chicks for continuance of their species. The azaleas are showing their proud colors. Squirrels jete across our lawns. Do I walk in the woods? Not any more. The woods in a controlled way have come to me. The sun smiles approvingly. All’s right in the world as poet Browning wrote so many years ago.

Counting Days

Soon I will turn 81. It still surprises me! I did not expect to find so many metaphorical candles on the very small cake. If we only understood in youth that Life is not caring of our wishes. We must rush to fit them in before the candles lose their light. Night is a fearsome place!

Depression of a Writer

We feel elation with each word and then the downturn as we understand there are no words often for what is in the heart. Like the trees in autumn the words fall away and what is left is the skeleton of an idea. The touch of chill takes us even further into a season of leaving, not arriving at the idea we wanted. And like the abandoned tree we wait to feel new buds through the long winter of our frustrations/

Messages in bottles

My newest book, Dreaming of Storms, is like a message in a bottle thrown out on the seas of public interest. It may find the right eyes to read it, but for now it bobs and splashes in the waters of indifference. One tries to find just those readers……connection is by chance. 

painting over the old

We would paint out the bright summer colors for a white canvas where new looks can be tried. Every year Mother Nature has a dissatisfaction with her efforts, and she starts again. Masterpieces appear as the new time progresses, until she puts away the colors once more for the start beginning to another time.

Moods of Summer

With a quick shiver the tears are unloaded by clouds anxious to rid themselves of sorrow and float across the blue background of day. Then all smiles. Then…another wandering emotion that frowns the day back into grey and darkness. What a moody lot is nature!

Summer births the land

Summer births the land
with sound and smell and touch,
yet kills those who linger too long
through years of pleasure
by the brook that flows ever forth.
Smiles into tears
form the morning
of my waking
and the slumber
of each moonrise.
   

Old Friend April

April begins her annual visit in our garden and down the pathways around our home. We welcome her once again, hoping she leaves her seeds that turn into flowers and entertains the birds that come to our back door. Browning sighed about being in England in April, but she’s here too!

Why write?

Writing is a need to speak with more words than basic conversation. Sometimes it is a need to speak to one’s self and sometimes to others. It has a voice to it which isn’t audible. Now that I write as my outlet I wonder that there may not be ears or eyes or interest to what I say. It is sad to think that so few people care.

Dreams and Reality

My book, Dreaming of Storms, is looking for readers and those who support not only the dreams of their own nights, but the reality these dreams lead them to. A dream is something unrealized except in thought and aspration. As a writer I hope that dream extends into the world. Do I dream too much?